The Sienna Sand

by Jeff Siebold

  El Topo signaled that it was finished and he shut off the drill.

  “Now what?” asked Ernesto.

  “Now we bring the boxes,” the small man said.

  * * *

  It turned out that there were many boxes. Each box was strapped shut with two tight, white nylon straps, one horizontal and one vertical. The two men worked back and forth through the tunnel, carrying armloads of the boxes, each brown and marked with a fast food franchise’s brand and logo. They carried the boxes through the tunnel and handed them up to the men in the warehouse.

  The boxes were heavy, and it wasn’t long before both men were sweating, despite the tunnel’s cool ventilation system.

  There were sixty boxes in all, and it took the rest of the evening to load them into the storage warehouse. The men kept the warehouse lights low even though there were no windows in the space.

  “That’s it?” asked one of the men.

  “We brought sixty,” said El Topo in Spanish. “Sesenta.”

  The men nodded. Ernesto and Ricardo Gomez, El Topo, climbed back into the tunnel as large plywood sheets were put in place to cover the hole. The tunnel lighting grew dimmer as they made their way the one thousand or so feet toward the beginning of the tunnel. They had to step around the ventilation fan and navigate several long, heavy electrical cords, and then they were back at the beginning, a basement room of a working bodega in Mexicali.

  The men unrolled two sleeping bags on the dirt floor and slipped off their dusty boots. They prepared to sleep.

  “How long will it be before the tunnel is found?” asked Ernesto.

  “We cannot know,” said El Topo. “But if it stays open for a week, it will have paid for itself.”

  “A week only?” asked Ernesto.

  “Yes. Tomorrow we will leave through the bodega and leave our equipment here to be transported by truck to the next location. It has already been selected.”

  The Mole is chatty tonight, thought Ernesto. He’s excited about finishing that tunnel.

  The boy nodded. “And when will we start on the next tunnel?”

  “Two days. Maybe three.”

  “Then we do it all again?” asked the boy.

  He could feel El Topo’s smile in the dark room.

  “Yes, we do it all again.”

  * * *

  Dressed in black, Zeke sat in the dark outside the one-story building in Calexico, across First Street from the border wall. A large palmetto bush and a privacy fence around the parameter of the lot kept him out of sight.

  Clive was monitoring from a utility truck parked in the street a block away. It was after one o’clock in the morning and the neighborhood was quiet.

  “CPA Peterson said they’ve been watching this place for a while,” said Clive in Zeke’s earpiece. “They think there’s a tunnel under it, but it’s private property, and they haven’t been able to get inside without probable cause.”

  Zeke was aware of all this as he watched the empty building. Clive’s just making small talk while we wait, he thought. The building was brand new, a concrete block and stucco building with a flat roof. None of the four bays appeared to be occupied. There was a “For Lease” sign in the small front yard.

  “Peterson said they called the real estate agent for a showing, but the man said the building had been leased already. So they couldn’t get in that way,” said Clive.

  Great. He’s reviewing his notes out loud, in my ear, thought Zeke.

  At that moment, a light flickered across one of the building’s windows. It was quick and dim, like a flashlight.

  Zeke spoke into his comm device.

  “I’ve got activity,” he whispered. He felt the reassuring weight of his Walther PPK in the waistband at the small of his back.

  “Good show,” said Clive.

  A minute later Zeke heard one of the building doors being unlocked, and then a man stepped out onto the small grassy area. He lit a cigarette.

  A moment later, a second man joined him.

  “Es un buen túnel,” said the second man. “Dame un cigarrillo.”

  Zeke whispered to Clive, “He said, ‘It’s a good tunnel. Give me a cigarette.’ OK, here we go.”

  Both of the men were smaller than average and muscular, and they looked dirty, as if they’d been crawling in dry soil.

  Zeke stood and stepped toward the two men, who were facing away from him, toward the border wall. “Pare, policia,” he said. Stop, Police.

  Both men froze in place, their cigarettes at or near their lips. Then they spun and looked at Zeke. “¿Sólo tu?” Only you?

