by Alex Gilly
“Americans like women who don’t threaten them,” she told Carmen. “Hopefully, you’ll feel comfortable in it, too.”
There was also a navy cardigan in the package, which Mona said was to guard against the courtroom air-conditioning, as well as a pair of sensible flats.
“Do you need some shampoo or conditioner?” said Mona in what she hoped was a neutral tone. “I can give you more credit at the commissary.”
Carmen smiled. “Está bien,” she said. “I got a job washing dishes in the canteen. It earns a few cents. They pay it into my commissary account.”
But there was still nothing in her voice. No hope, no sense of nervous anticipation about her trial. Like she’d been vacated.
“Carmen, I am very confident about your case. Remember how I told you la migra made a terrible mistake in San Ysidro? Well, the judge made an even worse one when he denied you bail. Once I show the jury what they did, the law says that they’re going to have to let you go. And they can’t force you to go back. You understand? You’ll be able to stay in America until your application for asylum is processed.”
Carmen smiled distractedly. “He knows I’m here.”
Mona furrowed her brow. “Who?”
“Soto. He has found me.”
Mona shook her head. “No. That’s impossible.”
Carmen hugged herself. “Do you know why snakes stick out their tongues?” she said. “To smell. They use their tongues.”
She’s depressed, thought Mona. I need to get a psychiatrist in here to assess her mental health, maybe get her on some medication.
“Last night I had a dream,” said Carmen. “He came to me and flicked out his tongue. He said, ‘I can smell you, puta. I know where you are.’”
Mona glanced at the guard. He was the same one she’d met the first time. He was looking the other way. Mona took the girl’s hands in hers. They were trembling.
“Carmen, listen to me,” she said. “It’s the stress of being in here. It makes you dream crazy things. It’s natural; it happens to everyone. Try not to think about it.”
Carmen shook her head. She was adamant. “No. I’m not crazy. He’s here. I can feel him.”
Carmen bit her lower lip, trying to stop the tears. For a brief moment, Mona felt an unkind impulse to tell Carmen to pull herself together. Mona could control the administrative stuff, and she was a brilliant legal scholar, but there was little she could do when people behaved irrationally, and that annoyed her. She tried to hide it by nodding sympathetically and pressing the girl’s hands while she cried.
“I miss my parents,” said Carmen. “I miss my sister.”
It was the first time she’d ever said she missed them.
“Do you want to call them?” said Mona.
“No. Absolutely not,” said Carmen. She wiped away the tears with the back of her hand and made an attempt to pull herself together. “I’m fine. You’re right; it’s just a bad feeling. I’m better now.”
Mona gave her a warm smile. “Tell me about home,” she said.
She smiled. “My mother is probably cooking. My father is probably watching football on TV. My sister, Clara, is probably at school. The same middle school I went to, near the stadium. We could hear the crowd roar whenever our team scored. I knew before I got home whether we’d won or not and what kind of mood my father would be in.”
“What team does he support?”
“Los Cementeros, of course.”
Mona knew she was talking about Cruz Azul, a storied Mexico City soccer team founded by a cement company.
Carmen looked at the label of the dress Mona had brought. “Oyé, mujer, what size do you think I am? I’ll have to go on a diet,” she said with a put-on frown. That’s when Mona noticed her nails. She’d chewed them back to the flesh. Mona fished a bottle of neutral nail polish out of her handbag. “Here,” she said. “We have the same skin tone. It’ll look good on you.”
“Beige. Perfect for court,” said Carmen with a little smile.
“Exactly. In court, you’ll be like Dolores Romero before she finds…” Mona was about to say, “The snake charmer who gives Dolores the antidote.” But Mona knew there was no remedy for the scars Soto had left on Carmen. Not even in Hollywood. “Before she finds love,” she said simply.
SEVEN
WHILE Mona was driving out to the desert to see Carmen, Finn was sitting in Klein’s office. He had arranged a meeting to discuss the complaint filed against him.
