A Harvest of Thorns

by Corban Addison

  He had one last question for the men. “Do they know who sent the auditors?”

  Rana smiled grimly. “They came from Presto.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  BANGSAR SHOPPING CENTRE

  KUALA LUMPUR, MALAYSIA

  MARCH 6, 2015

  2:35 P.M.

  The mall was a monument to Asia’s rise. The shine and sparkle were everywhere—in the open-air cafés with fountains and lush vegetation, in the bling-filled jewelers’ cases and rainbow-colored displays, in the Harrods-style gloss and gleam of foodstuffs in the grocery, in the glam fashion of British India, in the European sports cars parked in the entry hall, even in the glass exterior itself, tinted tourmaline like a tropical ocean. A bird could fly from the tony enclave of Bangsar to Jashel’s old dormitory in Cheras in about eight miles, but the sociological distance, the gulf carved by money and education and privilege, was almost infinite.

  Josh was sitting with Rana in the rainforest-like courtyard when Ajmal walked up, his eyes wide, as if running on double voltage. “Foysol is on his way. He was tied up in traffic.”

  Josh patted the compact digital receiver on the table. “The reception is excellent. I heard you like you were next to me. I even heard Foysol’s voice on the phone. How’s the wire?”

  “I barely feel it,” Ajmal said, touching his pink dress shirt just above the spot where the transmitter was taped to his chest. “It’s smaller than the ones I usually wear.”

  The meeting with Foysol had come together after two days of meticulous planning. Armed with the agent’s name, Ajmal had tapped his contacts for information about Foysol’s company and the factories with which he did business, and put in requests with friends in the government to determine Jashel’s immigration status and the validity of his work permit. Within thirty-six hours, they had learned that Foysol was a man with multiple masks, supplying Bangladeshi workers to top-tier factories like Rightaway and to shady subsidiaries. They had also learned that Jashel was still in Malaysia, at least according to the country’s passport records, but that his work permit had expired a year ago, which meant that he was now a member of Malaysia’s pariah class of undocumented workers, hunted for sport by RELA, the country’s volunteer corps of anti-migrant vigilantes, and subject to the threat of detention and deportation.

  “Undocumented migrants live in a fraternity of fear,” Ajmal had explained. “We’ll never find out where he is unless we talk to Foysol.”

  So they had devised a scheme and set up a sting, buying the recording equipment, inventing a backstory, and convincing Foysol that Ajmal was a labor broker who represented garment factories looking to acquire workers on the cheap, under the radar of the authorities. Foysol had made no promises and divulged nothing incriminatory, but he had agreed to the meeting on the condition that Ajmal would pay for lunch.

  The fixer’s phone trilled in his hand. “The taxi just dropped him off,” Ajmal said, typing a reply with his thumbs. “I’ll see you guys later.”

  As Josh and Rana watched, he strolled leisurely across the courtyard and stopped outside the entrance to the café. “He could have picked a less ostentatious outfit,” Josh quipped, putting earbuds in his ears. “He looks like a flamingo on Savile Row.”

  “People notice flamingos,” Rana replied, inserting a second set of earbuds so he could interpret for Josh anything spoken in Bengali. “Twenty bucks says Foysol does the same.”

  The outsourcing agent appeared two minutes later, dressed in a khaki suit, a blue shirt, and polished loafers. Touché, Josh thought, listening to the men greet each other. Rana translated in real time, speaking in an undertone that only Josh could hear.

  Ajmal led Foysol to a table that offered Josh and Rana a clear view of the conversation. The men sat down and looked at the menus. Then a waiter appeared and took their orders.

  “You’re new to me,” Foysol said, “but your references are impressive.”

  “I take care of my clients,” Ajmal replied.

  The references had been the trickiest part of the planning. The factories Ajmal had delivered to the agent were real, but the phone numbers had led to burner phones operated by lawyers at Kebaikan, a human rights agency that Ajmal assisted with investigations. If Foysol had looked behind the numbers, the facade would have fallen apart. But Ajmal hadn’t given him time. The meet had been set only six hours ago.

