“What? Across which border?” Hugo asked.
“You’re going to help us get back into the US.”
“Are you insane, man? I agreed to drive you back here, but there is no way I’m gonna try to smuggle you guys back into the US. I’m not an idiot. The dead DEA agent was after you for something.”
“Dead DEA agent? What is he talking about?” Cameron asked.
Adam shrugged his shoulders. “The guy is dead. Got bitten by a snake.” Adam looked over at Hugo before continuing. “And he wasn’t DEA. He was CIA.”
“Is he dead? Shit. There goes that plan,” Cameron replied.
“What plan? Who are you guys?” Hugo asked, as Adam forced him to sit down on the couch.
“We’re the only people in the world that can get you out of all the trouble you’re in. An American government official is dead because of you.”
“I wanted to save him. You’re the one who let him die,” Hugo snapped back.
“Let’s not argue about semantics. He’s dead, and he was a guest at the hotel where you work. If the police ever decide to check out the cabin they’ll find your fingerprints all over those antihistamine needles. Proving you were there. I’ll even bet that pharmacist had a camera in his shop.”
“Puta!” Hugo yelled. “You set me up.”
“Just an insurance policy. Listen Hugo, I like you. And I wasn’t lying when I said you’re going to do well in life. But I need help to get across the border.”
Hugo sulked as he stared at the empty wall in Adam’s and Cameron’s cheap hotel room. “How much?”
“Give me your best price,” Adam replied. He knew a hustler when he saw one.
33
James Carter pressed the hang-up button on his Blackberry phone, a burner. Fowler hadn’t answered. For a second Carter wondered whether something could have happened to Agent Fowler. But he shrugged it off. Perhaps Fowler was just being extra cautious? Cautiousness never hurt. It was always best to err on the safe side, and Agent Fowler had developed into a valuable and professional asset after that initial blunder in Brisbane three years ago.
The off-the-books operation at the Washington Memorial Hospital had been perfectly planned and executed. The ATF, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, kept track of every single purchase of fertilizer and chemical in the US. At least of a decent size. It was after all the easiest way to create a home-made bombs these days. With the advent of the internet every idiot with a computer was a potential terrorist. Detailed manuals on how to build a bomb capable of levelling a ten-story building, using only fertilizers and some basic household chemicals, were easily available on several offshore sites. It was impossible to shut them all down. If one was shut down, two new ones popped up. It was a constant fight.
So the NSA had chosen a different approach. Instead of shutting down sites, they kept on top of who was purchasing chemicals. And when it came to fertilizers they knew exactly who had acquired what and how much. Although it never made the papers, the ATF raided a couple of farmers every month. Usually the farmers had no idea why they were being targeted, and the ATF never explained the reasons for their raids. They didn’t have to. But it all came down to the size of the land. Some of the geeks at the ATF had developed an algorithm that estimated how much fertilizer was needed for the various farms around the country based on satellite images. If anyone bought more than required, the alarm bells went off. Most of the surprised farmers, who got the ATF on their doorstep, had done nothing wrong. In most cases they had only taken advantage of a discounted price if they bought big.
James Carter had passed on to Agent Fowler the information the ATF had accumulated on every farmer in the state of Washington. Then Fowler had selected an inconspicuous, medium sized farm, which had been taken off the ATF Watchlist two years ago. The youngest of the farmer’s three sons had been fined for smoking marijuana when he was in college, but apart from that there was nothing special about the family or the farm. They did however have a large inventory of unused fertilizers stored at the farm, and according to the ATF reports this was a concern with regards to the size of the farm. Fowler had smiled when he read the report.
They had been the perfect fall guys.
The media had taken the bait like the willing idiots they were. In news article after news article the media had speculated about how the youngest son had become a religious extremist. The most popular theory was that he had trapped his dad and two older brothers in the septic tank, before loading the family van with a thousand-kilo bomb in the back. Two days after the explosion, the FBI had managed to locate the youngest son’s DNA in the ruins of what had once been the north building of the Washington Memorial Hospital. One day later they had found fragments of paper that could be traced back to a copy of the Holy Book of Codyism.
