The Cold Room by Robert Knightly

celebrities, of opportunities.
    Bait and switch, a marketing strategy as old as marketing itself. Sister Kassia told me the girls might be working for any employer willing to hire illegals. They might be waiting on tables in Manhattan, or sewing garments in Elmhurst, or dusting furniture in Bayside.
    â€˜Church, apparently, is the one solace allowed them,’ she said. ‘Or, perhaps, the one solace they refuse to live without.’
    â€˜Either way, Sister, that provides you with a chance to reach them. Something I want you to do.’
    â€˜A chance I intend to take.’
    â€˜I don’t doubt that for a minute, but if you don’t mind my asking, what exactly are you hoping to accomplish?’
    We were standing at the window, looking out over the churchyard. The congregation was already inside Blessed Virgin, the mass about to start, but the girls and their escort had yet to appear.
    â€˜The first goal is to get them away from their keepers, to separate the slaves from the slave holders. And, yes, I’m willing to use the word slave. I use it because these kinds of debts are commonly bought and sold, because tomorrow morning they could wake up to find a new master in charge of their lives.’
    â€˜And the second goal?’
    â€˜The second is to put them in control, to settle them in a place where they’ll be safe, to find them jobs and to guide them through the bureaucratic maze.’
    I recalled my conversation with INS Agent Dominick Capra. I’d asked him why these women didn’t just run away and he’d explained that the loans had been co-signed by relatives back home. If the workers defaulted, the relatives would have to pay.
    â€˜What about the relatives?’ I asked. ‘The ones in the old country who co-signed for the debt.’
    But Sister Kassia had been all over this topic. Once the women were settled into real jobs that paid real wages, they would send money home to those relatives. The point wasn’t to avoid the debt. The point was to avoid involuntary servitude.
    The nun concluded with a direct appeal to my conscience. ‘These women were born with the same hopes and dreams as you and I,’ she declared, her tone firm and steady. ‘They have a right to their lives, a right we take for granted. Now you have it in your power to affect those lives directly. You’ve become responsible, whether you like it or not.’
    The women came first, five of them in their Sunday best, the oldest in her mid-twenties, the youngest in her late teens. They wore simple cotton dresses, knee-length and brightly colored, and flat-heeled shoes with tiny white socks that barely covered their ankles. Make-up was held to a minimum, a hint of blush in the cheeks, a pale gloss across the lips, a touch of color in the brows.
    Snap judgements, especially of strangers, are a hazard for cops. But as I searched their faces, I knew I wasn’t making any mistake about these women. There was nothing hard in their expressions, no element of cold calculation. They were not whores.
    Pleased with this conclusion, I focused on the man who walked behind the women, the shepherd tending his flock. I watched him turn onto the path leading up to the church, then pass within twenty feet of where I stood. He seemed as ordinary, at first glance, as the women who preceded him. His face was noticeably thin, his cheeks hollow, his mouth squeezed between a strong nose and a cleft chin. Though he appeared no older than thirty-five, the top of his head was bald except for a dark fuzz at the very front which might have been better shaved. As he passed me, I watched his eyes criss-cross the landscape in little jumps. They never stopped moving and only the fact that I was standing well away from the window prevented my being discovered.
    â€˜Tell me,’ I asked, ‘do you know their names?’
    â€˜One of the girls is named Katrina. The man is named Aslan.’
    â€˜Aslan? Is