Guardian of Lies: A Paul Madriani Novel

by Steve Martini

  “We’re gonna have to go,” I tell her.

  “But where is my father?” she says.

  “He could be on the other side of the ship, behind the superstructure, or in one of the cabins. Or possibly he’s already down on the dock.”

  She looks at me with a certain anxiety in her eyes. Or he could be dead, she must be thinking. But she doesn’t say it.

  “We can’t wait any longer,” I tell her. “We need to get to the taxi, grab our stuff at the room, and get out there.” I point to the end of the road that runs along the top of the breakwater where it merges with the coast highway heading north. “If we lose them now, we’ll never find them again.”

  We head off running as fast as we can along the path toward the canal.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Listen, thank him for us. How many units are they sending?” Thorpe listened as he penciled notes on a pad on the table.

  Rhytag looked on. They were closeted in the operations center in the bowels of the FBI building with communications at their fingertips and a small army of agents and technicians working computers and handling phones.

  “Any idea how long it’ll be before they get there?” Thorpe flashed all five fingers of one hand at Rhytag twice in quick succession. Ten minutes.

  “Did you offer them the NEST team?”

  NEST was the Nuclear Emergency Support Team, a group of scientists, technicians, and engineers operating under the U.S. Department of Energy. The teams were trained and prepared to respond to nuclear accidents or incidents anywhere in the world.

  Thorpe shook his head slowly and made a face. It was apparent that the Mexican government, at least for the moment, had declined the assistance of the specialists. “So they understand they may be getting in over their heads?”

  “Okay, keep me posted.” He hung up the phone.

  “They’ve got thirty police units going in. The Mexican government is also bringing in some military forces to cordon off the area around the port. The problem is, the container may have already left the facility. They won’t know for at least fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. Until then there’s nothing we can do but wait.”

  “No. You’re wrong,” said Rhytag. “Contact the director at Homeland Security. Tell him what we’ve got and that our recommendation is that they close the border immediately. Every crossing from San Ysidro east to the Arizona border. Tell them to shut ’em down now. Nothing gets through. No cars, no trucks until we can figure out where this thing is and how to stop it. And tell them to be sure and warn our people at the border as to what they’re dealing with.”

  “The second we shut the border the media’s gonna know. It’ll be all over the news. If the device is still at the port and the Mexicans stop it, the White House will hand you your head when the public finds out how close they came to another nine-eleven or worse,” said Thorpe.

  He was right. Too many law enforcement officials would have to be told what they were looking for to keep it under wraps.

  “Then the White House spinmeisters can make up a story to feed the media. We can’t stick our head in the sand any longer. I’ll take full responsibility. Besides, what if the Mexicans don’t stop it?”

  Thorpe didn’t have an answer.

  By the time we get to the canal, Herman has a taxi waiting. Maricela and I bundle into the backseat as Herman gives directions to the driver in Spanish.

  From the backseat of the taxi I am straining my eyes through the binoculars to see if I can pick up any sight of the container. From here it is a long distance across the water, and the Amora is in the way. But I can see part of the road leading out of the port, and there is a train of trucks on it, heading for the highway.

  “It was a strange shade of green,” says Maricela. She is talking about the container. “It had some lettering sprayed on one side.”

  She is right. I see the container on the back of a truck just as the taxi passes a building on the left that cuts off my view.

  “You wanna stop and pick up the bags at the hotel?” says Herman.

  “Leave them. We can’t take the time.” I can once again see the truck with the container, across the harbor. It is only a few hundred feet from the exit gate at the port where a uniformed guard is checking vehicles and paperwork. If we could only get there, we could stop it.

  “Herman, tell him to pick it up, otherwise we’re gonna lose him going through town. If he gets out on that highway and takes a turnoff, we’ll never see him again.”

  Herman says something to the driver, and the man says something back.

  “He says his foot’s on the floor,” says Herman.

