A Walk Across the Sun

by Corban Addison

  She stood in the middle of the room, waiting. She had no idea what to expect from the police, but she was ready to trust anyone who would rescue her from Alexi and Igor and the threat of Dietrich.

  Finally, the lock disengaged and the woman walked into the room, trailed by Alexi. Sita froze in shock when she saw her captor. She had been duped.

  Alexi waved for the woman to leave them, and the woman nodded and closed the door.

  Sita stood still while Alexi approached her. He shook his head from side to side with mock sadness. “I am disappointed in you, Sita,” he said. “I thought you learned your lesson from Dmitri.” He circled her and stood behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Now you will understand the consequences.”

  Suddenly, she felt a sharp pain at the base of her neck. She gasped and instantly felt light-headed. Her vision blurred and her consciousness retreated even as she fell to the ground.

  She woke again in a chamber of darkness, her head spinning and aching at the same time. She blinked and saw stars. She blinked again and saw nothing. She reached out with her hand and touched metal. The surface was cold. She heard a sound in the distance—like wind or water, she couldn’t tell. She listened carefully and heard a low rumble. As time passed, the rumble faded and disappeared.

  Suddenly, she heard a popping sound and the roof of her chamber elevated ever so slightly. At once she understood. She was in the trunk of a car. She waited for someone to raise the lid of the trunk, but no one came. Seconds turned into a minute, then two. Finally, she summoned the courage to lift the lid herself.

  She did so slowly, until she could see what was beyond the trunk. Across an expanse of black water was a vast city shining in the night. The lights shimmered on the surface of the water and reached up to the heavens, blocking out the stars. New York, she thought.

  She pushed the lid of the trunk higher until she could look out the sides. There were lights all around her—the lights of shipyards, docks, and quays. She lifted the lid to its stop and glanced around. The car was at the end of an empty pier. She heard the sound of waves lapping against the pylons. The air was damp and cool. She tried to make sense of the moment. Why was she here? Where was Alexi?

  She heard the sound of a man clearing his throat. It came from beside her. She jumped with fright and swiveled her head around. He was standing in the darkness, only two feet away. How he had appeared so silently, she had no idea.

  He looked down at her, his expression as distant as the sky. “You know,” he said softly, “in Russia we would do things differently. In Russia, we would feed you to the fishes. But this is America, and you are worth too much to kill.”

  He lifted his hand and showed her a rope connected to a net filled with large rocks.

  “If you try to run again, I will give you to Igor. Then I will throw you in the river.”

  He placed the net in the trunk beside her and closed the lid. The rocks carried the briny smell of saltwater. She pushed them away in fright and felt the vibrations of the engine as Alexi engaged the ignition. With a lurch, the car started off down the pier, back to the sex club.

  The pain of her failure fell upon her like an avalanche. She had gambled and she had lost. Again! She felt something inside her give way. It was as if all the happiness she had known had vanished in an instant, leaving behind only the vaguest impression of a better day. She tried to picture Ahalya’s face but could only make out traces of her shadow. Her sister was gone. The past no longer existed. This was her karma.

  Sita rested her head on her hands and listened to the steady hum of the wheels on the surface of the road. It crossed her mind that there was a way out of the madness. For the first time since the waves came, she contemplated suicide. She allowed the thought only briefly, then chased it away with a surge of resolve. But the idea lingered in the corners of her mind.

  She closed her eyes and tried not to think about what tomorrow would bring.

  Chapter 25

  The world is a mirror of infinite Beauty, yet no man sees it.

  —THOMAS TRAHERNE

  Paris, France

  At six fifteen in the morning on the first day of March, Thomas took a taxi from his hotel in the Fifth to Gare Montparnasse to meet Julia as she had instructed. The taxi driver deposited him beside the glass terminus. He entered the station and saw Julia standing beside a ticket dispenser, holding an attaché case. Her red coat looked magenta in the amber light. She greeted him with a look that betrayed her nervousness. She handed him a ticket. He glanced at it and saw their destination—Quimper.

  “A safe house in Brittany,” he said. “I never would have guessed.”

  “That’s only the first of the surprises,” she replied. “I’m crazy to be doing this.”

  “Why are you doing this?” he asked, searching her face.

  “I don’t know.” At once she smiled, and her anxiety seemed to retreat. “I think you’ve inspired me. Are you hungry?”

  “Starving.”

  “I brought a couple of croissants.”

  They walked through the lobby to the terminal. Six sleek silver-andblue TGV trains stood before them on parallel tracks. They took seats on metal benches and ate their croissants as the station swelled with departing passengers.

  They boarded the train a few minutes before seven o’clock and found their compartment. Soon after, the train glided out of the station. It maintained a slow pace through the city and then accelerated dramatically when it reached the countryside.

  Julia removed her laptop from her briefcase and then remembered something.

  “I meant to tell you, our guy at the BRP finally heard from the embassy in Mumbai. It seems the CBI tried to contact the French police, but they were bogged down in red tape. The embassy people said it happens all the time. The CBI shared the intel they got from Navin, and the French police are working on tracking down his uncle. They also opened an inquiry into Navin’s activities. They think he lives in France under a pseudonym.”