  “So tell me what your clients are seeking,” Foysol said. “I supply many things.”

  “Skill is not important,” Ajmal replied. “My clients make only basic items. What matters is cost—and control. My clients don’t have time for paperwork.”

  They paused while the waiter delivered them juices with straws. Then Foysol spoke again. “Management is easy. I offer complete outsourcing. Your clients will only have to train the workers, oversee their work, and pay me their wages. I will do the rest. Cost, however, is more difficult. There is the minimum wage.”

  Ajmal sipped his drink. “My clients were more comfortable under the old system. They don’t like the way the government has kowtowed to labor activists.”

  “I share their opinion,” Foysol said cagily, “but I don’t make the law.”

  Ajmal lowered his voice. “But what if other laws had already been broken, not by you or me, but by the workers? Would the minimum wage apply then?”

  Foysol stirred his drink, saying nothing for seconds. Then he glanced around the café and answered in an even softer tone. “There is a class of workers I sometimes meet, migrants who have certain . . . troubles. Their terms are more flexible.”

  “Do you manage these workers?” Ajmal asked.

  “It is complicated. But, yes, I offer the same services.”

  “My clients will need your assurance that if problems arise they will not be implicated.”

  Foysol nodded. “There will be no problems. I make all the necessary arrangements.”

  Bribes, Josh thought as he listened to Rana’s translation.

  “I will need to inspect them for health issues,” Ajmal said. “I have a doctor I use.”

  Foysol replied testily, “That will not be necessary. My workers come with guarantees.”

  “My clients insist,” Ajmal rejoined. “But don’t worry. The doctor is reliable. Are these workers accessible? I’m happy to compensate you for your time.”

  Again, Foysol fell silent, weighing the cost of further disclosure. At last, he said, “I think I may be able to accommodate you. How soon is this doctor available?”

  Ajmal pondered this. “Friday is his day off, but for me he will do it. Is it far away?”

  Foysol shook his head. “For five hundred ringgits, I can take you there now.”

  “Done,” Ajmal said. “I will make the call.”

  Half an hour later, Josh sat in the back of his rented Toyota SUV, Rana in the driver’s seat, peering through tinted windows at a pair of ramshackle bungalows in a forgotten corner of Kuala Lumpur. According to Google, they were in Petaling Jaya, a concatenation of working-class neighborhoods on the urban center’s western flank, but to Josh the place looked more like a village slum. The buildings were in various stages of disrepair and smashed together in a haphazard assemblage that seemed almost, but not quite, random.

  For the majority of the drive, Rana had followed Foysol’s taxi with ease, first to collect Dr. Tareq Hussain—a Bangladeshi physician and one of Ajmal’s many acquaintances—and afterward through the streets of Petaling Jaya. But then, without warning, the taxi had taken a sudden turn and vanished down an alley that emptied into a rabbit warren of dirt lanes. If not for the dust kicked up by the taxi’s tires, they might have lost it. But Rana followed the cloud, and they found the SUV again after it pulled to a stop.

  “I’m glad you’re driving,” Josh said as Rana maneuvered into the shade of a tree about forty yards away. “Right now, every eye on the street would be staring at me.”

  In fact, the street was largely deserted, apart from a few stray dogs and pedestrians. But Josh
had visited enough slums to know that faces lurked behind every window and nothing passed without the notice of someone. He turned on the digital receiver and inserted his earbuds, handing Rana the second pair. Then he watched as Foysol led Ajmal and Dr. Hussain toward a passageway between buildings gone to seed, their stucco dingy with grime.

  “The entrance is this way,” Foysol said and Rana translated.

  Dr. Hussain seemed to hesitate, but Ajmal cajoled him with a look and he walked ahead gamely. A moment later, all three of them disappeared from view.

  Josh heard a door creak open, then footsteps and Ajmal’s breathing.

  “Bring everyone upstairs,” Foysol barked, and Josh heard scuffling and the sounds of incoherent speech. “If people are asleep, wake them up.”

