Текст книги "Jack Taggart Mysteries 7 - Book Bundle"

Автор книги: Don Easton

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Текущая страница: 42 (всего у книги 141 страниц)

“It’s the consequence of my prejudgement that is eating at me. It made me react...”

“Consequences! Tell me about it! Everything I’ve done lately brings about a consequence I hadn’t planned on. I guess there are things we have to accept. Things we can’t control. There are always consequences. You shooting Rellik was a consequence of the type of guy he was. In a way, he got himself killed. At least, his lifestyle did. It wasn’t Mother Teresa running toward you!”

They walked for a little while longer, both lost in the silence of their own thoughts. Eventually they returned and stopped outside of Laura’s door.

“Thanks, Jack,” she said. “I’ll be okay. Just need time to sort things out.”

“You sure?”

Laura nodded and said, “You’re a good friend. Goodnight.”

“A good friend?”

Laura smiled and said, “Yeah. This time you’re helping me bury a body ... if only in my mind.” She then hugged Jack. He kissed her on the forehead and returned to his own room.

It was six-thirty in the morning when Jack was summoned to Jean-Louie’s room.

As soon as he entered, Jean-Louie waved a copy of El País in front of him and yelled, “What is this?”

“A newspaper,” replied Jack.

“What it says,” snarled Jean-Louie, holding up the headlines reading CARLOS – MORTE!

“I don’t know,” replied Jack. “Haven’t seen it and I don’t read Spanish.”

“I’ll explain the grisly details,” said Jean-Louie. “Sit down!”

Jack took a seat and listened.

“Norte del Valle,” Jean-Louie started, then paused and said, “Early this morning, on a road outside of Buga, travellers were shocked to discover the bodies of nine men piled in a pyramid on the road.”

“Wow!” said Jack. “People really play it rough down here!”

Jean-Louie stared briefly at Jack, then said, “I’m an old-school operator too, remember? Skip the concerned part and go straight to denial.”

Jack stared ahead, his face frozen.

“I’ll continue,” said Jean-Louie. “This pyramid of bodies was only half the size of another pyramid discovered on the outskirts of Palmira. A naked man was laid face-down at the top of that pyramid. He had a broomstick protruding from his buttocks with a green beret dangling from the end. Later it was discovered that this was the notorious...” Jean-Louie paused to look at Jack and said, “The hell with it! You know who it was!” he said, flinging the newspaper down. He glared at Jack and asked, “Any comment?”

“No.”

“The paper said that in both incidents the police were unable to find anyone who heard or saw anything ... but Ramirez is being linked as someone who has a previous history with Carlos.”

Jack nodded quietly.

“For the record, were you with Ramirez all last night at the party?”

“He left for a little while. We thought he was picking up some more guests.”

“A little while?”

“Might have been longer. Maybe a couple of hours. Everyone was partying and having fun.”

“Good.” Almost believable, Jean-Louie thought. “What are you thinking?” asked Jack.

“I’m thinking the three of you should grab your bags and get the hell out of here!”

chapter forty

It was eleven-thirty at night when the plane touched down on the Vancouver runway. It was an hour later when Jack and Laura cleared Customs. Damien was already gone.

Jack expected to get a taxi, but a familiar voice in the terminal stopped him.

“Hey, cowboy. How ya doing? How’s your new sidekick?” asked Danny as he approached, carrying a shopping bag.

“What are you doing here?” asked Jack.

“Talked to Natasha. Heard you were coming in. Thought I’d like to pick up a friend ... if you still want to call me that.”

Jack looked at him, too surprised and too tired to respond.

“I know I’ve been an ass,” added Danny.

Jack put his suitcase down and embraced Danny. “I always think of you as a friend,” he said. “A good friend.”

“Thanks,” said Danny, stepping back while wiping his eyes. “Your trip ... did it have anything to do with...” He paused a moment and looked nervously around before whispering, “The guys who ... tried to drown Jimmy?”

“Yes,” said Jack.

“How did it go?”

“Total success,” said Laura.

Danny closed his eyes and whispered, “Thank you.”

“We’ll talk about it over a beer,” said Jack. “Just not tonight. We need to get home.”

Danny nodded that he understood but looked glum as they made their way to the parking lot.

“What’s wrong?” asked Jack.

“I should have been there,” he mumbled.

Jack shook his head and said, “No, you should have been with Susan.”

“You really believe that?”

