Sang-mi might be having problems with her parents. She’s five months pregnant.”
“She must be barely showing; I sure didn’t notice.” The cab was entering the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. Garbagey air, smog everywhere.
“Me, neither. Anyway, Sang-mi’s pregnancy is the reason her family defected. If you’re a single Korean woman, you do not get pregnant and have a child.”
“They defected? From the North?”
“I thought I’d told you that. Her father was a member of the North Korean mission to the U.N., which means, basically, he was a spy. Then Sang-mi got pregnant by—get this—her white, Pagan boyfriend. There was no way her father’s career could have survived that. It might even have cost him his life.” He took an audible breath. “Please don’t mention any of this to your colleagues. Forensia says Sang-mi’s father has been getting debriefed by the CIA for three months.”
“This can’t have been easy on any of the family.”
“Yeah. About a week ago she moved in with Forensia.”
“Who’s getting all secretive on you now,” Jenna said.
Approaching Midtown. Still hot and sticky in the city, even though the ten-day countdown to the November fourth election had begun. Jenna found it strange to see leaves of all colors still clinging to the trees. Nature going visibly wacko.
“Can you make it up this weekend?” Dafoe asked.
“Can you see me smiling? I’d love to.”
“I made an appointment,” he added softly.
“For what?”
“To get tested.”
“We’re pulling up to the building. How about if I call you later tonight?”
“Not too late: I’m a farmer.”
“I’m on The Morning Show, remember? Late is seven o’clock.”
“I miss you,” he said.
Jenna was still smiling. She thanked the driver and hopped out, then unloaded her bag and headed into the building. As she dialed the network’s investigative reporter, her smile disappeared. And though sworn to silence, she planned on Googling Sang-mi’s father as soon as she could.
* * *
Rafan eyed the island from the barge’s pilothouse, which stood about fifteen feet above the wide, flat-bottomed vessel, giving him one of the higher perches enjoyed by anyone for a thousand square miles. He thought it proper, as the self-ordained Minister of Dirt, to oversee the arrival of the barge and front loader on the bedraggled island of Dhiggaru. According to a real minister—of the Environment—there was plenty of dirt on its northern end and few residents to object to its removal.
“Binoculars?” he asked the captain, a short man with a staved-in face. Rafan wanted to survey his new territory.
Wordlessly, the captain handed over a chipped, dented pair that looked like they’d survived hand-to-hand combat in the South Pacific during World War II. But they focused well enough to reveal two people, one in the robes of a religious leader, standing in the shade of the palm trees. They must have caught some glare from the field glasses because they looked up in alarm. That seemed odd—given the distance, Rafan could see nothing amiss, and hearing them wasn’t possible. Guilt? Over what, he wondered, then chuckled softly because it reminded him of the guilt he felt over the kiss that he’d shared with Senada yesterday.
They’d been talking about Basheera, about the way his quiet sister used to suddenly burst into loud laughter over some absurdity of modern Muslim life. Then Senada touched him, as she had so sweetly in the past. Her fingertips had drifted down his shirt so slowly, revealing her desire. He’d caught her hand and pulled her close, once more committing himself to a kiss and all that it might mean for a single man and a married, religious woman, whose fisherman husband often arrived home unannounced.
Rafan raised the binoculars for another lazy look at Dhiggaru and saw the man who was not in robes retreating into a palm grove that bordered the beach. And here I am, Rafan thought, coming to take their dirt, to present them with an order of confiscation.
Up till now, he hadn’t expected any serious resistance: They weren’t demanding that anyone leave Dhiggaru. But maybe that’s why those two were there, to watch for the barge. It was a small country, and word traveled fast. “Do not worry. They will not kidnap you and chop off your head,” the Minister of the Environment laughed.
For taking their dirt? Rafan wasn’t so sure, not after the bombing.
The captain nudged the barge’s broad bow against the shoreline, raising a creak of protest from the snub-nosed hull and a rattle from the chains securing the front loader to the centerline. Three laborers began to unshackle the heavy earthmover.