As I walked out of the downstairs lobby area I heard raised voices coming from the reception area. One belonged to the security guard. If he was savvy enough to recognize these men for what they were, he’d back off without resistance and let them do what they had to. He wasn’t being paid enough to stand up against the cartel.
I slipped out into the side street and walked away from the hotel, a low sun at my back, clutching the directory under my arm. I was running a mental map and working out where I had to go to cover as much ground as I could. My problem was, Parillas knew where I would go and might have already told his new associates to despatch men to the border to intercept me. That was a chance I had to take.
I was at the end of the street and about to turn the corner when a beefy guy in a flashy shirt stepped out of a doorway and stood in front of me, squinting into the sun. He had smooth facial skin stretched over high cheekbones, and black, lank hair. He also had one hand under his shirt and was holding a cell phone in his other hand.
It was one of the spotters I’d seen earlier.
Out in the open was no place for a fight; his colleagues were all over the area and would come running the moment they heard anything. So I held up my hands and walked straight into the open doorway he’d just left, which was little more than a small tiled lobby.
The move threw him. He hadn’t expected compliance, so he hesitated in bringing up the cell phone and stepped in after me.
It was a bad move. From staring into the sun, he was now in shadow and struggling to adjust his eyesight.
I dropped the phone directory. It landed on the tiled floor with a loud slap. He was startled by the sound, eyes dropping to locate the source. I used a snap kick to his belly and followed it up with an elbow strike to the side of his head. But he was tougher than he looked. He shook it off and tried to shout, and his other hand appeared, bringing up a gun from under his shirt.
I grabbed his face and drove him back against the wall as hard as I could, slamming his head into the plaster. He looked surprised and I felt a spray of saliva against the palm of my hand. He was stunned but he wasn’t finished yet and fought against me. I dropped my hand and cupped it under his chin, this time snapping his head backwards as hard as I could. There was a crack and he went limp, and slid down the wall.
I moved back and waited for sounds of alarm within the building. But there was nothing. The dead man had dropped his gun and cell phone. I scooped them up, kicked the gun behind his body and slipped the phone in my pocket.
It was time to go, before his colleagues began to wonder where he was.
I picked up the directory, walked outside and stopped.
Two men in police uniforms were waiting, guns pointing right at me.
Time seemed to slow right down.
They must have seen the dead guy bring me in here and decided to investigate.
‘Hey – you’re just in time,’ I said, making like the angry tourist. ‘This bastard tried to rob me!’
One of the cops, skinny and with eyes as dead as a fish, looked past me, squinting into the lobby. I heard the word muerte – dead – and his colleague shrugged a pair of fat shoulders like he could care less.
At which point things went from bad to worse.
Fish-eye flicked his gun for me to turn round, then searched me and took my gun, my cell phone and my wallet. He looked at the directory with a frown, then walked over to a battered sedan at the kerb and tossed it through the rear window. He motioned for me to get in the back.
The car was a piece of junk. I’d seen plenty of undercover cops driving worse, but these two weren’t undercover; they both wore creased uniforms and the car was a genuine clunker, with bald tyres and a broken tail light.
I climbed in and the two cops slid into the front, watching me carefully. Fish-eye dropped into the passenger seat and turned to face me, his gun held down between the seats where I couldn’t get at it without getting shot. His fat pal signalled for me to place my hands out front and had me cuffed in a second. Then he muttered to his colleague and leaned forward to punch out a number on a cell phone in a holder on the dashboard.
The two-way conversation that followed was loud and excited and in words too fast for me to follow. Then he cut the call and took us away from the kerb and along the street.
It didn’t matter what they’d said because I knew I was in a jam. First, I figured these two were multi-tasking for the cartel, and had no intention of taking me in to police headquarters. If they had, we’d still be at the lobby, waiting for the usual song-and-dance array of backup vehicles and detectives.
Second, I’d heard a familiar voice in the background during the phone conversation, and I knew I wasn’t going anywhere nice.
Parillas. And he hadn’t enquired after my health.
I sat back and waited. Fish-eye, the one with the gun, was too watchful for me to try anything, so I pretended to be despondent and frightened, as he would expect. While I was doing that, I inspected the back of the car. It smelled of greasy food, of dog, of stale cigarette, oil and other stuff I didn’t want to think about. A bunch of squashed coke cans, tissue and old newspapers littered the floor, and the worn-through remnants of carpet were sticky underfoot.
I shifted the cans about while pretending to get comfortable and tried to figure a way out. Fish-eye grinned at me and muttered something to his pal. They both laughed and I figured they were already planning how to spend the money they’d be paid for bringing me in.
We were soon out of the main streets and into an area near a rail yard, bumping along a squalid backstreet bordered by small workshops and warehouses, most of them empty and fenced off, with just a few old people and kids stopping to watch us roll by. The car seemed to bottom out all the way, the springs beyond salvation, and I felt my spine beginning to bruise as it came into contact with the floor, by-passing what should have been cushions.
I was formulating a plan, which wasn’t going too well, when I realized that one of the coke cans wasn’t squashed. I rolled it with my foot. It was full.
