The factory was filthy, poorly lit, and jammed with rattling machines. Half of the light sockets didn’t have bulbs. Paint was peeling from the walls. Water stains mottled the ceiling. The temperature in the room was at least eighty degrees. The fans around the perimeter were powerless against the heat. And the stations were packed so close together that Josh could barely see the floor beyond the harried bodies of workers and piles of half-finished clothing.
The workers were multiethnic, but all of them were young—somewhere in their twenties—and all were wearing the same dead-eyed expression of exhaustion as they raced to keep up the pace. Josh watched their hands as they fed the machines. Their movements were almost hypnotic, as if they were automatons, their brains engaged only by habit. He struggled to keep his expression beatific despite the revulsion rising in him. Like slaves on a plantation, he thought. It’s the pushing system all over again, but retooled for the modern age.
The guards led them along the wall of the sewing floor to a pair of offices overflowing with paperwork. In one of the offices, two men were chatting over tea. When they saw Josh, they stood up and welcomed him warmly, and then offered him and Rana their seats.
Josh sat down and began to speak in Portuguese, affecting an air of authority that the owner and Faruq met with complete deference. Communicating in a tongue unknown to them liberated Josh in a way he hadn’t anticipated. It allowed him to give voice to his rage. He called the men names, swore at them with his most colorful invectives, even threatened them with divine judgment, though he was a lapsed Catholic and, in moments of doubt, an agnostic.
He stopped after a while and allowed Rana to “interpret.” They had devised a script of sorts with three acts: introductions, public preaching, and private counsel. As planned, Rana spoke to the owner and general manager in English, their common language. Rana, it turned out, had a talent for the confidence game, and spun webs of drivel and deceit with unwavering earnestness. He praised the men for their “efficient operation” and “exceptional piety.” He asked about their attendance at Friday prayers. He encouraged them not to neglect zakat—charity for the poor. He reminded them to fast during Ramadan. He exhorted them to make the hajj—the pilgrimage to Mecca. And he promised to pray for the success of their business.
The men nodded along as if mesmerized. When Rana fell silent, they showered Josh with praise for his “generous gift” to their “humble community.” Purely out of spite, Josh let loose with another string of Portuguese curses, all the while maintaining the most sublime calm. In other circumstances, he would have fallen out of his chair laughing. But the cartoonishness of the owner and manager did nothing to diminish the human suffering beyond the window.
“The imam is telling you that he would like to address the workers now,” said Rana, not missing a beat. “They are the children of Allah and in need of instruction.”
The owner stood and gestured toward the door. “Of course, of course,” he said, his English sharpened by his ancestral Mandarin. “This way. Faruq, signal lunch.”
They left the office and split up, the GM heading in one direction and the owner leading Josh and his retinue in the other. Seconds later, Josh heard a vibrato sound, more alarm than bell. The workers looked up from their stations in confusion, many of them glancing at the clock on the wall. It was four minutes shy of the designated break time.
When the mechanical clatter died down, the owner held up his hands and spoke loudly over the fans. “Today is a special day. We have an honored guest, Imam Mehtar. He is a servant of God, and he has come to teach us wisdom. Listen to him.”
The owner stepped aside and allowed Josh to take the floor. Josh looked out over the sea of faces. He saw the sheen of sweat on skin, the stares leaden with fatigue, the lines of misery stitched into every brow. For a disturbing moment, he felt the unfairness of his fraud. All of them had families in the lands from which they came. None had migrated to Malaysia knowing what awaited them. All were in need of rescue. But he had come for only one of them.
Josh’s heart started to palpitate, and his hands began to tremble. He nearly lost his composure. But a face in the crowd saved him. The young man was sitting on the fringes of the room, a third of the way down. His features were angular, his cheekbones prominent, and his dark hair tousled, almost windblown. But it was his eyes that gave him away. Josh had studied them many times after getting a picture from the Rightaway workers. They were eyes that confronted the world without flinching.
It was Jashel.
