M.M. PETLIŃSKA

SWALLOW

Copyright © M.M. Petlińska 2013

The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

This e-book is sold to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published any without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 978-83-938835-1-6

A bird is not able to see the cage if it is sitting inside.

Albert Schweitzer

Talking to things is not enough, one needs to talk to people.

Stanisław Jerzy Lec

PART I

PEOPLE

PROLOGUE

Sana, Yemen

Year 2011

Amal Ahmed Abdel-Fatah al-Sada stepped out to the stairs leading out of the plane at the El Rahaba airport and immediately squinted her eyes. She was a bit over 170 cm tall, skinny but it was hardly visible as she was wearing a full burqa covering even her feet. Burqa covered her elongated face with dark complexion as well as thinned out black hair. One could only see the edge of hollow cheekbones, big dark eyes and wide eyebrows. She screened her quite high forehead and looked around.

As she had been living in Pakistan for over ten years, she weaned from the burning Yemeni sun. She had a feeling the air was waving and the whole area literally melted away like a mirage in the desert. A moment later she noticed the outline of a glass airport terminal. She had seen it only once before, when she was leaving, yet this sight caused a sudden burst of joy

Sana. Yemen. Home. She breathed the air in – dry and heavy because of the desert sand. She felt a biting pain in her throat, her lips dried up immediately and saliva got thicker. Yes, she thought, it used to be my home. Will it continue to be my home now? Long forgotten memories ran though her head: happy childhood, playing on the street, helping mother at home and then departure and wedding. She spent twenty years here, but she had a feeling that she was able to store this part of life in one drawer of her memory whereas the following ten years would occupy the remaining space.

The burst of joy that overwhelmed her passed and vanished suddenly like a sand storm. She felt extremely lonely on this dry and desert land. Wasn’t she coming back home defeated? She married the most important mujahideen in the world whose wisdom exceeded the wisdom of many muftis and as an imaam he was a role model to all warriors. But that was past. The only thing left was emptiness and pain.

She made a step down the stairs and hissed quietly. The calf, which was slightly shot during that hellish night when Americans killed her husband, hurt from time to time. These devils from the West broke into their home, into their bedroom, the place only her husband was allowed to stay in! Amal felt soiled because she was seen by strangers and broke purdah. And later this Pakistani prison…

She should have died in Abbottabad together with Osama bin Laden.

She wasn’t even able to bury him the way a decent Muslin should have been, they didn’t give her a chance to whisper shahada into his ear.

She turned back and looked at her four children. They followed her slowly and obediently, looking around in a curious way. Ten-year-old Abdullah was walking first, he had a big aquiline nose and wide lips just like his father. Five years younger Labib was one step behind him, a faithful copy of an older brother. They were both dressed up in worn out and dirty children’s thobe. The oldest one, twenty-year-old Fatima, wearing a dress stained with food, was helping a three-year-old Arif to get down. Fatima will grow up to be a real beauty, Amal thought. But will she manage in her adult life? She was shy and careful about everything. Labib was the opposite, he was bursting with energy from the very beginning. Abdullah was most mature, peaceful but also self-confident like his father… And Arif was still a child, sometimes malicious, weepy. What will happen to my children in Yemen?

Amal raised her burqa a bit and carefully made consecutive steps on the stairs and at the same time was looking around the airport slab. In the distance she noticed a procession of four black cars. The cars were driving fast arousing the clouds of dust and sand. Few men with shotguns jumped out and surrounded the vehicles thoroughly scrutinizing the area. Finally, the doors of the car situated in the middle opened and Muhammed Ahmad Abdel-Fatah al-Sada left the vehicle.

Amal recognized him immediately, although he had grown a beard. He was tall, full of drive and well-built. His hair was thick, as black as pitch and contrasted with the snow-white cotton shirt. He was wearing a traditional colorful futa, she noticed he had stuck a janbiya underneath the cloth.

The man approached the stairs and without a word he reached out his hand toward her. AK-47 was hanging carelessly on his second arm. Amal made the few last steps quickly and reached out to him.

- Muhammed! Alhamdu lillah! I am so glad! – she said joyfully, although her gestures suggested something else. Showing emotions in public, even between siblings, was not typical for the Muslims.

