Tracks (8 page)

The problem had become so
enormous that focusing on specific cases would have been a waste of the
Center’s money and time. Natasha had long been trying to fight it at government
level, hoping to convince personnel to draw up laws that would abolish any such
criminal activity.  The reluctance on the part of government officials was
not initially evident but as time dragged on it became clear they would not or
could not fight it, or that by the time they did, half the teenage population
in Romania would have become whores
. 

In stepped UN officials,
encouraged by Natasha to put pressure on the Romanian delegation to assist
.  

“
For these things to happen, Miss Usher,”
Vassilli continued, eyeing her keenly, “you must first withdraw your official
complaint to the UN secretary, and you must send further notice that matters
have been resolved to the best of your wishes.”  By that he meant
withdrawing the official complaint sent to the UN by the US State department, a
letter drawn up by Natasha and signed by the Undersecretary of State
.

Natasha sat up.  She had
been expecting them to ask her to withdraw the letter but she was not going to
write anything to the contrary before matters really began to turn for the
better.  She smiled, having long learned it to be her most devastating
weapon.  “I’ll do that when you show me some progress,” she said quietly
but forcefully
.

“
This is progress,” Vassilli argued tensely.
“When were you ever allowed to meet with the Ministry or the police
?”

“
Let’s meet them first, then we can consider
withdrawing our letter
.”

“
No deal, Miss Usher.  I’m not at liberty
to bring you over if that complaint is still present
.”

Oh, the art of negotiation,
she thought bitterly to herself. If only it was not at the expense of those
poor girls
.

“
If I withdraw the letter before we go, you’ll
have no incentive to oblige me.  You’ll just walk me in circles and we’ll
get nowhere
.”

“
You have the ambassador’s word,” Vassilli said,
putting his sweaty palm on his chest
.

At least he was smart enough
not to give his own word, she thought.  “Then you get me the ambassador’s
written word and signature and I’ll withdraw my complaint
.”

He looked hesitant. 
“I’ll need the endorsement letter as well,” he said
.

She smiled again. 
“After we get the first girl home
.”
 

He was not about to continue
arguing.  Getting the complaint letter off their back was progress enough
for the moment.   He was not ready to further push his luck. 
His own skin was at risk if the letter remained.  Romania, as well as most
Eastern European nations were barely surviving and no government was going to
risk US sanctions on account of some poor wretched girls presumed to be whoring
around the world
.

He nodded silently and got up
to go
. 

Looking sideways at the silent
blonde man, Natasha added: “We’ll pay for your travel Mr. Peka, assuming you
don’t
insist traveling first class.  I plan to spend a
week there and I’ll expect you to stick with me.  If more time is needed,
we’ll stay just as long as we need
.”

The blonde man nodded, smiling
mischievously.  Vassilli was at the door
.

 “
Peka will escort you out Miss Usher.  I’ll
make sure the ambassador’s letter reaches you
.”

Natasha smiled again. “Make
sure you leave me enough time to withdraw my complaint before we take off
.”

He nodded and hurried out the
door.  The blonde man stood and swift as a cat reached the door before
Natasha could gather her things.  He held the door as Natasha strode on
out.  The other woman remained, packing her laptop
.   

CHAPTER
FOUR

Retired
colonel
Joe Harley, ex-Special Air Service of the British Army, ran the meanest,
toughest covert operation under British law, with the roughest band of closely
knit, ex-SAS men, ever assembled.

Neither the man, nor his unit,
could be reached.  No one would admit they existed.

Mai-Li had been after Harley’s
unit for over a year since it was well known within Center walls that they were
the only group with the means - and bold enough - to enter Kashmir.  She
needed to convince Harley to assist in flushing out and destroying the Lambda-B
organization, thought to be responsible for a vast majority of child labor
violations in South Asia.

Being SAS and personally acquainted
with the colonel was only a pre-requisite to being accepted into Harley’s
unit.  Rumor had it that once over the rigorous training period he had
designed and personally supervised, one was expected to perform a “wet”
mission, on his own, in trouble spots such as Gaza, the West Bank, Sri Lanka,
Southern Lebanon, Afghanistan, Iran and Iraq to name just a few.

Joe Harley would assign a
particular task for the trainee and expect him to perform to the letter. 
Anything less than a perfect result would disqualify even the most experienced
SAS person from Harley’s unit, which in three years of operation still had less
than thirty members.

Such acceptance missions
involved an array of covert operations behind hostile lines, no less dangerous
or complicated than a typical Harley mission performed by the accepted
members.  It required sense, courage, extreme physical endurance, and
above all loyalty to the plan and to the cause.  The candidate had to
stick with the plan no matter the obstacles.  It was Harley’s opinion that
not even veteran SAS men, whom he, of course, held in the highest regard, were
automatically suited for such jobs and one had to prove his worth in
actions.  These actions were, more often than not, inhuman and he had to
check and make sure that even the toughest regiment men were up to the task.