The car began slowing and the driver seemed to be considering which empty factory lot to turn into. They argued over it for a while, like it mattered.
I felt my gut go cold. They’d had their orders and taking me in wasn’t one of them.
They were looking for a place to dump me.
Twelve
We bumped across a stretch of broken sidewalk and through an open chain-link gate into a large concrete yard covered in trash. The building in front of us looked like an old tyre wholesaler, with Goodyear and Dunlop nameplates rusting off the weathered fascia. Stacks of ancient, rotting pallets were piled haphazardly around the yard.
The driver steered down the side of the building towards more pallets, an ancient Portakabin with a busted-in door, and some old dumpsters piled with metal and rubber trash.
‘You mind if I have one of these?’ I asked, and showed Fish-eye a flattened coke can I’d picked up in my right hand.
He sniggered, showing me bad teeth, and conveyed my request to his fat friend, no doubt laughing about the crazy Americano wanting a last suck of an empty can.
What he didn’t see was that with my left hand I’d picked up the full one. It was warm and sticky and covered in hairs, and had probably been rolling around in here for days. I gave it a quick shake, then held it out in front of me so he could open it.
Surprised laughter this time, but he dropped the gun in his lap, took the can off me and ripped open the tab, the way you do.
The can exploded in his face, showering both men in warm, sticky foam and coating the roof and windows. It was enough. Bending the flattened can into a blade, I drove the sharp edge into Fish-eye’s face, ripping through his cheek and nose. He doubled over, screaming like a girl, his blood splashing across the car. The driver swore and stamped on the brakes, reaching for his holstered weapon.
Too late.
I snatched up Fish-eye’s gun and slammed it into the side of his head, then
did the same to the driver. Twice. It was a heavy weapon and knocked both men out for the count.
Ten seconds later I was out of the car and dragging both cops into the Portakabin, where I handcuffed them together in a position only their wives would have recognized. Then I retrieved my phone and wallet.
I took a few moments debating what to do. I couldn’t be too far from the border, but getting a cab here would be next to impossible – even if I had a number to call. And right now I had to get out of Tijuana and back to the north as fast as I could.
I got in the car and started it up, trying to ignore every surface now covered in sticky coke. The engine sounded like shit and coughed smoke out the back, but if I could ignore the discomfort and the smell, it would do. I took the same way back out of there that we’d come, until I got back on to a main street and saw a sign for San Diego and a schematic of a border control booth.
One thing I hadn’t counted on was the volume of cars heading north. We stopped short by a good few hundred metres, at the back end of several lines going nowhere fast, some vehicles overheating. I guess if Parillas had been driving us back into the US, he’d have made a quick call and we’d have by-passed the lines. But I couldn’t do that without starting a riot.
Several drivers were out of their cars, lighting up smokes and taking a drink, chatting with their neighbours or making phone calls. Others had their hoods raised, trying to cool the radiators. If you could ignore the undercurrent of frustration and impatience, it was a regular party atmosphere.
I stuffed the cop’s gun under the seat, then got out of the car with the directory under my jacket and a coke can in my hand, and sauntered over to join a group of sleepy-eyed North American college kids. They looked as if they’d had a wild time last night and were regretting it. We exchanged nods and I continued on by, and walked right down the line until I saw a pedestrians-only sign.
Ten minutes later, I was in front of a border control agent and showing her my passport. She took one look at me, saw the coke stains on my clothes and my rumpled appearance, and came to the only possible conclusion.
‘Have fun in Mexico?’ she queried. Her hard face told me the question was rhetorical.
‘I got ripped off by a cab driver,’ I said, and threw her a sheepish grin.
She didn’t buy it, but gave me back my passport and nodded me through. She had seen plenty of men like me before, so another one heading back north with a sad tale to tell was nothing new.
I walked out the other side and instantly spotted Beckwith. He was standing alongside a black SUV with tinted windows, parked in an official bay. Another guy stood alongside him, scratching at one leg. He was a buttoned-up individual in a tan suit and woolly grey socks, and a recent case of sunburn.
I walked over to join them. Beckwith looked surprised and threw a glance behind me as if expecting somebody else.
‘What happened? We heard you got separated.’
Parillas, it turned out, was on his way, happily returning to the north by car. He had reported in and told them I was making my own way back as we’d agreed.
I handed Beckwith the phone directory from the hotel. He flicked through a couple of pages, and when he saw some pen marks against names and phone numbers, he knew instantly what it was.
The other man said nothing, but watched carefully.
‘His name’s Mr Black,’ said Beckwith casually, and walked me away a few paces. ‘He’s along as an observer.’
‘Mr Black.’ I gave him a look. ‘Really?’
‘It’s what it says in his passport.’
‘Is he as British as he looks?’
Beckwith didn’t say, but the slow blink of his eyes was answer enough.
I let it go and gave him a rapid de-brief. He wasn’t happy at what I told him; in fact he looked as if he wanted to take out a gun and shoot me on the spot.
‘What the fuck are you saying?’ he grated, trying not to let the Brit hear. ‘Parillas is with the Tijuanas? I don’t buy it. You must be mistaken.’