  “Great! Let’s hope there are a lot of hills between here and wherever that truck’s going, because we’re never going to catch him at the gate.”

  We make the wide swing to the left around the port, headed for where the port facility joins the highway.

  When I look once more with the field glasses, the truck with the container is gone. It’s already cleared the gate. As the road curves to the right and heads up the hill, I see it chugging up the grade about a quarter of a mile ahead of us. It’s just ahead of a U-Haul truck struggling up the hill, unable to pass it.

  Herman points with his finger and says something to the taxi driver who slides into the right lane and slows down. The highway is first world, two lanes in each direction with a center divider and cross traffic only where the divider is broken.

  There are several vehicles between us and the cargo carrier. The driver wants to know if he should pass them. Herman tells him no, to keep a few of the vehicles between us, but not to lose the container truck.

  As we continue to climb the hill, the few cars ahead of us begin to pull out. Within ten minutes we find ourselves directly behind the U-Haul, trying to stay shielded behind the big box truck and not appear too obvious.

  Herman tells the driver to back off a little and the guy says something back to him. “He wants to know how far we’re going,” says Herman.

  “Tell him we’ll know when we get there.”

  This doesn’t seem to satisfy him. He has a longer conversation with Herman.

  “He says he stops at Rosarita,” says Herman. “He won’t go any farther north than that. He says the traffic up around Tijuana coming back this way in the afternoon is too much. He’ll lose too many fares.”

  “Tell him we’ll pay him for his time.”

  “You’re getting pretty extravagant,” says Herman. “Maybe we should count up our cash again, see what we’ve got left.”

  “We’ve got close to six hundred,” I tell him. “For that he ought to take us to San Francisco.”

  “I can tell you one thing, if they cross the border he won’t go beyond there. He can’t unless he’s got a visa and insurance. Maricela’s gonna have the same problem, and if you try and cross you’ll get your ass arrested.” The minute he says it Herman looks at me and bites his lip.

  We both glance at Maricela. She is looking so intently out the side window, her face pressed up close to the glass, that she didn’t even hear him.

  “If they try to cross the border, at least one of us has to make it to the kiosk to get the border patrol to stop them,” I tell him.

  “That means me, since you can’t run for squat,” he says.

  A half hour past the turnoff to El Descanso the road becomes a freeway and the driver tells us we’re approaching Rosarita. Just as he says it the U-Haul hits its turn signal to make a right on the next off-ramp.

  Herman tells the taxi driver to slow down, and as we fall back I nearly panic when I realize the container truck is no longer out in front on the highway. Then I see it on the off-ramp in front of the U-Haul.

  “Derecho. Derecho,” says Herman.

  The taxi driver swings to the right and falls in line behind the U-Haul, nearly plowing into the back of the truck. The driver is angry, saying something in Spanish to Herman, both of his hands off the wheel for a moment as we lumber into the outskirts of Rosarita. We drive off of pavement and onto dirt streets.

  I can’t tell what the driver is saying, only that he is
getting short with Herman.

  “You know, I’m getting the sense those two are together.” Herman is ignoring the driver, talking about the cargo carrier and the U-Haul.

  I’m hoping that we’re coming to the end of the trip. Maybe they’ll stop for the night. “Herman, you got the cell phone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Check it and see if we have a signal.”

  He pulls it out, powers it up and waits, then shakes his head. “Nothing.”

  We’re hanging back, rolling slowly along the dusty, unpaved street when half a block up the two trucks pull into a Pemex station. The driver of the U-Haul climbs down out of the truck and starts to gas up. The container truck pulls on through and stops in a wide area next to the little mini-mart in the gas station. It looks like a bladder break, all of them suddenly jumping out of the trucks.

  “My father!” says Maricela. “That’s him!” Her face lights up as she points.

  “Where?”

  “There’s my father.” Maricela reaches for the door, and before I can stop her she’s out, running along the edge of the road.

  Herman is out before I can move.