But she did feel like putting her arms around him. Muhammed was the second son of Ahmed Abdel al-Sada, Amal’s own brother and her closest childhood friend. At that time she loved him more than anyone else. He always protected her when foreigners were trying to photograph her, when – she was a teenager back then – Yemenis who disobeyed the laws of Islam tried to talk to her on the street. They both were planning to sacrifice themselves to the matter of the sacred war. She remembered that very well.

- Muhammed, what is jihad? – she asked him one day. At that time she was eight, he was thirteen.

- It is an effort made by every person trying not to succumb to the temptations of this world. – he replied in a very serious manner.

- And sacred war? – she was curious. – it is this jihad?

He shrugged his arms.

- You should ask father. And why are you interested? – suddenly he asked in an excited way. – You are a girl, what do you need it for?

- I want to convert the infidels. – she replied with pride. She remembered the way an unknown man who appeared a day before at their home and met with father impressed her. She was eavesdropping through a hole in the larder. That man was speaking about the sacred world, the depravation of the West and the need of converting the infidels using force.

- Let’s become mujahideens then. – he laughed. – Both of us.

- I don’t think I can. – she replied sadly but at once added: – But I will marry one of them.

In sza Allah, I kept my promise, she thought. And you Muhammed? She looked again at his neat appearance. A warrior do not care about his clothes that much.

- Alam alajkum! Welcome Amal! – he replied with a smile. – Welcome home.

Only just, from up close, she noticed few scars, one of them was very red and led from the eye across the left cheek up to the very ear.

Muhammed seized her glance and touched the scar.

- It’s nothing. – he replied. – Recent encounter with the warriors.

- What? – Amal was surprised. – What kind of encounter?

- You don’t know? I will tell you in the car… and these must be my nephews and niece?

- Yes. – she replied with a smile pointing at the children hiding behind her burqa. – Abdullah, Labib, Arif and Fatima.

The oldest sons greeted their uncle politely, Fatima too, only Arif hid even more behind his mother’s burqa. Muhammed looked up at Amal laughing, but at that moment one of the men standing by the cars yelled something.

- Bismillah, we’d better go. – he said suddenly with a serious face. – Do you have luggage?

- Only one piece. On the plane.

Muhammed beckoned at one of the men who ran up the stairs to get the luggage and moved first toward the cars. Amal followed him pulling Arif behind her, the boy did not let go a piece of her burqa from his tiny hand.

- Do you remember Qajs? – Muhammed asked stopping next to the second car.

A tall, slim man yet with a dropping belly which was pouring out of a slightly dirty light-colored shirt, stood in front of her. He had a wide face and wide mouth as well, partially covered by a quite luxuriant growth, small eyes and a long nose.

- Of course. – she smiled replying her brother. – Qajs Mubin Koury, from Afghanistan. How is his wife?

- She died. – Muhammed replied. – Qajs is the bodyguard of our father, he will be your driver if you need one. Let’s go! –he cried and placed them it two cars.

Amal, Fatima and the youngest Arif were travelling with Muhammed and his driver, Abdullach and Labib sat inside another car with Qajs.

They set off. They left the airport and headed south, in the direction of Sana. Sun was shining on their cars, fortunately the travel was not uncomfortable thanks to darken windows and air conditioning.

Muhammed, who sat in the front, was talking quietly with the driver. Amal didn’t even try to eavesdrop. She was tired after the flight, tired with the emotions, greetings, coming back home. She felt strangely empty, absent, just as if her soul had left the body and stayed elsewhere. She wanted to uncover her face and rest from the smell of the sweated material her burqa was made from, but she kept herself together. In her home there was always a very traditional division of female and male roles and there was a driver in the car, a strange man. She did not want to tempt the fate. So he just closed her eyes and let the hum of the engine lull her to sleep..

- Amal? – she heard suddenly.

She sat up shaking off the last bits of sleep. She touched her neck as she felt shooting pain caused by uncomfortable sleeping position. She looked at her brother who sat turning his back at the direction of driving and was looking at her with care. The sun was already very low, the inside of the car was dim. Fatima and Arif slept curled up on the seat next to her. She pulled down her daughter’s dress.

- Yes. – she said in a hoarse voice. Muhammed gave her a small bottle with water. She had a big sip cooling the burnt and dried up throat.

