The Einstein Papers

CHAPTER 30

As the Chinese cargo ship left Port Isabel, Texas, and steamed through the Brazos Santiago Pass, two seamen wrapped the bodies of Tolbert and his partner in sheets of plastic. Once the two bodies were covered, one of the men grabbed a mop and bucket. Swishing the mop in the soapy water he began to clean the now dried blood from the deck as the cargo ship entered the Gulf of Mexico and veered to the east. Once safely out to sea, the bodies of Tolbert and his partner were unceremoniously tossed from the rear deck.

George Butler, the only one of the three robbers still alive, was sweating uncontrollably. The sweat ran under the wad of paper towels he had taped in place over his shoulder wound. The salt in the sweat stung as it flowed into the open wound, and Butler gritted his teeth as he stood waiting to cross the Mexico-U.S. border at Brownsville. Melting in with the crowd he passed across the bridge and made his way through the streets of Matamoros to a doctor.

"Hunting accident?" the doctor asked in Spanish once Butler was seated in an operating room.

"That's what I said," Butler said wearily.

"That's odd," the doctor said quietly.

"Why?"

"In Mexico we rarely hunt with .38 revolvers," the doctor said as he yanked the slug from Butler's shoulder and began to dress the wound.

When the Chinese cargo ship that was carrying the microbes crossed the Tropic of Cancer at 90 degrees west longitude, the crew began to scan the sky with binoculars for the helicopter they were due to meet. Once the radio in the wheelhouse of the ship alerted the captain the chopper was closing in, he ordered a flare lit.

"To the left," the copilot of the helicopter shouted above the noise of the rotor blades as he spotted the flare.

Banking left, the helicopter came abreast of the cargo ship then hovered over its rear deck. The waves far out in the Gulf of Mexico were causing the Chinese cargo ship to roll from side to side. Matching the roll of the deck, the pilot touched the helicopter down on the deck of the cargo ship. The skids were quickly secured to the deck with chains by the crew and the loading began. Twenty minutes later, with the vat containing the microbes safely tied down in the cargo bay of the helicopter, the pilot lifted off and plotted his return course to Havana.

There the microbes would be transferred to a Chinese jet for the flight to Egypt. The day had turned hot and sticky. A dog with mange rolled in the dirt, attempting to scratch his fur. In a rusty tin shack with dirt floors, George Butler scored some smack from a Mexican dealer he knew in Matamoros. He was itching to shoot up and make the pain go away. Instead he waited in line to cross back over the bridge into the United States. The loss of blood from the bullet wound was making his head spin. His face was a pasty white. His hand twitched as if he were afflicted by palsy.

A hundred feet away, across the bridge, in the United States, a border patrol agent finished his iced tea and touched his partner on the arm. "Let's detain the next three Americans."

"After that we go to dinner," his partner insisted.

"Standard questions?"

"Sounds fair," the partner agreed.

The first American passed the test with flying colors. A thin trickle of sweat rolled down George Butler's neck as he approached the desk.

"Identification, please."

Butler handed over a Texas driver's license.

"Where are you from?" the border patrol agent inquired.

"Texas," Butler said.

The agent glanced at the first three numbers of Butler's social security number that were on the license. "Where originally?"

Butler had an outstanding warrant from Pueblo, Colorado, the town where he was raised. He decided to lie.

"Born and raised here in South Texas," he said with enthusiasm, hoping a local boy might receive special treatment.

The agent glanced at the numbers again: 522. The card had been issued in Colorado.

"You need to come with me," the agent said, leading Butler away to a private room. Five minutes later the dog found the drugs.

The next afternoon the Chinese jet carrying the microbes touched down at an abandoned airport outside Al-Jizah, near Cairo. Two hundred American dollars in the hands of the right people was all the bribe it took to insure that the plane would not be disturbed. The vat of microbes was transferred to a waiting six-wheel-drive truck painted with the logo of an international oil field service company. Once the microbes were safely secured in the rear, the truck drove east and crossed the Khalij as-Suways and onto the Sinai Peninsula. On the ground the Chinese jet was refueled and began the long trip back to Beijing, no one the wiser.

At about the same time the truck carrying the microbes crossed near the Suez Canal and began its trek south down the Sinai Peninsula, George Butler was meeting with a public defender in the dank-smelling defendants' room of the Federal Detention Facility in Brownsville, Texas.

"You get the prosecution to agree to a deferred sentence and I'll give them the goods on a double murder," said Butler.

The public defender was a twenty-seven-year-old Mexican-American who had worked in his position nearly three years. The ideological goals that had prompted him to take the job were long gone. The cynicism he felt would last a lifetime.

"The prosecution can't and won't deal on capital crimes," the public defender said wearily.

"You don't understand. I didn't commit the murder," Butler said as he bummed another of the public defender's cigarettes. "Someone tried to kill me. I'm pretty sure they got my two partners."

"What were you doing when this all took place?"

"Is anything I tell you confidential?"

"No, I'm an officer of the court," the public defender said, growing wearier by the minute.

"Lets just say something is missing in McAllen," Butler said quietly.

"Let me see what I can find out. Then I'll see what I can do," the public defender said, rising to leave.

"Can you leave me those cigarettes?" Butler asked.

The defender turned from the door as he waited for the guard to come and take Butler back to his cell. "Sure, Georgie boy. Smoke your lungs out." Two hours later, after he returned to his office, the public defender read a memo that had been sent from the McAllen Police Department. He picked up his phone and placed a call up the river.

The wheels of justice began to spin.