Guardian of Lies

SIXTY-FOUR

I look at Herman as the truck begins to slow. Perhaps it’s tied up in traffic or is pausing for a stop sign. It comes to a complete stop, then begins to back up. We feel the rear end of the heavy vehicle maneuver to the right.

“He’s parking,” says Herman. He gets on his feet and moves toward the rear of the truck’s bed.

The driver finishes the maneuver. The truck suddenly lurches to a stop and Herman stumbles a bit, then catches himself, and the driver turns off the engine.

“I don’t like it,” Herman whispers.

I can hear the hum of voices up front in the truck’s cab, though I can’t make out what they’re saying.

Maricela looks at me, big, oval, dark eyes. Then she starts to say something. I put my finger to my lips to silence her. Without the engine and road noise to cover our sounds, the men up front can hear us as well as we can hear them.

Herman flips open the encrypted cell phone and punches the power button for light, then gets down on his stomach and goes to work with the pocketknife once more, quietly, but with an urgent desperation this time.

“What do we have on the other truck, the one the cartel crew said they thought was a rental?” said Rhytag.

“Nothing. Not enough to track it,” said Thorpe.

“So where the hell did the damn thing go?”

“The drivers of the cargo truck had more than three hours from the time they left the ship in Ensenada to the time the CHP picked them up on the highway, up by Pendleton. They could have dropped the device off anywhere along the way,” said Thorpe.

“It still begs the question, how did they get across the border?” said Rhytag.

“It’s too late for that now.” The director of Homeland Security hustled through the door. He was followed by three high-ranking military officers. “The problem now is how to get as many people as possible out of the greater metropolitan San Diego area. The president’s been on a conference call with the governor and the city’s mayor, and it’s agreed that in”-he looked at his watch-“exactly twenty-two minutes, the president is going live on national television to make the announcement. Local authorities are implementing an emergency evacuation plan. We’re diverting all planes away from the San Diego airports. We’re shutting down all incoming highway traffic and making all lanes outbound. We’re using buses, trains, anything that rolls to get people out of the area. We’re telling them to take absolutely nothing, only themselves and their children.”

“You’ll have a traffic jam to choke a horse,” said Rhytag. “Besides, how do we know they didn’t transfer the bomb to another vehicle? For all we know it could be eastbound right now, headed here.”

“We have to exercise our best judgment based on what we do know. And the last information we had was that the device was in the San Diego area.”

As they argued, one of Thorpe’s minions stuck his head in the door. “Sir, line two is for you.”

Thorpe swung around in his chair and grabbed the phone behind him on the credenza. He punched the line button. “Thorpe here.

“Yes. Yeah.

“Where?”

Suddenly all the conversations in the room stopped.

“Have you pinpointed the location?

“Can you shoot it down here and put it on the screen?

“Do it!”

Thorpe hung up the phone and swung around to face them again.

“What is it?” said the director.

“Madriani’s back in town. They’ve picked up a signal from his cell phone again. This time in Coronado.”

“Isn’t that where you said his office was located?” said the director.

“It is,” said Thorpe.

“So maybe he’s just going home.”

“No,” said Rhytag. “If he’s there it’s for a reason and it’s not because he’s going home. The border was closed, right? Shut down tight. We can’t explain how the cargo container got across?”

“Agreed,” said the director.

“Madriani calls his partner on his home phone, which he knows we have tapped, and tells his partner to call my office with the information on the ship in Ensenada. So he’s tracking the device. Somehow he has information. He’s trying to get it to us.”

“Unless he’s feeding us false leads,” said Thorpe. “The container didn’t have the bomb, remember?”

“No. It’s in the other truck,” said Rhytag, “and Madriani knows it. If he’s shooting signals from that phone, it’s for a reason. There’s a fugitive warrant out for his arrest, the police are watching the airports, and the border is closed. So ask yourself, how did he get into the country?”

Thorpe was busy making a note on a legal pad. But as he stopped and lifted his eyes, the look of revelation on his face said it all.

“That’s right,” said Rhytag, “the same way the truck with the cargo container did. Madriani is either following, or else he’s on that other truck, and so is the bomb.”

A second later the large screen on the wall in the outer room flickered, as did the smaller monitor in the conference room. All eyes were on it as the satellite image honed in on a quiet street along the waterfront in Coronado.

“There it is,” said one of the military officers.

Sure enough, the orange-and-yellow top and cab of a box truck came into view.

The phone rang through this time, and Thorpe picked it up. “Yeah. We see it. Do you have an address?” Thorpe jotted it down on his pad. “Forward the information to the away team up on I-5. Tell them to get NEST, the two Delta snipers, and as many of our hostage-rescue people as possible. Pile them into choppers and dispatch them ASAP to that location. Give them the description of the truck and see if you can forward the satellite imagery so they can see it.”

One of the military officers tried to get Thorpe’s attention. “Ask them if they can zoom out on the image,” he said. “I’d like to see a larger area so we can assess what’s involved.”

Thorpe relayed the message, and a few seconds later the satellite image pulled back, offering a smaller-scale image and less detail of a much larger area including parts of the bay. The second it came into focus the officer, his eyes glued to the screen, said, “Oh, God! No!”