A Harvest of Thorns

by Corban Addison

  CHAPTER SIX

  IZUMI RESTAURANT

  DHAKA, BANGLADESH

  NOVEMBER 7, 2013

  8:15 P.M.

  The sushi was a knockout, as elegant in form and delicate in flavor as anything Cameron had tasted in the United States. Shelim had suggested the place. It was called Izumi, in the Gulshan neighborhood of Dhaka, within sight of Presto’s office but far enough away to avoid the media blitzkrieg. Cameron had witnessed the circus from behind the tinted windows of the Mercedes SUV. Television vans were still encamped outside the entrance, reporters congregating on sidewalks, skulking in vehicles, and swarming like pack wolves when anyone appeared at the front door. Their questions and accusations had so rattled the staff that Shelim had shuttered the building until further notice, ordering everyone to work from home.

  The office director was the only other person dining with Cameron. They were seated in a quiet corner of the restaurant, where no one could eavesdrop on their conversation. Between them stood a wooden table, an accent candle, glasses of water—not wine, as it was against Bangladeshi law—and plates decorated by the chef with rainbow-colored works of gastronomic art. It felt strange, almost profane, to ambush a man at such an establishment. But that was exactly what Cameron intended to do.

  After his visit to the Rahmani factory, he had dispatched Manny Singh and Declan Mays to an evening of personal revelry—whatever it was that they did with an expense account in a foreign country—and invited Shelim to a meal, pretending to be interested in developing a deeper understanding of the local sourcing process. In truth, he had lied to everyone. Manny and Declan thought that Habib had confessed to subcontracting to Millennium without permission and that Cameron had granted him forbearance, reasoning that the damage was done and the shipment was too important to delay. Cameron had spun the deception deftly, leaving Declan stewing in indignation and giving Manny cause for secret relief that the inquiry would go no further. Declan would forgive him as soon as he learned the truth, but Manny needed to remain in the dark. Cameron had a hunch that the rot in the sourcing system went deeper than Shelim.

  “Habib is running an impressive operation,” Cameron said, squeezing a piece of maguro tuna between his chopsticks. “It’s no wonder Rahmani is a Gold supplier.”

  “He is one of our most trusted allies in Bangladesh,” Shelim replied. “But I am concerned about the way he handled this order. It is not like him to ignore protocol.”

  Cameron regarded Shelim in the soft light, weighing whether to name his prevarication openly or lure him into a trap. “I found that peculiar too. He told me that you are the sort of buyer who understands the pressures he faces. He said you’ve always been accommodating.”

  Shelim’s eyes darted to the table, then refocused on Cameron. He crafted his response with care. “Our interests are aligned. If our suppliers do not produce in the time frame and at the price points we require, we miss our targets, and our customers suffer.”

  You don’t give a damn about our customers, Cameron mused. But I bet the targets keep you awake at night. “It must be difficult to keep everyone happy. I imagine many of your suppliers are not accustomed to Western production standards. The cultural gap is wide.”

  Shelim laughed and relaxed a bit. “That is an understatement. We are required to—how do you say?—play both sides of the fence. But in the end, we hold all the cards. Without our orders, our suppliers cannot stay in business.”

  Cameron took a moment to savor his sashimi. Then he said, “Is it true that your sourcing benchmark is 98 percent on-time delivery? That is an extraordinarily thin margin.”

  “Yes,” Shelim affirmed, dropping his guard further. “It is the same for all Presto suppliers across the world.”

  Cameron smiled thinly. “But it isn’t just our suppliers that have to meet that standard. It is my understanding that your office’s performance is judged on that basis. That must be a great burden for you to carry.”

  Shelim looked nonplussed, his chopsticks hovering in midair. “It is not a burden. It is our job. If we fail to deliver, our customers have nothing to buy.”

  Cameron tilted his head inquisitively. “Have you ever been to one of our stores?”

  Shelim’s eyes narrowed a touch. He clearly had no idea where Cameron was taking the conversation. “I have not. But I have always wanted to visit one.”

