Do They Know I'm Running? Part 32

"They're off-duty cops, soldiers," Happy said. "Maybe even special forces."

"The Bean Berets," G.o.do said.

Samir cradled the AK-47 with a kind of weary admiration. "I wish I had a bayonet."

G.o.do chuckled again, a little less miserably. "Good att.i.tude."

"Give me the Glock," Happy said. "It's the one I know best."

G.o.do slid the pistol across the plywood floor. "Don't plug yourself in the leg."

Happy leaned forward for it, dropped the magazine, made sure it was fully loaded, then slammed it home again. The chamber already held a round. Don't plug yourself, he thought, Glock leg, they called it, the safety in the trigger, so touchy even cops shot themselves.

G.o.do slid the Smith and Wesson .357 after, nodding for Happy to take it, then stuck the Beretta 9mm into his own waistband. Searching the duffel for an extra mag for the AK, he found it, banged it against the floor, then tossed it to Samir. "You'll have more firepower than the two of us combined. Otherwise I'd offer you a pistol too."

"It's okay," Samir said, jamming the magazine into his trousers at the small of his back. "Pistols are for officers."

G.o.do smiled. "You left-handed or right?"

Samir lifted his right hand, jiggled it.

"Okay, I'll go first. I'll circle left, draw fire. You circle right, aim for the muzzle flashes. Happy? From the sound of things, I'd guess the guy who's talking out there, El Recio, he's almost a straight shot from the door, maybe twenty yards. You focus on him. Take him out, maybe the others will call it a day. If all goes well, we'll meet back at the pickup."

"G.o.do-"

"There is no plan B."

A canister tumbled in through the door, spinning once or twice as it spit a billowing plume of blue smoke. G.o.do rose into a crouch, bounced twice. "Everybody good?" He lifted the shotgun to his shoulder. "Honor, gentlemen. Think like a killer. Act like you're already dead."

HE WAs. .h.i.t TWICE BEFORE HE WAS THROUGH THE DOOR BUT HE'D expected that. You measure a warrior by the damage he inflicts, yes, but also by what he withstands. Gunny Benedict taught him that, just as he taught him that pain is illusion, it's only there to fool you, hold you back. One round caught him in the ribs, the other the thigh. Adrenalin kept him upright, moving to contact. He spotted for muzzle flash, fired, pumped, fired, trying to stay out of the headlights' center but always moving, arcing left. He saw a man spin down, another cover his face and drop his weapon, silhouettes cowering by their SUVs. The battle distortion he'd known before returned, the disconnect between sight and sound, feeling like a promise, harkening back to Al Gharraf, Diwaniyah, Fallujah, and in the sudden stillness he heard the plucking of guitar strings, "Cancion de Cuna," Roque's Cuban lullaby. It gave him heart, even as machine-gun fire raked his knees and he twisted down into powdery dirt and razor-sharp rocks, struggled to rise, caught another round in the neck and one more in his skull. Blinding, the last. He rolled onto his side, racked, fired, racked again, aiming into the silence until there were no more rounds in the magazine and he dragged the Beretta from his waistband, tried again to sight a target, taking fire like a pincushion and unable to feel the trigger against his finger or the hand at the end of his arm, unable to hold up his head while his throat filled with blood and the headlight glow swelled like an incoming wave. Once the wave crested he saw it, suspecting it had been there all along, suspended in the young girl's hand. The bright red blossom of the fire tree.

