column. But once you got onto this…”
“I became a liability.”
He sipped his coffee. “It’s as easy as that, when your personnel are just human resources. Move them from column A to column B. Eliminate as necessary.”
She shivered. “I don’t like the world you’ve lived in, Jerrod Westlake.”
“Neither do I.”
“Are you going to tell your office about this?”
“No.” Unequivocal and flat.
“I guess the FBI has human resources, too.” She settled back and sipped her coffee again. “So we can’t trust anyone. Hell, for all I know, you were sent here to gain my trust so I’d lead you right to my source. For all I know, you’re on cleanup detail.”
He laughed quietly. “Now you’re thinking like me.”
“I’m not so sure that’s a good thing.”
“Actually, it is. You’ll live longer.”
No clouds marred the sky of Austin when they arrived. The heavens shone a breathtaking blue, and the air invigorated her with just a touch of winter’s chill. Erin could have wallowed in the lack of humidity.
Jerrod surprised her. She’d half expected him to put her into another hotel, but instead he left her on the St. Edward’s University campus in South Austin.
“It’s busy, and it’s public. Nobody will bother you here. And their library will have Internet access.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll be back in two hours. Will you be okay?”
“Sure.”
When he glanced into his rearview mirror, he saw her disappear into the library. Then he sped north to the Federal Building, already planning his story.
Inside the library, Erin found quite a few students working busily. Near the elevators, she found a pair of public computers that required no log-in, linked into the library database and the world beyond. While she couldn’t connect to her anonymous account, she could look up “white slavery” on Google and see what was out in the public domain.
While some dismissed it as myth and others as women knowingly entering the sex trade for its economic opportunities, the statistics were staggering. Whether abducted, enticed, purchased from their parents or simply drawn by the lure of leaving home and gaining some measure of social and psychological independence, women and teens entered the international sex market on a horrific scale. Most knew they—or the daughters they were selling—would soon be working as “bar girls,” “comfort women,” “escorts” or “house girls.” What they too often did not know was the degrading, violent and often deadly conditions under which that work was done.
Although the U.N. and many countries had funded countless studies and passed legislation to eliminate white slavery, the trade went on. In some societies it was accepted as a matter of course. Girls were imported, often as young as eleven or twelve years of age, and then schooled in the skills of their new profession. By their midteens they were ready for resale, often convinced that they were graduating into the adult world, a world where their bodies were fungible assets.
Waves of revulsion rolled through Erin as she read. Most repulsive of all was a question that slowly grew and began to gnaw at the back of her consciousness: what if these girls were not brainwashed, not victims, but self-motivated entrepreneurs who had chosen what they saw as their most accessible path to economic independence?
Some of the girls interviewed in the studies almost seemed to have been put forward as poster girls for prostitution, with gilded stories of having paid for college and opened doors that would otherwise have been forever barred by using their earnings. If she let herself see their perspective, it was almost as if prostitution was the female equivalent of military service: trading one’s youthful body for the rights and opportunities of adult citizenship.
But for every one of those stories, there was a story of another kind, of beatings, of rape, of feeling one’s heart and soul hollowed out, twenty minutes and as many dollars at a time, trying to pay off the “loan” that had brought the girl from Russia or Thailand, Burma or Brazil, until she realized that she could work the rest of her life and never be free of the debt…or the memories.
The more Erin read, the more convinced she became that the human species could rationalize away the most abhorrent evils imaginable. If this was the best humanity could do, she thought, perhaps a radical global climate change would not be a disaster at all.
Perhaps it would simply be Mother Earth washing herself in disgust.
Alton Castle was probably the least important accountant at Mercator Arms, and that was fine with him. He handled shipping invoices on classified projects. Like everything at Mercator, his job was compartmentalized, so that none of the junior employees would have a full picture of what they were doing on any contract. It was standard security doctrine, and Alton liked it that way.
In fact, he would have vastly preferred not to have learned what he knew.
When he’d joined Mercator seven years ago, he’d had ambitions. He’d seen his job as a stepping-stone to greater things. He’d poured heart and soul into his work, aware that accuracy was crucial on government contracts, aware that inspectors didn’t always give warning before they arrived. He’d wanted to ensure that Mercator was doing everything by the book, so Pentagon Inspector General teams would never have reason to challenge the company on anything he’d been involved in.
But he also had a daughter. Like many employees, he kept a picture of his wife and their child on his desk, a reminder that his job was a means and not an end in itself. First-time visitors to his office often commented on how beautiful both were, and his chest swelled with pride each time. They were beautiful. Stunningly, amazingly so.
He might be a mere “bean counter,” as other parts of the company referred to the huge staff of accountants and lawyers, but bean counting was essential to the company’s life. Absolutely essential, he often thought, for if the government noted any discrepancy in the billings, they might be audited, and while the audit continued, the government could refuse to pay the company’s bills on suspect contracts. He might be a cog in the wheel, but he was an important cog.
He sat in his small cubicle, matching bills of lading with contracts and invoices. He also maintained completion tallies, so he could report on the accounting status of each of the contracts he managed.
But he had been too diligent. He’d tumbled into a snake pit, one his conscience would not let him ignore. Every time he looked at the face of his daughter, he felt the jolt of his discovery anew.
“Alton?” One of the women in his group appeared at his doorway with an armful of papers. “These bills of lading are all verified as to contract. The preliminary invoices are clipped to them.”
“Thanks, Cecile. Just put them in my in-box.” He had to check over all the prelims, then make any necessary adjustments.
She did as asked, gave him a flirtatious smile and sashayed out of the cubicle.
He returned to the file he was pretending to examine and tried to calm himself. The increased security at the plant, begun only a few days ago, had unnerved him. As yet the changes were minimal, but given what he knew, and that he had shared it outside