- Thank you. – she gave him the bottle back.

- You don’t look well. – he said after a moment. – You lost much weight. And kids…

- Ma sza Allah, I know Muhammed. – she interrupted him gently. – But it will get better now.

- I will drive you back to Atak, to parents’ house. – He said after few seconds. – Father will provide you with room and money until … until you make a decision.

- Of course. – she replied politely but didn’t understand him at all. – You said you would drive us there… don’t you live in Atak?

She smiled. The scar and overwhelming dimness made him look a bit ghastly.

- When did you get so clever, hah?

Amal looked down with a slight smile.

- I got married. – He said finally. – Yes. My wife, Hajam, is wonderful, I am sure you will get along. I have an eight-year-old son and two younger daughters as well… I am Abu Ali. – she smiled filled with pride because his first child turned out to be a boy. – We live in Balhaf, I do my business there.

- You became a businessman? – she asked trying not to sound accusatorily.

Feeling a drilling sight of her brother she looked down.

- There are plants of condensed gas in Balhaf. – he said after a moment of uncomfortable silence. – Immediately after it turned out our oil resources were running low, father invested into the construction of a gas pipeline initiated by the government. I am one of the CEOs of Yemen LNG.

- That’s a good thing. You care about the future of your family.

- In sza Allah. – he said and casually shrugged his arms. – Times have changed.

-Will father be home when I arrive? –she asked to change the subject.

- It’s difficult to say. I think at the moment he is outside Atak, he travels a lot to Balhaf and Marib.

- Aha. And how is mother’s health?

- Good. – Muhammed laughed. – Anyway you will see it yourself.

- You’re probably right. –she sighed.

For few minutes they drove in silence. She looked outside the window. The desert they were passing was as beautiful as overwhelming in size. She trembled. Magnificent space she was not able to take in with her eyes, no walls, people, sounds … Suddenly she wished to go home to Abbottabad, where she felt safe.

She sighed. At that moment she thought about something she had never considered before. Now, when Osama was gone, she wouldn’t want to live in their Pakistani home. She was afraid of open space, street, noise of the city, strangers and everything unknown to her. But hadn’t she lived under lock and alone for too long?

She looked at the sky. First single stars appeared in the red radiance of the setting sun. And suddenly she noticed a big lorry on the way and further a barrier with a small station.

The driver slowed down. A man dressed up in military clothes came up to their car and said few words to Muhammed. After a while the barrier went up and they continued the travel.

- What’s happening here? – she asked after a while.

- This is what I was telling you about, the times have changed. – Muhammed said and again turned toward her. – There is a war, Amal. We are fighting the rebels who terrorize Yemen and legitimate government. – he stopped for a while. – War activities take place even in Shabwah.

Shabhaw was a muhafazah, one of twenty provinces of Yemen where city Atak was situated. As well as their family home.

- Has anything…? – she ask but Muhammed only nodded.

- No. In sza Allah. But not long ago the rebels took over Jaar, later Zinjibar in Abjan. Now the Yemeni army is carrying out an offensive. Ratib takes part in it as well.

- He? But he is only sixteen years! – Amal cried thinking about her younger brother. When she left he was a small child.

- Eighteen. – Muhammed corrected her. – He wanted to go and other tribal clans were putting up their people.

- Tell me about it. – she asked.

Muhammed hesitated but after a while started speaking.

- The battles has been going on basically since you left. After the 11th of September 2001 Al-Qaeda organized many attacks… The most serious was probably the one aimed at American embassy three years ago. A year ago the government declared the war against the rebels. The battles took place in San, at our land in Shabwah as well as in provinces Marib and Abjan. The worst situation was in summer and fall. Father got very angry when the rebels killed our soldiers guarding the oil installations. Some of them were destroyed, the rest was damaged. But we are making improvements. Bismillah, Yemeni army will win! In Maty two brothers died, Musaida and Abdullah Mubarak.

Amal looked at him with wide open eyes.

- But… but they were from Al.-Qaeda as well! They knew our father! I do remember them…!

Muhammed looked at her for a while without saying a word.

- Amal. – he spoke slowly. – As I said, Yemen has changed, our family too. Now we fight Al-Qaeda.

They fell silent. Yes, now, as father made some money on me marrying Osama, he could declare his support to either party of the conflict, Amal thought as sorrow was stifling her larynx.