SAMIR DOVE OUT THE DOORWAY FIRING ON FULL AUTO, THE HEAVY AK rounds splintering gla.s.s, carving up metal. Targeting on muzzle flash in the drifting smoke, he spotted one gunman, fired, took him down, sighted on another, fired, resisting the upward pull of the barrel. Another kill. He caught them by surprise, all eyes focused on G.o.do. We'll meet back at the pickup, he thought, daring to picture the off-campus cottage, brickwork and vines, the woman kneeling in her garden, the girl practicing clarinet inside, the library shelves lined with Don Quixote, Ulysses, Life on the Mississippi, Yo el Supremo Don Quixote, Ulysses, Life on the Mississippi, Yo el Supremo, then a spray of bullets, like a sudden cloud of wasps, encircling, tightening, closing. He felt the slash of pain across his back even as he fired and took down one more gunman but the weakness came right after, legs jibbing, no strength. He fought to right himself and just that pause left him open. Another blistering stripe, this one up his chest and into his face, he spun backward. What he feared became what he knew-Fatima, Shatha, forgive me my lies, my weakness, my failure-even as he drew himself up, hefted the rifle above his head like an ax and charged the faceless invader before him.

Inshallah ...

HAPPY GAGGED AS THE BLUE SMOKE THICKENED, REMINDING HIMSELF.

that all he'd wanted was to be a better son. Rising to his feet, he firmed his grip on the Glock in his right hand, then with his left drew the Smithy from under his belt. He felt a sudden terror that no one would remember him-mother, father, both dead-he would not be missed by any living thing. Roque, maybe. Run, he thought, run f.u.c.ker, you and your woman, make it across and remember me.

He dove out the door and headed as best he could tell straight for El Recio, guessing the spot where his voice had come from. Sure enough, there he stood, taking cover behind the door of one of the SUVs, watching G.o.do convulsing on the ground. Samir was off to the right somewhere. Was Osvaldo there? Kiki? Hilario? Were there ghosts to account for? Happy charged, firing two-handed, making half the distance before the gaunt bald asthmatic even knew he was there. I've never loved anything, he realized, as much as this f.u.c.kface loves his d.a.m.n snake. The rest of the distance collapsed and he was pounding with the pistol b.u.t.ts, bashing the face, erasing that smile, crushing the throat, fighting off the hands of the other men trying to drag him off and remembering the song the b.a.s.t.a.r.d had sung that night, in the cop's kitchen, as they forced the parents to watch their little boy get burned alive: Hoy es mi dia Voy a alegrar toda el alma miaToday is my day I'm going to fill my soul with joy

THEY FLAGGED DOWN A BUS ABOUT A MILE NORTH OF THE HOUSE. Lupe, sensing the opportunity in the gunfight, had slipped off during the worst of it, when G.o.do went down. Roque didn't follow, not then, he couldn't. Instead, jumping up idiotically, he'd called out or screamed, made some sort of sound, no memory now exactly of what; his throat still felt scorched. He might as well have stayed quiet for all the good it had done; no one heard him over the gunfire. At some point he turned, scrambled after Lupe, remembering none of that, either. But on the bus his memory revived, seeking its vengeance. Images clapped and hammered inside his brain, flashes of the bloodshed, his brother, his cousin, the maddening Arab, then wave after wave of shame and guilt, panic attacks, stabbing blame: You ran. You survived.

They stepped off the bus at the turnoff to Naco, then thumbed a ride from a fat-bellied trucker in a Stetson who turned out to be an evangelico evangelico, witnessing them gustily during the drive then dropping them off at his storefront church. They stayed long enough to justify a fistful of cookies chased with scalding coffee, then muddled their way to the bus terminal, knowing they'd find phones there. Reading the number off the torn corner of a paper bag, Roque dialed Pingo's uncle, the cop from Naco.

His name was Melchior. At the invocation of his nephew's name he agreed to meet at a taqueria near a small park three blocks from the port of entry but he couldn't get free until late the next day.-I'm sorry, he said, I have work, my family. But tomorrow, yes, we'll get together I have work, my family. But tomorrow, yes, we'll get together.

The storefront church had closed up by the time they returned so they found a place to hide for the night in the alley around back, Lupe's head in Roque's lap. Neither slept.

Come dawn they bought coffee and pan dulce pan dulce at a nearby at a nearby panaderia panaderia and breakfasted standing beneath the awning of a p.a.w.nshop catering to those needing cash to cross over. The store didn't open until eight but already people were coming up alone or in groups, peering in through the ironwork. and breakfasted standing beneath the awning of a p.a.w.nshop catering to those needing cash to cross over. The store didn't open until eight but already people were coming up alone or in groups, peering in through the ironwork.

