Guardian of Lies

SIXTY-ONE

After spending millions of dollars of his government’s money, Alim was gratified by the results. It had taken seven months for the cartel to acquire the two buildings, one on each side of the border, to engineer and dig the tunnel, and to shore it up with concrete and steel rebar.

It had been a seamless operation. The cartel knew that the U.S. border patrol and customs watched the Mexican side of the border for unusual traffic volume and patterns. So the cartel purchased the trucks from the original maquiladora operator just as the manufacturer folded. They used the trucks to remove the earth from the excavation of the tunnel as well as to deliver the building materials. To anyone watching, the volume of truck traffic coming and going from the building never changed, as if the manufacturing concern was just humming along. The cartel greased some palms in the city government and no one ever looked.

The joint venture between Afundi and the cartel meant that a good portion of the cash Alim received from his government went to finance the tunnel’s construction. The cartel oversaw construction and built the tunnel. Alim then had an option for its exclusive use for thirty days, after which time the entire project would revert to the cartel, which could then continue to use it as a narco highway for as long as they could maintain the secret.

The tunnel was only a few hundred meters east of the Tijuana airport and less than three hundred yards long. The building on the Mexi can side was less than a hundred feet from the border fence. The tunnel, sixty feet underground where thermal imaging and motion and vibration detectors sealed off by the heavy concrete walls would never be able to detect a thing from the surface, spanned the distance between the two buildings. Alim smiled at the thought that the cartel had employed a retired engineer from the California Department of Transportation to design the whole thing, though the man never had a clue as to where it would be located or what it would be used for.

In a little more than a minute the trucks were on the surface once more, inside the building on the U.S. side of the border. They wasted no time opening the doors and exiting from the building to merge with the surrounding California traffic.

Alim looked at his watch. Amazingly, they were still on schedule. It was just after three in the afternoon. According to the news reports, festivities were not scheduled to get under way until just before five.

Though Nitikin didn’t know it, Afundi had already installed the cordite and set the timer for five o’clock, maximum effect. The Russian had been in the jungle for so long that he didn’t know about the high-tech gadgets the world had invented in his absence. This included the tiny pencil-lens camera Alim had installed inside the wooden crate, through which he watched as Yakov pulled the safety device, arming the bomb. Alim now no longer needed him. He could have killed the Russian at any time, but he was saving that pleasure for later.

The haze of the exhaust hadn’t even settled inside the building before Liquida centered the red dot on the first of the two men left behind in the building. As he squeezed the trigger, a crimson halo exploded around the first man’s head as the mercury-tipped bullet did its job.

The second man never saw or heard a thing. With his back turned, he was smiling. He pointed toward the open tunnel and turned to share the wonder of the thing with his friend just as the next round transited the top of his head. The exploding bullet blew out a sizable hunk of skull bone, now bouncing off the concrete floor behind him.

In seconds Liquida was down the ladder. He retrieved the sheet of paper Afundi had left for his men. It was a printed map of San Diego, with a route traced along the freeways. It had a dark pen mark at one location. Liquida didn’t need the map. He knew the location well. He had been there only a few months earlier. But as he looked at the detail at the north end, near the end of the route, he had to wonder what the hell was going on.

He thought about his rental car half a mile away and decided Avis could probably find the vehicle by itself. The man whose wallet, credit card, and driver’s license Liquida had stolen on his flight from Houston would probably get a whopping surprise on his credit card bill. He fished through the dead men’s pockets until he found the keys to the small blue sedan. He jumped in the car and two seconds later disappeared down Alice’s rabbit hole to see where it went.

We have no idea where we are. Herman is flat on his belly on the bed of the truck, trying to release the catch on the lock outside with a pocketknife. He is using the light from the screen on my worthless encrypted cell phone to guide his probing with the blade under the crack of the door.

For the first several minutes the vehicle seems to bounce all over the place, first a steep decline and then back up. For ten minutes a lot of stop and go and then finally the constant hum and steady movement of a highway.

Herman finally gives up with the knife.

“No use,” he says. “Blade’s too short. But the good news is, you were right about your father.” He is looking at Maricela in earnest as he says it. “He’s gotta be acting under duress. The way he closed the gate and protected us, kept his mouth shut. Otherwise, I don’t know about you, but Paul and I would be dead right now.”

Maricela seemed stunned and still in shock after the sudden appearance of her father at the back of the truck. The only one more surprised was Nitikin himself. From the look on his face when he saw her, I thought he would die. One thing is certain, we now have his attention, though none of us has a clue as to where we are or where the truck is headed.

“They picked up a signal from Madriani’s cell phone,” said Thorpe. He came rushing into the command center.

“Where?” said Rhytag.

“San Diego.”

“What?”

“Intelligence picked it up two minutes ago. They’re not sure, but it looks as if the signal’s coming from somewhere along I-5, just south of San Diego.”

“How the hell did he get there?”

“We don’t know.”

“He can’t be with Nitikin,” said Rhytag.

Thorpe shrugged his shoulders. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Rhytag thought for a moment. “Pull the tactical squads back from the border,” he said.

“Should we open up the border crossings?”

“No. Just get the SWAT teams, some highway patrol if you can, the NEST team, and the snipers you got from Delta. Alert the hostage-rescue team and tell them we may need them on short notice. Get a precise location on the signal. Give the highway patrol the description of the cargo container and partial plate off the truck and tell them to put out an all-points on it. If they find it, tell them to track it from a distance, but not to stop it. To monitor its location and call it in.”