- And Qajs? – she asked quietly. – After all he was a member of Al-Qaeda too. Even his wife… wasn’t she a daughter of one of the AQAP’s leaders!

- He took our side. – Muhammed shrugged his shoulders. – He was always helpful and hard-working, but after his wife died, he had no other option but to start working for our family. Otherwise he would have joined the fighters and would be dead by now.

- What happened to her?

- She died while giving birth. – he said in an indifferent way, then turned toward the direction they were driving. – Let’s stop to pray. And you should change this colorful frock for chadah and yashmak. Father will not let you in in such an outfit.

Amal looked at her worn burqa embroider in the front, the only souvenir she had left after her husband and her life in Pakistan. But now it turned out that even her family, people who used to support Al.-Qaeda for years, fought the rebels just as they would fight regular bandits.

The car drove off to the roadside. Muhammed and the driver went out. She watched them perform wudu, washing themselves using sand. The moment they placed themselves in the direction of Mecca, that is kibla, she opened the door carefully and stood on the other side to say salat al-maghrib. She took off her worn sandals and performer ritual gestures connected with washing herself.

I fulfilled one promise already, she though, raising her hands and saying Allahu Akbar, the intention of saying a prayer. Now she had to kept the second one, made in May in Abbottabad.

Amal wanted to take revenge for the death of her husband, Osama bin Laden.

CHAPTER 1

Washington, DC, United States

Year 2012

Lucia Cocci parked her well-served jeep at Pennsylvania Avenue, got out and went in the direction of an elegant townhouse with the white facade. For a while she was looking around the tables until she saw a familiar tall figure. She came up closer.

- Hello Mr. Orth.

- Oh, good morning Lucia! – the man raised his head above the newspaper and smiled politely. Mark Orth had a starling-looking long but friendly face, big eyes and wide mouth. He kept his quite long blond hair stiffly combed on one side, probably fixed with much hair spray.

- Sit down please. – he reached his thin hand and pointed a chair opposite. A golden shield of Rolex appeared from under the shirt sleeve. – You look beautiful as always.

Lucia smiled politely but did not thank for the compliment. She inherited her narrow face and such lips after her Italian father and these features differed significantly from what was perceived as beautiful in the US. On the other hand, the surfeit of breasty blond beauties made men start treating them like air. And looked back at women representing different type of beauty. Still there was the question of clothes. And Lucia Cocci has always attached importance to the outfit whenever she attended a meeting representing her foundation, Magnoopere.

White trousers widen at the bottom she chose today perfectly hid her slightly bowed legs and stressed their length. The folds of fat on her belly – result of snacking at night– were covered by flimsy blue blouse which made her small breasts look bigger. Early that morning she washed and neatly dried her black mid-long hair and made proper make-up masking three-hour-long drive from New York.

- I hope you didn’t wait long?– she said sitting down. She hung her bag on the back of the chair, took out the cellphone and put it on the table.

- Nooo… I’ve just come in. Always with your phone, hah?

- You know well – she said shrugging her arms. – At any moments somebody can call and ask for help.

The air was pleasantly cool, although a bit saturated with the aroma of basil and tomato sauces as well as grilled bread. God, Lucia thought, how she was fed up with national cuisine! But it was Mark who suggested this restaurant so she was not in a position to refuse, especially because he probably did it out of politeness to celebrate her origins.

- Sure. Would you like something to drink? – he asked passing her the menu. –Do you want to eat? They have a passably good chef here.

- Yes, thanks. With pleasure.

She looked at the menu. It was a quite good restaurant so it was expensive as well. Too expensive for her taste and wallet. She scanned the dishes.

- Prosciutto for me – she said when the waiter appeared. – And water with gas.

- Bene. – the waiter replied with hard accent. He was a tall blond man with a round face and rosy cheeks. If he looked Italian then Orth looked like a laborer. – Wine?

- Yes, please.

Mark ordered finocchio and a glass of Chardonnay for himself. I wonder if he ordered such a humble dish because of me, Lucia thought giving the menu back to the waiter.

- Are you staying somewhere near?

- In our local office in North West.

- You will have to show it to me one day…

- You know it’s impossible. – she smiled. – We don’t invite people to our offices, we don’t appear on TV, we don’t publish our photographs. We care for our safety.