Once the church opened its doors they sat near the back in folding chairs, suffering the heated exhortations of the preacher from his lectern or indulging the quieter testimonials of the churchwomen, offering sweets, bestowing unsolicited advice, reading at length out loud from their Bibles. Finally, come four o'clock, they made their way to the taqueria and waited.

He showed up with a gun on his hip and a badge on his belt, no uniform. Driving a rust-tagged Cutla.s.s twenty years old, he took them east out of town toward the Mule Mountains, the peaks st.i.tching north across the border, then pulled off the highway onto a rough dirt lane that trailed away among jagged rocks crowned with creosote bushes and paloverde, parking on a bluff in the middle of nowhere.

He glanced left and right, ahead and behind.-I don't know what Pingo promised. But everything has changed up here. You don't have coyotes working the border solo like before, they're either dead or they've signed on as guias guias with the cartels, who use the gangs as enforcers. A man I know, a cop like me, he and his family were tortured and killed the other night-what he did or didn't do exactly I don't know, but everyone in the corridor heard the news. There was a boy, seven years old, the stories of what they did to him ... I have a family. I will not let that happen to them with the cartels, who use the gangs as enforcers. A man I know, a cop like me, he and his family were tortured and killed the other night-what he did or didn't do exactly I don't know, but everyone in the corridor heard the news. There was a boy, seven years old, the stories of what they did to him ... I have a family. I will not let that happen to them.

-I'd never ask such a thing, Roque said. He glanced sidelong at Lupe sitting alone in the backseat. He doubted he had ever felt so tired.

-Life means nothing to these f.u.c.ks. If you're lucky you just get used as decoys. The others, they take your money, make you a promise, then disappear, or take you into the desert and leave you there. Even the decent ones shake you down for more once they get you across.

-But isn't there some way, without dealing with this El Recio, that we could make the crossing?

-I know this El Recio-know of him, I should say. If you owe him? Pay.

-We did pay. Now he's claiming we didn't. He won't let Lupe cross regardless.

Melchior shook his head.-I don't envy you. But I don't know how to help you, either.

-What if we cross somewhere else? Farther west. Nogales. Maybe California.

-It's harder there than here. And ask yourself, can you outrun word from El Recio's spies if you get spotted? If there's a price on your head, you can bet there are people looking for you. Bus drivers, street vendors, cabbies, bartenders, you don't know who's taking the money, playing along. More than you can imagine, believe me.

With her chin, Lupe gestured to the mountains straight ahead.-There has to be a way across through there.

-Sure, there's a way. And you can take your chances. But once you reach the border they have hidden infrared cameras, thermal sensors that pick up your body heat, seismic sensors that hear your footsteps. They've got border guards with night-vision goggles stationed every half mile in places, not to mention the f.u.c.king fence. At the end of this road right here, about a mile or so up the canyon, there's a pa.s.s that runs along the western slope of those hills, straight ahead, not too steep, not too difficult, but cold as f.u.c.k at night and that's when you have to cross. That's also when the snakes come out, rattlers and sidewinders, the tarantulas, the scorpions. The pa.s.s disappears into those trees, then winds down on the far side beyond the border. The fence doesn't reach that far up the mountain, that's how you get through. But remember, most people who cross reach a designated s.n.a.t.c.h spot, get scooped up and taken to a safe house. You don't have somebody waiting. You'll be stranded over there with miles and miles to walk and the border patrol will be onto you before you even get to a major road-if you're lucky. If you're not lucky, you walk until you die. Your only chance is to reach someone's house, break in and hide, maybe steal a car, head for Tucson or Phoenix. Or you can try to find a church, beg for someone's help. But your chances are slim. The sidewinders, the tarantulas, the scorpions. The pa.s.s disappears into those trees, then winds down on the far side beyond the border. The fence doesn't reach that far up the mountain, that's how you get through. But remember, most people who cross reach a designated s.n.a.t.c.h spot, get scooped up and taken to a safe house. You don't have somebody waiting. You'll be stranded over there with miles and miles to walk and the border patrol will be onto you before you even get to a major road-if you're lucky. If you're not lucky, you walk until you die. Your only chance is to reach someone's house, break in and hide, maybe steal a car, head for Tucson or Phoenix. Or you can try to find a church, beg for someone's help. But your chances are slim. The gringos gringos have lost all pity. Ask for so much as a drink of water they'll turn you in. Or shoot you have lost all pity. Ask for so much as a drink of water they'll turn you in. Or shoot you.