  “It’s amazing to me how criminals can be completely invisible to the authorities,” Thomas remarked. “The shadow world is just as extensive as the real world.”

  “Everything is the same,” Julia confirmed, “except the rules of the game.” She opened her laptop and typed in a password. “You mind if I get some work done? I promised my boss I’d have a report on the Petroviches on his desk tomorrow morning.”

  “Does he know what we’re doing?”

  Julia smiled conspiratorially. “I told him the BRP wants us in on the investigation, which is true. The Petroviches have probably already left the country, and our network is better than theirs. In exchange, I convinced our guy at the BRP that we would need access to the girls.”

  “What about the people in Brittany?”

  “I told them about Sita, and they’re on board. They promised to be discreet.”

  Thomas whistled. “That’s impressive. I owe you one.”

  “Yes, you do,” Julia replied. “But now I need to get some work done.”

  “Be my guest,” he said, retrieving his own laptop from his backpack.

  The night before, he had downloaded a few articles on human trafficking in Eastern Europe from the Justice Project’s website. He wanted to arrive at the safe house at least minimally educated about the experience of the Petrovich girls. The stories reported in the press and in the academic journals horrified him. It seemed that the former Soviet bloc was hemorrhaging young women, many of whom were trafficked into the sex trade. The phenomenon was so thoroughly documented that the women were even given a name—the Natashas. They were from Moldova, Ukraine, Belarus, Romania, Bulgaria, Lithuania, and Russia. To the customers, however, they were all Russian.

  After an hour of depressing reading, he walked to the café car, where he purchased an espresso and a sandwich. He returned to his seat and watched the passing landscape. In time, he opened up a new document on his laptop, thinking to type a few travel notes for Priya. It was a tradition they had started
in their courtship and carried into marriage. But like everything else that had bound them together, it had been lost in the two-year whirlwind of the Wharton case.

  He thought for a moment, fingers poised over the keyboard, and then he started to write. To his surprise, the words that came to him sounded more like verse than travelogue, but he figured that Priya, a lover of poetry, would like it better anyway.

  On the TGV. The thrill of near flight. Fields out the window, overlooked by a quarter moon. A river of glass. Squat farmhouses, shutters half-open, half-closed. Outbuildings of stone brimming with hay. Garden plots, freshly hoed, ready to plant. Tallest sky, uncluttered, swimming in blue. Spring close at hand. Buds on a tree, then two, then half a glade. A shipyard by a wide river signaling the approach of the sea. A stallion cantering in an open field. Gulls in flight. Hills rising as we close in on Quimper. Then we are there.

  They rented a car at the station and drove west into Brittany. Julia placed a call on her mobile and confirmed their appointment in French. Her nervousness returned when she dialed the number, but the man on the other end of the line seemed to have a calming effect on her. She hung up and took a deep breath.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Father Gérard is very kind. He’s looking forward to meeting us.”

  “Father? Is the safe house affiliated with the Church?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Twenty minutes later, Julia turned off the road onto a pebbled driveway framed by stone walls and old-growth trees. They wound through a pasture rimmed with forest and came upon a wrought-iron gate with a guard post. The sentry checked their identification and waved them through. They entered a circular drive and stopped in front of a grand twelfth-century French château framed by manicured gardens.

  “This is the safe house?” Thomas asked. “It’s a mansion.”

  “Yes. I’ll let Father Gérard tell you the story.”

  They left the car and were greeted on the patio by a man dressed in a cassock. He was balding and bespectacled and had an owl-like face. He kissed Julia’s cheeks and shook Thomas’s hand. His English was surprisingly good.

  “Bonjour, welcome,” he said warmly. “I am delighted to meet you.”

  “Thank you for agreeing to see us,” Julia replied.

  The priest looked at Thomas. “This place is a secret. Yes? The mademoiselle has the proper clearances. You do not. I must have your agreement. You talk of it to no one.”

  “You have my word,” Thomas said.

  The priest nodded. “In that case, you may come this way.”

  Father Gérard led them into a foyer decorated with dark country furniture and out a back door into a garden. The air was warmer than in Paris and sweet with the scent of new grass. They walked down a path to a meadow with a stone fountain at the center. Three young women sat on benches beside the fountain, holding a quiet conversation. One was dressed in the habit of a nun.

  “This château was the gift of a tormented man who found peace at the end of his life,” the priest said. “He left it to the Diocese of Quimper, which had no use for it. The bishop had the good sense to ask if any other diocese could think of a Christian purpose for it before putting it up for sale. This was in 1999. At the time, I was working with an NGO in Marseilles. The government was sympathetic to our cause, but the laws were not helpful. Many of the women we rescued were deported and exploited again. I had an idea for a safe house, but we had no money to purchase a property. Then we heard about the château. The bishop welcomed us with open arms. The result is Sanctuaire d’Espoir. You say in English the Sanctuary of Hope.”

  They wandered down a path to a fenced-in field. Two quarter horses stood munching on clumps of grass a short distance away. A slight breeze blew from the west and the sea.