“Beyond any doubt. Laura is my partner, but if you want to come back to Intelligence, we could maybe find another spot for you.”

“Hell, no!” said Danny. “I want to be your friend ... not your partner!” He looked at Laura and added, “You’ve got no idea what working with him is like!”

Laura laughed and said, “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea!”

Danny smiled. “Yeah, if your trip was a total success, then I guess you do.” He passed the shopping bag to Jack and said, “This is for you.”

“For me?”

“Yeah, well, you know what they say,” mumbled Danny. “Beware of geeks bearing gifts.”

Laura unlocked her apartment door and stepped inside. Elvis rushed toward her, but before he could speak, she flipped a penny toward him. He caught it, then looked at it and smiled.

“How?” asked Laura.

Elvis shrugged and said, “Didn’t you ever have any good friends when you were on Drug Section?”

“Yes, I had friends.”

“Now, on Intelligence ... isn’t Jack a friend of yours?”

“Yes, I consider him a good friend. Get on with it,” said Laura quietly.

“Did it ever occur to you that I might have a good friend in the section I work in?”

“Not really. I wouldn’t trust any of them.”

Elvis paused until he saw the grin on Laura’s face. He embraced her and felt her warm kisses on his neck. After a moment he said, “Come on. I’ll unpack your bags while you put your feet up.”

Laura looked at Elvis and said, “Do you know the difference between being a friend and being a good friend?”

“Sure,” replied Elvis. “A friend bails you out of jail. A good friend is sitting beside you saying, ‘Boy! Wasn’t that fun!’”

Laura laughed.

Elvis studied her face carefully and then said, “With Jack ... does that hit it pretty close to the mark?” Before Laura could respond, he said, “Never mind. House rule. We don’t discuss work.”

Their next kiss was more passionate.

Natasha was in the shower but heard Jack yell that he was home. She quickly shut off the water and wrapped a towel around herself. She then saw Jack standing in the doorway. He was wearing a white cowboy hat.

Natasha kissed him warmly on the lips, then stepped back but kept her arms wrapped loosely around his waist.

“Something new for your wardrobe?” she asked, looking at his hat.

“Present from Danny,” he replied.

Natasha smiled and said, “Good. He told me.” She then let the towel fall from her body. “Ride ’em cowboy!”

epilogue

In July 2005, Jean-Louie received three pictures of Damien from the Colombian police. They were found during a search of Carlos’s home and given to Jean-Louie as a matter of courtesy. The pictures were not mentioned in his report to Assistant Commissioner Isaac, which simply stated that continual physical and electronic surveil-lance of the Canadian investigative team did not reveal any irregularities. Further investigation of the Ramirez cartel was not recommended at this time due to unrest in the area and an inability to provide adequate protection.

In August 2005, Satans Wrath held a memorial service on an acreage owned by one of the club members. Rellik’s ashes were dumped inside his motorcycle helmet and buried. His colours were hung with distinction inside the east-end chapter clubhouse. Only a few members of the club were ever aware of how their fallen comrade had died.

In September 2005, a woman discovered a large amount of cash inside a duffle bag on the seat of her car. She turned it over to the police, who, when it went unclaimed, transferred the million dollars in Canadian hundreds to the woman’s bank account. The police told her that part of a torn twenty-dollar bill had also been found in the bag. She retained it as a souvenir.

In December 2005, the B.C. Supreme Court struck down the anti-gang legislation under Section 467.13 of the Criminal Code as being too broad and too vague.

Within hours, strikers manning Satans Wrath clubhouses in B.C. received orders to purchase a total of 114 bottles of champagne. The clubhouse phones were used as a gesture to slap the police in the face. The amount ordered indicated to the police that the club had grown from their original estimation.

While most bikers celebrated the event, Damien remained worried. The decision served to advertise that B.C. was choice territory for organized crime. Competition would be fiercer. He was not upset when the Crown indicated they might appeal the B.C. Supreme Court decision.

In early January 2006, Damien was approached by two members of the Russian mafia and invited to join in a criminal venture. Damien believed there was something much more sinister to the offer, fearing the actual plan, if implemented, would result in thousands of lives being lost. He searched for a solution. Club rules would not allow him to phone the police ... but what if the police came to him?

In mid-January 2006, Laura received a carton delivered to her apartment. It contained ten pairs of expensive shoes and two pairs of knee-high boots. A note from Damien said that it was a gift from Ramirez. The gift had the potential of placing Jack and Laura once more in the sights of the Anti-Corruption Unit. They decided they would meet with Damien to discuss his lack of good judgement.