  The men’s faces were hard, round with straight black hair and dark skin. Both were bow legged and had low centers of gravity. Zeke stepped closer. They circled around him.

  The first man, now on Zeke’s right, feigned a punch at Zeke’s midsection, then launched a vicious kick intended to crush his kneecap and end the fight. The second man, farther away, shuffled in closer on Zeke’s left, ready to kick him when he went down. They wore plaid long-sleeved shirts and khaki work pants and work boots.

  But Zeke’s legs were flexed, and he lifted his right knee to his elbow and blocked the first kick. Bouncing back in toward the man, he delivered a short, straight jab that stopped and stunned him. A quick sweep to the back of the man’s legs put him down on the ground, hard.

  Zeke said, “One down,” for Clive’s benefit.

  The other man, who had taken a “wait and see” role until this point, hesitated, apparently wary of Zeke’s unexpected abilities. Then he lowered his head, crouched down and came in fast, punching.

  Zeke twisted to face his opponent. As he threw a punch, Zeke stopped the man’s arm with his forearm, blocking his right biceps and defusing his effort. Zeke moved closer, keeping his forearm in contact with the man’s biceps. The man swung with his left hand, a roundhouse punch, and Zeke did the same- forearm to left biceps again- diffusing the energy.

  With both of the man’s arms entangled, Zeke kneed him twice in his left side, and then as the man pushed in, Zeke reversed his efforts, pulling, and suddenly rolling backwards, using the man’s momentum against him. The man flew through the air with Zeke holding his shirt collar, flipping fully extended over Zeke’s head. He hit the ground flat on his back with a sickening thud, the wind knocked out of his lungs.

  “Are you alright?” Zeke heard through his earpiece as he stood up.

  Clive Greene stood nearby, his handgun pointed at the scene.

  “No worries, I’ve got this,” said Zeke.

  * * *

  “It was a tunnel, all right,” said CPA Peterson. “We found it inside the third bay. They drilled out the slab and it went down about ten feet.”

  “Where did it come out?” asked Clive.

  The men were sitting in Peterson’s office late the next morning, after spending most of the night with Border Patrol agents. The Border Patrol had arrested the men, “tunnel builders” Peterson called them. They had been locked up.

  “We sent a drone through it. It ran about a thousand meters southwest and came out in the basement of the Casino Caliente.”

  “Hot Casino?” asked Zeke. “Hot like sexy, or hot like the temperature?”

  Peterson ignored the question. “Many of these buildings have basements,” he said. “It just makes the whole thing tougher.”

  “So a thousand meter tunnel is an expensive undertaking,” said Peterson. “This effort was well funded.”

  “Almost certainly by a drug cartel,” said Zeke. “Remember what we talked about? This is equivalent to a multinational corporation with a number of lines of business.”

  Clive said, “Tell us about your Tunnel Rats.”

  * * *

  “That’s an interesting question,” said Peterson. “It’s officially the ‘Confined Spaces Entry Team’.”

  “Tunnel Rats refers back to Vietnam,” said Zeke.

  “That’s right,” Peterson nodded. “When we find a tunnel, we call in these speci
alists who are responsible for clearing the tunnel, making it safe for us to enter.”

  “Safe from…?” asked Clive.

  “Just about anything,” said Peterson. “The tunnel could be booby-trapped. It could be rigged to explode. Or sometimes they’re used partially for storage, and guards stay with the drugs or contraband. Armed guards.”

  Clive nodded.

  “Or there may be some coyotes in the tunnel.”

  “Coyotes?” asked Clive.

  “People who lead the migrants across the border. They’re called coyotes or polleros. They lead migrants up to and across the border into the United States.”

  “Polleros?” asked Clive.

  “It means ‘chicken herders’,” said Zeke.

  “That’s right,” said Peterson. “They’re named that because of the way they look when they’re walking up from Mexico with the migrants following behind them.”

