Nick had placed his pen and notebook down. “I have to ask you, Zara, have you confirmed any of this? I mean, do you know who the man was or where the brothel was?” Not waiting for an answer, he turned to Anyu. “Do you have this man’s identification? Have you saved it?”
Anyu shook her head and looked away. “I keep money to get away, and I take match to his papers, and when flames rise, I throw it all in street latrine.”
“Street latrine?” Abby asked.
“Public toilets, though the word toilet makes them sound grander than they are. They’re latrines, and they’re pretty awful. Must have been quite a sight with the fire,” Zara explained.
Anyu glanced at Nick and smiled.
“We don’t want this made public. You understand that, Nick?” Zara sighed. “It is very complicated. Anyu came to us through a women’s network, a group of women who work underground, you understand? They work to help women get out of these bad places. We don’t want to jeopardize Anyu or them.”
Nick nodded. “Right—don’t ask for trouble, just keep it quiet.”
Anyu seemed to understand what Nick had said, and her eyes blazed as she watched him.
“We want to keep Anyu safe,” Zara said, “and we ask that you conceal her identity and location if you tell her story.”
Nick nodded and rubbed at his throat, as though his collar were suddenly too tight. “I’d like to follow up though, see if there’s any record in Delhi of the murder.”
“You won’t give Anyu away, will you?”
“No. I’ll protect her. I’ll try to just get general information, but in Delhi where murder is more sport than crime, that might be difficult. They probably aren’t even looking for her. Hell, over sixty-five percent of murders in Delhi go unsolved. It’s not just that the police are inept and corrupt, though they probably are, but they’re also woefully understaffed. If you’re going to murder someone, Delhi might just be the place to do it.”
Abby felt numb. The girls’ stories were epic in their misery, each more wretched than anything she could have imagined, and she felt powerless to help.
Anyu, who’d sat silently, seemed to understand the effect her story had had on Abby and Nick, and she finally spoke up. “He bad man,” she said defiantly. “I only try to save myself. If he not hurt me, if he not bring knife, he not get knife.”
Her voice was strong and unwavering and strangely reassuring, Abby thought about Anyu’s boldness as she sat here and shared her story. She glanced at Abby and turned away quickly when she realized Abby was looking back at her. “I . . .” Abby started to thank Anyu, but Anyu suddenly stood, tears shimmering in the corners of her eyes. Her lip quivered, and she bit down hard.
“I alone now, understand? I same as Mariyah—a tree without leaves, a night without stars.” Anyu draped her sari over her shoulder and stood tall. “Khoda khafez,” she said in a whisper as she hurried from the room.
Abby rose from her chair and started for the door.
“No,” Zara said. “Leave her. It is difficult to share a story like that. I will speak with her later.”
“You’ll be sure to tell her how grateful I am?” Abby glanced at Nick, who was packing his notebook and recorder away. “How grateful we both are.”
“You will be careful when you look into this, Nick?” Zara asked. “It is a very delicate situation, I think.”
“Murder,” he said, “is anything but delicate.”
Abby caught a sudden movement at the doorway. She turned and saw Anyu, her eyes wide, listening.
Chapter 17
Once in the car, Abby could only sigh.
“Jesus,” Nick said, “sorry you had to hear that. Truth is, aside from the murder, it wasn’t so far off what I expected to hear.”
Abby shook her head sadly. “It was pure misery though, wasn’t it? Just listening was misery. I can’t even imagine how these girls lived through this. Jesus, when I was thirteen, I’d just begun to notice boys. At seventeen, I was applying to college.”
“Big difference for girls living in these hellholes, huh? Fighting for their lives.”
Even Hurricane Katrina, Abby remembered, hadn’t affected her the way it had so many others. Although her hospital had closed, and New Orleans had been devastated, her little town just outside New Orleans had remained unscathed by the storm, and she’d only had to kiss her parents good-bye before heading north to Boston. Life was damned unfair.
