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“How’s the leg?” he asked the slender man who appeared out of the shadows.
Alan Rice had apparently recovered from nearly being blown up, though even in the dark his skin seemed paler than normal and he was limping a bit. “Nothing a handful of Advil can’t fix.”
“How many do we have tonight?”
Rice opened his mini-laptop and the light from the screen burned like a small fire in the dark. “In this shipment, ninety-eight. Sixty percent from China, twenty percent from Malaysia, ten percent from Vietnam, four percent from South Korea, and the remainder a hodgepodge from Myanmar, Turkmenistan, Kazakhstan, and Singapore.”
“What are we currently getting per unit?”
Rice clicked some computer keys. “Twenty thousand U.S. dollars. It’s up five percent from last year, even though the economy tanking affected some of our downstream buyers. That’s an average. We get more for the Malaysians and Koreans and less for the Stans women.”
“International tastes?” said Waller as he walked around the hooded figures. He clicked his finger and a spotlight hit the small group. “Prejudice against the ladies of the former Soviet Union?” he said with disapproval.
“Well, the ones we’re getting from there are pretty scrawny,” noted Rice. “And you have the exotic factor still with the Far East Asians.”
“Actually I’ve always found Eastern European women the most beautiful in the world.”
Waller looked over where Pascal stood, hands clasped in front of him, not behind, so the gun pull from the holster would be faster if necessary. Seeing Pascal always gave him a measure of comfort, and not just because of the man’s protection skills.
Pascal was his son.
His bastard son conceived with a Greek woman Waller had met on holiday. Pascal of course did not know this. He had no emotional attachment to the younger man, nothing that approached love or devotion. Yet Waller had felt some obligation to the boy, particularly since he had done nothing to support the mother. She’d died in extreme poverty, leaving only her orphaned son behind. He had allowed this to happen for no other reason than he’d lost interest in the woman, who’d been lovely to look at but really was only a simple, uneducated peasant. He’d taken Pascal, at age ten, trained him up, and now the boy turned fierce warrior worked for him, protected him from all harm. Yes, Pascal had well earned his rank in Waller’s little army.
“Pascal,” he said. “What sort of women do you like? Eastern Europeans or the Asians?”
Pascal did not hesitate. “Greek women are the most sensual things God ever created. I would take Greek over anything else.”
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Waller smiled, lifted one of the hoods, and looked down at the revealed girl, whose facial features evidenced her Chinese origins. She was barely fourteen and blindfolded and shivering from equal parts cold and fright. Her mouth was taped over so her whimpers were muffled even though there was no one around to hear her scream who would care.
Waller did the calculation in his head. “So one million nine hundred and sixty thousand for the current shipment?”
“Correct. Minus expenses. The net is still north of one point six million. All in U.S. dollars, so far still the currency standard-bearer. Although I’ve been hedging our cash flow reserves in Chinese RMBs and Indian rupees just in case.”
Waller turned to look at him. “The margins have softened. Why?”
“Fuel costs on the ships primarily. They don’t travel on the QE II. We go on the cheap, transporting them in cargo containers, but it’s still expensive. And we have to use two boats for one shipment because of the logistics and to avoid detection. That alone doubles the fuel costs. We have to provide basics like food and water and bribing crewmen to let in oxygen on a regular basis. But it’s really the only way. Air transport is too problematic and they’ve yet to invent the car that can travel over the Pacific. But it’s still an enviable net profit.”
Waller nodded as he continued to circle the women. “How many shipments are we receiving?”
“Four a month, roughly the same number of units in each. We’ve discovered that figure fills the containers quite nicely, and we find we only lose two to three percent on the trip over due to starvation, dehydration, and sickness among other factors. That’s well below industry standard for human trafficking, which averages about a twelve percent loss factor.”
“Why did you select these six?”
Rice shrugged. “The best. In looks, in health. Your choice, of course. But we did a thorough prescreening.”
“I respect your efforts.”
Rice drew closer. “It beats dealing with maniacs in turbans.”
“You think so?” asked Waller in amusement. “I found it quite exhilarating. And it’s given me a new goal in life. To exterminate every last one of them.”
Rice spoke in a voice so low only Waller could hear him. “Do you think that’s wise, Evan? These people are truly insane. They’ll kill us, themselves, anybody.”
“But therein lies the challenge. I want Abdul-Majeed in particular. He was the frontman and he wasn’t there. That means he was the one who betrayed me. And his betrayal cost me two of my best men, may God watch over their souls.”
Since Dimitri and Tanner had killed at least six people that Rice had personally witnessed, he doubted God was doing anything with them.