Lupe leaned forward in the backseat, gripped Melchior's shoulder.-It can't be as impossible as you say. Thousands get across every year, every month.

-Because the cartels have millions for bribes, they corrupt the border guards. Those guards leak word about when and where a spot will be clear. Yes, thousands get across. But thousands get caught, too. The cartels determine who gets lucky, who gets screwed. And the screwed will be back, paying over and over.

Lupe moved her hand from Melchior's shoulder to Roque's.

-Come on. We'll walk. He says there's a pa.s.s at the end of this road. It's still light enough, we can find it. What good will sitting here do us? The longer we- Glancing up into the rearview mirror, she saw Melchior's eyes flare with dread. Spinning around, she saw the headlights in the twilight, the churning plume of dust.

Melchior turned to Roque and raised his hands.-Take my gun, hold it on me. When Roque just sat there baffled, Melchior shouted:-Take my f.u.c.king gun and hold it on me!

Roque did as he was told, glancing through the rear window at the approaching vehicle-a black Chevy Suburban with tinted gla.s.s, lurching as it hit the rocks and ditches along the unpaved road. Melchior reached around behind him, opened his door, stepped out of the car with his hands held high so everyone in the approaching Suburban could see.-There is a flashlight in the glove compartment. You'll need it-but be careful not to use it too much, they'll spot you from twenty miles away coming down the mountain. Now get behind the wheel, drive like h.e.l.l to the end of this road, then run for the trees up the hill. He stumbled backward in the dusty gravel.-If you ever see Pingo again? Tell him to forget my name.

The crack of a pistol shot, then the bullet whistling overhead: Melchior dove for the ground, Roque lurched across the center console, got behind the wheel, turned the ignition, lodged the gearshift into drive and shoved the gas pedal to the floor just as a second shot pierced the back window. Lupe screamed. Roque ventured a quick over-the-shoulder glance and spotted blood as the car fishtailed up the soft rutted road.

-Are you all right? He palmed the wheel, righting the car. He palmed the wheel, righting the car.

She didn't answer, crouched down on the seat. The back window was webbed with fissures spiraling out from the bullet hole. The Cutla.s.s lurched into a rut, dug out again, chewing up rocks, veiled in clouds of dust as it continued up the impossible road. Roque glanced back again, saw her right hand grabbing her left shoulder, threads of blood between her fingers.-It's all right, she hissed.-Hurry, go!

He considered some sort of evasive back and forth but, given the ruinous condition of the road, the vagueness of the path, he feared he might just as easily wander into a bullet's path as out of one. Speed, he thought, get away from them, create distance so you have time to run.

He gunned the engine, steering around the worst craters and biggest rocks but otherwise barreling straight ahead, checking his mirror from time to time, trying to see if, through the shifting clouds of dust, he was managing any real separation. The sound of more gunshots but only one bullet landed, hitting the trunk with a pinging thoont thoont. He soared over a sudden crest, a brief gut-fluttering weightlessness, then the cha.s.sis crashed down again, first the rear, then the front, tires biting into the rocky sand as he regained control, accelerated out of another fishtail and charged forward.