Approached by the highest
echelons of British Intelligence, Harley, then about to retire as SAS brigade
commander, accepted the challenge put to him.  Replacing his military
allegiance with civilian spy rings, he was promised a free hand by government
circles mandated by the Prime Minister’s office.   

It was rumored he had
unlimited budgets and a license to kill.

Mai-Li prevailed where even
Black Jack and Sam failed, managing to secure fifteen minutes with the elusive
legend during his annual visit to CIA headquarters at Langley, Virginia.

A British avenue to Harley was
out of the question since few in the UK knew - or were willing to admit - such
a unit existed.  After two trips to Whitehall, Mai-Li knew she was chasing
ghosts so she turned to a CIA operative who had cooperated with her in Hong
Kong.  She had managed to verify Harley’s existence and the fact that once
a year he visited Langley, the one and only place outside the UK he felt he
owed for part of his own training.

Those visits, three to date,
were focused and brief, no more than a full day, structured around exchange of
operational views.  In essence, Harley would lecture to a chosen few,
describing some of his tactics and methods without disclosing any specific
operational details.

Mai-Li’s fifteen minutes were
secured by a CIA operative, one Ralph Page, who was amongst the chosen few
attending the visit, a man who had personally trained Harley at Langley and had
remained somewhat of a confidante.

Mai-Li’s Hong Kong
acquaintance knew that man and asked for a favor.  She was rushed to
Langley to explain and convince Page the matter needed such extreme attention.

Page was convinced.  The
interview with Harley was finally attained

By the time she reached the
building where Harley lectured, a good half hour before her scheduled meeting,
the sun was low over the Potomac.  The group dispersed shortly thereafter,
and she entered to face the man who did not exist.  He towered over her as
he walked up to greet her, an impressive middle-aged figure with short cropped
graying hair and piercing gray eyes, his posture radiating power and
confidence.

“Joe Harley,” he said with
characteristic British modulation, offering his hand.
“A
pleasure.”

“Mai-Li.
The
pleasure is all mine, Colonel,” Mai-Li said, clutching his hand, her small palm
disappearing inside his huge hand.  “Appreciate you taking the time.”

“Well Ms. Li, we don’t have
much of it so I suggest we get to the point,” he said, inviting her to a seat
facing his lecture podium, grabbing a chair for himself in the
process.        

He sat staring while she took
her paperwork out of her bag.

“I represent the Center for
Missing Children,” she began. “It’s a non-profit organization based in New York
City.  We work around the globe trying to assist parents in getting their
missing children back.”

She paused, looking for a
reaction, but received none.

“There are six of us,
operating for several years now.  Our success has been quite limited but we’re
making progress.”

“Who’s funding you?” Harley
suddenly asked.

“Various
philanthropists and private organizations.
 
Mainly people who have suffered through similar experiences.”

“Go on,” he commanded.

“We more or less divide the
world among us and I have the Far East.”

“Makes sense,” he said,
remaining serious.

“Pursuing a case early last
year, a six-year-old Indian girl kidnapped to Pakistan, I made an astonishing
discovery.” 

His steel gray eyes were
piercing her now.

“Following the case through
Kashmir, I accidentally discovered a ring that sells children for hard labor.”

She paused for effect again
then continued.

“The Indian girl I was after
was not subject to it. She was kidnapped by a jealous husband, for spite, but a
contact in Kashmir assumed I was after Lambda B, the ring, and revealed to me
its business.”

“Colonel, there are hundreds
of children over there under atrocious conditions, being sold like slaves to
the highest bidder.  They are being held in cages with little food and
barely enough water to keep them alive.”

Her tormented voice
reverberated around the lecture hall’s acoustics.

“We need to put an end to
those horrors,” she pleaded softly.  “And you’re the only one who can do
it.”

He looked at her as if
transfixed, and then woke out of his reverie.

“I’ll help you,” he said, as
her eyes shot up to meet his serious gaze. 
“Under three
conditions.”
 

She nodded eagerly.

“First I’ll need verification
to this story.  I’ll need hard evidence before I set a plan in
motion.  My unit is quite expensive to move and I cannot afford to move
under false pretenses.”

Mai-Li handed him three black
and white photos she had managed to smuggle out of Kashmir.  Two showed
children’s faces peering out of bamboo cages.  The third showed a tattoo
on a man’s arm showing the Greek symbol Lambda with an English B.

“That’s how they got their
name,” she explained as he scanned the photo.  “This man was responsible
for locking the cage hatch once a child was pulled out.”

“My second condition,” he
continued, “is funding.  I’ll need you to guarantee the required funds
since this will not be an activity funded by my government.”

“What type of funds are we
talking about?” she asked hesitantly.

“That depends on the job Ms.
Li,” Harley said and she hurriedly nodded.

“The third condition is a
formal request by one of your appropriate government officials to my superiors
requesting my services.  The activity does not have to be specified, just
the time frame.”

“Who did you have in mind?”
she queried.

“CIA director, no less,” he
concluded, then sprung off his chair. “I’ll give you the name of my superior
once the first two conditions are met.”    

“How will I reach you?”

“Get me hard evidence to
London, end of next week. We’ll take it from there.”