T. Bunn - The Great Divide

“Right. Mr. Glenwood, in eleven weeks the Vice President and the secretary of commerce are leading a trade mission to China. We’ve got seventeen places to fill and more than four hundred heads of industry who want to come along. Not to mention half of Congress. We also have to prepare position papers on two dozen different topics.”

And this, Marcus realized, was a carefully rehearsed little speech. “Preparatory meetings for this mission would be the ideal chance to bring up the issue of a missing American citizen.”

“Not a chance.” The words echoed loudly through the voluminous lobby. “Look, maybe you could ask your local congressman or senator to raise the matter.”

“The parents have already tried that route.”

“Then there’s nothing I can do for you.”

“I can’t believe the State Department would take such a cavalier attitude to a kidnapped American citizen.”

The man actually smirked. “You don’t know that.”

Marcus studied the man more intently. “You know Gloria Hall?”

“Absolutely not. We make it a policy to have nothing whatsoever to do with the lunatic fringe.”

Marcus leaned closer. “The what?”

“Gloria Hall was ready to enlist on any side making trouble for the Chinese. As you well know.” The man shook his head, a quick motion like a dog shedding water. “Look, Mr. Glenwood, you’re wasting your time. Gloria Hall went looking for trouble and she found it. We can’t help you.”

The young lady at the International Chamber of Commerce was equally direct but far more polite. Her name was Patricia Calloway and she led Marcus through a warren of tiny cubicles to an office with a window. Her card said she was assistant director for Far Eastern policy and the plaques on her wall said she had graduated with honors from Wellesley and Georgetown’s School of Foreign Service. When Marcus had completed his lead-in, she demanded, “You’ve spoken with someone at the State Department?”

“I tried. They didn’t offer a thing.”

“I’m not surprised. With a major trade junket on the horizon, they’re all heads down in the bunkers.”

“Even so, it seems amazing how little interest they showed over a missing American.”

“Because it’s a Pandora’s box they don’t dare open.” She watched him with intelligent green eyes, clearly assessing whether he was worth her time, and whether he would actually listen to what he did not want to hear. “A number of Chinese dissidents hold dual citizenship with the United States. They go back planning to be arrested, hoping their mission will pressure Washington to act on human rights abuses.”

Marcus felt a niggling sensation at the back of his mind. Mission . It took a moment to recall where he had come across that word before. “A confrontation over human rights abuses just prior to a trade expedition would be-”

“An absolute debacle,” she agreed cheerfully. “The State Department’s worst-case scenario.”

“I seem to recall that this administration included human rights in its election manifesto.”

“Maybe so. But now it’s trade first, human rights last. And China just happens to be the world’s largest untapped market.”

Marcus confessed, “I’m surprised at your candor.”

“Oh, we’re definitely pro-trade around here.” She flashed a quick smile. “But that doesn’t make us blind to reality.”

“Which is?”

“That China has been backsliding on human rights ever since Tiananmen Square. They make no bones about it. The recent arrests of those pro-democracy advocates were highly publicized, both inside and outside China. This was a calculated act. They’re telling the rest of the world this is an internal matter, and we’re too big and too powerful for you to risk offending us. So don’t make an issue of it, or we’ll take our business elsewhere.”

She offered another quick smile. “That’s my ten-cent tour. We dish it up to everybody wanting to tap the Chinese market. Your average American businessman will waltz in here and give us something like, there’s a billion people over there and not a single company making widgets. So we go, fine, but are you willing to get your hands dirty? Because nobody who does business in China stays totally clean.”

He was listening to what was going on beneath the surface now, and thought he heard a confusing note of concern. “Did you know Gloria Hall?”

“Just by name. We never met. She was making a reputation for herself as more than just another noisy activist.”

He leaned forward. “How?”

“These are all just rumors. But you hear things in this business. She was mentioned in a couple of legal suits against Chinese companies, claiming this and that. Usually something labor related. Then there was some Hong Kong issue, a man who’d been injured in a raid, I think it was. And she petitioned my boss on several U.S. companies operating in Tibet.”

Marcus mulled it over. “A troublemaker.”

“You didn’t hear that from me. But that was the word in the corridors.” Another smile, this one tinged with regret. “One of the bad guys.”

Marcus began thinking out loud. “So if Gloria Hall did indeed go to China, and if she was investigating a factory for labor violations and disappeared …”

The smile vanished. “I’d say she was in serious trouble. And you don’t know how serious trouble can be until you hit it in a place like China.”

Though situated less than two miles from the White House, the offices for Asia Rights Watch were on the wrong end of Pennsylvania Avenue. In all his seven years of high-powered travel, Marcus had never had a reason to visit this area. His taxi passed the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, skirted the Tidal Basin, and entered the area known simply as Southwest.

The taxi let him off in front of a new four-story structure of colonial brick. There was no sign outside the building, no indication within of who occupied the top three floors. The lobby was carpeted and sterile and quiet as a tomb. Both the entrance and the elevators were flanked by security cameras.

Marcus exited the elevator on the fourth floor and found himself standing before double doors of reinforced steel. The hallway was compressed by a fireproofed ceiling and thick concrete walls, and was so quiet the air-conditioning shouted a constant hoarse sigh.

He pressed a button alongside the doors. A solemn voice said, “State your business.”

“Marcus Glenwood. I have an appointment.”

“Look straight at the camera. No, the other one, to your right. Thank you.”

The door clicked open. He entered a windowless reception area. Still he saw no sign announcing where he was. The desk and chairs were of light Scandinavian design, the floors and walls a uniform white. The standard drop ceiling had been removed, revealing heating ducts and lighting systems and concrete, all painted a light blue.

“Mr. Glenwood?”

“Yes.” He turned and adjusted his gaze downward. “Mr. Gautam, did I say that correctly?”

“Indeed, yes.” The man did not offer his hand. Instead, he beamed broadly enough to reveal more teeth than Marcus would have thought could fit in such an undersized head. He waved down the side corridor. “Let us go and speak in my office.”

In the privacy of the narrow hallway, Marcus asked, “Why did you take out the ceiling panels?”

“Merely a precaution, Mr. Glenwood. Probably of no benefit.” Dee Gautam had a strong accent with American overtones. The diminutive figure led him into a windowless office as austere as the reception area. “Please to have a seat there.”

“Thanks. Precaution against what?”

“Attacks from above. Some of my colleagues possess a well-developed sense of paranoia.” He gave a merry laugh as he seated himself behind the desk. “Now then. What can I do for you?”