Anyone wishing to help children such as “Charlie” and others in British Columbia’s Children’s Hospital may do so by making a donation online through www.bcchf.ca or through their toll-free number: 1-888-663-3033.

Others are doing their bit to help society. Please do your bit.

To those who give, thank you.

chapter one

It was ten o’clock at night in Hanoi as Bien stood at the back of the cargo van with his twelve-year-old daughter. The incessant January rain, coupled with a light breeze, made the fifteen-degree Celsius temperature seem colder. Bien had no idea that his dream for the future was about to become a permanent nightmare—or that the rear doors on the van opening in front of him were the gates to hell.

The driver turned in his seat and gave Bien an impatient nod. Bien grimaced and shoved the plastic bag containing Hang’s belongings into the van. Saying goodbye was difficult and it was more than the rain that made his cheeks wet.

Hang was the older of Bien’s two children. When Bien was given the opportunity for both his children to go to America he could hardly believe his good fortune. There was little future for them in Vietnam. He bent over to give Hang another final hug.

A swarm of motor scooters zoomed past like angry, wet hornets and disappeared into the night. Hanoi was like a hive when it came to scooters. Few people could afford cars.

Bien ignored the scooters and forced himself to smile at Hang. She smiled back, but the corners of her mouth twitched, revealing her nervousness. On impulse, she checked the pocket of her new coat again. Yes, the gift was still there. Wrapped in a small piece of tissue paper and tied with a pink ribbon.

The silver necklace with the pearl from Halong Bay had cost Bien the equivalent of sixteen American dollars. An exorbitant amount of money, thought Bien. But the American lady will be grateful.

Bien’s mind turned to Hang’s new coat. She will need it. It can be very cold in the United States. A long blast from the van’s horn interrupted his thoughts and he watched as Hang quickly climbed in to join a handful of young women who sat on the floor of the van. Bien had opted to leave his other daughter, nine-year-old Linh, back at their apartment with her grandmother. It wasn’t simply that he didn’t own a car. He often pedalled with both children on his bicycle. The real reason was he was afraid he might cry. He didn’t want Linh to see him cry. Especially when she was scheduled to leave next.

The children’s mother died of cancer when Linh was six months old. Bien’s own mother lived with them, but time had been hard on both her body and her mind. Hang, despite being only three years older than Linh, had taken on more of a role of a parent than that of a sister.

Bien started to close the doors but Hang looked at him and quickly blurted, “Con thu óng cha thot nhiêu.”

Bien replied, “English now, Hang. You speak English.” He paused and said, “And I love you a lot as well ... but now it is time for you to be strong.”

“I am strong,” she replied, trying to make her face look stern.

Bien hid his smile and said, “I know you are. I will be anxious to talk with you.”

“I telephone in United States,” said Hang. “Six months.”

Bien shook his head and replied, “No. The word is weeks. Say weeks.”

“Yes. Weeeks,” replied Hang. She frowned at her mistake.

“Good. That is good. You call. Linh and I will be waiting.

You be sure it is good before I send Linh.”

“Con có the hy sinh tât ca vì cha.”

“English ... please.”

Hang sighed and said, “I will do ...” she hesitated, searching for the word she was looking for, “whatever ... you ask.”

Bien smiled and said, “Good. Very good. I know you will do whatever I ask. I ask that you do whatever for Linh, too.”

Hang nodded seriously as Bien closed the doors.

Minutes later, Bien held his bicycle and stood silently in the rain staring at the empty street. His heart and stomach felt like they were being wrenched from his body. The image of Hang waving at him through the back window of the van would forever be etched in his memory.

Bien climbed on his bicycle and pedalled toward his apartment. He brooded about his last-minute decision not to send Linh to America on the same boat as Hang. People were angry with him, but eventually he was told that the American family understood.

The American family had lost two daughters in an unfortunate accident. The Americans wanted to fill the emptiness they felt and were willing to take his daughters into their home. They would pay for them to go to school in America.

Perhaps, some day, Bien would be allowed to go to America, too. For now, they agreed that Hang would travel first. Another boat was scheduled to leave when it was known that the first boat arrived safely.

Not that there was any real danger, Bien had been told. The passengers would be smuggled into the United States from Canada. Even if the authorities caught them, the worse that would happen is that they would be returned to Vietnam.