  “Hmm,” said Clive. “They use the tunnels?”

  “Sometimes. But the best tunnels are reserved for the cartel’s use,” said Peterson.

  “Makes sense,” said Zeke.

  “The Tunnel Rats are sort of an interdiction task force,” Peterson continued. “Sort of a SWAT team. They use a number of specialty items and technology to assure that the tunnel is clear and safe before they go in. They usually start with camera drones.”

  “I see,” said Clive.

  “But eventually, someone has to go down into the tunnel to be sure it’s really clear. It’s always dangerous, but not as dangerous as the Vietnam soldiers had it. They’d go into a tunnel with no reconnaissance, no information about what was down there. Sometimes they’d run into Viet Cong. Sometimes they’d get into hand-to-hand combat in the tunnels,” said Zeke.

  “Even with all of the technology, at some point these guys have to get in the tunnel and check it out. Even with their weapons and body armor and night vision equipment, it takes guts to do that,” said Peterson.

  “When you’re ready to clear out the tunnel we found last night,” said Zeke, “I’d like to join the team.”

  “It won’t be immediately. We’ll have to wait for the Tunnel Rats to get here from El Paso. A few days or a week, probably. I’ll let you know when I know.”

  Chapter 7

  The woman was the only occupant at an outside table in a vegan restaurant along Oglethorpe Street in Savannah. Her table was adjacent to the sidewalk, and just beyond it was the busy divided highway. Huge oak trees shaded the area.

  She was a fairly tall woman with long hair that was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her black tights, sports top, and running shoes completed the image of an exercise enthusiast who had stopped at the restaurant for a quick lunch.

  The iPhone on the table vibrated suddenly, and the woman grabbed it and flipped it over, screening the call. Then she answered.

  “Hello,” she said. “No names.”

  “Agreed,” said a man’s voice, deep and gravelly. His accent hinted at Middle Eastern. “I know of you through your previous employer. I believe he’s told you about me. Are you available to help me?”

  The woman thought for a quick moment, assessing. Then she said, “Yes, I am. He told me quite a bit about you. Do you want me to come to you?”

  She was, on closer inspection, in her early forties. Too old to be a student at SCAD, the school that dominated the downtown area of the city. She could have been a professor though, or possibly a local business owner.

  “That would be best,” said the man. “When can you be here?”

  “I’ll arrange it. I’ll take the red eye to LaGuardia tomorrow,” she said. “Have someone meet me at the airport.”

  The line went dead.

  * * *

  A man holding a small whiteboard with “Julia C.” written on it stood among a throng of limo drivers at the baggage claim at LaGuardia airport in Queens, New York. He looked bored.

  A flurry of deplaning passengers walked past the limo drivers on their way to claim their baggage. The man watched as a tall woman in a business suit walked by rapidly, talking on her cell phone. A pretty woman. She could be a corporate executive, or perhaps she’s a trader on the floor of the Stock Exchange, he thought.

  From behind him he heard a woman’s voice. “You’re to take me to him, then?”

  The man turned back to Julia Conners, and, recognizing her face, he relaxed slightly.

  “Yes,” he said. “I am Kamal. Come this way.” His voice was soft and soothing.

  He led her out the baggage claim doors and through the traffic to his parked Lincoln Town Car. He held the back door open for her, and she gracefully slid into the back seat.

  Kamal took his place behind the wheel and in a few moments they were pointed toward Manhattan Island.

  * * *

  The limo came to a stop in front of a brownstone in Alphabet City, having crossed under the East River in the Queens Midtown Tunnel. Kamal double-parked the Lincoln, hopped out, and opened Julia’s door for her. She exited the vehicle with her roller bag and walked directly to the front door of the building. Once inside, she took the elevator to the fifth floor.

  “Hello, Julia,” said a small, round man who was about five inches shorter than she. “I’m so glad you could make it. How was your travel?”

  He was dressed in a suit but wore it with a smoking jacket. He stepped closer, took her hand, and bowed slightly.