In the backseat Lupe was breathing fast and shallow but made no other sound, lying flat to keep from getting shot twice. Roque thought of his uncle, wondered what advice he'd give, thought about G.o.do too, Happy and Samir, vowing to himself he wouldn't punk out now, wouldn't shame them, then saw ahead the pine and oak trees marking the first ascent of the foothills. A low outcropping of marbled rock loomed a mere hundred yards ahead, he reached for the glove compartment, slapped it open, rummaged around for the flashlight, all the while gripping the wheel with his left hand, steering straight ahead at full speed. Over his shoulder, he shouted at Lupe: "Listo!" "Listo!"

As he approached the road's end he fishtailed the car around so that it faced the way they'd just come. He shouted for Lupe to get out, waited for her to shove open the rear door and flee the car, then got out himself, found a rock the size of a melon, lodged it onto the gas pedal, threw the gearshift into drive. Following Lupe, he scrambled up the rocks toward the tree line. The Cutla.s.s lumbered off, picking up speed as it lurched downhill, forcing the approaching Blazer to stop, turn, dodge the huge bouncing downhill missile until it slammed into a sprawling jut of scrub-nested saguaros with a dusty clanking thud.

Lupe faltered as Roque came up behind and he caught her sleeve, dragged her upright as still another shot rang out, the bullet whistling past them into the trees-a snapped branch, a shower of dry pine needles. He pulled her roughly after him, the rocks beneath their feet razor-edged in places, in others soft and flinty, powdered with dust, littered with pellet-shaped acorns. As they reached the edge of the forest he caught the welcoming tang of resin.

Below, the Blazer careened to a lurching stop, followed by three more gunshots, strangely wild, then a sudden silent impulse told him: Stop! He drew up in his tracks, used his body as a shield to keep Lupe behind him, just as he felt the rippling concussion of air, like an invisible current pulsing in front of him. The bullet missed by inches.

A clipped throaty voice called out:-Roque Montalvo! We've got your cousin.

He hurried beneath the tree canopy and pushed Lupe behind him before turning back, thinking: Spanish, clever, work on both our consciences, play one against the other. A tall spidery man with a shaved head leaned against the SUV, clutching his mid-section, his movements st.i.tched with pain. A smaller man dressed in black with long flowing hair climbed out from behind the wheel, flourishing a pistol. A third man in a suit and cowboy boots dragged from the backseat a fourth and final man, this one with his hands tied behind his back: Happy. He staggered blindly, weak from a beating, his shirt dark with blood. The man in the suit pressed a pistol to his head and drove him to his knees, the spindly bald one calling out:-Come back down, you and the girl. Otherwise ...

Roque still held Melchior's pistol. From this distance, though, he doubted he'd hit anyone, no matter how carefully he aimed. He might be able to slow them down if they chose to climb up after them but that was the best he could hope for. The air felt cool in the tree shade. Another hour or so, the sun would set.

Happy threw back his head, a soulless voice, "f.u.c.k them, chamaco chamaco. Run!"

Using his pistol, the one in the suit cracked down hard, the back of the skull. Happy crumpled, toppling onto his side in the dust.

-Is this what you want? The tall one bent over, coughed, waved a limp hand toward Happy.- The tall one bent over, coughed, waved a limp hand toward Happy.-Come on. Think. You won't make it, you know that, right? I know just where that trail comes out.

All I gotta do, make one call, they'll be there on the other side, waiting. Stop d.i.c.king around, give your cousin a chance here.

From behind, Lupe, her voice tight with pain:-I can't ask you to do this.

He could smell the stale coppery odor on her breath.-Then don't ask.

She tried to brush past.-I owe it to his father.

Roque stopped her with his arm, holding her back-he could feel her draining strength.-They're going to kill you, if you're lucky. Kill us all. Who's that repay?

Her eyes met his and yet he couldn't feel himself within their gaze.-I've brought nothing but sorrow to your family.

-What's happened, we brought on ourselves. Happy knows that better than anybody.

-It's asking too much.

-You're not asking anything. Now trust me.