If that happened, Bien knew, he would face some criticism from his own government. The opportunity for a prosperous and happy future for his children was well worth that risk. He was told that if all went well, eventually the right people in America would be paid and both his daughters would become American citizens.

Bien heard that there were many other passengers being smuggled. All young women who were being given jobs in the hotel industry. They would have to work to pay for the cost of being brought to America. That would not take long. There was a tremendous amount of money to be made. They would have no problem paying off their debt, even while sending money home to their families.

Bien knew that for many of the young women, their fate would no be so. He had heard rumours that some of the young women lacked morals and became greedy, opting instead to make more money by selling their bodies. Some sent money home to Vietnam for their parents, who became rich, but when asked about their daughters, the shame was evident. They said their daughters worked in hotels or restaurants, but few believed it. Maids in hotels were not paid that much.

Bien had talked at length about this to both his daughters. He had also spoken to the smugglers. If there was even a suggestion that they engage in any impropriety, he would go to the authorities. He was assured otherwise. This family was decent, heartbroken over the loss of their own daughters. He was told that he was foolish to worry. Still, these were his daughters. What father would not worry?

Bien’s daughters were fortunate. They would not have to work at all to pay for their voyage. His was a special situation. Bien’s contact had taken a picture of Hang and Linh standing in front of the One Pillar Pagoda close to where Bien worked. The picture was sent to America and Bien heard that the family instantly loved his daughters. He was told that if his daughters were truly unhappy, then the American family would pay to return them to Vietnam.

Bien thought about the Westerners’ use of the word love. He decided that it was a word they used as if they were saying hello. From Westerners, it sounded about as genuine as the fake Rolexes sold at the market. The Vietnamese expressed love more often through action, by doing something nice for the person. It had more meaning.

It was the same with Western names, Bien mused. They never stood for anything. His own name, Bien, meant ocean. Western names did not usually have meaning. Bien was told the name of the American family was Pops and it meant friendly father. Believing the name to be real, he felt reassured. Had he known it was a nickname with a secretive, twisted, and perverse meaning, he would have been aghast.

Bien reflected upon the picture of his two daughters. His contact had graciously provided him with a black and white photocopy. In the picture, Hang held Linh’s hand. Not that she was afraid Linh would run out into traffic. She knew better. She held Linh’s hand because she loved her. Their spirits entwined like one. Anyone looking at the picture could see their true beauty. Perhaps the American family were sincere when they said they loved my children? It would be impossible not to ....

Bien had not always lived in Hanoi. As a child, he was raised in the South. Saigon. Bien still preferred the city by its old name, but while working in Hanoi, he was careful to refer to it as Ho Chi Minh City.

Bien’s father had served with the South Vietnamese army and fought alongside the Americans until the Communists achieved victory in 1975. His father had learned English and taught it to Bien, who in turn, taught it to both his daughters. After the war, Bien’s father was placed in a re-education camp, where he died thirteen years later. Bien scoffed at the term reeducation. It was a camp of forced labour and brutality.

Bien’s wife, formerly from Dong Ha, had been exposed to heavy concentrations of Agent Orange during the war. Their daughter, Hang, like many second generation children, was born with an abnormality. She had an extra thumb protruding off the thumb of one hand. This was only a minor imperfection, Bien decided, when so many other families had children who were born without feet or arms.

Hang’s extra thumb was not something that had been hidden from the American family. Bien was told that Pops would have an American doctor fix it, but only if Hang wished. Bien knew that Hang would wish it to be so. She wanted to be perfect. She does not understand that she already is.

Linh was born without any abnormalities. Something that was cause for extreme joy. A sign that the future would improve, thought Bien. He had received a teaching degree just days after Linh was born. He felt like their lives were complete and that their future would be good. But it was not good.

Bien’s wife died six months later of organ failure brought on by the dioxin in her body. The closest Bien ever came to being a teacher was doing janitorial work at a school. The Communist party was only too aware of his family’s sympathy to the South during the war. He would not be allowed to teach.

It was not until recently that the government recognized the benefit of tourism and knew that Bien’s ability to speak English could be an asset. He was sent to Hanoi to act as a tour guide at Uncle Ho’s Mausoleum.