  Julia said, “It was uneventful, Ferman. I’m glad you called.”

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” said Ferman Khoury. “Mostly from your former boss. You were lucky to escape.”

  “I was. I happened to be out of the office, conferring with our attorneys when the FBI raided the Pawn 4 All headquarters. When I returned, they’d locked down the offices and wouldn’t let anyone in or out. I left and never looked back.”

  Julia Conners had been the Vice President of Risk Management for a pawnshop franchise operation named Pawn 4 All. Weeks earlier, the operation had been raided by the FBI as a part of a money laundering operation.

  “And you landed in, where, Savannah?” he asked.

  “You have good intel, Ferman,” she said. “Yes, I’m hiding out there, waiting to be sure no one’s looking for me. Not looking too hard, I mean.”

  Changing the subject, he said, “You had ties to the Sinn Fein, I hear. Do you still?”

  She looked at him. “Relatives. I have close relatives involved.”

  ”In a radical faction?” he asked.

  Julia stopped and looked at him. She said, “Yes.”

  “I also heard that you lost your husband to the British,” he continued. “I’m sorry for that.”

  “That was some time ago,” she said. “But it doesn’t seem to get any easier, living without him.”

  The small man nodded. “I would like you to consider doing a job for me,” he said. “Your former boss gave you an excellent recommendation.”

  Taken aback, Julia said, “Actually, I’m hiding out from the Feds right now. I have limited mobility and I don’t want to leave a footprint…”

  “That’s perfect, Julia,” said Ferman Khoury. “That all fits in with the project I have in mind for you.”

  * * *

  “What’s involved? What would my responsibilities be?” asked Julia.

  They were sitting in Ferman Khoury’s living room, looking out over Alphabet City and taking tea. The small table between their leather chairs was covered with small plates of figs and cookies, and two cups and saucers that held Zhourat tea from Lebanon. The tea had been served by Khoury’s personal assistant, a thin man of Middle Eastern descent.

  “As you know, I recently lost two of my bodyguards,” said Ferman. “I’m looking for a temporary replacement for an upcoming job. It should go smoothly, but it’s possible that there could be other, more extreme duties. You understand?”

  Julia assumed that Ferman was referring to possible killings. That didn’t bother her.

  “Yes, I understand,” she said.<
br />
  “Good. You can stay in Savannah for now, and let me arrange for it. We’ll prepare a place for you on my yacht, the Gun Runner. I’ll hire you as a crew member and you’ll be able to move in temporarily. Do you have any trouble working or living with men?” asked Ferman.

  “Other bodyguards? Your staff, you mean? Or crew?” said Julia.

  “Either. As well as my son, Ghafran. He often stays aboard the yacht, also.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem,” said Julia. She sipped her tea and looked at the East River through the window.

  “I renovated these brownstones,” said Ferman. “I own this one, and the ones on either side.

  “Very nice,” said Julia.

  “My business affords me such luxuries,” said Ferman. “I sell, eh, weapons to different groups…”

  Julia said, “Hence the yacht’s name. Clever. My old boss never told me where your money came from. But I don’t have a problem with that. I’ve been involved with procuring weapons in the past.”

  “For the IRA?” asked Ferman. He sipped his tea.

  “For the Provisional IRA. Yes. And others,” she said.

  * * *

  “The approval came through from the Mexican authorities,” said Clive. “For your joint surveillance with Jose Garcia.” He was chatting with Zeke and Kimmy in his office.

  “Then I’ll be heading south, to Mexicali,” said Zeke. “As soon as we finish up here.”

  “What’s your plan?” asked Clive.

  “Well, Peterson says they’re about ready to send the tunnel rats into the tunnel we found. Thought I’d go with them.”

  “I never thought you wouldn’t,” said Clive.

  “And then Garcia and I should be able to coordinate surveillance for several of the possible launch sites and monitor them for a few nights. With the pattern of projectile firings we’ve seen, we should be able to pretty much predict when and from what spots contraband will cross the wall in mortar projectiles.”