Josh took a breath to steady himself, then he began to speak in Portuguese. He had no idea why, but the words that came to him were words he had never spoken to anyone except Madison. They were the unedited story of his life—the shadow that hung over his childhood, the bewilderment he felt when he realized he didn’t look like his parents, the shame he carried from the day he learned that his birth mother hadn’t wanted him, the haunting sense of inferiority that had driven him to push past every limit, to defeat the privileged at their own game, and, finally, the guilt that displaced the shame, the mistake he made in believing he could love two women intimately without being forced to choose, the seeds of pain and perplexity he sowed in his daughter’s heart, and the anger he lived with because he had no way to fix it.
Eventually he grew weary of the confessional and stopped speaking. He heard Rana take the cue and deliver the message they had agreed upon in English and Bengali, but his thoughts were miles and years away. He was with Madison again, at Harvard amid the red-gold leaves of autumn, listening to her wit in the classroom, watching her walk down the aisle at the old stone chapel in Charlottesville, seeing her spread her wings and grow into a woman in Tokyo, São Paulo, and London, and then standing at her bedside on that joyous day in 2007 when she gave birth to Lily. He realized then, as never before, that he had to make things right with her. He wasn’t just here to save Jashel. He was here to save himself.
When Rana finished, he informed the owner that Imam Mehtar would select five workers to bless. To avoid impropriety, Josh chose only men. Jashel was the third. The young man’s expression didn’t change when Josh pointed him out. He just stood quietly and followed along.
Rana suggested that they use the meeting room near the factory entrance. The owner agreed and escorted them there. Josh smiled and spoke another sentence in Portuguese.
“The imam is concerned that you are hungry,” Rana explained. “He says there is no need for you to wait while he gives his blessings.”
The owner bowed his head in gratitude, then left them alone.
Ajmal brought in the workers one by one. Josh and Rana talked with each of them briefly, asking about their families and encouraging them in their piety. Then they sent them back to the factory floor. Jashel was the last of them. He took a seat across from Josh, folded his arms, and stared at them unblinking. Josh felt a tremor of apprehension. If Jashel didn’t believe their story, or if he panicked in the face of danger, the deception would fall apart.
Josh examined the young man through veiled eyes as Rana spoke in Bengali. He told Jashel who they were and recounted their visit to the dormitory. Then he outlined their plan to reunite him with his family. Jashel remained impassive until he heard Farzana’s name. It was then that his eyes went soft, his lips parted, and he spoke a few words.
“He’ll do it,” Rana said.
“Tell him we’ll handle the guards,” Josh replied. “But he has to make it look real.”
Rana nodded curtly. “He understands.”
Josh stood and went to the door, Rana and Jashel beside him. He took the handle and swung it open, allowing Jashel to stumble out holding his stomach. Rana followed, one hand on Jashel’s back. He and Ajmal traded a glance even as the guards stepped forward, their faces contorted by disgust. Rana waved them away and directed Jashel to the washroom next door.
As soon as Jashel was safely in the washroom, Rana turned to the guards and added his apologies to Ajmal’s. The guards weren’t mollified and kept looking at the w
ashroom door until Josh approached them and spoke a question in Portuguese, stretching out his arms in welcome. He gestured to the meeting room and beckoned them with his hand.
“The imam apologizes too,” Rana said in English. “He says you have a hard job and wonders if you would like a blessing before he departs.”
The guards pondered this, clearly torn between personal desire and professional duty. It was then that Ajmal spoke the coup de grâce.
“You should go,” he told the men. “It would be rude to decline the imam’s invitation. I will watch the door. When the boy is finished retching, I will send him back to the floor.”
At last the guards conceded and followed Josh and Rana into the meeting room. As he began to counsel the men, Josh imagined the rest—Ajmal’s knock, the dance of doors as Jashel slipped out of the washroom, then out of the factory, his flight down the alley and across the sidewalk to Ajmal’s sedan, and, finally, his climb into the trunk, his body curling into the fetal position in the compact space, his hand pulling the lid down until it locked in place.
