The Overseer (37 page)

Misha looked at Hannah. “Who are you?” she asked, seeming more offended than anything, accent thick.

Hannah didn’t say anything.

“You come here,” Misha continued, annoyed, “you wave gun around and trespass. Who are you?”

“What you’re doing is wrong,” Hannah said.

Misha frowned. “What?”

“What you’re doing is evil, and I can’t let you do this.”

Misha looked at the others, confused and offended, then back to Hannah. “I am businesswoman. I do what makes money, and this makes money.”

“It’s still wrong.”

“Says rich girl,” Misha sneered. “You have everything. You have money. You have never had to live poor.”

Hannah shook her head. “There are other ways to make money.”

“Says you, rich girl.”

“I’m not rich,” Hannah said, trying not to argue with dangerous captors.

“You don’t starve to death. You aren’t left to die when the capitalists take over your country,” Misha said. “We have to find a way to live. To survive. To make money and not starve to death in a world where we do not have as much of a portion as others.”

“So you kidnap girls?” Hannah said, angry.

“Not always,” Misha disagreed, as if Hannah had no clue what she was talking about. “We offer girls from Ukraine jobs in the United States. A chance to come to a new place—to be in the West. They want it; we give it to them. And,” Misha said, spreading her palms, “we make money. Enough money that we can stop being poor and be rich like Americans.”

“Do you tell these girls what they are going to be doing?” Hannah asked skeptically.

“No!” Misha laughed as it were a ridiculous thing to ask. “We offer them jobs. Good jobs. Waitress, secretary, nanny—these kind of things. We tell them that they can come to America to do these things and send money back home to their families.”

“And they accept?”

Misha nodded vigorously. “Many.”

“But they aren’t working as waitresses and nannies,” Hannah said with a frown.

“No,” Misha laughed again, “there is no money for us in that. We sell them to pimps and strip clubs. Things that people like to pay for. Things that make money.”

Hannah felt her stomach twist into knots, nausea nearly overpowering her. “And they don’t run away?”

“How?” Misha shrugged. “They come here and we take away their passport. They have nowhere to run or go. They are illegal aliens and prostitutes. They know better than to try to run.”

“Don’t
any
of them try to run away?” Hannah asked, anger, pain, and disgust filling her body as she thought it all through.

“That is stupid question. Where would they go?” Misha asked. “They do not know their way around. We get most girls through family; they know it is not smart to go back. They know we will hurt their families if they run away.”

The whole thing washed over Hannah in a hideous deluge of futility. “They must fight back, though.”

“No,” Misha said, again seeming confused. “Our girls are very beautiful but very weak.”

“And the ones that aren’t?”

Misha considered for a moment. “We make sure we take certain kind of girl—but the ones who try to be strong must be taught.”

Hannah shuddered, not certain if she wanted to ask or know. “How? How are they
taught
?”

Misha waved a hand. “Like a horse. You must break them. If you are going to keep a girl, you must break also.”

“How?” Hannah asked, fury rising in her.

Misha smirked as if Hannah were the most naive creature she had ever seen. “They have to be raped. Often. If they are trouble, they have to be hit and scared. They have to know who is boss and what they are good for.”

Hannah shook her head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Why?” Misha shrugged. “These girls serve twenty, thirty men a night—they need to be ready for it.”

“You’re sick,” Hannah growled, feeling depraved just thinking about it all.

“But we’re here,” Misha said without remorse. “We make money, and we keep doing what we do as long as people pay. Maybe it is human pain.” Misha shrugged. “But the pay is good, so we won’t stop.”

Police swarmed the scene, cordoning off everything they could. The monorail station had been completely shut off from the public. John, Devin, and Trista had been asked by the police to stay until they could give a statement.

John watched, waiting for the inevitable moment when the police would want to speak to them, wondering what he would say to them about who he was and why he was there. Across the station the senator sat on a bench, talking to his people.

Trista came up on John’s right side, standing next to him. She didn’t say anything; she simply took his hand and held it. He smiled to himself.

Devin stepped up on the other side, not noticing the two of them holding hands. “Have you ever had to talk to the police about this kind of thing before?”

John shook his head. “Not in a long time.”

Across the station one of the senator’s people—tall, bald, and thin, wearing a pinstripe suit—was talking emphatically, motioning for what appeared to be the most senior police officer to come to him. The bald man flashed credentials of some kind, pointing at John and the others, continuing his conversation with the policeman. They reached some sort of agreement, nodding to one another. The bald man began walking their way.

“Who do you suppose that is?” Devin asked.

“I have no clue,” John replied, shaking his head.

“Me either,” Trista added.

The man stopped a few feet from them and smiled. “Hello,” he said courteously, “my name is Mr. Crest. I would like to speak to you in private.”

John looked at Devin, wondering if going with this man was the right thing to do. Devin nodded.

“Lead the way.”

They followed Mr. Crest through the hotel to an empty back room where he motioned them to sit across from him at a long table.

The room was small, with bare white walls and no windows. Fluorescent lights filled the room with their usual washed-out glow. Mr. Crest sat, adjusted his thick glasses, and smiled at them. “Can I get you anything?”

They each declined in their own awkward way.

“Are we in some kind of trouble?” John asked, saying what he assumed the other two were thinking.