  Cameron nodded, his expression nonchalant. “The biggest is two hundred thousand square feet. More than a hundred thousand items on the shelves. A bonanza of consumerism.”

  Shelim stared back at him, his brow furrowed.

  “If Rahmani had missed its delivery deadline,” Cameron went on, “our customers never would have noticed. They have more choices than they know what to do with.”

  Shelim set his chopsticks down. “I’m not sure what you are saying.”

  Cameron took another casual bite. “What I’m saying is this: The 98 percent target is not for our customers. It is for our investors. It is about earnings, profits, market share, stock price—all of the things that we executives worry about. And our worry at headquarters becomes your worry here, and your worry becomes our suppliers’ worry. So all of us do what we have to do to keep everyone happy.”

  Shelim’s gaze fell to the table. He was smart enough to know that a blow was coming, but he couldn’t see it to defend himself.

  “The thing is,” Cameron continued, “no one is happy right now. Our investors are unhappy. Our customers are unhappy. My senior executive team is unhappy. Because people died making our clothes. Because our pants are being plastered all over the world—on televisions, computers, mobile devices—in a photograph that will live in infamy.”

  Cameron took a breath, and Shelim began to squirm. “So now the discussion has turned from profits to losses, from trading on our positive brand image and generating historic fourth-quarter sales, to piecing together the shards of our corporate dignity and shoring up investor confidence before our market cap falls off a cliff. I have to tell you, it’s not pretty.”

  “It is a disaster for all of us,” Shelim said, his voice starting to crack. “What Habib did is inexcusable. If you would like, I will cancel all Rahmani orders, terminate the relationship.”

  Cameron shook his head slowly. “That would do no good. As I said, the damage is done. What we need now is not recrimination but reform.” He paused, the boom in his hands. “I need to know why you authorized Habib to subcontract to Millennium in contravention of the Red List, not just this time, but multiple times. Before you answer, beware. Your job is on the line.”

  In an instant, Shelim’s fear became a palpable thing. He sat totally still, eyes locked with Cameron, as if his body were imprisoned in a block of ice. “I didn’t do it on my own authority,” he said in a voice just above a whisper.

  And there it was, a morsel of the purest truth. “Go on,” Cameron said gently.

  Shelim hesitated at the water’s edge, the Rubicon lapping against his toes. Cameron watched as he struggled, weighing the compromise and the consequences that would follow. But he really had no choice. Survival required betrayal.

  “Manny,” he rasped at last.

  For a moment, Cameron felt the thrill of vindication. Then the moment passed, and vindication turned into anger. “What did he tell you?”

  Shelim fingered his napkin. “He told me not to worry, to do whatever it took to ensure the orders reached the port on time.”

  “When?” Cameron pressed.

  “When the new Red List was published, after the last round of audits,” Shelim said. “We were in Bangkok at a sourcing meeting. I expressed concern that some of the banned factories were critical subcontracting partners. He told me the people in compliance didn’t understand our business. He said they were no better than the regulators.”

  Cameron folded his hands in his lap, his expression unflappable despite his fury. He was well acquainted with the enmity between sourcing and compliance. But in his experience, the contest had always
remained a gentleman’s game, a cold war of wits and politesse, not open defiance of company policy.

  “How many red-listed factories have you used in the past six months?” he inquired.

  Shelim hung his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Take a guess.”

  “A dozen, maybe. Habib is unusual. Most owners ask only once, if at all.”

  Cameron looked down at his plate, saw the tender flesh of the maguro shimmering in the light of the dining room. Olivia would have loved this place, he thought, allowing a moment for his emotions to find expression. His wife had been a connoisseur of sushi, as much for the artistry as the delicacy. If only she could see me now, the way I’m about to defile it.

  “Habib tells me you have a wife and three children,” he said to Shelim.

  The office manager nodded, afraid.

  “You are fortunate. Tonight many husbands in this city will go to sleep without their wives, many fathers without their daughters. They are the reason we have compliance, the reason we have regulators. Death is a one-way street. Once someone is gone, we don’t get them back.”

