She gave him a large brown envelope.
“Now, it’s not a requirement for Americans entering Britain,” she said, “but get over to our travel doctor on Broadway and get your main shots. Rachel has set it up. I want you prepared for anything. This envelope has money and other things for you. Rachel’s got you on an early flight out of JFK to Heathrow tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Ever been to London?”
“Nope.”
Gannon turned from the plane’s window. His arm still aching from his shots, he lowered the metal tray, switched on his laptop and reviewed his files. Maria Santo’s friend, Sarah Kirby, had put him in touch with Oliver Pritchett in London. He headed Equal Globe International, the human rights group they had been working with. Pritchett knew more about the human trafficking situation. He’d agreed to share information, but his responses to Gannon’s e-mailed questions were clear.
I will only meet you alone and face-to-face in London. It will be completely off the record, but I assure you it will be significant. I give you my word you are the only journalist who knows of this case and I will not speak to any other news organization.
Gannon studied the notes on his laptop until metropolitan London sprawled below. He recognized the Thames just as the landing gear lowered and locked into position. At Heathrow, a young British Customs officer, curious about Gannon’s bruises, accepted his explanation about his ordeal in Brazil.
“I trust you won’t have any similar problems in the U.K.”
It took Gannon’s taxi a little under an hour to slice through traffic and get him to the WPA’s London bureau on Norwich Street.
It was situated in a six-story stone building built on the site of a bakery destroyed by Nazi bombs during the Second World War. It was a five-minute walk from Fleet Street, now the address of more law and business offices than newspapers. But the Associated Press and other foreign wire services were nearby, reminding Gannon that the risk of losing the story increased as time ticked by. The bureau was on the first floor and the reception desk was empty. A man in a suit came from an office to place a folder on it.
“Excuse me.” Gannon set his luggage aside. “Jack Gannon from WPA New York. I’m looking for Ian Shelton?”
“You’ve found him.” Shelton shook Gannon’s hand. He was a tall, gaunt man in his thirties. “Welcome to London. George Wilson advised us that you were coming to work on your Brazil story.”
“That’s right.”
“I take it you had quite a drama in Rio’s slums, judging from your face.”
“A little bit.”
“Dangerous stuff, given what happened to our friends there. Why don’t you let us help you here, Jack? We do know something about the U.K., enough to ensure you aren’t taken hostage.”
“Thank you. I’m good right now.”
“I see. George called you a lone wolf, or some such thing.”
“I’m sure he did. Ian, what I’d like to do is get a hot shower. New York said that after I checked in here, the bureau would have a hotel for me?”
“Yes.” Shelton searched the top of the vacant desk, finding an envelope with Gannon’s name on it. “You said you need to be in Kensington. We’ve got you at the Seven Seas, in Kensington, Earl’s Court, on our account. Not as close to the bureau as we’d hoped, sorry.”
“Thank you.” Gannon tucked the envelope into his bag.
“Call us if there’s anything we can do,” Shelton said.
During the cab ride Gannon reflected on what Melody Lyon had said when she hired him-how she’d warned him to expect tension, even resentment, if he were sent to help out at the international bureaus.
“They’re turf-protectors. They consider anything and anyone from headquarters a challenge to their expertise about their coverage area.”
She was right about that, he thought, as he reached his stop. The Seven Seas Inn was a town-house hotel, a four-level building attached to other four-level buildings that, together, resembled wedding-cake layers where Penywern Road led to the gentle curves of Eardley Crescent.
Gannon’s room was the equivalent of a cramped closet with frayed carpet. It was on the third floor, overlooking the street. He started his laptop and sent Oliver Pritchett an e-mail telling him he had arrived. Then he showered. He was unpacking when Pritchett called.
“Trust you had a safe trip.”
“It was all right.”
“Fancy a walk to our office, then?”
Using his map to follow Pritchett’s directions, it took Gannon thirty minutes to walk along Earl’s Court Road to Kensington and a side street, Stafford Terrace. Equal Globe International’s nameplate was on a battered red door, shoehorned between Mae’s Flower Shop and First-Rate Tuxedo Rentals. Gannon pressed the button for EGI, and the intercom buzzed. He looked into the small security camera, held up his WPA ID and said, “Jack Gannon, WPA New York.”
“Right,” Pritchett said and the door clicked.
Gannon climbed the staircase to a second floor, where he could hear music turned low. “I Don’t Like Mondays,” the old Boomtown Rats song.
“Oliver Pritchett,” said the man waiting at the top of the stairs.
Pritchett had a full salt-and-pepper beard, small round wireless glasses and long silver hair tied in a ponytail. He wore sandals, torn faded jeans and a T-shirt with the face of an emaciated child with huge pleading eyes, under the words Don’t Let Another One Die.
Gannon followed him into an office that had a hardwood floor and wooden tables cluttered with computers, and towers of newspapers, books and reports alongside walls papered with posters of Live Aid, protests, starving children, children toiling in sweatshops and prisoners facing torment. Pritchett shoved some files into a faded military canvas shoulder bag, then snatched his keys and a cell phone.
“We’ll talk in the park.”
A few blocks later they arrived at Holland Park, a glorious field of tranquil green space. They sat on a bench. Across the pathway a white-haired man was reading a newspaper. Pritchett waited for a couple conversing in German and pushing a stroller to pass before speaking.
“Sarah’s team in Rio said we could trust you, Jack.”
“I won’t run anything based on information your group provides until we’re both comfortable with it.”
Pritchett considered the situation.
“Why don’t you tell me about Equal Globe International and what you think you’re on to?”
“Give you my spiel?” Pritchett looked off to the trees.
“Beyond what’s on your Web site.”
“We’re an ideal really. We hold dear the belief that everyone is equal and we strive to make it a reality. EGI is an umbrella of social justice organizations around the planet-church groups, charities, labor groups, student associations. We fight injustice in all its manifestations-poverty, hunger, crime, war. We lobby governments. We are on the front lines. We issue reports and, well, lately we gather intelligence on acts of injustice and all that they entail.”
“That’s what Maria Santo was doing in Rio de Janeiro?”
Pritchett removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“She was brave. We think she was the target of the cafe bombing in Brazil because she’d infiltrated the law firm, Worldwide Rio Advogados. You see we had long suspected that firm of illegal activity around the world-money laundering, bribery, police corruption. Their activities seemed to escalate. Maria worked at getting a job inside, then started sending us reports, files.”
“And you found a link to something bigger?”
“It’s complicated. Very complicated. But some of her files seem tied to what we were getting from another EGI worker, Adam Corley. He thought there was a link to a vast and organized human trafficking network.”
“Wait, who is Adam Corley?”
“Adam is Irish, an ex-cop from Dublin who’d worked in the Irish Garda’s Special Branch as a low-ranking
