care what you do with your hidden photographers and Photoshop. I know damn well Ben wouldn’t be with this woman, even if we’re having a spat. So give it up already.”
The tall man tugged at the lapels of his jacket. “If you don’t take these photographs seriously, Ms. McCall, I can assure you the press will.”
“What press? The National Enquirer? No legitimate paper will run these photos, because they’ll know they’re as faked as I know they are.”
“There’s always someone, somewhere…”
“Maybe so, but you’re not going to go to any of those places, because if you do, I’ll expose your little scheme for the nasty political blackmail that it is.”
“No one will believe you.”
“I think they will.” Smiling a genuine smile, Christina patted the phone on her desk. “Because you see, for the entire duration of our conversation, I’ve had you on speakerphone. A very amped up, powerful, speakerphone. And our office manager has been recording every word you say. It’s what we call Line X.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe it, fool. We come from the world of criminal justice, and some of the people there make you government twerps look like total amateurs. You take those photos anywhere near the press, and the recording goes with them.”
“I still don’t believe you.”
Christina glanced at the phone. “Playback.”
There was a sudden beep on the phone console, followed by the sound of the tall man’s own voice. “…we’ll play it your way. We want you to cease and desist putting any and all pressure on your husband to withdraw his support from this amendment…”
Both men rose to their feet, eyes wide. “What you have done, Ms. McCall, by recording our conversation without obtaining prior permission or giving notice, is a violation of the Federal Wiretapping Act.”
“How ironic that you should suddenly be concerned about civil rights.”
“I think it is incumbent upon us to confiscate this recording.” Both men moved toward the door.
“Don’t bother with the strongman tactics,” Christina said, stopping them. “Jones isn’t an idiot. He’s already halfway to the Senate copy room, making duplicate recordings with about a hundred other assistants. So unless you’re planning to take them all out, just chill and accept the fact that you’ve been beaten at your own nasty little game. And while we’re at it, let me inform you that I know perfectly well you’re not lobbyists. You’re Secret Service.”
The two men stopped in their tracks.
“For one thing,” Christina continued, “your idiot partner is still wearing his Secret Service lapel pin. For another, you’re packing a. 357 SIG under your jacket, standard Secret Service issue. In fact-don’t I recognize you? Weren’t you in Oklahoma City on April nineteenth?”
“I think we’ll be going now. I’ll take the photos.”
“No,” Christina said, scooping them off her desk, “I don’t think you will.”
“We have copies.”
“No doubt. But I want these to show Ben. So we can have a good chuckle over them in the years to come. I think maybe I’ll file them with the wedding photos.”
The tall man squinted. “You are one sick puppy.”
“This from the man who was willing to destroy a new marriage to gain a political advantage. You’re the scum of the earth, buddy, and don’t try to tell yourself otherwise. Now get the hell out of my office!”
Christina watched with great pleasure as the two men did exactly that.
She settled back into her chair, allowing her blood pressure to return to normal, letting down the impervious facade she needed to keep those particular demons at bay.
Ben, Ben, Ben. What have you gotten yourself into this time?
But she already knew the answer to that question. And she knew something else as well.
As much as it made her stomach roil, as much as she hated to do it, she would have to support Ben. She would have to give him whatever help he needed, as long as he was determined to support this amendment. Otherwise, these sharks would eat him alive.
She hated this amendment. But there were worse things in the world than being needed by the man you loved.
29
Loving tightly gripped the steering wheel of his van. “I still can’t believe it. Children?”
“Horrifying,” Shohreh said softly. “But sadly true.”
“In a third-world nation, maybe. But here?”
“The General’s principal operations are still overseas. But he has gained a foothold here. The federal government gives such scrutiny to large sums of money transported from overseas banks since 9/11. He needs a domestic source of income.”
“But- children?”
“You can see now, perhaps, why I am so determined to find him. And stop him. It is not only that he threatens my life. If the General is allowed to continue his revolting business-there is no telling how many lives could be destroyed. He is far from the first. He will not be the last. But usually, those who traffic in sex do not use their filthy profits to finance terrorism.”
“That’s just-sick,” Loving said, banging his hands against the steering wheel and swerving around a broken- down car blocking the fast lane. Loving hated D.C. traffic. Interstate 66 was the worst, but tonight he’d managed to skirt through it without any of the usual tie-ups. He’d taken the Key Bridge exit and followed the road across the Potomac, turned right onto M Street, and in less time than usual found himself in Georgetown. Hard to believe anything so sleazy could exist in this swanky college town. Sure, in the past he’d found art thieves here, and also, come to think of it, vampires. As he passed through the main shopping meccas surrounding the intersection of Wisconsin Street, he was reminded of the mall where two trained killers tried to drill him full of holes. Okay, those had been bad moments in Georgetown. But this was something else again.
“And you think this address I found on the assassin might be-what did you call it? A stash house?”
“I’m almost certain of it,” she replied. “I know it was used that way in the past. Once they have smuggled the young girls into the country, they must put them somewhere.”
“Where do these girls come from?”
“Eastern Europe and the Middle East, usually. Countries in turmoil. Remember-until the 1990s, prostitution barely existed in Russia. Almost all women had legitimate jobs. But after communism collapsed, things changed. Poverty soared, as did unemployment. Many young women, some of them well-educated, even married, were forced to become prostitutes. And what of the children? In such a world as that, it became easy for these traffickers to lure or kidnap unprotected girls.”
“How do they fly them in from the Middle East?”
“They bring them into the United States through Mexico.”
“To become prostitutes.”
“No,” Shohreh said, her voice low. “Sex slaves.”
“There’s a difference?”
“The difference is huge. These children become prisoners. They don’t speak the language. They have no money. They have no identification or travel papers. If they attempt to escape, they will be harshly beaten-perhaps even killed, to set an example to the others. They may be kept hungry, sleep deprived. Their mental state, probably never strong, begins to crumble. They can’t think clearly. They don’t know what to do-except follow instructions. They never earn any money. They are rented out for sex-sometimes ten times a day. They are sold cheap-the profit is made through volume. Perhaps fifty dollars for fifteen minutes of what you might call ordinary intercourse with