  “How many live here?” Ajmal asked, his voice betraying a hint of repulsion.

  “Today there are twenty-nine,” Foysol replied. “Tomorrow, it might be more.”

  “How do you find them?” Ajmal inquired.

  “They come to me,” Foysol replied. “As long as they are compliant, I take care of them.”

  Bullshit, Josh thought angrily.

  He heard more noises, breathing, people moving, chairs scraping, words spoken in undertones, then Ajmal’s voice again. “How many are available?”

  “As many as your clients need,” Foysol said. “They have jobs in other factories, but the arrangements are negotiable.”

  After a brief pause, Foysol addressed the group. “This is Dr. Hussain. He needs to check your vitals and draw blood. I may have new employment for you.”

  Dr. Hussain spoke up. “I will see you each in private. It will only take a moment.”

  As the men murmured, Ajmal and Foysol chatted about business. Josh was so focused on the conversation that he didn’t see the man in a black T-shirt walking up behind the SUV—not until the man’s face was pressed against his window, his eyes squinting to see through the glaze. Josh turned around quickly and saw three more men approaching from the rear.

  “We need to get out of here,” he said.

  Rana turned the ignition and threw the SUV into reverse, backing away from the man in the black T-shirt. The man snarled and started after them. As Rana accelerated, the men behind them scattered. A road opened up on the left. Josh pointed it out with a shout, and Rana slammed on the brakes, shifted into drive, and took the turn. Dogs barked and people stared as they shot past, but Rana managed to stay in the crowded lane without inflicting damage.

  As the danger retreated, Josh remembered Ajmal and Dr. Hussain. The earbuds were still in his ears, but the receiver was broadcasting only static. The transmitter was well beyond range. His first thought was the loss of recording capabilities. His second was concern for their safety.

  “Did you hear anything more before the signal went out?” Josh asked.

  Rana yanked the wheel hard to the right and threw the SUV back onto the main road, then pulled to the shoulder. “It was all garbled. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  Josh took out his iPhone. “Should we text him?”

  Rana shook his head. “We should let it play out.”

  “It could be awhile.”

  Rana grimaced. “Let’s just hope they find something.”

  Josh watched traffic and counted minutes. An hour passed without word, then another. Slowly, the blazing sun climbed down from the sky, turning gold then orange in the haze. Josh snacked on a granola bar and shared a piece of it with Rana. In between bits of conversation, he killed time by writing Lily and reading news stories on his iPhone.

  Finally, a few minutes after seven, Josh’s phone vibrated in his hand.

  The text was from Ajmal. “Where are you? I’m back at the mall.”

  Josh breathed a sigh of relief. He told Rana and then typed, “We had a problem with bystanders. Did you find Jashel?”

  “He was there,” Ajmal replied. “Dr. Hussain spoke to him.”

  “Does Foysol suspect anything?”

  “No. I told him I’d call when we get test results.”

  “Good. We’ll come to you and discuss next steps.”

  Rana met Josh’s eyes, his expression grave. “We’re going to have to get Jashel out. That’s the only way we can talk to him. But if we do it, we can’t send him back.”

  Josh nodded, the weight of decision like a yoke on his shoulders. He grappled with the moral and existential consequences of action, his professional instinct locked in combat with his conscience and commitment to the cause. The rule of noninterference was nowhere in the journalists’ Code of Ethics, but it was a line reporters tried never to cross. To tell the story was impact enough. To step into the story was to compromise neutrality. But that rule didn’t apply to legal investigations. Nor did it make any sense in the rest of human experience. Jashel needed their help even more than they needed his. There was no good reason to step back now.

  “I’m in,” Josh said, feeling an anticipatory rush. “How do we make it work?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  CLASS 5 FASHIONS

  KUALA LUMPUR, MALAYSIA

  MARCH 12, 2015

  11:37 P.M.

