Ridley Pearson - Choke Point

She possesses a professional edge that allows several minutes to hang in the air between them, the pendulum swinging back and forth between their nearly unflinching eyes. Each is waiting for the other to say something. Both understand that in a hand of bridge the lead carries a great burden: it establishes hierarchy, it sets the suit to be played. Better to let the other lead, and then elect to match suit or trump.

“John Steele,” he says. He has always gotten a kick out of the surname. Strong. Heavy. He pulls a business card out of his pocket knowing she isn’t the type to care about a business card, but he went to the bother—for her sake—and he has planned this out, and the business card is part of the plan. So he slides it across the table to her, and she flicks it by the corner in order to pick it up. Reads it. Flips it over. Looks back across to him. Maybe it has had more of an effect on her than he thought it might. Europe and Asia put much more stock in business cards than America. She’s a reporter. Maybe it’s enough evidence.

“So?” she says.

“The article on the sweatshop. Good writing. Bad photo.”

“It was carried on the wire, that photo. Published all around the world.” Her English is very good, though her accent thick.

“McDonald’s operates all around the world. I still don’t eat there.” He’d hoped for a smile, but she isn’t volunteering.

“Canada? The U.S.?”

“Once upon a time. And that time was a long time ago. Have you not seen my work?”

She studies the business card for a second time. “What is it you want?”

“I’ve been trying to get up my nerve to make you a business proposition. But you don’t make it easy. And I’m not exactly sure what’s going on with you. There are two of them. They take turns in the café.” He waits for that to sink in. “Watching you.”

“You were able to text me.”

“I sat above you in the café. Your Nokia shows its number when it boots up. You might want to change that.”

She wants to scoff at this; appears about to do so. He assumes it’s the look he gives her that convinces her otherwise. Knox never shies from allowing his confidence to show.

“Are you so resourceful? I don’t like this.”

“If you’re going after the story of the people running the sweatshop,” Knox says, “and I believe you are, it needs photographs. A hidden camera? Video? You know it. I know it.”

“The paper has photographers.” Dismissive. She scoots back her chair. “Besides, I filed that story. I’m on to other things.”

“No, you’re not.” He waits just long enough for her anger to stir. “You’re on leave. You’re working freelance.”

“And who are you working for, Mr. Steele?”

“One of your sources is dead. Another, assaulted.”

“And you’re my guardian angel.”

He doesn’t answer. For a moment he is at a loss for words. She’s not what he’d expected.

“What kind of photographer spots people watching other people? Or maybe you made it all up to impress me. Maybe you hired that man. It’s a lot of trouble to go to for some photo credits.”

“It’s a tough economy.”

Her laughter carries across the lounge. She covers her mouth, reminding him of Grace. Her eyes shine. A closer look tells him she’s exhausted.

“I don’t trust you, Mr. Steele.”

“Google my work. A picture’s worth a thousand words. You have my number.” Dulwich and Rutherford Risk have established both as part of his cover. He’s credited from Melbourne to Monterey.

“If you follow me again, if I see you again, I will call the police.”

“These people weren’t afraid to kill an EU bureaucrat. What chance do you think a reporter has?”

She stands, a pillar of righteousness. “A photographer has a better chance?”

“Do you trust them?” he says.

“They’re killers,” she returns.

“The police, I mean,” he says, surprising her. “Do you trust them?” She sits back down, weary now, fearful even.

Her silence reaches across the small table like the smell of fear.

“Can a sweatshop be run without police on the take?” he asks. “I’m asking. I don’t know Amsterdam well.”

Her eyes burn with hatred and resignation. He knows which one is meant for him.

“You intend to find the sweatshop.”

“Knot shop,” she corrects. “The young girls are recruited because their fingers are so small. Faster knots. Women, too. But the girls are far cheaper—a few euros a day if they’re lucky.”

“And then? Do you stop if you get the story?”

“Would you stop there?”

“I would not,” he says.

“Neither shall I.”

“And they will kill you. What is the point of that?”

“Were you sent to warn me?”

He laughs. “The man in the café should have been enough for that.”

“Indeed.” She nods thoughtfully.

“You’re out of your element.”

“And you are not?”

He doesn’t want to oversell. Doesn’t want the shrug mistaken as a promise. Doesn’t want to scare her off. There’s a connection between them, but it’s fragile at best.

“Two is better than one. We proved that at the café.”

“How do I know you didn’t set that up for my benefit?”

“You don’t. Though to be honest, I’m not that smart.”

She can’t fight the curl at the edge of her lips. “I doubt that,” she says. “All for a photo credit or two? I doubt that as well.”

“And you? Strictly humanitarian? No whiff of prizes, of peer recognition?”

“So crass.”

“I know who you are,” he says. “Professionally speaking, of course. I know what this story would mean for me. I don’t deny it. Do you?”

“I do. Absolutely.”

“All right then, I’ll accept you at your word.”

“We are at cross-purposes,” she says.

“Not at all. You need a wing man. Clearly.”

She considers this. She doesn’t like him, but there’s the promise of tolerance as she purses her lips and looks down at her hands.

He senses she’s not the type to shave her legs or underarms regularly. European. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows contradict the stringiness of her hair. He wonders if her present circumstances are responsible or if this reflects her personal grooming.

“Don’t follow me. Don’t text me.”

“You will come to find out that you don’t have to tell me things twice.” She stands and heads to the door without looking back.

He considers letting her go. Can’t stop himself. She’s gotten under his skin. He reaches her just before she opens the door to the street. Takes her by the arm, brings lips to her ear.

“Let me tell you something,” he whispers. “You had better adopt a new attitude. Check your surroundings. Switch sides of the street. Reverse directions. Learn to follow no patterns—none. Assume—do you hear me?—you assume you are being watched or followed at all times and you do everything in your power to lose them, to make them work at it, to expose themselves to you. Remember faces. If not me, you let someone close to you know when you suspect something. Stay at hotels and switch often. Pay cash. Do not use your apartment. Avoid your regular crowd. Maybe you stay alive. You march out of the hotel without precautions, as you are about to do now, you won’t last a week.” He releases her. She has been pulling against his grip and he’s held her too tightly. Her perfume or deodorant—something—envelops her in a warm, earthy glow.

Her arm is free. They meet eyes.

“Thank you.” She leaves his head spinning as she now takes in the lobby’s clientele and slips out the hotel doors and onto the busy sidewalk. She pauses, studying the passing pedestrians and the vehicles along Keizersgracht.