It was a grave risk that they had asked him to take. The trunk was in the direct sunlight. If they didn’t come quickly, he would suffocate. But Jashel would do it, Josh was sure. As he lay down in the heat, he would picture Farzana’s face, remember the timbre of her voice, and play her name over and over again in his mind. As the memories multiplied, they would take hold of his imagination. And he would begin to believe what only hours before had seemed impossible.
There was a chance—a real chance—that he was going home.
CHAPTER FOUR
BANGSAR SHOPPING CENTRE
KUALA LUMPUR, MALAYSIA
MARCH 13, 2015
1:45 P.M.
The look on Foysol’s face was grim, the antithesis of his bonny appearance. In front of him on the café table was another juice, but he hadn’t taken a sip. He was staring at Ajmal, his eyes hooded by mistrust and something darker—loathing. It was quite a change from a moment before. He had been almost joyful when he sat down, no doubt counting the ringgits he would make supplying his stable of undocumented workers to Ajmal’s “clients.” But then Ajmal had said Jashel’s name, and the agent had frozen, glass in hand, the straw inches from his mouth.
Thirty feet away at the courtyard table, Josh couldn’t help but smile.
“Where is he?” Foysol finally asked in Bengali, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Somewhere safe,” Ajmal replied. As before, the fixer was wearing a wire, and Josh and Rana were listening and recording the conversation.
The agent’s nose began to twitch. “What do you want?”
“It’s very simple, really,” Ajmal said reasonably. “We want his passport back. We also want every other passport and work permit you have in your possession, along with a list of the factories where all of your workers have been placed.”
Foysol couldn’t conceal his shock. “What you request is not possible. I am responsible for over one hundred workers.”
Ajmal didn’t budge. Instead, he fished a compact digital recorder from his jacket pocket and pressed Play. Foysol spoke through the speakers: “There is a class of workers I sometimes meet, migrants who have certain . . . troubles. Their terms are more flexible.”
Ajmal stopped the recording. “I have the entire conversation on file. What I ask is not only possible; you will make it happen today.”
In an instant, Foysol’s shock mutated into fear. “Who are you?”
“That doesn’t matter. All that matters is what I can do to you. This is how it will be. You will give me the documents along with the factory list. You will then have twelve hours to leave Malaysia. After that, we will turn everything over to my contact, a senior officer in the Criminal Investigation Division, and he will see to it that your workers are repatriated to their home countries or placed with another agent who will not swindle them.”
Foysol’s eyes began to dart around.
“And don’t think of trying to escape. The officer is watching you right now.”
Foysol’s head swiveled left and right until he caught sight of Rana staring at him across the courtyard. The agent blanched. “Who is the other man?” he asked softly.
“A member of the American FBI,” replied Ajmal. “This is an international investigation.”
The agent’s hands began to shake. “I will do as you ask.”
Ajmal smiled, clearly enjoying himself. “I thought so.”
Three hours later, Josh slipped his magnetized key card into the slot reader and opened the door to his room at the InterContinental Hotel. Jashel was sitting in the chaise lounge by the window, exactly where Josh had left him. If he had moved at all during the afternoon, he had done so without a trace. The space was immaculate, the refrigerator and minibar untouched. Rana and Ajmal entered the room behind Josh. Rana threw a duffel bag on the bed and rummaged through it, handing Josh a green passport bearing the seal of Bangladesh.
“I believe this is yours,” Josh said, passing it along to Jashel.
The young man opened the cover and stared at his picture. The abuse he had suffered in the past six years had taken its toll. He looked much older now than he did in the photograph. He shook his head slowly, fixing his gaze on Josh. “Thank you,” he said, using the only English phrase he probably knew. The gratitude in his eyes, however, was rich enough to fill volumes.
“Ask him if he called Farzana,” Josh said, glancing at the burner phone on the table.
