Troubleshooter

Chapter 48

They rattled along the desert in Tim's Explorer, Bear riding shotgun, Rich and Guerrera in the back. Yet another Border Patrol jeep drove past, slowing until the flash of Tim's badge hanging from the rearview came visible. The patrol officer lowered his assault rifle and waved.

The sun bleached the ground to a near white and made the border fence gleam. They were east of Tijuana, so the expensive fence had given way to a rougher design-runway metal used in Kuwait during the first Gulf War, stripped and rammed into desert sand. Each post went deep into the ground to discourage burrowing. They were in a desolate stretch-no houses, no bushes, just a floodlight every hundred feet, countless jeeps, and the endless barrier.

Twenty-six times as many CBP inspectors occupied this fence line as the one at the U.S.-Canada border. Since NAFTA and 9/11, the Mexican border had tightened up, the initiative propelled, as always, by a set of nifty designations. Operation Gatekeeper firmed up matters in California; Arizona needed its own Operation Safeguard, whereas Texas required Operation Hold the Line.

It was a few years since Tim had spent time along the southern seam, and the rise of militarism took him by surprise. He studied the dead, cracked land on which so many Mexicans died trying to get to paradise. Looking around, it was difficult to see the appeal of the side north of the fence.

They passed a tanker truck spraying water to keep down the dust along the sandy road. The hum of the power lines remained audible. A few miles back, when a corralled mustang had passed under the swaying lines, the static bleed-off had raised the hair of his mane.

"Right…here," Rich said.

The Explorer skidded off the road, angling for the fence. Rich got out and headed for a three-armed cactus. The deputies followed suit, Tim looking around at the miles and miles of sand.

Though they'd just exited the air-conditioning, Bear was already sweating through his shirt. "You want to tell us what the hell we're doing out here in the middle of nowhere?"

"Are you getting us across to interview the guy or what?" Guerrera chimed in.

"No," Rich said. He counted off a few steps along the fence line from the cactus, stopped, and let out a whistle.

A figure sailed over the barbed wire, dark against the sun, screaming. He landed hard, sand sticking to his cheek and neck. The man was hogtied, arms and legs bound behind him with cloth. His gag had come loose.

Tim put his face to the fence, making out the AFI insignia on the transportation-unit van on the other side. The agents on the roof offered Tim casual, two-finger salutes and went back to their game of cards.

Rich cut the prisoner's restraints and hauled him to his feet. "Gustavo Alonso?"

The man remained bent over, sucking wind, fighting to catch his breath. He managed a nod. "Y-yes."

Bear frowned and nodded, impressed. Guerrera's eyes were like coasters.

A Border Patrol jeep slowed, and they all waved except for Gustavo. The driver waved back and kept on.

Gustavo trembled, going at the scabs on his arms with his fingernails. From his urgency it was obvious he'd been waiting a long time to scratch. He looked terrified.

"Now, listen," Rich said. "Closely. I know you don't want to roll on the Sinners. Hell, if I was only up against some shaky aiding-and-abetting bullshit, I wouldn't want to either. But things are different now. You see this?" He toed the sand. "This is American soil. Congratulations. You just reached the promised land. So the problem is…the problem is, you were dicking around in an operation that threatens-as the song goes-this land that I love. Big time. Not just Laughing Sinners on their tricycles but terrorists. Muji motherfuckers, straight off the hijacked plane from Buttfuckistan. Comprende?"

Sweat streaking his face, Gustavo nodded. But he looked baffled.

"Now, on that side of the fence, you're all a bunch of big-family-having, God-fearing Catholics. You know what that means?"

"No."

Guerrera launched into a Spanish clarification, but Rich cut him off.

"It means no death penalty. But on this side of the fence, we're a bunch of pissed-off-cuz-we-got-caught-with-our-pants-down, vengeance-wreaking infidels. Guess what that means."