The conclusion was already made.
When the FBI discovered that the dad had bought a small number of explosive primers, to clear some of his land a month earlier, it was a done deal. The youngest son seemed to have taken the opportunity to act on his insane beliefs. The FBI had of course also conveniently found traces of the ammonium nitrate pills that Agent Fowler had crushed in the kitchen blender. Traces of other chemicals had been detected in the youngest son’s bedroom. It didn’t matter that they couldn’t quite figure out how he had acquired the chemicals, or how he had been able to make the bomb without arousing the suspicion of his father and older brothers.
All the evidence was there if you looked.
A crazy lone wolf; a friendless loser who wanted to become famous.
James Carter considered what his next move should be. The agreement was that Agent Fowler should contact him when he was safely across the Mexican border. There he would lie low for a couple of months, before they could decide on the next step. Agent Fowler had suggested that he could attack a Mexican Hospital when he was there, but Carter had put his foot down. The Washington Memorial Hospital operation had been successful mainly because of the intel Agent Fowler had been provided. Attempting to do something similar in Mexico, where they had few contacts and limited intel, would be too risky. Agent Fowler would have to rely on outsiders – criminals - and that never ended well.
The new problem was that Carter needed Agent Fowler to do another operation, preferably in the US again. Nothing scared the population more than something that happened on their own home soil. The closer the better. This time it would have to be somewhere public, something most people could relate to. Maybe a simultaneous strike at a couple of coffee shops? That would do the trick.
But it would all have to wait until Carter could get hold of Agent Fowler.
34
Five days later.
US-Mexican border,
June 2015
The sky was pitch black as Adam, Hugo and Cameron slumbered in the back of a truck veering down the curvy and bumpy dirt road. They weren’t alone. Seventeen Mexicans, all hoping to cross the border to the US illegally, accompanied them. They were all there for different reasons. Some were in search of a better life, others just wanted to get to the US so that they could support their family back home. And then there were the odd ones out; the two Americans attempting to get smuggled back into the US. None of the Mexicans seemed to care though. Everyone had their own reasons for doing what they were doing. No need to ask questions.
Hugo had told the traffickers that Adam and Cameron had lost their passports, and that they just wanted to avoid the whole bureaucracy of getting back into their own country. The smuggler didn’t believe a single word of the story, of course, but he couldn’t care less either. Adam and Cameron had paid their fee. All paying customers were treated the same.
“So when do I get to return?” Hugo asked.
“When we’re safely at our destination.”
“And what exactly is our destination?”
“You’ll know when we get there,” Adam answered.
Hugo didn’t pursue the question any further. He had probably asked it for the hundredth time, and it was pretty clear that Adam wasn’t willing to share more than required. For the next few days Hugo would be stuck with Adam and Cameron whether he liked it or not. But the deal wasn’t all that bad. It was risky, they could get caught by Border Patrol, but Hugo would just be returned to Mexico. It wasn’t like he was facing prison time in the US for attempting to cross the border. And if he stuck to his part of the deal, then Adam had promised that any evidence linking him to the dead CIA agent would magically disappear. As a bonus he would be handsomely rewarded. He would probably make more money on this run across the border than he would working six months in the reception at the rundown hotel.
And he would get to see America.
Hugo had always wanted to see America. He considered taking the money he would make and settling somewhere in California. He had heard that people made lots of money in California.
“He’s not the most talkative person in the world, your dad,” Hugo said.
Cameron smiled. She had grown to like Hugo over the last few days. He was a bit like her. She didn’t have much in common with most other people her own age; she had quit school at age nine, she had lived on a boat, hiding from some unknown enemy hunting her mum and her. Hugo was the same. He was street smart, always looking for opportunities to make a buck. Always alert. And he was pretty cute too.