“I’ve called everyone,” said Klein. “No one can give me any answers.”
“I’m dying out there in Riverside, Keith,” said Finn. “Staring at a screen all day.”
“What can I tell you? It’s a great big bureaucratic swamp. Has been since 2002. Nothing happens.”
“Just give me a number and a name. Someone I can talk to.”
“You want to call up yourself, hassle the inspector general about their investigation of you? Bad idea,” said Klein. “Listen, I’m in charge of this station, and I want you back on the water more than anyone. Believe me, I’ve tried everything. I called Bill Olds, the head of Air and Marine, a guy I’ve known twenty years, ever since I joined what was then still just Border Patrol. You know what Bill says to me? ‘Sorry, Keith, I can’t help you. Try Delford Payne.’ I say, ‘Delford Payne, who’s that?’ He says, ‘The new assistant secretary for complaints and whistleblowers at the OIG.’”
Klein threw up his hands to signal exasperation.
“So of course I call this guy, the assistant secretary for complaints and whistleblowers, as soon as I get off the phone from Bill. And he says, ‘The investigation is progressing normally.’
“I say, ‘Excuse me, but I was born on the Fourth of July. This year, I turn fifty-seven. You know what that means? Mandatory retirement. Before I retire, my one patriotic wish is to see Marine Interdiction Agent Nick Finn back out on the water, intercepting bad guys. Am I gonna get my wish?’ He says, ‘I cannot comment on an ongoing investigation.’”
Klein shook his head dismissively.
“Asshole,” he said.
“What about the secretary of Homeland Security?” said Finn.
“The acting secretary, you mean? Steve Fishman? He won’t do a damn thing. Doesn’t want to rock the boat. He’s just there to keep the seat warm until Michael Marvin’s confirmed. Maybe when Marvin’s in, he’ll fix this. He seems like the type of guy who gets things done. But until then…”
Klein threw his hands in the air again.
“It’s a goddamned mess, Finn. Nobody knows anything. Everybody’s covering their butts. My best Interceptor captain’s sitting on the dock, twiddling his thumbs, and nobody’s responsible. Meanwhile, they’re pushing this surge in recruitment, but no one wants to work for the CBP anymore, so they’re hiring anybody who shows up at the booth. Guys like Figueroa. In all honesty, I’m looking forward to retirement, Finn. I don’t recognize the CBP today. It’s not what I joined.”
Finn felt for Klein. Morale was down across the whole agency. Nobody was happy, including him.
Klein leaned back in his chair. “You know what I’m gonna do when I retire, Finn? I’m gonna go to my condo, and I’m gonna catch some fish.”
Finn smiled. “Where’s the condo?”
“Loreto. On the Sea of Cortez.”
“Plenty of fish still in the Sea of Cortez,” said Finn.
Klein gave Finn an apologetic look. “I hope you get back on the water before I do, Finn. But there’s nothing more I can do. You have to be patient.”
Finn got up.
“Where’re you going?” said Klein.
“Riverside. Where else?”
“Are you learning anything useful out there, at least?” said Klein. “Have you seen the future?”
Finn pondered this.
“Yes. She’s twenty-four years old and has a degree in computer science.”
Klein shook his head.
“Jesus H. Christ,” he said.
* * *
Building 605C had its own canteen. Today was Chinese day. At lunch, Finn loaded up on kung pao chicken and an immoderate pile of fried rice. He noticed Leela put only vegetables on her tray and a small amount of steamed rice. Gomez was off that day.
Finn and Leela stood at the end of the food counter holding their trays, scanning the room for an empty table. Finn saw a group of young men, Nader and Sperling among them, sitting together, laughing loudly. Leela headed in the opposite direction, away from them. Finn followed. They found a quiet table in the far corner.
