Page 3 of Factory Controller

“No, we can’t,” I snap.

As I reclaim my suitcase, I make a mental note to report that the previous auditors didn’t bother to check the paperwork or the charity facilities on site.

If they were going to do that, there was no point of flying to Brazil. Sending the documents by email or even snail mail would have saved everyone time and money.

I pull my case up straight. “I am well aware of the arduous trip ahead of me and came fully prepared.” I attach my handbag to my case and add, “I’ll be wanting to interview your staff as well.”

A smirk flashes over Isabella’s pinched features. “Ms. Duncan, most of my staff only speak Portuguese and Spanish.”

“Me doy perfecta cuenta, muchas gracias. The Foundation sent me precisely because I happen to be fluent in both.” And because I’m the best at what I do too. But she doesn’t need to know that. Not yet.

The color drains from her face, but she puts up a good front and gestures for me to accompany her. “I have a car waiting. I thought I was going to drop you to your hotel tonight but, if we hurry, we could catch the next boat to Ipixuna. I suppose my team will have to eat the cost of your lodging here in the city.”

That draws out another heavy sigh.

I cut short her victim act. “If you remit your receipt folios to me, I’ll see that you’re compensated.”

Walking away from the carousel, I notice a beauty store from the corner of my eyes. This is where my emergency pack awaits if I ever need it.

Let’s hope I won’t.

We step out of the terminal into daylight.

The humidity is bad, worse than New Orleans in June, though not quite as bad as Bangkok.

The first thing I notice is the heavy police presence. While we wait for the taxi to pull around, a handful of uniformed men in body armor drag a man out of his car and roughly search him. No one on the streets seems to give it a second thought. They do notice it and give the scene a wide berth.

When our taxi pulls around, a wiry driver helps me put my luggage in the trunk. Isabella and I sit in the rear. She casts a furtive glance my way and sighs.

“I don’t understand why the Foundation has to perform another audit on my organization. We have been working together for years; they cannot possibly doubt now that we are a legitimate charity.”

“The Foundation has given you millions of dollars, Isabella. Yet, they say they have seen no tangible evidence that you’re improving the lives of the people you purport to help.”

Isabella draws a sharp breath. “You can’t be serious! We provide free daycare, free breakfast and lunch. We also offer an educational program that helps natives find work.”

I refrain from letting out a derisive snort. “Really? Their understanding is that, so far, your educational program consists of shipping people to Macapá to work—for no pay—as domestic servants with the vague promise of possible employment in the future.”

Isabella sputters, but I’m not done talking. “Not only that, but the Foundation has noticed there have been no changes in the infant mortality rate. Were the vaccines the organization paid for ever distributed? Too many diseases still run rampant.” I raise a hand to silence her since I’m still not finished. “But that’s not the worst, since now it seems children and young women are going missing at an alarming rate.”

Now that I let it all out, I’m not so sure I did the right thing. Maybe I should have held my suspicions hidden until I had a better grasp of things, but the idea that she’s pocketing money while selling out the kids she’s meant to help infuriates me.

“You don’t understand what we have to contend with,” Isabella says hotly. “Look around you, Ms. Duncan. You’re not in the United States anymore. These people are like animals, rutting around in the river mud, and many of them want to stay animals.”

“And yet, your generosity of spirit toward them is admirable,” I say with icy irony. “It’s possible you truly are doing the best you can, but perhaps someone in your organization got greedy. Or maybe the organization needs to restructure things. I can’t say until I’ve seen your books.”

Isabella falls silent.

The Factory has been pumping money into this area for years, but Isabella has either grossly mismanaged the funds or she’s dirty. It’s one or the other. Judging from her behavior, she’s plagued by guilt. Guilt about what is the million dollar question.

If it’s incompetence, she knows how bad her performance has been. If she’s dirty, she knows she’s going to get caught.

I need to watch her closely, because if that’s the case, she could try to run.

Even though I’m a bit wary, I want to think I shouldn’t fear for my life. Not because I think she’s harmless. Nope. I’m relatively safe, because trying to get rid of me by drastic means would be counterproductive.

She must have an idea how powerful the Factory is.

For sure, she’s smart enough to understand that if the agent they sent disappears, two more will appear to find out what happened to the first one.

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