Free Treacherous by Barbara Taylor Bradford Page B

would put him away for a long time.
    “They say a
picture is worth a thousand words,” the governor said, “so rather than telling
you the kind of reporting Luke Thompson’s CNN team turned in, let’s watch the
actual footage they captured, mostly with hidden cameras, from around the globe.
I need to warn you that what you are about to see is disturbing, shocking, and
very real. If you do not feel up to viewing it, this might be a good time to
step into the lobby.”
    Nobody moved.
    After a
moment, a huge screen slid down from the ceiling and the lights were dimmed.
Fiona looked nervously at the spot where the video machines were, hoping Hayley
would press the right button and not panic, as she had many times in the past.
What she saw in that video booth shocked her.
    Hayley’s eyes
met Fiona’s, and a little smile spread across her face. Instead of the usual
simple black jump suit and comfortable shoes she wore to every event, Hayley was
wearing a gorgeous black-and-white outfit that was so chic it had to be
couture. And on her feet were Christian Louboutins.
    But that wasn’t
the biggest shock of all. Gone was the insane blue wig and, in its place, Hayley’s
hair had been perfectly styled into a sleek pixie cut.
    “OMIGOD!!!” Fiona
mouthed to her friend, but the message was lost as the huge screen filled with
images of women and young girls being loaded into trucks in some faraway place.
    There were
sounds, shouts really, as someone was being ordered not to return until she had
earned two hundred dollars. A girl, who couldn’t have been more than fourteen, was
seen opening the door to the street, keeping her head down, so as not to show that
her eye had been blackened.
    Nude, or
nearly nude, women were being pushed out on a stage to dance for a bunch of
booze-swilling men, who clearly felt touching was permitted. For a price,
anything was permitted. A naked young girl was swinging to and fro over the bar,
in a red velvet swing. The camera zoomed in to the bruises that covered her
body.
    Luke’s narration,
which accompanied the film clips, made it clear that one man, and one man alone,
ran this worldwide network of human misery.
    In the huge
close-up on screen, Eddie Rivers didn’t look like the kingpin of a sex-for-profit
ring. With his boyish good looks and easy charm, he could have been mistaken
for the spokesman for the Boy Scouts of America. Yet he had run this seemingly
impenetrable worldwide organization for twenty years without an indictment.
    “One day, and
soon,” Luke's voice said, “someone will have the courage to speak the truth, to
put this man away.”
    The lights
began to come up, and the governor rose and introduced Luke to loud applause.
Luke helped Fiona to her feet, so that she could share in this moment with him.
    But the film
did not stop.
    The quality of
the film changed, became a little grainy, but the image was clear. It played on
the big screen above the beautiful couple, Luke and Fiona.
    The scene was
shot in the joint called the Velvet Swing.
    A woman walked
out of the dressing room, removed her robe and took her place in the swing. Her
luscious body was naked except for a little silver belt with tiny bells
attached. She began to swing, moving to the music, tossing her mane of blonde
hair, seemingly lost in a different place and time, accompanied by the sounds
of the little bells.
    The film
showed a man coming over to her section of the bar, smiling at her. He tossed
some bills at her and blew her a kiss. The man was Eddie Rivers.
    The woman was
Fiona Chambers.

TWENTY-SEVEN
    The
press can elevate people to sainthood one week and, with great relish, send
them to perdition the next. Good and evil have no distinction. The only
criterion for public attention is do people care? And care they did about the
unfolding saga of Fiona Chambers, the girl in the swing.
    No one had reported
seeing her after she fled the Grand Ballroom of the Plaza Hotel on the night of
the big gala. But it