Peter May - Snakehead

The woman nodded to confirm that she was.

‘How long ago was that?’ Li asked.

She shrugged. ‘Five weeks, maybe six.’

Li told Margaret, and they were silent for a moment. The implications were not lost on them. At the briefing, Hrycyk had told them that the INS estimated around eight thousand illegals crossed the border into the US every month. If these people were being injected with the flu virus as long as six weeks ago, then already there could be up to ten thousand carriers in the country. It was a terrifying prospect, and raised the scale of the whole thing beyond anything any of them might have imagined.

Margaret said, ‘I’m calling in the Department of Health. We can’t just lock these people up. They’re going to have to be held in isolation and individually examined.’

Hrycyk came hurrying down the narrow passage between the rows of bunk beds. ‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ he said. ‘There’s no toilets or running water in this place. They’ve been shitting all over the floor.’ He paused and looked at Margaret. She could see his concern through his visor. ‘There’s another room through the back there,’ he said. ‘And there’s a guy sneezing and coughing his lungs up. I think he might have the flu.’

Margaret pushed past him to hurry back toward the other room. Hrycyk grabbed her arm. ‘This mask’s gonna protect me, right? I’m not gonna get the flu as long as I got this on?’

‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ she said. ‘You’ve already caught something a whole lot worse.’

She saw the alarm on his face. ‘What do you mean? What have I got?’

‘It’s a nasty disease of the intellect called racism,’ she said. ‘And I’m not sure if there’s any cure for it.’

He let go of her and sneered, ‘Yeah, very fucking funny.’ Then, ‘Hey,’ he called after her as she headed down the aisle. ‘Better not stick around for the next port of call. Little whorehouse down the road. You might get squeamish about picking up your own kind.’

Li came at him out of left field, catching him totally unawares. The two men crashed backwards, demolishing one of the flimsy beds and tumbling to the floor. Hrycyk was overweight and seriously unfit. He was no match for Li who grabbed a handful of Tivek at the American’s neck and raised a fist to smash down into Hrycyk’s face.

‘Yeah, go on, do it!’ the INS agent urged him. ‘Fucking do it, and your feet won’t touch the ground till you hit Tiananmen.’

Li felt Margaret pulling his arm. ‘For Christ’s sake, Li Yan, grow up! Didn’t your uncle ever tell you that violence was the first resort of the moron? Don’t get down there in the gutter with animals like him.’

Li shook his arm free of her and stood up. Hrycyk scrambled to his feet, trying to recover at least a little of his dignity. He stabbed a finger through the air toward Li. ‘Gonna have you, Chinaman,’ he said, spluttering all over the inside of his visor. ‘Gonna fucking have you.’

Hrycyk’s Santana cruised slowly across the parking lot before drawing gently to a stop, engine ticking over quietly. The row of shops below the green-tiled roof at the far side looked innocuous enough. There was a video store, a grocery shop, a hairdresser’s, a restaurant. Yellow light fell in slabs across the tarmac, loud music playing somewhere nearby drifted across the warm night air. If it wasn’t for the Chinese characters on the shopfronts, you could have mistaken this for any suburban shopping plaza in America.

The raid on the Dong’an apartments had netted more than fifty men, women and children. None of them had papers. They were all, almost certainly, illegal. Margaret had determined that the man Hrycyk feared might have the flu was suffering from a bad head cold. They had also picked up half a dozen ma zhai , and were holding them in company with the same people they had once held prisoner themselves. Under Department of Health supervision, the INS had already dispatched the immigrants on buses north to Huntsville, where FEMA had rented an entire unit from the state prison to keep them in secure isolation until they could be brought in front of the immigration court.

Li sat in the front seat beside Hrycyk, Margaret in back. The tension in the car was tangible. They still wore their Tivek suits and HEPA filters, each aware of how ridiculous they appeared to the other. There might have been something faintly comic about their situation were it not so grave. They were waiting for the vans to go in first.

Finally, Margaret could contain her curiosity no longer. ‘Which one’s the whorehouse?’

Hrycyk was clearly striving to come back at her with some caustic comment. But nothing came to him. He said lamely, ‘The hairdresser’s.’

She looked at the hairdressing salon. A brightly lit picture window gave on to the interior of the salon. They could see what looked like a group of women sitting waiting to take their turn in the chair. ‘Looks like they’re waiting for a perm,’ she said.

Hrycyk sneered. ‘Those aren’t women in there,’ he said. ‘That’s men waiting their turn in one of the back rooms. Massage, they like to call it. But anything goes, depending on how much you’re prepared to pay. Still takes a lot of blow-jobs to pay off your snakehead, though.’

They heard the squeal of tyres, and two white INS vans and three black and whites careened across the lot, brakes burning rubber as they drew up in front of the salon. They saw the silhouettes in the window jump to their feet, alarmed. White-suited figures poured from the back of the vans and into the salon. Uniformed police officers got out of their vehicles and stood around outside, hands on hips, daring anyone to interfere.

‘Time to go,’ Hrycyk said. And he got out of the car. Li and Margaret followed him across to the hairdresser’s. By the time they got inside, the half-dozen male customers were sitting down again sheepishly on the bench. Hrycyk grinned at them. ‘In for a haircut, boys?’

One of his agents emerged from a corridor leading to the back shop. ‘Three rooms in back, chief,’ he said. ‘Two of them occupied. Just giving them time to make themselves decent. Apparently the girls live in. There’s an apartment up the stairs.’

‘Let’s take a look,’ Hrycyk said.

They went down the corridor past two shut doors on the left. A third, on the right, stood open to reveal a small room almost filled by a makeshift massage table covered with white towels. There was a single chair against the back wall, below a cracked mirror. The other walls were scarred and dirty and pasted with old posters from Chinese movies. The air was heavy with the unpleasant smell of human body odour. And there was something else in the air, Margaret thought, high-pitched and disagreeable. The stink of sexual slavery.

A narrow staircase at the end of the corridor dog-legged up to the second floor. Another corridor with two bedrooms off it, a bathroom, and a sitting room at the far end. A couple of INS men were escorting one of the girls down the hall. She was wearing an obscenely short sleeveless blue cotton dress and white, high-heeled shoes. There were bruises on her arms and legs. Her face was hidden by the long black hair that flowed across it from her bowed head. As they approached, she threw her head back defiantly, flinging the hair out of her face. She was a pretty girl, late twenties, but her face was thin and haunted. Her eyes met Li’s, and she stopped in her tracks, and for a very long time they stood staring at each other.

Hrycyk looked from one to the other. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’

Suddenly the girl bolted, breaking free from the grasp of the INS agents. She threw herself into the bathroom, slamming the door shut in their faces. They heard the key turn in the lock.