“My back is killing me.”
Peter Winthrop, American businessman-turned-tour-guide, rose from his side of the car. “Eighteen hours on a plane isn’t good for anyone except a chiropractor and his accountant.”
Peter took a deep breath of the saltwater-laden air, and stared at the sprawling compound of buildings and warehouses in front of them. “What do you think?” he asked, looking over the roof of the vehicle.
“Christ, Peter. It looks like a prison camp.” The senator ran his fingers through his straight salt-and-pepper hair and contemplated the task at hand.
“It is a prison camp,” Peter responded with a smile, hitting the senator on the shoulder as he made his way around the trunk of the car. “But it’s
The door to the white van slid open and a four-man filming crew poured from the vehicle into the blistering afternoon sun. A blurry layer of haze and heat hovered over the ground, the warmth of the earth radiating up the pants legs of the politician from Massachusetts.
“Where is our host?” Senator Day asked.
“I thought we’d be met at the entrance,” Peter answered. “Let me see what I can do.”
“Please. I didn’t just travel halfway around the world to stand in the heat.”
Peter walked past the closed gate of the ten-acre facility, his tanned skin relishing in the tropical sun. He peeked into the unmanned guard booth and picked up a gray phone on a wooden post near the massive chain-link fence. Peter frowned at the phone, a telecommunications relic without a dial, and put it to his ear. A faint ring teased the limits of his hearing, and he pressed the phone harder to the side of his head.
Across the dirt entrance to the facility, the senator’s filming entourage stared at their destination, mouths gaping, eyes bulging. The pudgy cameraman with a perfectly trimmed goatee squinted behind his designer sunglasses. “Good God,” he said.
“‘Good God’ what?” the senator snapped from a distance.
“Sir, I think that is razor wire,” the cameraman quipped, pointing his finger to the large rolls of flesh-slicing metal that topped the fence for as far as the eye could see. “I’m not so sure…”
Senator Day growled. “You are getting paid to film and keep your mouth shut. You’ll do exactly as you are told. You’ll film what I tell you to film. No razor wire, no gates, no security guards, no guns. Keep it clean.” The senator paused and then continued. “No, scratch that. I don’t want clean, I want fucking
A glint of disdain simmered in the cameraman’s eyes.
“Well, get moving,” the senator snapped. He always felt better when he was giving orders.
The cameraman turned toward his director’s assistant, his soundman, and the college intern who did most of the heavy work. “Let’s get the equipment out of the van. We can start filming an opening sequence with the company sign in the background.” The senator nodded at the cameraman and smiled. The freshly painted
The college intern, the lone wheel in his mind beginning to turn, mumbled to the bohemian director-in- training. “Is that fence to keep people in or to keep people out?” The entourage, hands full of camera equipment, paused briefly and looked back up at the fence.
No one answered.
The senator’s chief aide and head of public relations, Scott Ryder, a Columbia grad with a Tom Cruise smile, stood next to his boss as Senator Day rubbed his chin, one elbow on the roof of the car.
“Sir, quite frankly the cameraman isn’t the only one concerned. I have my reservations as well.”
“Scott, your opinion is noted.”
“Senator, if someone should decide to check out this facility, to verify our little show, it could prove, shall we say, problematic.” The senator’s aide, still looking impeccable after twenty-four hours on the road, shifted his weight from foot to foot as if he had to take a leak.
“That’s what I have you for, to ensure that things don’t become problematic.”
“Sir, with all due respect, there could be ramifications…”
“Thank you,” the senator said sternly, looking down his nose at his aide. “I’ll notify you when your opinion is needed again.”
Peter Winthrop leaned on the post next to the fence and finished his conversation before hanging up the phone. He turned his broad shoulders toward the senator and approached the hood of the car with a smile. He loosened his royal blue tie and spoke with his usual car salesman tone.
“The owner apologizes for keeping us waiting. Someone will open the gate momentarily. The guard at the front gatehouse is making his afternoon patrol of the perimeter. He should have been here to let us in.”
“Patrolling the perimeter?”
“I’m sure it’s just an expression.”
Senator Day turned at the waist and looked around. Scott was sulking near the trunk, shuffling through his electronic organizer and the senator’s schedule for the upcoming week. Across the makeshift movie studio at the entrance to Chang Industries, the cameraman arranged the angle of the video camera on a tripod and assessed the lighting. He ordered his crew around like a basketball coach without a whiteboard, fingers pointing left, arms darting right.
The senator leaned toward Peter and spoke quietly. “Peter, this place isn’t exactly as advertised.”
“Since when is advertising accurate?”
“This is not a joke.”
“Everything is fine, Senator. You wanted a garment manufacturing facility. I give you Chang Industries. I’ve been doing business with the Chang family for years. It has been a mutually beneficial and financially rewarding relationship. This place is ours for the filming. Just look around. Fabulous sunsets, views of the ocean, palm trees, and not a cloud in the sky.”
“Nothing is perfect,” the senator said. A bead of sweat ran down his brow, past the distinguished crows-feet stretching from the corner of his grey eyes.
“Relax, Senator. After we film, I’ll see to it that you get a massage. Maybe get two girls to work on you. Clothing optional.”
The senator paused. “No one underage.”
“Of course,” Peter answered, smiling.
A brief, audible buzz interrupted the conversation. The front gate to the facility chugged with a rattle of loose metal, then began to slide open without further protest.
Lee Chang and a well-built Chinese employee made their way across the open dirt lot between the gate and the main building. Senator Day’s eyes passed over the manager of the facility and settled on the enormous employee with the ponytail and powerful swagger. The senator muttered under his breath. “Look at this guy. The Mountain of Shanghai.”
Peter grunted in response.
Lee Chang stepped through the still-moving gate and greeted Peter with a handshake and a pat on the shoulder. “Good to see you again, Peter,” Lee said in near perfect English. “Sorry to keep you waiting. One of my guards should have been here to let you in.” Lee’s red silk button-down shirt flapped lightly in the wind. His jet-black hair was freshly combed, a thin moustache stretched over his lip.
“I hear he was patrolling the perimeter,” the senator said.
“Lee,” Peter interrupted, pulling his host by the elbow. “It’s a great honor for me to introduce Senator John Day from Massachusetts.”
“Senator Day, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Welcome to Saipan, Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands.”
“Thank you for allowing us to visit your facilities.”
“The pleasure is mine, Senator. Anything you need, just ask. Anything at all.” Lee Chang stepped aside and his oversized companion cast a shadow on the senator’s torso. “I would like to introduce my assistant and a longtime associate of the Chang family, Chow Ying. He arrived last month to help me out here at Chang Industries.”
“Exactly what does he help with, moving furniture?” the senator asked, smiling and extending his hand.
More handshakes followed as the senator’s chief-of-staff and the camera crew were introduced. Behind his