  I try to go and the driver grabs my arm. “Seńor! ĄMi tarifa, por favor!”

  He wants his money.

  By the time I look up, Herman has caught up to Maricela and pulled her into some bushes off the road.

  I pay the driver and tell him in my best pidgin Spanish and sign language to wait. A few seconds later I join Herman and Maricela in the bushes.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Herman is giving her a piece of his mind. “You want to get us all killed? To say nothing of a few thousand bystanders. Think, woman!”

  Maricela looks as if she’s about to cry.

  “She’ll be all right. Calm down. She got excited, that’s all. She didn’t know if he was alive or dead. When she saw him,” I shrug a shoulder, “she snapped. Cut her some slack,” I tell him.

  Herman shakes his head slowly and takes a deep breath. He apologizes and removes his huge hands from her shoulders.

  As we’re talking I hear the engine start behind us. Before I can even turn to look, the taxi driver pulls a U-turn from his parking position and heads the other way down the dusty street.

  “Great!” says Herman. “That cuts it. What do we do now?”

  There is no time to think or talk. “Stay here and keep an eye on her.” I step out of the bushes and walk as fast as I can along the side of the road toward the gas station at the end of the block. If we lose the truck now, we’ll never find it again. We could get ourselves killed, but what choice do we have? I’ve never done anything like this before, but then I’ve never been in a situation like this. Sometimes we surprise ourselves—what adrenaline can do.

  When I reach the corner, only one of the men is outside, keeping an eye on the trucks as the pump continues to fill the empty tank on the U-Haul. The guy is moving around over by the container. He is checking it out, making sure it’s fastened down tight on the rails that form the bed on the back of the cargo carrier.

  The others are still inside the mini-mart. When I look back, the guy at the container truck has moved to the other side.

  I notice that the back of the U-Haul is not locked. I swing the handle on the catch out of the way and gently lift the roll-up gate just enough to crawl inside. Once in, I lift the gate a little farther so Herman, down the street, can see me. Holding the gate in one hand, I’m motioning with the other for them to join me, and to make it fast.

  Before they can move very far, I hear voices coming out of the mini-mart. A foreign tongue that isn’t Spanish. I put my hand out and Herman steps off the road and into the bushes with Maricela once more.

  As I quietly lower the gate, I see a small piece of wood on the bed of the truck, just inside the door. I slip it under the edge at the bottom of the door just enough to keep the outside hand lever from sliding into the lock and sealing me in.

  A few seconds later the voices get louder as they approach. I hear someone pull the fuel nozzle from the tank and hook it back to the pump, and a few seconds later the doors as they open and slam closed. Off in the distance I hear the diesel engine on the container truck as it turns over and starts, and a second later the U-Haul ignition as it kicks in, then the deep rumble of the engine.

  I stand and lift the gate high over my head and look for Herman. He sees me from the bushes. I point with my thumb, like a hitchhiker, to the other side of the street.

  Quickly Herman grabs Maricela by the hand and the two of them scoot across the street and end up behind an old pickup truck off its wheels on blocks at the side of the road.

  It’s a gamble, but I’m assuming these guys have pulled off the highway for gas, which means they may be heading back to the highway. I hear the container truck as it swings in front of the U-Haul to make the turn back down the dusty street to the freeway. The U-Haul starts to make the turn to fall in behind it. I am holding on to the gate to steady myself, hanging on to it over my head as the truck rocks back and forth leaving the pavement and going onto the dirt.

  The driver misses a shift and grinds the gears just as Herman steps out from behind the parked pickup. He is carrying Maricela on his shoulders and before the truck can get up to ten miles an hour he tosses her up to me. All I can do is break her fall with one hand and part of my body as I hold the gate for Herman. A second later he is on board.

  I look down at Maricela. She’s smiling back at me. She’s fine. Herman and I carefully lower the gate and I stick the piece of wood underneath it again.

