“That won’t help us. Is there contact info in the report?”
“There is.”
“You should interview Fahiz.”
“Who do you think you are dealing with?” She hears herself slip into her Chinese dialect—she sounds like her mother!—and resents Knox for triggering her anger.
She resents a great deal about John Knox—his singular focus, his single-mindedness. The arrogance. Theirs is an evolving relationship. She imagines this is what an older brother would feel like—a combination of love, hate, respect, embarrassment. Together, they wander a no-man’s-land booby-trapped with buried mines of sexual innuendo but lacking the chemistry to go along with it. He is at once fascinating and intriguing, boorish and disagreeable.
“If you go talking to . . . well . . . you know how I feel about it.”
He had objected vehemently to Dulwich’s plan for Grace to take the cover of a low-level EU bureaucrat arriving to replace the victim of the car bombing. Dulwich believed it not only gave her an excuse to follow in Pangarkar’s footsteps, but that it also might “attract the bee to the pollen.” Dulwich showed little concern over using her as bait—a gamble given her increased importance to Primer. For Dulwich, it’s all about efficiency—getting the most out of his assets to reach the endpoint the quickest. He would argue that that included suffering the least collateral damage. But the way he stages an operation often runs contrary to that objective.
“I don’t need hand-holding,” she claims.
“Just make sure to keep the ‘Find My iPhone’ feature turned on. I want you on a leash.”
She pulls the phone quickly from her ear not wanting him to hear her laugh. She knows he’d rather be shopping in Marrakesh than pursuing a bomber in Amsterdam, knows that for him this is about his brother—always will be. Senses there is residual guilt there, but has never heard Tommy’s full story. It bothers her that he has coaxed more out of her than she has from him.
“And you?”
“Don’t worry about me,” he says.
“Who said I was worried?”
Knox has never been in a newsroom before. His only impressions are from the movies—the noise, the confusion of dozens of reporters in small cubicles, phones ringing, pages running up and down aisles. About the only thing that matches with the image now in front of him is the glass wall at the end of the room beyond which are the offices of various editors, including the editor in chief. It’s quiet, subdued, many of the cubicles empty. It has to do with the world economy, the state of the newspaper business. If once this newsroom thrived, it does no longer.
“Emily Prager?”
The woman who looks up at him is tired and needs to wash her hair. A package of nicotine gum rests by her keyboard, along with a blue spongy ball and a black hair tie.
He introduces himself as John Steele, the freelance photographer who called looking for Sonia Pangarkar. The receptionist told him where to find her. “You said you might be able to help me find her.”
“I did not expect a visit.”
“I can be impulsive.”
“I told you: she’s not coming into work right now. She’s taken a leave. I’m sorry.”
“A leave, or on holiday?”
“She and Mark had a falling out. Our city editor.”
“Over?”
“Not for me to say.” Her eyes tell him she’s uncomfortable speaking to him here. “You’ll need to take that up with her.”
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“Please.”
She lowers her voice as her eyes appraise him. “Sonia is sometimes a little too independent—a little too creative for Mark.”
“The sweatshop article. The girl. That’s exactly why I’m here.”
“She was assigned a piece on medical care. It’s not exactly what she filed.”
“But a strong piece just the same.”
“But Mark . . . he writes the paychecks. He knows what he wants. He and Sonia . . . believe me, they have both benefited from the other, but it is push and pull with them. Right now, Mark is pushing. So is Sonia. So, her leave of absence.”
“The car bombing didn’t carry her byline.” Knox had a crash course in journalism over the phone with a friend at the Detroit Free Press. He hopes to hell he has his lexicon straight. He feels he’s inching closer to something, doesn’t want to give himself away.
“No.”
“And that upset her.”
Emily Prager’s consternation gives way. “There’s a Starbucks on the corner. Ten minutes.”
After twelve minutes he’s beginning to worry, but she arrives soon thereafter, a sweater around her shoulders. She orders a coffee and waits for it, and joins him at a small table. The place is jumping. The streets are busy.
“Look,” she says, “it’s not like I have a lot to say to you.”
“Yet here we are.”
“I Googled your work. It’s good. You’re good.”
Dulwich and the Hong Kong office have made John Steele credible. “Her phone number?”
She appraises him. “I don’t think so.”
“You could text her for me. Let her know I’d like to meet with her.”
“I could, but I won’t. Sonia doesn’t need a photographer, she needs time away. This story got to her. It happens.”
“Good photographs carry a story,” he says. “From the moment I read her piece . . .” He shakes his head. “You could just let her know I’m available.”
“I can’t get involved.” Again, she studies his face. This time her expression softens. “There is a café on the corner of Paleisstraat and Nieuwezijds Voorburgwal. Southwest corner, close by to the tram stop. I forget the name of it. We have met there several times. Couches. Lamps. More like a home than these Starbucks,” she says. “She favors it.”
“I’ll give you my number.” He pulls out a business card for John Steele, circles the mobile number in pen, and passes her the card. He compliments himself for having the cards made. Best thirty euros he’s spent.
“I won’t,” she says.
“You might.”
“It’s personal for her. For Sonia. There was a niece, I believe it was. It’s a mistake to allow that into your stories. Mark knows that. Sonia should. But that’s the thing about the personal—it creeps in, and you don’t see it for what it is.”
Knox thinks about Tommy, and his heart is heavy. “A niece.”
“In India. Similar circumstances.”
Knox senses her reluctance. Isn’t going to push. Similar circumstances. The words swim around.
He says, “She’s going to freelance the story.”
“It happens.”
“And the paper?”
“Mark won’t like it. He’ll throw a fit. But in the end, Sonia will win. Sonia always wins. She’s very, very good. A reporter like her comes around only a few times a generation. The language skills. The people skills. Aggressive to the point of dangerous. To herself. To others. She is pretty enough for television, but has not given into it fully yet. She dabbles, for her own amusement. She is still a writer first.” She drinks the coffee, her eyes searching him over the rim expectantly.
She looks like she’s beginning to enjoy this.
“It’s a compelling story,” he says. “Child labor. Poor working conditions. Impoverished neighborhoods. Unwanted immigrants. Why would an editor turn away from that?”
“The neighborhoods are not impoverished, Mr. Steele. Amsterdam is a city of immigrants—but only for the past three centuries. Do your research! Mark got a story he didn’t ask for. It’s as simple as that. He’s a control freak. If he assigns the story, it has value. If it’s brought to him in a meeting and discussed, it has value. If it shows up in his in-box unassigned . . .”