Abby exhaled, and her thoughts wandered to the woman in Geneva. Fragments of the vivid images floated before her eyes—the scream, the struggle, the body flying through the air, the sparkling bracelet. Could that woman have been tormented and then finally jumped as Mariyah did? Abby closed her eyes and saw the stark image clearly. She couldn’t let go of that nagging feeling that she’d witnessed more than an accident. Abby felt a hand on her arm, and she looked up to see Nick, his brows furrowed, his eyes on her.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
“I don’t know,” Abby said, turning her gaze to the window.
“Club?” Turning his attention from the road, he focused his gaze on Abby. “Tough day, huh?”
“For Anyu and the others, probably, but for me it was just exhausting listening to their stories. I know it sounds selfish, but I feel drained, as though I need to sleep. It’s hard to stay so focused when people are sharing such suffering.” Abby pushed her hair back from her forehead and wiped away the beads of sweat that had gathered there.
“Come on.” Nick guided the car into a parking spot. “Let’s drink. We’ll both feel better.”
Abby smiled. “I’ll stick with Diet Coke, thanks.”
Once upstairs, and installed at their now familiar table in the farthest corner, Nick headed to the bar, where he ordered their food and his scotch. He carried the drinks back and sat heavily, a sigh escaping his lips. “What’s up? You look, well, morose, that’s how you look. You want to talk?” he asked between sips.
Abby pursed her lips and hesitated, but only for an instant. She knew she had to talk to someone, and who else was there? “I do, Nick. I do want to talk, and, as selfish as it sounds, not just about Anyu and Bina and Mariyah. I want to tell you about Geneva.” She saw the look of cynicism in his eyes, and she held up her hand. “Just listen. It’s not entirely a nightmare. If you hear it all and think I’m crazy, so be it, but for now just listen.”
Nick settled back in his chair, and Abby launched into the details of the event in Geneva. “I was running, my last run before Pakistan, and I was really into it, you know? Anyway, it was so early it was still almost night, the sky still dark, the streets still quiet, the world empty. That time, not quite day, not quite night, is the perfect time to run, for me at least.” She described the sounds that drew her eyes to the struggle on the balcony, and the man who had fought with the screaming woman before she plummeted to her death. She felt her eyes well up, and she paused, looking away. “I can still see her face, and that damn bracelet so clearly. Nick, I didn’t stay. I was sure she was dead, and I was so scared, I ran like hell back to my hotel. I called the police, but when we went back, my mind was all foggy.” She paused to take a deep breath. “In the full light of morning, I couldn’t get my bearings. I was just lost in that confusing maze of streets. And when I couldn’t find the body or the building, they thought I was just nuts. They brought me back to the hotel and told me to sleep. What could I do then? No body, no building, so I convinced myself it was an accident, that my imagination had made it more dramatic than it already was. But I just can’t shake it—the feeling that she was murdered and dumped somewhere, and I’m the only one who knows.”
Abby hesitated and pushed her hair away from her face. “I don’t know what to do, but I know I have to do something. I can’t just show up in Geneva and say, ‘Hey, you didn’t believe me the first time, but let’s look again.’ If you think I’m nuts, just don’t say anything. Okay?” She raised her head and looked into Nick’s eyes—where she saw not doubt but genuine int
erest.
“Wow,” he said, sitting straighter, “that is one hell of a story. I have to ask—you’re certain she was dead?”
“I am.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”
“It’s not the kind of thing you just tell people, and until I heard the trafficking stories, I thought it probably was an accident. But, once I heard Mariyah’s story and your confirmation that women actually might be thrown from balconies, I knew that’s what I’d seen. It’s not a coincidence, Nick. I know what I saw, and I saw that woman thrown. I’m sure.”
“I think we have to look into it.” Nick’s brow furrowed. “But, I have to admit, I’ve never heard of anything like this happening in Geneva. Where exactly did you say you were?”