  We can barely see each other in the dark, but there is no chance they’re going to hear us up front, not with the rumble of the engine and the road noise.

  “May as well make ourselves comfortable,” says Herman. He grabs a heavy packing blanket off the top of a wooden crate up front, brings it back, and spreads it in a double thickness on the floor, for us to sit on.

  I catch my breath, but still can’t believe we’ve just done this. That we are so close to risking it all.

  FIFTY-NINE

  So they have no idea where the truck is headed?” said Rhytag.

  Thorpe shook his head. “According to our agents the Mexican police are pushing them pretty hard. They got the captain and two of the others down belowdecks right now teaching them about the inquisition.” Thorpe was talking about the ship’s crew, the captain and the others brought on board the Amora to replace the original crew members, who have all disappeared except for two who signed on in Colombia.

  “All we know right now is that the current crew members appear to be connected to the Tijuana cartel. Most of them are seamen or have some sea experience. They were contacted by people they knew in the cartel to bring in the ship. They’re telling the Mexican authorities that’s all they know. When they were shown the photos taken by Nitikin’s daughter, they IDed Nitikin as being on board as well as at least three and possibly four other individuals in the photographs. According to the cartel crew members, they have no idea what Nitikin was doing or what was in the container. We did get a good description of the container, color and size. It’s a twenty-footer, lime green, and one of the crew members gave us a partial plate number off the truck. It was a Mexican commercial plate. Mexican government is checking it now as to the owner and possible destination. Also, there was another vehicle, a box truck. One of the crew members said he thought it was a rental truck of some kind but he couldn’t remember the name of the company or the license number. There was one thing that was curious though.”

  “What’s that?” said Rhytag.

  “Some of the crew members said it looked as if the Russian was being held captive. According to them he was being guarded pretty heavily and was locked in a cabin on the ship most of the time.”

  “You think he’s acting under duress?” said Rhytag.

  “Who knows?”

  “What about the others, the people with him?”

  “All foreigners. One of them spoke Spanish and some other language. He seemed to be doing all the interpreting. The crew members said th
ey didn’t know what the other language was, and they claim they didn’t overhear any of the translated conversations. The Mexican authorities don’t believe them. According to them somebody had to overhear something. It’s why they’ve got the captain and the others belowdecks having discussions.”

  Rhytag took a deep breath and thought for a moment. When he spoke again his voice was a near whisper so that none of the others in the room working the computers or the telephones could hear. “For the record, I didn’t ask this question,” he said, “but have the Mexicans taken them surfing?”

  “Surfing” was a euphemism for waterboarding. ACLU types condemned it as torture, but experience had proved that when time was of the essence, it was the one sure way to extract information and to do it quickly. Oftentimes less than two minutes.

  “That may be a touch too subtle for the Mexicans,” said Thorpe. “According to our agent on the scene, they got the captain hooked up to a car battery with a coil and alligator clips, charging up his nipples and various other body parts every minute or so. They let him rest just long enough to stop glowing. If he knows anything, he’s not talking. Seems the Mexicans are willing to keep at it all night. If they have to, they’ll bring the crew down in shifts and get some more batteries.”

  “The problem is that if the crew doesn’t know where the truck is headed, all that pain is likely to extract is false information. Which means we could find ourselves sent on some wild-goose chase,” said Rhytag. “What do we have by way of assets up along the border?”

  “You mean besides the world’s biggest traffic jam?” said Thorpe. “At last count we had two hundred highway patrol men, another hundred on the way. The NEST team is already deployed to San Ysidro. We’re assuming that’s the nearest border crossing, so that’s likely to be where they try to come in. We’ve pulled in border patrol from as far east as Yuma. We have two FBI SWAT teams, and Delta Force is sending us two of their crackerjack sniper teams, but we’re told that’s not for public consumption. We’re also bringing in one of our own hostage-rescue teams.”

  “Why hostage rescue?” said Rhytag.