He braced himself against one of the trees, lifted Melchior's gun and steadied it, closing one eye, squinting to aim with the other. For the merest instant he revisited the day that Tio Faustino moved in, bringing his fourteen-year-old son along with him. He wasn't known as Happy yet, that would come later, but even then he was cool and watchful and defiantly sullen. G.o.do hated him at first glance but that was G.o.do. Roque wondered if he'd bother to laugh if somebody told a joke. Tia Lucha made pozole pozole for dinner, a hominy stew with chunks of pork, and no one spoke during the meal, spoons traveling from bowl to mouth uninterrupted except for Tio Faustino's increasingly hopeless stabs at chat. At one point, Roque's eyes rose from the table and he caught the taciturn newcomer, the boy named Pablo, staring. The eyes were black and deep and hard. Roque couldn't help himself, maybe it was fear, maybe it was daring, maybe the simple human need to connect, but he smiled. And for a fleeting second he saw a softening in that unavailing gaze, the slightest lifting of the mask. for dinner, a hominy stew with chunks of pork, and no one spoke during the meal, spoons traveling from bowl to mouth uninterrupted except for Tio Faustino's increasingly hopeless stabs at chat. At one point, Roque's eyes rose from the table and he caught the taciturn newcomer, the boy named Pablo, staring. The eyes were black and deep and hard. Roque couldn't help himself, maybe it was fear, maybe it was daring, maybe the simple human need to connect, but he smiled. And for a fleeting second he saw a softening in that unavailing gaze, the slightest lifting of the mask.

If I can just hit one of them, he thought, Happy will know I didn't simply abandon him. The one in the suit presented the best target. If he missed, he might hit Happy, but he doubted whatever agony he caused would add much to what was sure to follow. He drew a bead, fixing the middle of the man's chest in the V-shaped notch of the sight. He took in a breath, held it, pulling gently, slowly, three times in succession. As always, he was amazed at how loud it was. Even more astonishing, the one in the suit flinched and staggered and clutched at his neck, tripping over his own feet and toppling clumsily to the rocky ground as though suddenly b.u.t.ted by an invisible goat. The other two scattered, searching for cover.

I won't stay and pretend I can do better than that, he thought. I won't stick around and watch as they kill him. He turned toward Lupe. She was clutching her shoulder and the bloodstain on her shirt had grown beyond the spread of her hand. If we can get halfway by nightfall, he thought, we might have a chance. He no longer bothered with hope. Everything now reduced to will and luck. He took her free hand, pulled her behind him as he resumed their climb through the trees.-My cousin understands.

THE CHOPPER SET DOWN A HUNDRED YARDS FROM THE CIRCUS OF strobe lights swirling across the desert plain, the law-enforcement vehicles encircling a small enclave of unfinished houses, the capital of nowhere. Lattimore and the others aboard crouched and ran through the rotor wash and churning dust toward the nearest of the houses while the Mexican PC-6 that had escorted them since crossing the border tailed away, puttering off in a northerly loop.

It was just past sunset, not quite dark, the western sky a crimson fantasy of low swirled cloud getting swallowed up by night. He'd flown from San Francisco on a moment's notice aboard an agency Gulfstream, a rare extravagance, arriving in Tucson a mere hour ago, met at the airstrip by an FBI liaison named Potter who'd steered him immediately to the helipad. They were joined there by a crew of ICE agents, like Lattimore wearing raid jackets with their agency affiliation emblazoned across the back, plus a few brush-cut military sorts Lattimore learned were DIA, two tight-lipped civilians who were clearly spooks, bringing Andy McIlvaine to mind-he'd dropped off the planet since their impromptu lunch-all of them sent here to lend some form of credibility to what he could only a.s.sume would be a dog and pony show of inimitable Mexican overkill.