Finn, still despondent from his meeting with Klein that morning, started eating mindlessly. After a minute, he became aware first of the look of aversion on Leela’s face, then of the fact that he had already shoveled half the plate of rice into his mouth.
“Sorry,” he said, his mouth half full.
“Don’t apologize. I eat when I’m stressed, too.”
Finn swallowed what was in his mouth and put down his fork.
“I spoke to my station director this morning,” he said. “I’m no closer to getting back on the water.”
Leela nodded. “I’m sorry to hear it,” she said.
An awkward silence ensued. Finn made an effort to put aside his gloomy mood.
“My wife’s happy, at least. She gets anxious that something’ll happen to me out there,” he said.
“What does your wife do?” said Leela.
“She’s a lawyer. She represents undocumented migrants,” said Finn.
Leela opened her mouth to ask the question that Finn guessed was on her mind.
“We’re happily married,” he said preemptively.
“No. Of course. I didn’t mean…”
“It’s fine,” said Finn. “People want to know how we do it, a CBP agent married to a migrants-rights activist. It’s pretty simple. We don’t discuss our differences in front of other people. If there’s something we need to discuss, we talk when we’re alone.”
Leela looked impressed. “That’s so basic. I mean, I get it. But it’s so basic.”
“Yeah. We figured it out early.” In fact, they’d figured it out when they’d first started dating after Diego had introduced them. But Diego’s death still grieved him, and he wanted to avoid the “How did you two meet?” question he sensed was coming. He changed the subject.
“What about you?” he said. “How did you get from computer science to working for Customs and Border Protection?”
“The CBP had a booth at careers day at my college. They were offering bonuses to anyone with a computer science degree who signed up for two years. I figured two years wasn’t long, and the bonus helped pay down my college debt. How about you?”
“I joined up right after I got out of the navy.”
“Right. You were in Iraq. What was that like?”
“Not that different from what I do here. I was in the Maritime Expeditionary Security Force. We guarded oil terminals in Basra from insurgents. We patrolled the bay, basically.”
Leela picked up an orange from her tray and started peeling it.
“Seems like a lot of the old guys who work here are veterans. The guy who parks his motorcycle next to mine in the lot has got a ‘Proudly Served’ plate on it.”
Finn didn’t usually feel old, but spending time with Leela shifted his frame of reference.
“How do you know he’s an old guy?” he said.
“Rides a Harley,” said Leela.
Finn smiled.
“What are the young people riding these days?” he said.
“Right now I’m on a Kawasaki Ninja 650, but I’m saving for a bigger bike.”
Finn nodded.
“The CBP’s a good place for us old guys,” he said. “Lets us do something useful in civilian life. That’s all you can ask for. What about you? What are you planning to do after your two years?”
“I’ll probably go to the private sector.”
“In computers?”
“IT, yeah. With AMOC on my résumé, I could probably get something good in data security. I’ve become really interested in data security since working here.”
“I don’t know much about computers.”
“No, you don’t,” agreed Leela.
“Data security, that means passwords?”
“It means protecting data. I’ll give you an example. You know everything we see on the cameras from the drones, that’s all recorded, right?”
Finn shook his head. “I did not know that.”
“It’s all stored on our servers, and we’re supposed to destroy it after five years. Imagine if someone got ahold of that.”
Finn thought of Nader zooming in on the yacht.
“Do they store just the video or all the data?” said Finn.
“They store everything. All the surveillance recordings and all the flight data.”
Finn stared at Leela. “How hard would it be to get into our system?” he said.
Leela lowered her voice. “Honestly? A high school hacker could do it.”
* * *
After lunch, Finn sat next to Leela at her station. Leela started typing.
“How come you’re so interested in the flight paths?” she said.
Finn thought for a moment. He liked and trusted Leela, but he wasn’t ready to share his hunch with her.
“The Interceptors patrol predetermined sectors,” he said. “But we don’t know where the drones are flying. I figure if we coordinated our missions, we’d be more efficient. We’d cover more area.”