“On the main business street, I don’t know the name, but I was in the business district, maybe four blocks from my hotel, Les Armures Hôtel. I don’t know for sure. When I brought the police back and the body wasn’t there, I panicked. And I thought maybe it was the next street or the next, but the body was gone, and then they just didn’t believe me. Plus, I was on Lariam, and you know what that does—it would have given them even less reason to believe me.”
Nick sat forward and planted his arms on the table. “I suppose I can try to check it out. The man, the murderer—can you identify him?”
“I think so—he’s tall and thin, graying hair, and distinguished, you know the type. Those men who carry themselves differently from the rest of us—you know?”
Nick nodded.
“But it’s not just him, it’s the bracelet too, and believe me, I don’t ordinarily notice jewelry, but I know this bracelet by heart.” She looked straight into Nick’s eyes, looking for what? she wondered—doubt? But all she saw was concern. “I know how this sounds, I do, but it did happen. Do you believe me?”
Nick folded his arms and sighed heavily. “I do, Abby.” His eyes locked onto hers. “I do. It’s certainly worth looking into.”
Abby felt a flood of relief. She let herself sag into her seat. “Thanks, Nick. I mean that.”
“Don’t thank me yet, but I promise I’ll check into it.” He took out his notebook and pen. “When were you in Geneva?”
“July third through fifth, and I ran early on the fourth and fifth. God, it’s been six weeks already.” She watched as he scribbled down the dates. “You’re really going to check this out?”
“I am. And since we’re spilling secrets, I’ll spill mine.” He took a long swig of scotch. “The story I came here for has nothing to do with you, though the UN would like a sidebar on an aid worker. It’s you only because my destination was Peshawar, and believe it or not, right now, you’re the only American aid worker with the UN here.”
Abby’s eyes opened wide, and she felt herself relax. “That’s a relief, I think. So why are you really here?”
Nick leaned into his seat. “I’m doing an investigative series on human trafficking.”
“But why all the secrecy?”
“It’s a reasonable question. The truth is, I agreed to the aid-worker story to get the UN’s blessing, and a visa. That blessing opens a lot of doors, and without it I might miss the very person I need. In this case, it’s turning out to be you.” He swallowed the last of his scotch, then exhaled slowly. “Trafficking is the focus of my story, but the hows and whos are what I’m looking into. I know now for a fact that Najeela’s uncle Imtiaz is involved in trafficking. Two months ago, he was caught up in a sting the Pakistani police had worked. They had him, but money buys freedom and silence in this part of the world, and palms were greased, and the rest is history. He spent maybe an hour at the police station. The official statement said he was found not to be involved in the trafficking ring they closed in on, and they released him. It’s only a matter of time until the international authorities just climb over the Pakistani police and actually do get him, but the fact is—he’s not in this alone. There’s a second key figure, I’m sure of it.”
He leaned forward. “You see, men like Imtiaz direct the dirty work locally, and they collect the money, but who’s in charge? Who directs them? I think someone higher up, in government or the UN, has to be in on it. I mean, how else do these people get trafficked across so many borders? Who’s making the money? It’s the third-largest illegal business in the world.”
His face darkened. “Someone’s making money, and I think people are looking the other way. Is that because they’re involved or because someone else has assured them there’s nothing going on? I think it’s someone big, and I think I know who it is, a wealthy European named Rousseau. But he’s hard to catch, and maybe it’s not just him. That’s what I’ve been looking into. If the UN knew that I was targeting them, they would have squashed my visa, and more importantly, they’d have shut that great big UN door in my face.”
“Nick,” a voice called from the bar. “Your food.” The man motioned to a tray on the bar.
Nick pushed back his chair and stood. “I’m getting another drink. You interested?”
Abby nodded. “Yeah, why not? After everything today, I’ll have one.”
Nick returned with the food and drinks and bit into his burger. “So, do you understand now what I’m doing here? I mean, you heard it for yourself today. It’s not just about the numbers, which are staggering, but there’s real misery behind every trafficking victim. There’s a real person who has suffered unimaginably. And the reality is that if Anyu hadn’t killed that man, he probably would have killed her. Understand?”
