T. Bunn - The Great Divide

“I mentioned on the telephone that I may be bringing legal action on behalf of a young lady who is missing in China.”

“Indeed yes.” The man was all stick limbs and thinning black hair and skin the color of milky tea. He wore a neatly pressed short-sleeved shirt over dark trousers. “A Miss Gloria Hall.”

“You know her?”

“I can’t recall.” He lifted his hands from his lap and gave a broad shrug. “I meet so many people.”

Marcus’ gaze remained fixed upon where the hands had reached, though they had now retreated back beneath the desk. He was not sure exactly what he had seen, yet it was enough to leave his stomach feeling like jellied ice. “But you might know her.”

“I seem to recall a nice young woman who had an interest in China. I have an interest. We met. We talked. Perhaps. Or it might have been someone else.”

“Can you recall what you might have talked about?”

The man laughed once more, a jarring sound in this sterile womb. “If we did meet, we probably spoke of lao gai . Yes, most definitely it would be of lao gai . You know of these, sir?”

“No.”

“ Lao gai are the invisible prisons. The ones you never hear of. Even among ourselves we never say the name very loud. Oh no. Just whisper.” He leaned across his desk and breathed, “Lao gai.” Then laughed once more.

Marcus affected a smile. But his gaze froze on where Dee Gautam’s hands rested upon the desk. Both his thumbs seemed to have extra joints, ones that pointed the digits in the opposite from normal directions. Then they were folded back again and extended normally. But what left Marcus feeling queasy were the deep holes midway between the man’s wrists and elbows. The scars were well-healed, but still a half inch deep, as though someone had driven spikes through the bones.

“ Lao gai are everywhere, sir. Oh yes. All the provinces of China, they need places to store those who become nuisances. You wish to pester the provincial government with requests for political rights or rule of law? Fine. No problem. We invite you to be a guest of the state.”

The arms lifted and opened wide, the broad smile returned. “Welcome to the grand hotel lao gai , you pesky fellow. Perhaps here you can learn proper respect, yes?”

“Yes.” Marcus swallowed on a dry mouth, tried not to track the movement of those two arms. “But I thought Gloria Hall was checking out a factory.”

The arms disappeared into his lap. “She has told you this?”

“Not me. She left a letter with her parents.”

“Which factory, please?”

“I don’t know much about it. Just a number. Factory 101. Somewhere outside Hong Kong.”

“In Guangdong Province. Yes.” The smile was gone, the dark eyes steady, measuring. “What is your interest in this, please?”

“Gloria Hall’s parents have asked me to file suit against the factory’s alleged American partner.” Here in this place, faced with the reality of those vanished hands and all the stains hidden by these whitewashed walls, the statement sounded lame. “To be honest, there’s not much of a case. But if a partnership exists, the Americans might help locate her to avoid adverse publicity.”

“Indeed. And the American company?”

“New Horizons.” He steered the conversation back to his earlier question. “What would a Chinese factory have to do with one of these prisons?”

“The lao gai network holds over two million prisoners, Mr. Glenwood. We think two million. Maybe three, maybe five. Nobody knows. Not even Beijing. You see, sir, many lao gai prisoners are not tried in a court of law. Oh no. No trial, no public record. They come before a party tribunal, or they have a military hearing. They are sentenced, whoosh, the hearing lasts two, maybe three minutes. Then they are gone for such a long time. Years. Maybe forever.”

Marcus pressed, “And the factories?”

“So many prisoners, all must be taught to become good Chinese citizens, yes?” He gave another of his open-armed shrugs. “What better way than with reeducation through labor?”

“You’re saying an American company is making sports gear with political prisoners?”

“Oh sir, there is so much to learn here. Indeed yes. You ask questions just like Gloria.”

“So you do remember speaking with her.”

“Yes, perhaps. These questions, and the name. Factory 101. Perhaps.” Absently he crossed his hands on the desk and stared into the distance. “This I must check into.”

“I still don’t understand-”

“These are not simple matters, Mr. Glenwood. Not aboveboard and straight-ahead like American business. The good Western businessman, he meets the Chinese authority. Perhaps the Chinese person is Communist Party, perhaps military, perhaps son or daughter of top official, but always they are factory owner. Always they wear two hats, but show the Western visitor only one.” The accent was stronger now, the words spoken to the blank side wall. “The Chinese official says, yes, I can make this for one-tenth the cost of your factory back home. The American, he smells big money. Does he ask, what are conditions in your factory, how do you hire your workers?”

“Not a chance,” Marcus replied. “He takes the money and runs.”

Dee Gautam gave his grand smile. “Now you understand Chinese business. Very good.”

“But why would they kidnap an American student? That doesn’t make sense.”

“No. Indeed not.” Absently the little man began scratching the wound on one arm. Probing gently into the hole, caressing the scar. “Unless Miss Gloria Hall discovered something they must keep secret, yes? Something we cannot be allowed to know.”

“Like what?”

“Ah. That we must see if we can discover.” He rose from his chair, drawing Marcus with him. “And now you must excuse me. I have an appointment on Capitol Hill. I have been given three minutes to convince one of your congressmen that more visas should be granted to victims of political terror.”

Marcus somehow felt small walking alongside this fragile figure. “Where are you from, India?”

“No. Close. Sri Lanka.” Dee Gautam halted by the steel doors and offered one misshapen hand. “You will take this case?”

“Perhaps.” The deformed thumbs felt like bony knobs as Marcus gripped the hand. “If there is a case at all.”

“Then perhaps we shall see each other again, yes? A pleasure, sir. A pleasure.”

Marcus asked his taxi to stop across the street from the Chinese embassy. He got out, told the driver to wait, and crossed at the light. The embassy was sixties’ red-brick, broad and squat, set back from Connecticut Avenue by a triangular plaza sprouting a few meager shrubs. A security guard stood bored sentry duty by the glass entrance doors. A few people came and went, most wearing dark suits and professional airs. Down the street rose the Washington Hilton, and a few blocks farther was Dupont Circle. Traffic was light, the street sunny and quiet, the sky blue. No protestors, no sinister air, nothing whatsoever to connect this building to all he had just heard. Marcus climbed back in his taxi and gave a Georgetown address.

P Street was narrow and leafy and lined with Federal row houses. Some sparkled from recent renovations, others held the weary look of long years and hard use. The taxi stopped before a house of brick and painted clapboard, well-tended but lacking the freshness of a total overhaul. The door and ground-floor shutters were painted forest green.

Marcus climbed the brick stairs, regretting the need to meet this woman at all. He knew the type with bitter clarity-too rich, too thin, chin held high on a too-long neck. Clothes purchased from some Fifth Avenue shop known for muted plaids and clunky shoes. Vowels carefully enunciated, consonants spoken with a pretentious nasal twang. Eyes clear and gaze lofty, as if it required great effort to look down to his squalid level. Everything about her would be angled, pointed, and bony. Especially her opinions. Marcus pressed the doorbell, shields up, ready to encounter his former wife’s long-lost cousin. Or even worse, a younger version of his ex-mother-in-law. As far as he was concerned, at that moment the worst thing going for Gloria Hall was her roommate’s telephone attitude.