Free The Great Divide by T. Davis Bunn Page B

legal suits against Chinese companies, claiming this and that. Usually something labor related. Then there was some Hong Kong issue, a man who’d been injured in a raid, I think it was. And she petitioned my boss on several U.S. companies operating in Tibet.”
    Marcus mulled it over. “A troublemaker.”
    “You didn’t hear that from me. But that was the word in the corridors.” Another smile, this one tinged with regret. “One of the bad guys.”
    Marcus began thinking out loud. “So if Gloria Hall did indeed goto China, and if she was investigating a factory for labor violations and disappeared …”
    The smile vanished. “I’d say she was in serious trouble. And you don’t know how serious trouble can be until you hit it in a place like China.”
    T HOUGH SITUATED less than two miles from the White House, the offices for Asia Rights Watch were on the wrong end of Pennsylvania Avenue. In all his seven years of high-powered travel, Marcus had never had a reason to visit this area. His taxi passed the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, skirted the Tidal Basin, and entered the area known simply as Southwest.
    The taxi let him off in front of a new four-story structure of colonial brick. There was no sign outside the building, no indication within of who occupied the top three floors. The lobby was carpeted and sterile and quiet as a tomb. Both the entrance and the elevators were flanked by security cameras.
    Marcus exited the elevator on the fourth floor and found himself standing before double doors of reinforced steel. The hallway was compressed by a fireproofed ceiling and thick concrete walls, and was so quiet the air-conditioning shouted a constant hoarse sigh.
    He pressed a button alongside the doors. A solemn voice said, “State your business.”
    “Marcus Glenwood. I have an appointment.”
    “Look straight at the camera. No, the other one, to your right. Thank you.”
    The door clicked open. He entered a windowless reception area. Still he saw no sign announcing where he was. The desk and chairs were of light Scandinavian design, the floors and walls a uniform white. The standard drop ceiling had been removed, revealing heating ducts and lighting systems and concrete, all painted a light blue.
    “Mr. Glenwood?”
    “Yes.” He turned and adjusted his gaze downward. “Mr. Gautam, did I say that correctly?”
    “Indeed, yes.” The man did not offer his hand. Instead, he beamed broadly enough to reveal more teeth than Marcus would have thought could fit in such an undersized head. He waved down the side corridor. “Let us go and speak in my office.”
    In the privacy of the narrow hallway, Marcus asked, “Why did you take out the ceiling panels?”
    “Merely a precaution, Mr. Glenwood. Probably of no benefit.” Dee Gautam had a strong accent with American overtones. The diminutive figure led him into a windowless office as austere as the reception area. “Please to have a seat there.”
    “Thanks. Precaution against what?”
    “Attacks from above. Some of my colleagues possess a well-developed sense of paranoia.” He gave a merry laugh as he seated himself behind the desk. “Now then. What can I do for you?”
    “I mentioned on the telephone that I may be bringing legal action on behalf of a young lady who is missing in China.”
    “Indeed yes.” The man was all stick limbs and thinning black hair and skin the color of milky tea. He wore a neatly pressed short-sleeved shirt over dark trousers. “A Miss Gloria Hall.”
    “You know her?”
    “I can’t recall.” He lifted his hands from his lap and gave a broad shrug. “I meet so many people.”
    Marcus’ gaze remained fixed upon where the hands had reached, though they had now retreated back beneath the desk. He was not sure exactly what he had seen, yet it was enough to leave his stomach feeling like jellied ice. “But you might know her.”
    “I seem to recall a nice young woman who had an interest in China. I have an interest. We met. We