They were met by a uniformed police officer who snapped to with a crisp salute, then led them through the idling crowds of chattering cops to the one roofed house in the tiny development, inside which a battery of tungsten lights transformed the shoddy interior into a brilliant if sordid photo shoot. Near the far wall, the bullet-riddled body of an Arabic-looking male lay sprawled in conspicuously little blood amid the scattered cinder blocks, the sawdust, the litter of nails. Beside him, in even worse shape if such a thing was possible, lay Happy Orantes's cousin, the ex-marine with the torn-up face, G.o.do. The whisking hum and whirr of cameras battled with the rumble of generators and a wafting stentorian narrative provided by a jefe de grupo jefe de grupo of the MFJP, the federal judicial police. The of the MFJP, the federal judicial police. The jefe jefe, bedecked in stiffly creased khakis, hands clasped in the small of his back, appeared to be in control of the proceedings.

With the arrival of the Americans he took a break from his interview and swept forward, hand extended, face crafted into a catlike smile. The cameras followed him as though drawn by gravity. His name tape read "Orozco."

"Welcome, gentlemen." His English was soft, Southwestern. "I was just telling the members of the press about our operation, our good fortune in discovering a suspected terrorist before he was able to cross into your country."

Lattimore only half listened to the rest-the anonymous tip that led them to this house, the fierce standoff and eventual commando a.s.sault, the regrettable but unavoidable death of the terrorist and a gang member who'd fought to protect him. Out of some nagging perversity he wanted to point out how obvious it was the bodies had been dragged in from somewhere else but doubted anyone would care much. The skin of the story would never get peeled back, no one wanted to see what festered underneath. It was one of those tales, the kind all sorts of people want too much to hear-why bother much over details? And though Lattimore finally had in his possession the paperwork from the Baghdad office that could lay waste to the vast edifice of bulls.h.i.t the jefe jefe was erecting, he lacked authority to share. The bureau wanted no part of making its efforts in this farce a matter of public record. Let the Mexicans claim victory. Let them raise the specter of terrorists at our door, without us or them having to prove much. The feigned threat served the purpose of truth-or what the geniuses in D.C. wanted known as truth. Besides, Lattimore knew he'd bargained on much the same indifference to what was real, what was pumped-up nonsense. There were no innocents in the room. was erecting, he lacked authority to share. The bureau wanted no part of making its efforts in this farce a matter of public record. Let the Mexicans claim victory. Let them raise the specter of terrorists at our door, without us or them having to prove much. The feigned threat served the purpose of truth-or what the geniuses in D.C. wanted known as truth. Besides, Lattimore knew he'd bargained on much the same indifference to what was real, what was pumped-up nonsense. There were no innocents in the room.

Regardless, it would matter only to him that a woman named Fatima Ha.s.san with a teenage daughter named Shatha, both using forged papers and a.s.sumed names, had finally been located and interviewed at the refugee camp at Al Tanf. The pseudonyms accounted for the delay in proper identification. Fatima confirmed she was the widow of Salah Ha.s.san, who had disappeared in the custody of the Mukhabarat when her daughter was a child. Her husband was charged with money laundering and never emerged from prison. She further confirmed, after evidence was provided, that she worked at a Baghdad brothel after her husband's arrest, did so for some years, and that her forged ident.i.ty papers had been provided by the criminal syndicate that ran the brothel and provided protection for her and the other women working there.

Asked if she knew of a Samir Khalid Sadiq, she conceded that she did; like her, he was part of the Palestinian community in Iraq. Pressed on the matter, she admitted as well that he had been a client, a particularly loyal one-obsessive, perhaps, was a better word, but his generosity not just to her but to her daughter had convinced her to look past his infatuation. She said she knew he had been a soldier during the war with Iran, was fluent in both English and Spanish, and worked for a local TV station translating news wire items or so he had always told her. After the U.S. invasion, he made a promise to help her emigrate to America. With the war's dislocations, however, she lost touch with him.

When asked if she was aware that this same Samir Khalid Sadiq had been the informant who had identified her husband to the Mukhabarat, she fell silent for several minutes. When she finally spoke, she said simply, "I forgave him long ago, just as he forgave me." She declined to say more.