- Yes, I know, I know… – Mark shook his head – But I can always try.

When the waiter brought the drinks, they fell silent for a while.

- So what brings you to the Capitol Hill? – asked after few moments having a sip of the wine.

- Magnoopere, as always.

- Human trade is still flourishing. – he admitted sadly.

Lucia felt the blood welling up her cheeks. She reached out for a glass of water to cool off her emotions a bit.

- Mark, I don’t deal with trading cattle or chickens. People are not livestock because they are not for sale.

- I know, I know. – he raised his hands in a protective gesture – It was just a mental shortcut. Everybody says it.

- And that is a reason for repeating the mistake? – Lucia had another sip of water. She was always pissed off when somebody referred to people forced to work or prostitution as “livestock”.

- Every year from seven hundred thousand up to two million people around the world fell victims of human trafficking. Nobody is able to evaluate the scale of this phenomenon precisely… But we do know the half of them is sexually abused!

- Lucio, I do understand that. – she replied quietly. – United States accepted TVPA, we have bills, trainings for people working for FBI, ICE HSI, DOL, DOS… after all DOS appointed ACTeams, teams coordinating the activities fighting human trafficking.

- Yes. In selected pilot areas of the country. – she snapped but at that very moment the waiter brought their lunch.

For a while they were eating in silence. Lucia emotionlessly chewed on her prosciutto, although she would much prefer to continue the conversation.

- And how’s your foundation by the way? – Mark asked.

- Magnoopere? Quite good. This year we did over two hundred interventions. We managed to take over almost one hundred women, half of them will start a new life.

- I guess that’s good…

She put down the fork.

- It’s not good Mark, because it is likely I will have to close down the foundation. – she gave him a hard look. – Don’t pretend to be surprised. We didn’t get the subsidy from DOS and without that money we won’t be able to operate.

- I am sorry, Lucia, but…

- What happened, Mark? – she interrupted him and bent over the table. – I mean we have been operating for years, we accounted for every dollar. What happened, god dammit?!

- Lucia, don’t get upset!

- I am not upset! – Her slightly raised voice turned into a hissing whisper. – I am only pissed off because I know who wants to kick my ass!

- Lucia, you do have a lovely ass but that is not the case. – Mark said in a calming way.

- So what is the case?

- Nothing! They distribute the money according to their own criteria. We don’t have any influence on the continuation of subsidies.

- The senator does. – she rested against the chair. – Herring was always interested in social issues. He was generous for Magnoopere and supported us. As his assistant you know that well. – she nodded. –We have known each other for years, don’t treat me like a child, Mark. What was the problem?

Mark put down knife and fork, wiped his mouth with a table napkin and had a sip of wine.

- Lucia. – he looked at her. – Senator supports you with all his heart. The only person who could harm Magnoopere is you.

- Me?! – she squeaked opening her eyes wide with surprise.

- Yes. You know, your recent comments for the press on euthanasia did not multiply the number of your supporters among the democrats.

- I am against it, so what?

- Apparently much. – Mark bent over and started twiddling the glass in his hands. – All politicians in this country belong to one of two camps. If you want something from the government, you have to kiss either democrats’ or republicans’ ass. Your support is not strong enough for you to be somewhere in between.

- And the fact I am for bearing arms is the splinter in democrats’ eye as well?! – Lucia snapped almost trembling. – We live in a free country and we are allowed to think freely but it turns out I need to have identical opinions as the people who decide about the subsidy for social causes?! People who were chosen during independent election?! And the money belong to the whole nation, not to them?! Fuck, Mark, it is sick!

- That’s the way it works. – he shrugged his arms. – Welcome to the world of real politics.

For a moment Lucia breathed deeply.

- Herring is a first class senator, next election will take place in six years. – she said finally. – What kind of risk am I to him? Why can’t Magnoopere get this fucking subsidy?

- Subsidies are granted by DOS, not by the senator, you know that. – he sighed. – There have been cuts in the budget…

- But human trafficking hasn’t decreased…!

- Yes, but they spent more on training the officials. FBI trained over seven hundred of their own people, ICE HSI four thousand.

