“Buzz us if you need anything,” says Bob, and they depart.
Calaphas proceeds to an office for visiting agents. He needs a workstation programmed to provide, with minimal keystrokes, access to all computer systems in which the ISA installed undetectable rootkits. That is every system of significance in federal, state, and local government, as well as those in the private sector.
He withdraws Woodbine’s smartphone from a jacket pocket and switches it on and enters the pass code. He activates the link to the transponder that the attorney planted with his run-for-it money, and a map of the current vicinity appears on the screen, but nothing further occurs. Maybe the transponder is dead.
As he puts his iPhone on the desk to prepare it, he realizes that Mace, with his extraordinary abilities, might have learned the name of the agent assigned to find him. If he has Calaphas’s phone number, he’ll be able to track its transponder. Using the intercom, Calaphas buzzes Bob Klink to request a new iPhone from the safe-house supply, specifying that it must not be registered to him.
Bob is remarkably efficient. He produces the phone in five minutes, along with a refreshing bottle of Calaphas’s favorite ale.
“I also must have a car from your motor pool, one with a disabled navigation system, so it can’t be tracked. You’ll need to keep my agency car here until I return for it.”
Using the computer, Calaphas enters a Department of Defense satellite system that can track any registered transponder, and he inputs the number he got from Woodbine. In a minute, the screen fills with a map. A blinking red dot puts the vehicle—and Michael Mace—in south Orange County, speeding toward San Diego County, as if he’s heading for Mexico. The transponder is active, after all; the glitch was with the app linking it to Woodbine’s phone or with the phone itself. Even as Calaphas watches, the Bentley exits the interstate and proceeds inland on a state highway, which isn’t what Mace would do if his destination was the border.
The DOD system can continuously track a few thousand vehicles simultaneously. Calaphas instructs it to stay on the Bentley and to link with his new agency iPhone until further notice. The map on the computer now appears on the smaller screen of that phone, the red signifier blinking. He backs out of the Department of Defense system and shuts off the computer. He pockets both his new phone and Carter Woodbine’s, which he’ll plant on Mace’s corpse.
In the basement, the safe-house armory lies behind a steel door. Access is granted when he enters his agency ID number in the keypad. The forty-foot-square room is a wonderland of weaponry. He selects a prepacked carrying case that contains an AR-15 and four loaded magazines with twenty rounds each, all snugged in a formed-foam lining for rattle-free transport. A pair of state-of-the-art night-vision glasses might prove useful, as might a police lock-release device. Although he avoids negative thinking, he takes a lunchbox-size medical kit that contains prescription painkillers, antibiotics, antinausea medicine, wound-site coagulants to slow bleeding, and other items that might be useful in a time of stress.
His replacement car is waiting in the portico. It’s dark gray rather than black, but otherwise identical to his previous vehicle. He puts his requisitions on the floor in back. Behind the wheel, he starts the engine. He props his phone in a cup holder, so that he can see the screen with the map and the blinking signifier. The game is on, the end game in sight.
WE ARE ENCOMPASSED WITH SNAKES
Aleem and Kuba have no flashlight, but they have confidence in their superior animal instincts, in their predatory skills. They are men among men, testosterone-powered walking versions of the seventy-ton Marine M1A1 battle tank, like in that cool movie, shelling the shit out of any dumb bastard or bitch who gets in their way, always plowing forward, always taking ground. The night doesn’t scare them. Neither does the storm. The trick is to keep moving south, toward the end of the orchard, toward the hick town, which is Nina’s only hope of help. At any moment, she and the boy are going to come into view, slogging along, neither of them with the stamina to outrun their pursuers.
