Vanish

report on victim number five. The older one.”

Jane swallowed. “Yes.”

“What happened to her was a very clear message. Fuck with us, and you end up like this. We don’t know what she did to make them angry, what line she stepped over. Maybe she pocketed money that wasn’t hers. Maybe she was doing business on the side. Clearly, she was the matron of that house, in a position of authority, but it didn’t save her. Whatever she did wrong, she paid for it. And the girls paid with her.”

“So your investigation isn’t about terrorism at all,” said Gabriel.

“What would terrorism have to do with this?” Barsanti asked.

“Undocumented aliens coming in from eastern Europe. The possibility of a Chechen connection.”

“These women were brought into the country purely for commerce, and not for any other reason.”

Glasser frowned at Gabriel. “Who mentioned terrorism to you?”

“Senator Conway did. As well as the deputy director of National Intelligence.”

“David Silver?”

“He flew up to Boston in response to the hostage crisis. That’s what they believed they were dealing with at the time. A Chechen terrorist threat.”

Glasser snorted. “David Silver is fixated on terrorists, Agent Dean. He sees them under every bridge and overpass.”

“He said the concern went all the way to the top. That’s why Director Wynne sent him.”

“That’s what the DNI is paid to think about. It’s how he justifies his existence. For these people, it’s all terrorism, all the time.”

“Senator Conway seemed concerned about it as well.”

“You trust the senator?”

“Shouldn’t I?”

Barsanti said, “You’ve had dealings with Conway, haven’t you?”

“Senator Conway’s on the intelligence committee. We met a number of times, about my work in Bosnia. The war crimes investigations.”

“But how well do you actually know him, Agent Dean?”

“You’re implying that I don’t.”

“He’s been a senator for three terms,” said Glasser. “To last that long, you have to make a lot of deals, a lot of compromises along the way. Be careful whom you trust. That’s all we’re saying. We learned that lesson a long time ago.”

“So terrorism isn’t what concerns you here,” said Jane.

“My concern is fifty thousand vanished women. It’s about slavery within our borders. It’s about human beings abused and exploited by clients who only care about getting a good fuck.” She paused and took a deep breath. “That’s what this is all about,” she finished quietly.

“This sounds like a personal crusade for you.”

Glasser nodded. “It has been for almost four years.”

“Then why didn’t you save those women in Ashburn? You must have known what was going on in that house.”

Glasser said nothing; she didn’t have to. Her stricken look confirmed what Jane had already guessed.

Jane looked at Barsanti. “That’s why you showed up at the crime scene so quickly. Practically at the same time the police did. You already knew what was going on there. You must have.”

“We’d gotten the tip only a few days before,” said Barsanti.

“And you didn’t immediately step in? You didn’t rescue those women?”

“We had no listening devices in place yet. No way to monitor what was really happening inside.”

“Yet you knew it was a brothel. You knew they were trapped in there.”

“There was more at stake than you realize,” said Glasser. “Far more than just those five women. We had a larger investigation to protect, and if we stepped in too early, we would have blown our chances of secrecy.”

“And now five women are dead.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Glasser’s anguished response startled them all. Abruptly, she rose to her feet and paced over to the window, where she stood gazing out at the city lights. “Do you know what the worst export our country ever sent to Russia was? The one thing we gave them that I wish to God had never been made? That movie, Pretty Woman. You know, the one with Julia Roberts. The prostitute as Cinderella. In Russia, they love that movie. The girls see it and think: If I go to America, I’ll meet Richard Gere. He’ll marry me, I’ll be rich, and I’ll live happily ever after. So even if the girl’s suspicious, even if she’s not sure a legitimate job’s really waiting for her in the US, she figures she’ll only have to turn a few tricks, and then Richard Gere will show up to rescue her. So the girl gets put on a flight, say, to Mexico City. From there, she travels by boat to San Diego. Or the traffickers drive her through a busy border crossing, and if she’s blond and speaks English, she’ll get waved right through. Or sometimes, they’ll just walk her across. She thinks she’s coming to live the life of Pretty Woman. Instead, she’s bought and sold like a side of beef.” Glasser turned and looked at Jane. “Do you know what a nice-looking girl can earn for a pimp?”

Jane shook her head.

“Thirty thousand dollars a week. A week.” Glasser’s gaze turned back to the window. “There aren’t any mansions with Richard Gere waiting to marry you. You end up locked in a house or apartment, supervised by the real monsters in the business. The people who train you, enforce discipline, crush your spirit. Other women.”

“Jane Doe number five,” said Gabriel.

Glasser nodded. “The house mother. So to speak.”

“Killed by the same people she worked for?” said Jane.

“When you swim with sharks, you’re bound to get bitten.”

Or, in this case, have your hands crushed, the bones pulverized, thought Jane. Punishment for some trespass, some betrayal.

“Five women died in that house,” said Glasser. “But there are fifty thousand other lost souls out there, trapped in the land of the free. Abused by men who just want sex and don’t give a damn if the whore is sobbing. Men who never spare a thought for the human being they just used. Maybe the man goes home to the wife and kids, plays the good husband. But days or weeks later, he’s back at the brothel, to fuck some girl who may be his daughter’s age. And it never occurs to him, every morning when he looks in the mirror, that he’s staring at a monster.” Glasser’s voice had dropped to a tight whisper. She took a deep breath, and rubbed the back of her neck, as though massaging away the rage.

“Who was Olena?” Jane asked.

“Her full name? We’ll probably never know it.”

Jane looked at Barsanti. “You followed her all the way to Boston, and you never even knew her name?”

“But we knew something else about her,” said Barsanti. “We knew she was a witness. She was in that house, in Ashburn.”

This is it, thought Jane. The link between Ashburn and Boston. “How do you know?” she asked.

“Fingerprints. The crime scene unit collected literally dozens of unidentified prints