“Why don’t you shut your gate until we are safely across the border,” Adam said.
Cameron laughed. Hugo really got to him. That was part of the reason she found him so attractive.
Suddenly the truck skidded sideways before coming to a halt on the side of the road. The inside of the truck went dead silent, as the occupants heard the driver open and close his door. Adam clenched his fists, and readied himself for whatever was going to happen. Had Hugo sold him out? Betrayed him? He glanced over at Hugo, but Hugo didn’t seem to have a care in the world.
The back door opened, and the driver pointed at Hugo. “You get off here.”
Hugo nodded, before turning to face Adam. “Follow me.”
“What’s happening? Why are we getting off?”
“We’ve paid for the VIP treatment,” Hugo said, jumping off the back of the truck. Adam and Cameron followed closely.
Adam started to relax when he realised that neither the driver nor his companion was armed.
“You go with him,” the driver said, before heading back to the driver’s cabin.
As they watched the truck disappear down the dusty road Adam turned to Hugo. “Why didn’t we go with the rest?”
“The Mexicans really don’t care that much whether they get caught or not. It’s a numbers game. They just want to get to the other side. We’re now at the Mexican side of the Rio Grande Valley, and there’s a lot of ways to get across to the US side. Some of the kids from the truck will be ferried over by raft in the morning, and they’ll have to hide in the sugarcane to avoid the Border Patrol agents. That’s the cheapest way over. At best it’s a fifty-fifty chance to get across. Others will wait until the weekend, and then the guys will ship them across on jet skis. That’s mostly for kids with family on the other side. They’ll slip into Anzalduas Park and leave with their family when they pack up after a morning barbeque. If the Border Patrol agents don’t spot them crossing, it is almost impossible to know who is there illegally. We can’t afford to take any risks though, so we are going to do a night-time crossing.”
Hugo had hardly finished his sentence before two Mexicans appeared from the dense sugarcane, carrying three oxygen tanks and some scuba gear.
“I hope you’re good swimmers,” Hugo laughed.
35
It was forty-two degrees Celsius, and although the ceiling fan was rotating at full speed it hardly made a dent in the temperature. The sweat was pouring down Cody’s forehead and cheeks. His white robe was soaked.
“I can’t do it,” he said.
“You can,” Alejandro replied. “It is all written in the prophecy. You will walk again.”
Cody’s fists clenched onto the wooden bars, as he clumsily attempted another step. But as soon as he put weight on his right foot it collapsed underneath him. Cody fell face down in the dirt. Two nurses were just about to come to his rescue when Alejandro stopped them by gently raising his hand. Cody didn’t need any help. He didn’t need any sympathy. He needed to toughen up. That’s what he needed. Alejandro knew exactly what damage the veterinarian had caused to Cody’s spine; he had only partially cut it. If Cody was determined enough he should be able to learn how to walk again. And that would give him the self-confidence he needed. If Alejandro could convince Cody that he not only had the ability to heal others, but also had the ability to heal himself, then he could become a lot more useful than he currently was.
Alejandro glanced over at the two nurses by the villa. They stared at their master with such admiring eyes that he knew Cody would serve his purpose. At that exact moment, lying face down in the mud in his white robe, even Alejandro could have believed that Cody was a prophet. The image was as taken out of the Bible; Moses falling to the ground in despair, and God revealing himself. If Alejandro had set one of the nearby bushes on fire the image would have been complete. He smiled. It was the great thing about religion; there were so many stories and images Alejandro could draw on when he wanted to create that feeling of divineness surrounding Cody. If you set it up correctly, you could draw on people’s childhood memories, their fears and their hopes. Most people didn’t go around remembering all the verses of the Bible or the Quran, but long lost memories existed somewhere deep inside most people’s brains. And Alejandro only had to jog those memories. It was child’s play.
Alejandro walked over to Cody and hoisted him up from the ground by his arms. “Again, Master Cody. Again,” he instructed with a firm voice.