Bien lived in a one-room apartment facing an alley that he shared with his daughters and his own mother. His kitchen, like others in his neighbourhood, was a small plastic table and chairs set out on the sidewalk at the front of the building. The rest of his kitchen consisted of a hot plate set up on wooden boxes in the alley. The boxes were on their sides and a piece of cloth wired to the boxes acted as a curtain to keep the dust off the dishes. All this was enclosed with a wrought-iron grate bolted to the alley wall, which protruded just over an arm’s length away from the boxes. Entry was through a padlocked door.

For the first few months, he was paid barely enough to buy rice and noodles. Later, he learned to become a little shrewder about accepting tips from the tourists. Soon he would be able to afford a bigger apartment. One that would give his mother her own room to snore in.

It was midnight when Bien pedalled back through the Ba Dinh district of Hanoi and quietly carried his bicycle into his apartment. Tomorrow he would face questions. He did not like the fact that he had to deal with smugglers. Lying to friends about where his daughter went made him feel guilty—but he understood the need for secrecy.

Hang sat quietly on the floor as the van continued through the streets of Hanoi, occasionally stopping to pick up more women. Hang figured they were all about six or seven years older than her. She caught the friendly smile of a younger woman who had been in the van when Hang got in. Hang forced a quick smile back before turning away—directing her attention to the floor of the van. She remembered her vow to stay strong and did not want anyone to see the tears on her face.

“Em tê;n là gì?” the young woman asked her.

“Hang,” she answered, continuing to stare at the floor.

“You ... talk ... English,” she noted, slowly enunciating the words of this foreign language.

“A little,” replied Hang.

She smiled again. “Yes, me talk a ... small ... English,” she said, holding her thumb and finger close together to emphasize her point. “My name Ngoc Bích. You, me, we teach English each other, okay?”

“Okay,” replied Hang, looking down at the van floor.

“You cold?” asked Ngoc Bích.

Hang shook her head.

“Very cold in America. I think you cold now,” said Ngoc Bích, while changing positions and sitting beside Hang. “You be okay,” said Ngoc Bích. “Okay to be afraid,” she added, while putting her arm around Hang’s shoulders.

“I’m not afraid,” said Hang, glancing up defiantly at the other women in the van.

Ngoc Bích caught Hang’s expression and said, “That okay. They no speak English. They no understand what me say with you. I see you cry. I am sorry with you.”

Hang paused for a moment, and said, “I’m not afraid. I only miss my family.”

“My family live in Nha Trang,” said Ngoc Bích, pulling Hang closer. “My father dies two years before. I cries. The day last, my mother say goodbye to me in Nha Trang. I am oldest five kids. Two brothers. Two sisters,” she said, holding up two fingers on each hand. “It is good I send money from America—but yesterday I cry the same as you. You father and mother many kids?”

“One sister. No mother,” replied Hang.

Ngoc Bích paused briefly and said, “It okay to cry.”

Hang solemnly studied Ngoc Bích’s face but did not respond.

“I cry for my brothers and sisters today. You want, you ... me ... be sister now,” added Ngoc Bích.

Hang reflected upon this briefly, before nodding. They each smiled and hugged each other.

Eventually the van came to a stop and everyone got out. The driver warned them to be quiet and to follow him. Hang slung her bag of belongings over her shoulder and, along with everyone else, obediently followed. They entered an apartment building, trudged up four flights of stairs, were led to a room halfway down the hall, and ushered inside.

Hang and Ngoc Bích quietly sat on the apartment floor with a dozen others. The driver left but two other Vietnamese men remained in the room. The men told everyone to sit quietly and not to speak.

Later, there were more soft knocks on the apartment door as several more groups of young women arrived. Hang counted thirty-five women but lost count when the room became too crowded.

An hour passed, and the silence in the room made Hang more conscious of the humidity and the sticky feeling from the heat generated by their cramped quarters. Eventually there was another knock at the door.

Another Vietnamese man entered the room, followed by two other men who were both foreigners and appeared to be about fifty years old. One foreigner was lean and tall, with a thin, grey moustache that matched the colour of his brush cut. His face was pointed with sharp cheek bones and large dark eyes peered out from a nose that reminded Hang of a beak on a bird. Like a long-billed vulture ... She heard the Vietnamese man call him Petya.

The other foreigner took off his jacket and Hang saw that he was wearing a golf shirt and slacks. His head was shaved bald and he had a large pot belly ... but it was his arms that caught Hang’s attention. She had never seen arms covered in so much thick, black hair. More black hair unleashed itself from the open neck on his golf shirt. It made Hang think of a bald ape and she quickly looked away so as not to be seen as being rude.