  “How does the government decide who gets to come here?” Thomas inquired.

  “The police send us those in peril. They are usually women who were held by organized crime or whose traffickers have not been caught. We keep them until their case is heard or they return home. The laws are better today. Asylum and permanent residency are options if the women cooperate with the authorities.”

  “How are the new girls getting along?” Julia asked.

  Father Gérard paused. “All are deeply wounded, but some are stronger than others. One girl is particularly strong. She was the one, I believe, who broke the case for the police.”

  Thomas regarded the priest. “When can I speak to them?”

  The priest met his gaze. “This is a difficult issue. Most would say that I am a fool to give you access to them so soon. One cannot comprehend the things they have endured. But your desire is to save a life, and that is supreme. I will make the arrangements.”

  The priest led them back to the château and into a sprawling sitting room furnished with antiques and baronial family portraits. He motioned for them to take seats. A few minutes later, he returned with one of the most beautiful young women Thomas had ever seen. She was as tall as a runway model and carried herself with the sort of grace that cannot be practiced. Yet her clear blue eyes were wells of sorrow. When she looked at Thomas, he turned away, troubled by her raw vulnerability and the poignancy of her gaze.

  She sat across from them on a brocade couch and looked at the priest, as if waiting for a cue. Father Gérard treated her with great gentleness but never touched her or crowded her space. He spoke slowly in English, enunciating his words with careful precision.

  “Natalia, I would like to introduce you to Thomas Clarke and Julia Moore.”

  The girl nodded.

  “Thomas is from the United States, and Julia works at the American embassy in Paris.”

  The young woman seemed puzzled by the American connection.

  She continued to look at the priest, expecting an explanation.

  “Thomas has a few questions he would like to ask you. Do you mind?”

  Natalia shook her head. “My English not so good,” she said softly. Her accent was thick. “I try to understand, but I don’t know. You speak slow?”

  “I will,” Thomas said. He took out the photograph Ahalya had given him and handed it to her. “Have you seen this girl?” He pointed at Sita.

  Natalia took the photograph and studied it for a long time. Tears came to her eyes and traced a course down her cheeks. She wiped them away and regarded Thomas with an expression of tenderness.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Thomas took a sharp breath. “Can you tell me where?”

  Natalia stared at the floor. “There was … room,” she began. “He take us there to rape. One day he leave me alone and this girl come. She say …” Natalia stopped in midsentence and began to cry again. “She say she pray for me. I thought she was angel, but she was Sita. She do house chores.” Natalia paused. “I see her again later. She try to run. But she not … escape. Next day she gone.”

  “Do you know where she went?” he asked, struggling to contain his emotions.

  Natalia shook her head.

  “Do you think anyone else spoke to her?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe. I ask for you.”

  She stood and left the room, returning a few minutes later with another young woman with Slavic features. The priest stood, and Thomas and Julia followed his lead.

  “This is Ivanna,” Natalia said. “She not speak English, but she know something.”

  Natalia spoke to Ivanna briefly in Russian. Ivanna nodded and replied quietly.

  “She say she cook,” Natalia informed them. “Sita help in kitchen.”

  The young women exchanged a few more unintelligible words.

  “She say Indian couple come to house last week. They talk about travel to America.”

  Ivanna’s revelation elated Thomas and discouraged him at the same time. Navin’s uncle had transported her out of France, and the Petroviches had something to do with it. But the United States? There had to be fifty flights a day from Paris to cities across America. The only
real barrier to entry was the border patrol at the airport. After clearing immigration, a person could disappear without a trace.

  “Did they say where in the United States they intended to go?” he asked.

  Natalia translated the question for Ivanna, and the girl shook her head.

  “Nyet.” It was the first and only word she spoke that Thomas understood.

  “I talk to all girls,” Natalia said. “Only Ivanna has information.”

  “Thank you,” Thomas said, trying to hide his disappointment. “It’s something.”

  Natalia looked at him intently, piercing him with her eyes. “You find this girl?”

  “I’m doing my best,” he replied.

  She reached out and took his hand. “Then we are friends,” she said. “Da svidaniya.” With that, she turned and vanished into the foyer.

  Thomas’s skin tingled with the memory of her touch. How many people had urged the impossible upon him? Ahalya. Priya. Julia. Now Natalia. Did they truly believe he could do it? Or was it just that he was the only one foolish enough to try? Whatever their reasons, he knew now that the task far exceeded his skills. If Paris was a long shot, America was a black hole. To recover Sita, he would need more than hunches and instinct and the help of friends.

  He would need an act of God.

  Chapter 26

  In the abundance of your trade, you were filled with violence in your midst, and you sinned.

  —THE BOOK OF EZEKIEL

  Elizabeth, New Jersey

  After Sita’s escape attempt, Alexi took great pains to ensure that she remained locked in Igor’s rape room. Each night after the club closed, he checked on her personally and secured the door when he left. In the late morning, he appeared again and brought her a few morsels of food. He never spoke to her, and she almost never looked at him.