“I guess I do.” Abby sipped at her tumbler of scotch. “As horrible as it is, it’s kind of confusing too. And you’re sure Imtiaz is involved?”
“Absolutely, that’s the one thing I’m certain of, and that’s why you can’t say anything to Najeela.”
Abby opened her mouth to defend Najeela once again, but Nick held up his hand. “I know you like her and she’s probably just a spoiled rich kid, but I can’t take the chance that she’d repeat anything, even innocently. You get that, right?”
Abby nodded. “I do. My lips are sealed, but why do you think there’s a government or UN connection?”
“Who better? People with diplomatic immunity travel the world and never stop at customs or immigration. They’re always waved through—their bags might be full of money or forged documents, but no one will ever see them, no one questions these people. Even the people who travel with them are waved through. It’s the perfect foil—find a diplomat, or better yet, a UN employee or liaison with easy access to the most vulnerable, and you have instant resources and an endless supply of those resources. I mean, think about it—certain groups can be identified and targeted in a millisecond. There are floods in the north, thousands are destitute and homeless, so you direct your locals to swoop in and grab the youngest, prettiest girls, and then you get them out and across borders before the world has even blinked.” Nick heaved a sigh. “Think about it. Isn’t that what happened to Mariyah and Anyu?”
Abby swallowed the hard lump in her throat and nodded. It might also be, she thought, what happened to the woman in Geneva.
“And that’s where the real evil comes in. Someone has to have the money and the means to profit from those tragedies as they unfold, before there’s a response from rescue organizations. And it wouldn’t be the first time the UN—well, its employees at least—have had a hand in exploiting the most vulnerable.” Nick washed down a mouthful of fries with his scotch.
“What do you mean?” Abby set her own glass down. “The UN are the good guys, aren’t they?”
“They are, they are. But in every group there’re bad apples, and the UN is no exception. I mean, you’ve heard of the recurring sexual-exploitation scandals, right?”
Abby shook her head. She didn’t have a clue what he was talking about.
“The Oil for Food scandal?”
Abby hesitated. “I guess that rings a bell, but I don’t remember the details.”
“Not many people do.” Nick shook his hea
d in disgust. “It’s a scandal that went right to the top, to the secretary-general’s inner circle. He wasn’t involved, but others were, and that connection made investigators and journalists afraid to ask the tough questions. I mean, if you’re wrong, you’re screwed professionally. You follow me?”
Abby could barely nod before Nick went on.
“But that’s not all. The sexual-exploitation scandal rears its ugly head every few years. Aid workers and even UN peacekeepers have been involved in prostitution, rape, swapping sex for food. Granted, the numbers are small, but remember, these are the world’s most vulnerable people, and the accused are sometimes the very people who are charged to protect them.” Nick let out a long, slow breath of air. “See what I mean? It’s a damn mess.”
Abby leaned her arms on the table. “So why isn’t the UN looking into this instead of you?”
“This stuff’s been going on for years, and there’s no direct accusation right now, but the reality is, it’s the UN. Everyone’s afraid to point the finger or dig a little deeper. That’s what I want to do, just dig it all out, see what I can learn.” Nick sat back and took a swig from his glass.
Abby could hardly believe what she’d heard, but in a funny kind of way it made sense, and it made her wonder about the woman she’d seen fall to her death. Had she been a trafficking victim as well? “So what’s next?”
“Research, try to put some things together. Think I’ll head to India first and have a look at the border, the area where Mariyah crossed over, and then try to check out Anyu’s story, though that might be a harder nut to crack. The police in Delhi probably don’t want an American journalist asking questions about their unsolved murders, which by the way are among the highest in the world. Anyway, maybe I’ll head to Geneva after that and look into the UN connection—and see if I can find anything out about your woman on the balcony. I’ll check the death records and news reports and see if there was a woman who fell to her death there in early July.”
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