- Sure. – Lucia nodded her head sneeringly. – We are taking courses and developing our skills to have an impressive résumé. Do you realize in 2011 alone in both Americas a thousand people were accused of human trafficking and three hundred were actually found guilty? And do you know what is the number of victims? Nearly ten thousand! The question is how does it refer to the calculations according to which there are as many as two million people affected by human trafficking? – she bent over the table. There was no increase of activities performed by the police, government or other authorities, that is not the case. Human trafficking is developing just like American economy in the 60ties. As far as the absolute value is concerned it means we simply nibble on smaller and smaller piece of a criminal cake. Doesn’t it make you think?

- It does, Lucia, but USA is not the equivalent of the whole world and human trafficking is not limited to women only. – Mark looked at her wistfully. – Try to understand, we are not able to help raped women or young children experiencing abuse in every place in the world. We have our problems to deal with…

- Four and a half million people are sexually abused all over the world. Ask yourself what percentage of this number refers to men and what to women? And children?

Mark sighed and asked for another portion of wine. The waiter came back with a bottle and skillfully filled the glass without spilling a single drop.

- Good vintage year. – murmured Lucia looking at the bottle. – 2003 was a good year for wines from New Zealand.

- Maybe you’ll try after all? – Mark asked.

- No, thanks.

They finished the last bits of lunch.

- Lucia, we are doing what we can to support you guys. But we cannot overcome some barriers. Especially, when you are drowning yourself and us by being against the party’s program. They are only people – he shrugged his arms. – And even if not you, then your name is quite recognizable. If you want to help yourself, pamper the people who give you money.

Lucia finished her water.

- I know Mark and thank you. But do you know what pisses me off? That at some point all politicians perceive people as problems. That is number one. No, let me finish. Number two is that we believe we are a world power whereas we don’t give a fuck about these „problems” around the world. Number three, our asses are being fucked by dirty pimps who take more money for it than you working as the senator’s assistant.

She reached for her bag and stood up.

- Thank you for lunch. – she looked at the watch. – I am going back to New York. And listen- she shifted her weight from one leg to the other. – I don’t ask you for that subsidy as a voter or a woman. I ask you as a person who basically everyday hugs women suffering from syphilis, gonorrhea or AIDS and wonder where I make mistakes.

She reached out her hand. Mark hesitated involuntarily.

- Washed and disinfected. – she smiled sadly.

- See you Lucia. – he shook it strongly.

- Goodbye. Greetings for the senator.

She left and headed directly to her car. She started the engine and at that very moment her cell rang.

- Hallo? – she murmured picking up the call.

- Lucia? It’s Katie. Barbara called, she has a girl seventh month pregnant who is giving birth right now …

- What girl? – Lucia asked heading toward the left lane.

- A Mexican. I think she ran away from a brothel. She doesn’t speak English. She wants to put the baby up for adoption …

- Ok, I am going there. – she sighed and looked around. – Is Barbara with her? Which hospital is it?

- Yes, yes. Wait, wait…I’ll text you the address.

- Ok.

Lucia hung up and cursed bitterly.

Mark Orth was about half mile away from Russell Senate Office Building, so he decided to walk. April sun was warming quite pleasantly, the sunrays were sliding down his sunglasses every second. Delicate warm wind was blowing, gently moving the parts of hair untamed by the hair spray. The streets were crowded as always during lunch time, but there were definitely more people on the sidewalk. Everyone tried to use these first warm days to the full.

Orth passed 1st Street, then went across the parking by the Capitol. The majestic building was shining with its whiteness irritating the eyes just like snow at ski slopes in Aspen. After less than a quarter Mark reached the crossing of Constitution Avenue and Delaware Avenue. He went up the stairs into the building and through the corridor toward the elevators. A moment later he was in front of doors of the senator Christopher Herring’s office.

- Hey Carol – he said coming up to his desk and looking at his e-mail account. – Anything interesting?

- No, same old. – secretary replied without turning around. She stood next to a cabinet and moving some papers from one file to the other.

She was a petite woman in her twenties with rounded hips, shapely but short legs and pretty face. She was working for Herring for almost a year and – according to the senator– doing a pretty good job taking into consideration the fact it was her first job after the graduation.