  The building looked like any other in Cheras, a warehouse with windows, the glass mostly covered by signage promoting dozens of businesses, none of which had anything to do with the garment factory that lay behind the walls. Class 5 Fashions was a textbook subsidiary venture, operating with hand-me-down machines from other, more reputable factories, skating on the thinnest of regulatory ice kept solid by payoffs to the police, and surviving on subcontracted orders from suppliers like Rightaway who denied its existence—and that of its off-the-books brethren—when asked by the clothing brands.

  Even Ajmal never would have found it without help from Jashel. But now, six days later, the fixer knew everything there was to know about the factory. Now he was friends with the general manager, Faruq, who had confided that the owner was a miser and didn’t pay him half enough. Now he was on a first-name basis with the guards who watched the factory’s doors. They had been fortunate to get a break, but fortune was like glass; as Publilius said, the brighter the glitter, the more easily broken. In Josh’s mind, Jashel was the brightest of all possible glitter. They needed him on the witness stand. But to get him in a courtroom, they needed him free.

  The stratagem they had planned was brilliant but brittle, with no margin for error. Rana had spun the cover story, and Ajmal had sold it to his new buddy, Faruq. In a Muslim country like Malaysia, everyone wanted the blessing of God, especially those trying to climb the socioeconomic ladder. As Faruq had told it, his parsimonious boss had drawn up plans for a house on a nearby island, but he didn’t have the money to begin construction. Enter Ajmal, the man whose network extended to the farthest reaches of the God-fearing world, or so he said.

  He knew an imam from Afghanistan who had devoted his life to dawa—preaching and conversion. The imam spoke only Pashto and Arabic, but he had an acolyte who spoke many languages. If the factory owner wanted to meet the imam and solicit his blessing, Ajmal could arrange it. But there was a catch. The imam would not come if he couldn’t speak to the workers. Faruq was delighted by the idea, as was the owner. They invited the imam and his acolyte to the factory during the workers’ lunch break, which the owner agreed to extend so the imam could deliver private blessings.

  What made the plan brittle was Josh, who had to play the cleric. Rana would never be questioned as the acolyte. Josh, however, was an American whose Pashto was limited to a few phrases he had picked up on a trip to Kabul a decade ago. Of course, no one in the factory spoke the language either. But he couldn’t just repeat the same words without raising suspicion. Nor could he speak English with a South Asian accent. Thankfully, he had a backup language. He would speak Brazilian Portuguese, making his words incomprehensible to all. He and Rana would pretend to understand each other, even when they didn’t, but Rana would be in control of the conversation, which was just as well, for he knew the Quran.

&nbs
p; The greatest hurdle was Josh’s appearance. Thus Rana’s use of Afghanistan in the cover story. Contrary to the Western stereotype, many Afghans had fair complexions, and some even had blue eyes. Josh’s beard was the lynchpin. While many Muslim men wore no facial hair, neither he nor Rana had ever seen a clean-shaven imam. It was fortuitous, therefore, that he had been growing out his stubble—a lesson from his days in Iraq.

  By the time he arrived at the factory, he fit the part. His clerical robes were long and white. His taqiyah, or skullcap, was embroidered with indigenous designs. And his feet were shod in Peshawari chappals acquired from a shop in Little Pakistan. In his hands he held a gently worn copy of the Quran. Rana had given him a crash course in the most famous suras in case Josh needed to establish credibility. But the burden of the ruse rested squarely on Rana.

  “Are you ready for this?” Ajmal asked.

  Josh felt the butterflies raging in his gut. “Estou pronto.”

  Rana clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s do it.”

  After Ajmal unlatched the trunk, they stepped out of the car and crossed the sidewalk, following a lane that snaked between buildings. The air was stiflingly hot and thick with humidity. Within seconds, Josh began to perspire. In a minute, he was sweating profusely. Yet he maintained a leisurely gait, walking like a man who kept God’s time, not his own.

  The door to the factory stood at the end of the lane. Ajmal knocked twice and the door swung open. The guards greeted Ajmal with toothy grins and honored Josh with a bow and a self-effacing “Assalamu alaykum.” He returned the greeting and nodded serenely, trailing in their wake as they showed him the way to the sewing floor.