The two foreigners spoke to each other in a language that Hang did not understand. After, the bald ape turned to the Vietnamese man.

“Tell them all to stand,” said the bald ape, speaking English.

“Yes, Styopa,” replied the Vietnamese man. He then gave the command in Vietnamese and everyone got to their feet.

For Hang, the names Petya and Styopa were too foreign to pronounce. She would just think of them as the vulture and the bald ape.

The vulture and the bald ape approached each woman and pointed for them to stand on one side of the room or the other. As this happened, the Vietnamese man wrote everyone’s names down on two lists.

It is the Vietnamese custom not to look into a person’s face. To do so could imply a lack of respect. In this case, Hang sensed it was an uncomfortable shame the women felt as they stared down at the floor, wondering what the selection was all about. When the men reached Hang, the bald ape lifted her chin to face him, but she continued to avert her eyes.

“You are the young one,” he said. “You speak English?” he asked.

Hang nodded, but the man still gripped her chin, making nodding difficult.

“Let me hear you talk,” he commanded.

Hang swallowed and said, “Yes, I speak English. My father taught me.”

“Good. And you are going to the States to live with an American family, correct?”

“Yes, to live in the house of Mister Pops.”

“Mister Pops!” The bald ape glanced at the vulture and they both chuckled before turning back to Hang. “Your English is good,” he said, releasing her chin. “Your sister was supposed to come. Why didn’t she?”

“My father wanted me to go first. To make sure it would be good for my sister.”

“That is very prudent,” said the vulture. “Your father is a wise man, but you will see that you are very happy there.”

The bald ape grabbed Hang’s hand and held it up to show the vulture her extra thumb. Hang felt her face flush with embarrassment. The vulture spoke harshly to the bald ape in his own language and the ape dropped her hand. Hang felt his eyes upon her for a moment before they moved on.

When the men finished dividing the women into two groups, the bald ape walked back to one young woman and poked her in the ribs with his finger and turned to his Vietnamese colleague and said, “This one is too fat. Nobody will want her.”

The Vietnamese colleague said, “She is fat now, but she will be much thinner in six weeks when she arrives.”

The bald ape blurted out a laugh.

Hang had been warned that the voyage on the ship would be cramped, with little time on deck. It would be a tough journey, but one they were told they would forget completely once they arrived in America. Still, his cruel laugh—he is like the rats who live in the sewer. The sewer I must cross to America.

She risked glancing at the vulture. His face was cold, without expression. A slit under his beak cracked open and he said, “They are all okay. Get them to the ship.”

Moments later, Hang found herself crammed into the back of a large cube van. There was standing room only and she was glad that Ngoc Bích had remained by her side.

It was three hours later when they hurried up a wooden gangplank in the dark to the deck of a ship. The women were told to remain in the two groups they had been divided in. Each group was directed to a separate cargo hold.

They were told to climb down a ladder leading below deck and a man stood at the top of each ladder to help. Hang stooped to get on the ladder and felt the man grab the cheek of her buttock and squeeze tight while emitting a laugh.

Hang gasped but before she could respond, Ngoc Bích slapped the man hard across his face. He released his grip immediately and pulled back a fist to punch Ngoc Bích in the face. At the same time, another man’s voice uttered a command from the darkness for them to be quiet.

The man who had grabbed Hang scowled and lowered his fist. He grabbed Hang by the arm and made her go with the second group of women. She quickly made her way down the ladder into the cargo hold and, along with the others, stood waiting for further instructions.

An hour passed and, following the shouts and commands from above, the diesel engines coughed and rumbled to life, causing the ship to shake before it slipped away from its moorage.

A crew member eventually came down the ladder and told them the cargo space they were in was their home for the next six weeks. He pointed to a plastic pail that they could use for a toilet and pieces of cardboard on the floor for them to lie on. Nobody would be allowed up on deck for two weeks, after which they may be allowed up on deck at night only. The passengers looked at each other in shock as the crew member climbed back up the ladder and closed the cargo doors behind him.

Three of the young women started crying. Hang stared at them blankly for a moment before picking up a piece of cardboard and selecting a spot near the hull of the ship to lay it down. She was cold, even with her new coat, and brought her knees up close to her chest. She lay with her back to the hull, but felt the vibration of the ship’s engines and readjusted the cardboard.