Leela nodded. “Makes sense,” she said. She pointed at the middle of her three screens. “All right, here we go. Here are the logs of every flight out of Riverside for the past six months. They’ll give us distances, altitudes, flight time, fuel loads…”
“Can you show us the flight paths on a map?” said Finn.
“Sure.”
Leela maneuvered the cursor around the screen and clicked a few buttons. A map appeared. Finn saw a red line leaving Riverside, bearing southwest, over the sea to south of San Clemente Island, then back east toward San Diego before finally heading north, back to Riverside. On the screen, it looked like a slice of pizza, with Riverside at the pointy end, San Clemente at one end of the crust and San Diego at the other. He noted that the drone descended to an altitude of five thousand feet overwater, which allowed it to survey a five-mile-wide corridor of the sea beneath it.
“Can you overlay all the flights? To compare them?” asked Finn.
Leela opened the next file. This one covered another pizza slice, but a few miles south of the first one. She opened another, and then another, until she had opened them all. When she had finished, almost all the sea off the coast of Southern California was covered with drone flight paths.
Almost.
Finn saw a narrow, sixty-five-mile-long unpatrolled corridor from the maritime border with Mexico north of the Coronados to Dana Point.
“They’re sending pangas to distract us,” he murmured.
“What?” said Leela.
“We’ve picked up just one drug boat so far this year,” said Finn. “And that was only because I ignored the intel. I made the intercept here.”
He pointed at a spot off Dana Point, inside the corridor.
“They’re sending pangas into the drones’ flight paths. They know we’re going to find them. Then they sneak go-fasts through here.”
Finn thought back to the night he had intercepted the go-fast. He remembered what one of the narcos he’d cuffed had said: “No debe estar por aquí.”
Finn looked around the operations center.
“The cartel knows where the drones are flying,” he said.
* * *
“Who else knows about this?” said Klein.
“Just Detection Enforcement Officer Santos,” said Finn.
“The computer science kid?”
Finn nodded. He was in Klein’s office again, eight hours after he’d been there the first time.
Klein picked up the phone on his desk
and pressed some keys.
“This is Operations Director Keith Klein at the Long Beach Air and Marine Station,” said Klein into the phone. “I’d like to speak with the commissioner of Customs and Border Protection, please … Yes, as soon as he can. Be sure to tell him it’s urgent.”
Klein hung up. He checked his watch. “He’s giving a briefing at the White House. He’s going to call me back.”
He leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling pensively. “Jesus H. Christ,” he said. He tilted forward again and turned to Finn. “The computer science kid. Can she find the hacker?”
“She’s working on it. But it might not be a hacker.”
“What do you mean?”
“It could be someone on the inside, feeding the cartel information.”
Klein stared at Finn. “Jesus H. Christ,” he said again. “You’re right.”
“Someone who has access to the UAV flight briefings. Who knows the flight plans.”
Klein scrunched up his face. “You mean a pilot?”
“Or a systems operator.”
Klein thought for a moment. “All right. I’ll speak to the commissioner. We’ll set up a probe and do background checks, see if anyone’s been looking at things they’re not supposed to, or spending more than we’re paying them. But, Finn, if there is a mole, we don’t want to spook him. All right? Everyone carries on as normal. Tell the computer science kid.”
Finn gestured at the map of Southern California hanging on Klein’s wall. “What about the corridor?”
“We’ll have to put an Interceptor there, plug the hole,” said Klein. “I’ll call you as soon as I’ve spoken to the commissioner.”
EIGHT
MONA left the detention center feeling completely spent. The moral effort she had made to boost Carmen, along with the exhausting tedium of the long drive she’d made to get there, had drained her of all her energy.
She decided to take a room at a motel she’d passed on the way into town. She would head home early in the morning. She knew she wouldn’t be able to expense the room, but the alternative—driving back to Redondo in the dark—felt like more than she was capable of.