- You know – she said turning around and moving a pile of files onto the desk. Few sheets of paper fell on the ground. – Fuck… sorry. – She sighed and bent down to pick them up. – I’ve always wondered why, in the age when most things are done by the computers, do I have to put up with a tone of papers! It’s senseless. She sat by the desk and had a sip of coffee. – Do you know how many thousands of trees are being cut every year to obtain paper for sending a following piece of information– she grabbed a sheet of paper brushing away her long blond hair onto her back. – I quote: “I confirm receiving the file number twelve by three by two thousand twelve”. And to make matters worse in A4 format!

- Yes, I know, I know. – Mark looked through the email box. Most emails were newsletters from the media and informative portals. Few invitations for the senator (sent to the general email address) as well as facebook invitation for a party for the graduates organized by his friend in few weeks’ time. He clicked to confirm the attendance and checked if the event got written down in his calendar. He drew himself up satisfied. – Is senator at his office?

- Yes. He came back few minutes ago. – Carol glanced at the phone. – He’s talking to someone. He has fifteen minutes for himself, later he has a committee meeting.

Mark came up to the door and knocked gently, after that he pressed the door handle and went inside.

With his legs on the desk the senator was buttoning up gold cuff-links on his sleeves and held a telephone receiver pressed to his ear with his arm. He wasn’t very tall, but well-built and quite athletic. He had short hair and usually a one day old growth, which – according to Carol – suited him well. Mark admired his inner discipline and consistence in behavior. Herring’s mother was a second rate actress and father owned a gas station. Young Christopher studied in domestic California and later at Yale. After the graduation he came back home where he set up and developed a movie studio offering special effects. He made a fortune on it. When he turned fifty he got interested in politics what soon led him to the senator’s office representing the state of California.

Some people even said that part of Herring’s money was made on cheating his partners but Orth didn’t believe it. A bunch of jealous people, he thought looking at the dignified face of his employer.

- Yes, yes. I agree Paul. Well of course…

Herring waved at Orth friendly and with slight gesture indicated he should sit down.

- I’ll take care of it. Good. See you at the committee meeting. – The senator put the receiver down, took his shoes off the desk and sighed.

- Damned bureaucrats. Do you know we HAVE TO deal with the legalization of same sex marriages? Why? Because Jolie and Pitt lobbied for it! And my voters want them to get married finally!

- But didn’t they get married already – Mark replied slowly. – I thought their children had asked them for it.

- Well, exactly. – The senator smiled dispiritedly. – You know well I support sexual minorities. For example I employ ….

They both burst out laughing. Mark Orth was an open gay.

- … just you know I don’t like the way this issue is approached. This has to be done properly, not according to whims of some movie stars.

- I agree. But Californians have always been like that. – Mark shrugged his arms. Just like the senator he came from the western part of United States.

- Anyway, let’s forget about it. – Herring clapped his hands. – How was the meeting? You met with…?

- Lucia Cocci from Magnoopere. She is really angry as she didn’t get the subsidy … - Orth hesitated. – And I think she is right. She did a good job.

- Yes and you know I support her one hundred percent. – The senator looked out the window. – But I do not have enough influence on DOS to have my own way with the opposition. And Lucia doesn’t help with her statements as well.

Mark Orth was silent for a while.

- You must think I made a mistake pulling back my support for her?

- No if our voters don’t support financing institutions whose bosses opt for access to guns and, at the same time, are against euthanasia.

The senator looked at his assistant for a moment. You will have to learn much more about politics, my boy, he thought and added immediately:

- What did she say? – he asked after a second sitting straight and glancing at the computer screen.

- Much, as always. You know, she would like for the United States to protect the whole world. She wants us to engage ourselves in combating human trafficking with special focus of women trafficking and forcing them to become prostitutes, global-wide. – Mark stopped as he noticed the senator was reading something on the computer screen.

- Continue.

- So, well. She believes that as we are a world power, we should benefit from the situation but also solve world’s problems.

- And she is right to some extent, dammit. – the senator replied bending over. After few moments the silence was broken only by loud tapping on the keyboard.

- Is that all? – Mark asked gently getting up.

- No. – the senator replied without stopping writing. His eyes were set on the keyboard. – Prepare a report on human trafficking for me. Few past years. Focus on the issue of women. – He looked up at the assistant. – I want to see it on my desk before evening.

- Of course. – Mark said and quietly closed the door behind him.