I didn’t bother fighting him on it; he was feeling bruised by the possibility that one of his men had gone bad. If true, it reflected on him as lead intelligence officer and the DEA as a whole. Having a foreign observer along to witness the fact wasn’t helping any.
‘You didn’t know he was born in Tijuana?’ I said.
He shook his head, but it was obvious by the set of his jaw that he’d already begun to put pieces together and was building a jigsaw. Either someone had made a huge error of judgement selecting Parillas for this job, or Parillas had developed a recent change of heart about his career choice. The final confirmation was when I took out my cell phone and handed it to him.
‘What’s this?’ he muttered.
I showed him. I’d filmed Parillas on the cell’s camera from the time he’d emerged from the cartel’s SUV to him dropping an arm around the lead gunman’s shoulders. That and the way they were grinning at each other was enough to confirm that he wasn’t being coerced in any way and knew the gunman a lot better than he should.
Beckwith climbed into the SUV to view the footage in private. I stayed on the outside with Mr Black, who nodded but said nothing. Beckwith didn’t need us seeing his embarrassment. He must have checked it three times, the expression on his face going darker with each showing. Then he made a call and two minutes later, a couple of armed border agents appeared and hovered nearby.
It must have been tough, finding out who had been feeding the Tijuanas with inside information. But he wasn’t going to try covering it up.
We waited in silence until a familiar white Land Cruiser nosed out from the border crossing and slid into a bay further along. We watched as Parillas climbed out and sauntered across, playing Mr Cool.
When he saw the two border agents walking towards him, he didn’t seem concerned. Then he saw me behind the car and stopped dead, his mouth hanging open.
When the two agents cuffed and searched him, he simply looked sick and made no effort to protest. For him the deception was over.
Thirteen
Picking up on a tail is never easy. Forget what they tell you in books or films. The shop window trick is only good in a deserted street with few pedestrians. Too much vehicle or pedestrian movement is unhelpful clutter. And in the area around 31st and Fifth Avenue in New York, clutter is the name of the game.
The other problem is, serious tails rarely work alone; they operate using a box or leap-frog formation with up to four or more people, some on foot, others mobile, constantly swapping over, their movements steered by a controller. That makes the job of counter-surveillance pretty tough; you just don’t know where the next watcher is coming from.
Unless the person following you actually wants you to know he’s there.
The man behind me made himself known on at least three occasions before I got the message. But just in case I’d picked up a genuine head case with time to spare, I made him work at it a bit longer before I gave up on the game. I was intrigued.
He was dressed smart, in a sports jacket and pants, good walking shoes. English, at a guess, which was more than interesting. I put him somewhere in his late fifties, maybe older, but fit, with combed-back greying hair and a slightly jowly face. In spite of his age he had no trouble staying with me, even when I upped the rate a little and jigged across a couple of intersections to string him out. He seemed to be at home in the area, knowing when to stay on one side and when to cross to take advantage of the traffic flow.
I finally stepped into a Starbucks on Fifth and E34th, and watched him through the steamed-up windows as he paused to study the front of a Korean electronics store on the corner. Then he turned and strolled across the street on the lights. By the way he was moving, he knew there was no need to hurry.
It told me he knew where to find me if I managed to lose him.
He caught my eye as he walked by, and I smiled to show him I knew. Then I went to the counter and ordered two daily brews.
He was sitting at
a corner table when I turned round, checking out the other customers. He’d chosen a seat away from the crowd and looked very relaxed.
Even more interesting.
I got sugar and paper napkins and walked over, putting the coffees down and drawing up a chair.
‘I’m not sure what I should call you,’ he said, inspecting the coffee. ‘Is Portman your real name?’ He smiled at me and I got the impression of someone who meant me no ill will. Maybe it was the cultured English accent, firm but non-aggressive.
‘Portman’s fine,’ I said. ‘Who are you?’
‘Tom Vale.’ He stirred sugar into his mug. ‘Nate Sweetman told me about you.’
It took a second to recall where I’d heard the name. Sweetman. Engineer. Bogotá. Nearly kidnapped. Nice guy, if over-chatty.
‘Do I know him?’
‘You should – you saved his life. He nearly got FARC’d.’ He smiled to show he had a sense of humour.
‘Just like that? He told you?’
‘We have a family connection. He needed to talk to somebody about what happened.’
‘Why you? You know about stuff like that?’
‘A little.’ He sipped his coffee and looked pleasantly surprised, then sipped again. I let him do his thing and waited. While we’d been going through the preliminaries, I’d been watching the street and the door, checking out passers-by and customers. None that looked like they were with this Mr Vale, though.
‘You also know about stuff like that,’ he said eventually.
‘You think?’
‘Well, starting with Nate, who’s a very good judge of character, let’s look at the facts: you walked into a kidnap attempt and calmly disarmed one kidnapper, shot two with the first man’s gun and put down a fourth outside and took his vehicle.’ He looked at me with a lifted eyebrow. ‘You don’t mess about, do you?’
‘No point,’ I replied. ‘Have you seen what they do to people they don’t like? They use chainsaws.’
The Watchman Page 6