When Rana translated the question, Jashel’s weary face brightened a bit. He nodded eagerly and spoke a waterfall of words in Bengali.
“He reached her an hour ago,” Rana explained. “It was the first time they had spoken in over a year. She was afraid he had died, but she didn’t give up hope.”
Foysol got off too lightly, Josh thought. He should be in jail for the next twenty years.
It was a scandal, but it was necessary. After debating the matter ad nauseam the night before, Josh and Rana had decided to let Foysol go. It was the only way they could guarantee the protection of his workers, especially those, like Jashel, whose work permits had expired. The police were the problem. Neither Ajmal nor his friends at Kebaikan knew an officer who was above reproach. Had he been taken into custody, Foysol would have made arrangements for his case to disappear. Meanwhile, Jashel and the other undocumented workers would have been arrested, detained, and quite possibly abused. With the police out of the picture and Kebaikan in control, the workers were safe as long as they remained in the country. As soon as the lawyers straightened things out with the government, Jashel could return to his family.
Josh sat on the edge of the bed, and Rana and Ajmal pulled up chairs. It was time to take the next step. “Tell him I’m excited for him. But before he goes home, we need to talk.”
Rana translated, and Jashel replied. “Go ahead,” Rana said.
“It is not an accident that we came for you,” Josh began. “I received your name from a source. I knew where to find you. I am a journalist. My friend here is a lawyer. We’re looking to hold someone accountable for what you and others have suffered. There are many people who are responsible—the agency who lied to you in Dhaka; Foysol; Rightaway; and Class 5. But there are others who benefited from your exploitation. They are the companies whose clothes you made. We want to take one of those companies to court—Presto. At Rightaway, you knew them as the owners of the Burano brand.”
When Rana interpreted, Jashel wagged his head in agreement. He spoke again, and Rana engaged him in Bengali. Their exchange lasted for almost a minute before Rana turned back to Josh, his face aglow with excitement.
“Whoever your source is,” Rana said, “he just gave us the golden ticket. Jashel made clothes for Burano almost every day for five years. Foysol was a friend of the factory owner. Jashel saw them have many conversations. He also saw Presto’s auditors come to the factory. He watched them take bribes. He told this to the men who came from Presto a year ago. They said he woul
dn’t get in trouble for speaking to them. But he did. Foysol made sure of it.”
Josh met Jashel’s eyes. “You can do something about that. If you let us, we’ll take you and Farzana to America and you can tell your story.”
Jashel didn’t require more than a moment to think. He presented his decision in the form of a bargain. Rana translated: “If you get him home, he will do all you ask.”
Josh smiled and extended his hand. “You have yourself a deal.”
INTERLOGUE
Jordan
March 2014
SUN STAR ENTERPRISES
CYBER CITY, HABAKA, JORDAN
MARCH 1, 2014
2:30 P.M.
The heater was rattling again, but at least it was running. There had been times during the winter when it malfunctioned and days had passed before one of the factory maintenance men found time to fix it. Those nights had seemed interminably long. The cold was so deep that Alya’s breath crystallized in vapor, and she shivered uncontrollably. Sleep was impossible, even after a twelve-hour shift on the sewing floor. Beyond her blanket, her only defense against the chill was the companionship of her “sisters,” Nina and Bipasha—like her, guest workers from Bangladesh. They shared Alya’s bunk, curling into spoons beside each other and using their hands and feet to create friction on skin until, at last, the night faded and the alarm clock sounded, and the dawn broke over another workday.
The winter was one of many things Alya had not expected when she arrived in Jordan more than a year ago. She had pictured the Middle East as a waterless expanse of sand and heat, the antithesis of the green forests and flowing rivers that surrounded her childhood village in southwest Bangladesh. Jordan surprised her with its hills and valleys and trees and grass, and with the cycle of its seasons—cold and hot, rainy and parched. In her dormitory in Cyber City, just south of the Syrian border, she had watched snow fall for the first time. She had also seen the land boiling beneath the summer sun, the heat billowing like steam from a pot.
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