"We have reliable information," Orozco announced, turning toward the cameras with that same feline smile, "that the Arab was in contact with local pandilleros pandilleros." Gang members. "This was how he expected to get across, with their a.s.sistance. And as I have said, one of them died here with him. We are following up on this and hope to have more arrests in due time."

A predictable move, Lattimore thought, keep the thing open-ended, so you could draw it out until memories faded, the next G.o.d-awful whatever stole the headlines. If necessary, nail a few tattooed bozos, drag them past the cameras and call it a day.

He wondered what had become of Happy, what had become of his cousin, wondered if he would ever know or if, in the final a.n.a.lysis, it mattered. He turned away from Orozco and the wall of lights, murmured a path through the other Americans and headed for the door, hoping the oppressive closeness of the scene wouldn't follow him outside as he tried to think of how he might get G.o.do's body shipped back to his aunt.

COME NIGHTFALL THEY WERE STILL CLIMBING. LUPE'S BREATHING HAD become more labored, her skin felt cool to the touch. Even with his arm around her she stumbled and staggered and nearly fell when the path veered sharply or a tree root rose up through the dusty bed of bullet-shaped acorns and dry pine needles. He tried not to use the flashlight too often. Once, though, as they'd come upon what he'd thought was a dung pile, a sudden stab of light had caused the thing to stir, then slither off-a sidewinder, coiled to strike. He'd once heard that a pregnant woman causes snakes to sleep as you pa.s.s and he wondered if he should take this as a sign. Another time, hearing the low snarling growl of a mountain lion, he'd fired the pistol into the tree canopy, scattering birds and scaring the animal off into the underbrush.

They couldn't stay lucky all night, he thought, nor risk so much noise. His skin tingled with imagined bugs, against which he just kept walking, arm locked tight around Lupe's waist, their hips pressed flush, moving along the narrow twisting hillside trail like a single clumsy four-legged beast. Every ten steps or so, he switched on the flashlight, got his bearings along the path, turned it off.

The path had led them across one rise after the other, sometimes a leisurely upward grade, other times as steep as a ladder, descending only briefly before resuming uphill, to the point he would have given anything to feel the ground dropping off into a reliable, continuous downgrade. His leg muscles burned, the small of his back was a tight ball of pain. He could only imagine what misery Lupe was enduring in silence.

They'd brought no water. They'd had no time, they hadn't known Melchior would drive them out to the foothills and leave them to run or die. Roque wondered if the man was still alive, if his act, the feigned robbery, had fooled the others. He had no such doubts about Happy. He'd heard the gunshots as he and Lupe climbed beneath the tree canopy deeper into the hills. There's no one left but me and Tia Lucha, he thought. Me and Tia and now this one, Lupe.

They came to another rock face, rising like a wall from the truncated path. Flipping on the flashlight briefly, he saw exposed roots and small rock ledges that might provide a fingerhold here, a foothold there. He would have to feel for them in the dark. The bluff extended indefinitely in each direction, there would be no getting around it that he could see. It rose only twenty feet or so, hardly an impossible climb.

Switching off the light he turned to Lupe.-What do you think?

His eyes readjusted to the dark as he waited for her reply. He could just make out the lines of her face. Though quick, her breath had settled into a rhythm and her left arm hung limp, the shoulder of her shirt crusted with blood.-I can try. She licked her parched lips.

-You can hold on to my belt, watch where I put my hands and feet.

She flexed her left hand, testing its strength, wincing.-Let's hurry.

On again briefly with the flashlight-he mapped out his strategy in his mind's eye-then off. He reached for the highest root he could without jumping, dug into a crevice in the rock with his toe, waited for Lupe to grab his belt, then hoisted himself up. Catching his balance, he felt for the next exposed root, got his hand around it, found a second foothold and pulled himself up again, this time feeling Lupe's weight until she scrambled for her own hold below him.

-You're okay?