“No,” Mr. Crest said, continuing his political smile, “not at all.” He opened his wallet, removing an ID card. “As I said, my name is Mr. Crest, and I work with the OGA.”

John looked at Devin. “OGA?”

“Other Government Agency,” Devin said with a nod, accepting the ID card for preview before sliding it down past John to Trista.

“What does that mean?” John asked, heart beating faster than he expected.

Devin looked directly at Mr. Crest. “You’re CIA.”

Crest shrugged. “Why would you say that?”

“Because,” Devin began, clasping his fingers on the tabletop, “I was in military intelligence. OGA is almost always a codename for the CIA.”

“Or the NSA,” Crest added, “or a dozen other agencies that want to remain anonymous but still need to be called something.”

“But probably CIA,” Devin asserted.

Crest smiled. “Don’t be so quick to make that statement, Mr. Bathurst. OGA can be a designation for any governmental organization, including the FDA or the Department of Transportation.”

“I doubt you’re Department of Transportation,” Devin said humorlessly.

“And you’re right,” Crest conceded. “But I’m not CIA, either.”

“I guess that leaves FDA,” John interjected with a chuckle. Nobody else laughed. “Sorry, stupid joke.”

“No.” Crest reached for his briefcase, standing as he opened it. “I’m not with the Food and Drug Administration either.” He opened a file, glanced at the contents, then closed it and set the briefcase aside. “I am with an undisclosed agency that is very interested in what you have to offer.”

“Have to offer?” Trista asked.

Crest clasped his hands on top of the closed folder and looked them over. “Yes,” he said with a nod. “Because of your affiliation.”

“Affiliation with whom?” she asked.

“The affiliation you all have,” Crest said in all seriousness. “Because you are members of the Firstborn.”

“Uh…” John tried to think of something to say without lying outright.

“We don’t know what you’re talking about,” Devin stated without hesitation.

“Yes,” Crest said without blinking, “you do know what I’m talking about, Mr. Bathurst. And the OGA is very interested in having you come to work for your country.”

Devin was silent for a moment before speaking. “What do you think you know?”

Crest cleared his throat. “The United States government worked with the Firstborn in an official capacity for the first time during the Second World War. The organization that I work for—the OGA—has been keeping files on the Firstborn for more than sixty years.”

“Sixty years?” Devin mused, looking at the other two, who said nothing. “So what makes you think that any of us belong to this ‘Firstborn’?”

“One of our people,” Crest said slowly and carefully, “saw a possible future in which an attempt would be made on Senator Foster’s life.”

“Saw a possible future?” Devin asked.

“Yes,” Crest said candidly. “A member of the Domani, as they are called. Those who see the future. This person saw something else too.”

Devin attempted to remain calm. “And what would that be?”

“The involvement of members of the Firstborn.” Crest smiled. “People with courage and resolve. The kinds of people we look for at the OGA.”

Devin gave accepting nods. “And who was this Domani you got your information from?”

“Professor Saul Mancuso.” Crest asked, “Ring any bells?”

A shocked laugh was all Devin could manage for a moment. “Saul? Dr. Saul Mancuso is working for
you
?”

“Yes.” Crest nodded, appearing confused. “There was an incident about a year ago that caught the attention of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. He had an extremely illegal cache of weapons on his property. He cut a deal with us to get out of serious prison time.” Crest flipped through his file for a moment, puzzled. “Why? Do you know him?”

“Know him?” John Temple laughed. “We were at his compound when everything went down.”

Devin shot an angry look at John before turning back to Crest. “So Dr. Mancuso saw the assassination attempt coming?”

“Yes,” Crest acknowledged with a nod.

“You knew that someone was going to try to kill the senator,” John said, “and you let him come here anyway?”

“Insisted,” Crest corrected. “We used the senator as a lightning rod to draw out potential assets.”

“Us,” Devin said with a nod. “This was all a recruiting op,” he mused.

“Yes,” Crest agreed. “For us the only purpose of any of this was to flush you out, give you a chance to prove yourselves, and then make the offer.”

“And if we refuse?” John asked.

“There’s the door,” Crest said, looking to the exit. “You’re free to go. No one will stop you. But”—he looked directly at Devin and opened his file folder—“if you’re ready to hear my offer, then I invite you to stay.”

John stood. “I’m out,” he said definitively.

“Are you sure?” Crest asked.

“You used a human life as bait,” John said with a grunt, Trista standing up next to him. “I don’t want to have anything to do with you.” John turned toward the door. Looking back he asked, “Are you coming, Devin?”

Devin remained seated, maintaining eye contact with Crest. “I think I’m going to hear the man out.”

The door opened, and Hannah was shoved into the dim basement. The door slammed shut behind her and latched, locking.

The basement smelled like mold and mildew and body odor. The place was a filthy mess. It was strangely cool—a perverse relief from the upstairs, where the Arizona heat baked the interior of the church like a furnace.

The faces at the other end of the room watched her, trying to determine who she was and if she could be trusted. Hannah approached slowly. “Hello,” she said softly, trying not to make any sudden moves, lowering to her knees and sitting on the edge of one of the yellowed mattresses that had been thrown across the floor in a hodgepodge. “My name is Hannah Rice,” she said, as if she was talking to a frightened animal that might run at a moment’s notice. Hannah scanned the frightened faces. She guessed that fewer than half of them were over the age of sixteen, and at least two of them were young boys—maybe twelve each.