"Death penalty." Gustavo sounded sure, but he was looking at Guerrera, who nodded gravely.

"Very good, Gustavo. Now, you can play tough guy and prolong your visit to America for, say, the rest of your will-be-shortened life. Or you can talk and go back over the fence. Choice is yours."

Gustavo's eyes darted about. The tip of his tongue inched out and poked at his dehydration-cracked lower lip. "What we talk about. You won't give to them?" He jerked his head at the fence and the AFI agents beyond.

"We can consider this an unofficial powwow." Off Gustavo's blank look, Rich added, "No, we won't."

"What you want?"

"You prepared the bodies?"

Gustavo nodded.

"Stomach balloons full of Allah's Tears?"

Rich's question seemed to catch him completely off guard.

"But only I know my end. I am skilled, prepare well. The bikers mess up the bodies, wreck the estomagos before. They need to learn."

Made of silicone, the intragastric balloons were durable, designed to remain inside patients for months at a time and, by extension, able to withstand embalming chemicals for a few days. Under ordinary circumstances they were filled with saline to make overweight people feel full and promote weight loss. When their utility was exhausted, the balloons were simply popped, the saline was digested, and the balloon passed. There was no proper way to extract a balloon's contents. The Sinners probably weren't going to risk the exposure of getting involved with physicians and endoscopes to finesse out the AT. Trying to improvise was not only difficult but it required skill and a coroner's stomach. Thus Diamond Dog's botched work on the dry-run corpses. And Den's neater job on Marisol Juarez.

"They talk about new guy, better with scalpel," Gustavo said. "I am done with all this. I want no more."

"So the bodies already shipped?" Rich asked impatiently.

"I don't know. They leave in morning for two hour. They talk about airport. I hear phone call when they talk."

Tim's shoulders lowered with his exhalation. At least the AT would be picked up by Jan on the other end.

"American Airlines?" Rich asked.

"I don't know."

"For LAX? Los Angeles International Airport?"

"No LAX," Gustavo said, and Tim felt the sweat on the back of his neck go clammy. "They decide not to risk."

Tim screeched up into the gas station, hopping from the Explorer before the vehicle stopped rocking. The others were at his heels as he ran to the occupied pay phone. His badge tapped the glass enclosure, but the woman inside turned her back. He took her by the elbow, gently steering her out as she screamed at him and even went so scripted as to hit him with her purse. Of course, they'd been out of cell-phone and radio range when Gustavo had blindsided them with the change of plans. There had been an uncharacteristic dearth of Border Patrol jeeps after they'd sent Gustavo flying back over the barbed wire, so Tim had floored it to the nearest gas station.

Bear and Guerrera talked the woman down while Rich crammed into the phone booth with Tim. Jan picked up her cell phone on the second ring.

"Hold all bodies coming into Burbank, Ontario, Long Beach, and San Diego." Tim said. "Right now."

"Okay." No questions asked, Jan put him on hold. He waited, baking in the refracted sun and getting an earful of "The Girl from Ipanema." He worked a hangnail with his teeth. About five minutes later, she came back on.

"You're not gonna like this."

"What?"

"Two caskets came into Burbank Airport on an American Airlines flight from San Jose del Cabo this morning. They were picked up less than an hour ago."

"Damn it." Tim hit the phone booth's siding with the heel of his hand, the plastic cracking. The woman, still arguing with Bear, got quiet and hurried to her car. "Caskets aren't spot-X-rayed at Burbank?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Burbank's not on bin Laden's short list."

"And we all know terrorists strive for predictability."

"Our resources barely cover the high-profile airports."

Rich shoved out of the booth, his palms to his forehead. Tim heard Bear ask him what was wrong.

"Sorry," Tim said.

In a quiet voice, Jan replied, "I'll track down the paperwork, get it over to the command post."

"Thank you, Jan."

Tim racked the phone gently and stared at it a moment before stepping back into the hot desert wind.