  Shelim continued to nod, like a bobbing head ornament on a dashboard.

  “Do you know who sent me here?” Cameron asked, and Shelim’s nodding turned to head wagging. “Vance Lawson. On his authority, I could fire you right now. But I’m not going to do that. I’m going to give you a second chance.”

  Shelim’s back straightened, his eyebrows arching in astonishment.

  “When we leave here tonight, you are going to contact every owner who asked you for permission to use a red-listed factory and order them to desist. Then you are going to write a letter to all of our suppliers in Bangladesh, reiterating the standards in the Code of Conduct and the penalties for infraction. Lastly, you are going to say nothing about any of this to Manny or anyone in the sourcing department who might inquire about my visit. What we have discussed tonight stays between us. Or I will fire you. Is that clear?”

  “Abundantly,” Shelim said, letting out the breath he was holding. “Thank you so much, Mr. Alexander. I’m so sorry—”

  “Save it,” Cameron interjected. “No one cares.”

  Shelim gulped, chastened.

  “I’m only interested in two things. That you do exactly as I said. And that you go home tonight, look your family in the eye, and make them feel as lucky as you are right now.”

  With that, Cameron raised his hand and asked for the check.

  PART TWO

  Joshua

  February 2015

  CHAPTER ONE

  OLD EBBITT GRILL

  WASHINGTON, DC

  FEBRUARY 11, 2015

  9:12 P.M.

  Even at nine o’clock on a Wednesday evening, the restaurant was bustling. Waiters scurrying. Glasses clinking. Bartenders pouring. Gaiety erupting. And conversations—the central currency of this supremely political town—drawing heads down and faces together, translating ideas into speech, aspirations into asks, in an endless quest for an angle, a vote, a promotion, or that most liquid of Washington assets—a favor. Josh loved it, the multidimensional poker game of personality and power. For fifteen years, he had been a regular at the table, here at Old Ebbitt, a century-old, mahogany-and-brass eatery steps away from the White House, and at places like it in Tokyo, Rio de Janeiro, and London. He had mastered its nuances, cultivated quid pro quos, and built an enviable reputation as an international journalist, netting him two Pulitzer Prizes and a book that hit number one on the New York Times bestseller list. But all of that was gone now. A single error in judgment had laid waste a lifetime of achievement. His colleagues at the Washington Post were colleagues no longer.

  “Joshua Griswold,” said Tony Sharif, slipping into the green velvet booth across from Josh and draping his arm across the top. “It’s been too long.”

  Josh shook his head. “I know it. Half the people in here are strangers.”

  Tony’s face—a mélange of his Indian father and Anglo-American mother—remained impassive, but his eyes were alive with humor. “You’re getting old. I see gray in your beard.”

  Josh gave a sarcastic laugh. “That’s purgatory for you. I feel like the Old Man of the Mountain. One day you’re a fixture. Everybody wants a picture. Then the earth moves, you disappear, and no one remembers what you looked like.”

  Tony grinned ironically. “Could be worse. Nobody ever wanted a picture with me.”

  “You should ditch the news and try Bollywood,” Josh jested. “With a mug like that, you could be the next Shah Rukh Khan.”

  Tony put out his hand, and Josh clasped it. “It’s good to see you again, my friend.”

  “That makes two of you,” Josh said.

  Tony raised an eyebrow. “Who’s the competition?”

  “Reggie, the homeless guy at my old apartment building.”

  Tony shook his head, and his eyes grew thoughtful. “It’s a shame what they did to you. The stories you wrote are some of the best in American journalism. The thing with Maria, it could have been any of us. She deceived a lot of people. It doesn’t change your reporting.”

  She didn’t mean to deceive anyone, Josh thought. She did what she had to do. But he couldn’t say that. Not even to Tony Sharif, the man who had been at his side when shrapnel from an exploding IED sliced through their Humvee in Sadr City and buried itself in Josh’s thigh. Tony was the closest thing he had to a brother. But Tony would never understand Maria. She was a riddle in the flesh. Even Josh didn’t understand her, and he had spent years trying.

