Shift: A Novel

Washington, DC

November 10, 1963

A knock sounded at the door.

“Come in.”

Chul-moo opened the door quietly, almost apologetically.

“The senator is leaving,” he said in Korean.

Song didn’t look up from her desk. “He had a good time?”

“Laurel says he gave her a gown from a French designer. Yves Saint Laurent. Garrison says she practically had him posing for the cameras. Also, the background check on Paul Ingram came up clean.”

“If Paul Ingram is a Swedish businessman, I’m a Dallas housewife. Well, at least he’s taken the time to build a good cover. Book him for Friday. Set him up with Njeri. If he’s got any secrets, she’ll beat them out of him. Is that all?”

“There was a call from San Francisco.”

Song looked up. “Melchior’s Nazi? What did he want?”

“He said that Melchior wants us to move the new girl.”

“Move her where? The Mayflower? The Willard? Did he say why Melchior wanted her moved?” When Chul-moo shook his head, Song said, “If Melchior wants to foot the bill for different accommodations, he can call and tell me himself. Till then, she’s staying here. Please make sure Laurel gets back to the residence. I’ll see myself home.”

“Of course.” The tiniest of pauses. “Shall I check on her?”

“On?”

“The new girl?”

Chul-moo’s expression hadn’t changed, but the faintest note—of longing, pleading almost, had entered his voice. It was hard to imagine this knife of a boy asking for anything, let alone permission to visit a girl. Song had selected Chul-moo as her majordomo because his sexual taste ran to middle-aged white men, on whom he took great pleasure in exacting revenge for the destruction of his country (when Song got a client who particularly enjoyed being humiliated, she would send Chulmoo in instead of one of the girls; despite his youth, he was surprisingly learned in the ways of inflicting pain, whether lethal or remediable). Yet she could have sworn there was a note of genuine desire in Chul-moo’s voice.

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be looking in on her myself.”

“Of course.” Chul-moo wasn’t quite able to hide his disappointment. With a slight bow, he backed from the room.

Song remained in her office for another hour, reviewing the day’s takings, monetary and photographic, and checking tomorrow’s appointments, including an Iraqi Baathist who controlled nearly a third of that country’s oil, and had helped to oust General Qasim in February after the latter established ties with the Soviet Union (Qasim himself had been a client here five years ago, just before he seized power). She’d contacted CIA to see if they were interested in incriminating photographs—the man’s name was Saddam Hussein, and there was something about the set of his mouth that suggested he would get up to some very naughty things in bed—or if they wanted one of her more experienced girls to pump him for information, but the Company had turned her down, which suggested they were already working with him. That information was also valuable, although much trickier to sell, and she should have put out feelers to KGB to see if they were interested, but she was distracted tonight. For one thing, there was this Ingram fellow, whom she was pretty sure was KGB. For another, there was “the new girl,” as Chul-moo called her. Song wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to take custody of Nancy for Melchior, especially after she’d ferried Orpheus to San Francisco free of charge. It was a scenario with many possible drawbacks, including running afoul of CIA. Song was certainly not averse to risk-taking—you didn’t build the kind of business she’d created without taking a few gambles. But it was hard to see the payoff in this deal with Melchior. Unless, of course, it was Melchior himself.

Meanwhile, there was the girl. Nancy. Song had never met someone quite like her. Someone so seemingly helpless, yet who incurred the aid of powerful forces wherever she went. One look at her and you wanted to protect her. No, that wasn’t quite it. One look from her and you wanted to protect her. Take Chul-moo. He guarded her more fiercely than any of the other girls, and she didn’t even work here. Well, not yet anyway.

Melchior’d told her that Nancy had worked as a hooker in Boston, but, unlike the girls Song hired, she didn’t seem to have entered into her profession happily. She drank too much (although she hadn’t touched a drop since coming to Song’s), and practically radiated miserableness. But that morning, before Song left the residence, she’d stopped in Nancy’s room, and Nancy had asked to work for her. Taken aback, Song had said she would think about it and get back to her at the end of the day.

She wondered about the call from Keller, though. If she had to guess, she’d say say that “Orpheus” had gotten away from the doctor and was on his way here. Well, let him come. From what she’d seen of him on the plane, he didn’t look like much of a threat, and it was going to take more than one spurned lover to break into her house.

She closed her ledger now, stored it in the safe with the day’s cash, headed for the residence. The Newport Place property was solely for business. She and the girls lived in a town house on N, directly behind the bordello and connected to it by a tunnel built with taxpayer dollars (although even the Company, who funneled her the money, didn’t know of its existence). No doubt it was an extravagance, but it was a mark of Song’s power, and she never failed to feel as though she were a queen striding the length of a great hall as she traversed the narrow cement chute. She had the palace, the imperial guard, a dozen ladies in waiting. All she lacked was a consort. If only he hadn’t been wearing that shabby suit. And those sandals. Her lip curled in disgust at the very thought.

In the residence, she took the elevator to the fourth floor and knocked on her guest’s door.

“Come in,” a soft voice called.

This time it was Song who opened the door quietly, obsequiously even, as if she were the servant, the room’s occupant the mistress. Nancy sat at her dressing table, her hair and makeup perfect, as if she’d been expecting the call.

“I just wanted to check in on you.”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Nancy pointed to a plate of ginger cookies. “Chul-moo came by earlier.”

Song stared at the girl. What was it about her? She was lovely, no doubt about that. But Song trafficked in some of the most beautiful girls in the world and was unfazed by looks. No, there was something special about this girl. Something that made you want to soothe her. Protect her. Give her whatever she wanted. She was bewitching.

“I wanted to know if you’d thought further about your offer this morning.”

“What is there to think about?”

“You’re here as my guest. You don’t have to work for your keep.”

“I’m here as your prisoner,” Nancy said, and even though there wasn’t any acrimony in her voice, it still stabbed Song like a spear of ice in the guts. “But that’s neither here nor there. Seducing people is simply what I do.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” Nancy said, and there was that curious helplessness again. Song wanted to wrap her arms around the girl—and the last person she’d hugged had been her brother’s murdered body. She knew she should refuse Nancy’s request. But she also wanted to know what would happen if she said yes.

“You’re Persian, no?”

Nancy nodded.

“Do you happen to speak Arabic by any chance?”

“Some. It’s rusty, though.”

“I have an Iraqi gentleman coming in tomorrow. I’m sure he’d appreciate not having to bring a translator into the room.”

Naz looked at herself in the mirror. She brought the brush to her hair, then put it down again—a tacit acknowledgment that the face that looked back at her was already perfect.

“He won’t be disappointed,” she said quietly.

“No,” Song mused. “For some reason, I don’t think he will be.”