- Oh Mark. Good you are here – Carol squeaked. – I just thought we should introduce a daily limit of printing…

Mark Orth smiled to himself and got down to preparing a report for the senator.

CHAPTER 2

Washington, D.C., United States

Christopher Herring parked his Cadillac CTS-V at the driveway and entered his home. He lived in Georgetown on 33rd Street. It was not a mansion but as far as the finishing was concerned it met the exorbitant requirements of his wife and available space was suitable for the needs of his son and daughter. Apart from that, the location was good – half an hour away from the Capitol.

He left the keys under the mirror, took off his coat and listened to unnatural silence, praising his wife and her idea to visit her parents in California with their kids. He smiled. He could expect a pleasant evening.

He washed his hands, then he entered a spacious kitchen crammed with equipment of different sorts, Christopher didn’t understand or use most of it. He took out pizza from the freezer and put it inside the microwave. After that he headed to the living room. He turn on a match, the Yankees were losing with the Rangers. He poured himself some cognac and went to fetch the pizza.

After a while he sat down comfortable in the armchair and got busy with eating. The pizza pie was thick, basically without additional ingredients. It reminded him the food from his college years. After few minutes he was full so he put his plate away, reached out for Orth’s report and took a sip of cognac.

He became absorbed in reading.

The score was terrifying. The Yankees were completely out of shape. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the report again.

Although he was a senator representing the democratic party, he was always open about his critical opinions on Barack Obama, the president presently in office. Herring thought that Obama focused on the party’s doctrine too much. To hell with the limits of access to arms! Especially as the president was photographed while he was teaching his daughters to shoot. The shootings were not caused by the access to guns and sharp ammunition but faulty system of medical care and welfare. Americans didn’t have medical services adjusted to their needs. What’s the difference even if medical care finally become commons? Just like during socialism – everyone was equal. But few madmen proved what was the risk of equality.

And Obama’s attitude toward the army? It seems the hippies from the 70ties brainwashed him. He fucked up the profession of a soldier and a spy. And of course there were other issues. 11 millions of illegal immigrants in the US were still waiting for the regulation of their rights. Up till then, to survive, they had to work, in many cases under duress. How many of them were women? And according to data 98% were sexually abused.

He had a sip of cognac. The Rangers won the match.

Human trafficking in the US was prosecuted by DOJ, which maintained 94 federal public prosecutor’s offices. In 2011 40 teams of DOJ recorded 900 investigations and 1350 suspects. ICE HSI noted 722 cases of human trafficking, FBI 337. Together it is a bit over two thousand cases, half of them probably ended up in court.

He went through the pages of the report. According to DOS, the average sentence for human trafficking in United States was 11 years and 8 months. It is not tragic, he thought and looked at the countries with the biggest risk of trafficking foreigners: the Philipines, Thailand, India, Honduras, Guatemala and Mexico.

The senator made a wry face. But Mexico belonged to Tier2 sphere, covering the countries which hadn’t introduced all points of TVPA, but tried very intensively!

He had another sip of cognac. In 2011 DOS subsidized 42 organizations helping the victims of human trafficking. The budget cut was a fact, but they still had millions of dollars at their disposal. Why did they have problems with Lucia Cocci in particular? And him as well. Herring’s position was still not strong enough to ignore the party’s warnings. So, being under pressure, he had to withdraw his support for Magnoopere.

How could he help Lucia? After all on many occasions she risked her own life to help these women. He remembered well their first meeting. He couldn’t believe that outspoken Italian was able to run with a gun around Brooklyn trying to save a drugged Mexican woman out of the pimps’ hands. Unbelievable.

It was unbelievable they were still facing the issues not existing or marginal for many civilized people. Like human trafficking. Or illegal immigration. These people in particular did not need bills or rules but real active help.

He finished the cognac, turned on the TV and stood up. He had an idea.

For some time now he has been thinking what to do with this part of his funds he obtained not quite ethically while building his financial empire. Well, he did not break the law, but as he was the senator, worrying about the well-being of the citizens, he felt uncomfortable thinking about the documentation of the fund started to locate his millions. Maybe he finally found a solution?

So he had money. And he could invest them in better way than on saving deposit. Especially because from the moral point of view he shouldn’t even have it … Moreover, he could attract more voters. And later he could compete for … who knows?