  “Don’t sweat it,” Josh said. “Shit happens. It’s what makes our world go round.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Tony replied, raising his bottle of Sam Adams. “To shit. May it survive long enough for me to earn a pension and for you to get back on your feet.”

  “Cheers,” Josh said, taking a sip of Heineken, his beer of choice not so much for its flavor as for its ubiquity across the globe.

  “So you’re in town again,” Tony said. “That means you’re working. What’s the story?”

  “Corporate malfeasance,” Josh replied. “Apparel supply chains. A body count. The underside of American business.”

  Tony’s face lit up. “Sexy. Who’s the target?”

  Josh lowered his voice. “Presto.”

  Tony leaned back against the booth, clearly intrigued. “The Millennium fire. We reported on that, you know. A lot of people did. That photo was like Napalm Girl in Vietnam. But this time the girl in the picture disappeared. We couldn’t track her down.”

  Josh nodded but didn’t reply, allowing Tony to interpret his silence.

  “Wait a minute,” Tony said. “You have a source.” He let out a grunt, then began to grumble. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You found someone willing to talk.”

  It was the response Josh had expected. For five years, Tony had been the Post’s bureau chief in India. Last year he had taken a senior editorial position in Washington, but his network in South Asia remained as far-reaching as the Ganges. Josh was intruding upon his territory.

  “I’ve got to hand it to you,” Tony went on, struggling to be generous. “My guys would have given anything to keep that story alive.” For a moment, he looked like he was going to probe, but then he didn’t. “So what can I do for you? You obviously got further than we did.”

  The corners of Josh’s mouth turned upward. He still found it hard to believe. The e-mail had arrived in his in-box two days ago, its provenance untraceable. I have information about the Millennium fire, it read. It relates to Presto Omnishops Corporation. Hours later, when the rest of DC was asleep, Josh had met a man at the Lincoln Memorial who gave him the names of workers and factories in three countries, including the name of the girl in the photograph. The man had divulged nothing of his motives, but his seniority inside Presto was beyond question, as was his charge: he wanted Josh to make Presto pay.

  “This thing dropped into my lap,” Josh said. “That’s all I can say. But I need your he
lp. I need to find a fixer in Dhaka with high-level contacts in the apparel industry.”

  Tony spoke without hesitation. “Rana Jalil. Except he’s in Los Angeles these days.”

  Josh gave him a confused look, and Tony clarified, “Rana’s a mutt like me. His father owns one of the oldest garment companies in Bangladesh. His mother is Bangladeshi, but she was born in California. He has a law degree from UCLA. Dhaka’s his backyard. He helped us cover the Rana Plaza disaster. He’s an ace, and 100 percent trustworthy.”

  Josh took another swig of beer. “What’s he doing in LA?”

  Tony chuckled. “Shining a light into the dark hole of American fast fashion.”

  Josh made no attempt to disguise his ignorance. “Explain.”

  “You know those teenybopper stores in the mall, the ones that dress their mannequins like hookers and make you want to keep Lily under lock and key?”

  Josh nodded. Lily was his eight-year-old daughter and the light of his life. He was an absentee father, but not completely derelict.

  “A lot of the clothes they peddle are made in sweatshops in LA. The fashion companies know about it, but they don’t give a rat’s ass. So long as they keep feeding American teens a fad a week, they see it as the cost of doing business. Rana freelances with a public interest group called La Alternativa Legal, or ‘LA Legal.’ They represent the workers in court. California has a labor law that gives them firepower against the brands. I don’t really understand it. But I know he’s nailing them to the wall.”

  “I’ll take him,” Josh said. “Can you make the introduction?”

  Tony whipped a smartphone out of his jeans and started typing. “He’ll be tickled. The great Joshua Griswold. He might even give you a discount since you’re out of work at the moment.” After he transmitted the message, he got the waiter’s attention and ordered another round of drinks. Then he stared at his watch intently. “I’ll give him one minute, then I call.”