Although all the wood here is dead, the orchard reminds Aleem of the jungle in El Salvador, which was the last time he was among so many trees. He is well traveled. He’s been to El Salvador twice, Colombia once, and even to Venezuela. There was a time when a gang boss rarely went farther from the hood than half a tank of gas could take him. Leave your turf too long, and some fool would take it for his own, so then you’d have to wrench it back at some cost in blood and money. These days, however, a man in Aleem’s position has to be not just a warrior but also a diplomat. Now that certain politicians and bureaucrats find it profitable to open the country to more drug traffic, gangs from Central America are operating everywhere from the suburbs to the heartland. Those machete boys are crazy violent, but even they recognize it’s bad business to conduct open warfare in pointless turf battles. It’s a big country and, for the foreseeable future, still rich enough to support huge numbers of hardworking criminals. To negotiate mutually beneficial turf boundaries in major cities, some cool specimens in the State Department, on their own hook, from time to time fly leaders like Aleem south to lands of higher humidity, more snakes, and truly incredible numbers of large insects, to establish trust and a sense of community with others in his line of work.
Usually those conferences take place in urban settings. But on one memorable occasion, the boss of bosses with whom Aleem spent two days in discussions, Pepe Blanco, had a luxurious horse ranch on a two-hundred-acre grassy plateau surrounded by jungle. The days were filled with negotiations, but the long evenings were given to lavish banquets awash in the finest wines, attended by the most beautiful young girls that Pepe’s scouts had found and brought to the ranch after buying them from their families or killing those parents who were too virtuous for such bargaining. On the second night, as part of the entertainment, Pepe and his inner circle took Aleem and the man from the State Department off the plateau and into the jungle, to a clearing where three activists, notorious for their resistance to a government run by gangsters, had been brought for what Pepe called “their penance.” A young priest. A university professor and novelist of some renown. A woman physician whose work with the poor included proselytizing against illegal drugs and the men who sold them. Each of the penitents was bound to a different tree along the perimeter of the clearing. Tall, fragrant torches produced little smoke, but their aromatic fumes effectively repelled flying insects. Across the ground and from the palm fronds, palpitant light billowed like discarded silk veils. Tables draped in white linen trimmed in arabesques of lace held an appealing variety of tapas, fresh fruit, and cheeses. Dom Pérignon was chilled in chests of ice and served in elegant Lalique flutes. Three holes, each about six feet deep, had been dug with a backhoe. And now six husky men with shovels stood ready to fill them. The physician, bound hand and foot, was thrown into a grave; she cursed her executioners as moist soil was spaded onto her by the industrious workmen, and then she began to cry out the names of her children as she disappeared beneath the raw earth. Pepe and his guests were much amused, although the man from the State Department, T. Denby Danford, expressed concern. He fretted that such cruelty was unnecessary when a bullet to the back of the head would provide the same result as being buried alive. When even Denby realized that his distaste for this soiree was causing offense to the celebrants and souring their mood to such an extent that a fourth grave might be dug, he kept his opinion to himself, turned on the charm, and took refuge in more champagne. Soon, not even muffled cries came from the physician’s grave. As the workmen finished filling it and tamping down the soil, a classical guitarist and a bongoist provided festive music until the time came to bury the professor who was also a popular novelist. Interred with copies of his books, he screamed defiant accusations, using words that puzzled Aleem and most of those present. Finally the fool’s mouth filled with dirt and he was unable to find air to breathe, whereupon the musicians returned to their instruments in high spirits. The young priest proved to be by far the partiers’ favorite. He evoked the most laughter as he resorted to the Lord’s Prayer while the busy shovelers worked up a sweat, especially when he spoke the words that Christ had spoken as the nails pierced Him: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” It was an evening to remember, a celebration of the values that brought them together, a bonding revel. Aleem was exhilarated, filled with pride to be Pepe’s brother from another mother, filled with hope for the future, brimming with ambition. When they returned to the grand house on the grassy plateau, he was offered a girl of sixteen, Margareta, for the night. He told Pepe that two days in this place had tempered him, as steel is tempered to make a better sword; he was such a hard man now, he might damage one lover beyond repair; therefore, in consideration of Margareta’s health, it would be better if a second girl were also provided so that neither would be ruined forever in the process of satisfying him. This tongue-in-cheek braggadocio delighted Pepe. Seventeen-year-old Selena was sent to Aleem’s room with Margareta. He used them well and long and with no respect, but when at last they left him before dawn, he remained sleepless in the recognition that the most stimulating and thrilling moments of the night had not involved those lubricious girls, but instead the three people lying six feet under the jungle floor without benefit of coffins.