Steve Martini - Guardian of Lies

“The second we shut the border the media’s gonna know. It’ll be all over the news. If the device is still at the port and the Mexicans stop it, the White House will hand you your head when the public finds out how close they came to another nine-eleven or worse,” said Thorpe.

He was right. Too many law enforcement officials would have to be told what they were looking for to keep it under wraps.

“Then the White House spinmeisters can make up a story to feed the media. We can’t stick our head in the sand any longer. I’ll take full responsibility. Besides, what if the Mexicans don’t stop it?”

Thorpe didn’t have an answer.

By the time we get to the canal, Herman has a taxi waiting. Maricela and I bundle into the backseat as Herman gives directions to the driver in Spanish.

From the backseat of the taxi I am straining my eyes through the binoculars to see if I can pick up any sight of the container. From here it is a long distance across the water, and the Amora is in the way. But I can see part of the road leading out of the port, and there is a train of trucks on it, heading for the highway.

“It was a strange shade of green,” says Maricela. She is talking about the container. “It had some lettering sprayed on one side.”

She is right. I see the container on the back of a truck just as the taxi passes a building on the left that cuts off my view.

“You wanna stop and pick up the bags at the hotel?” says Herman.

“Leave them. We can’t take the time.” I can once again see the truck with the container, across the harbor. It is only a few hundred feet from the exit gate at the port where a uniformed guard is checking vehicles and paperwork. If we could only get there, we could stop it.

“Herman, tell him to pick it up, otherwise we’re gonna lose him going through town. If he gets out on that highway and takes a turnoff, we’ll never see him again.”

Herman says something to the driver, and the man says something back.

“He says his foot’s on the floor,” says Herman.

“Great! Let’s hope there are a lot of hills between here and wherever that truck’s going, because we’re never going to catch him at the gate.”

We make the wide swing to the left around the port, headed for where the port facility joins the highway.

When I look once more with the field glasses, the truck with the container is gone. It’s already cleared the gate. As the road curves to the right and heads up the hill, I see it chugging up the grade about a quarter of a mile ahead of us. It’s just ahead of a U-Haul truck struggling up the hill, unable to pass it.

Herman points with his finger and says something to the taxi driver who slides into the right lane and slows down. The highway is first world, two lanes in each direction with a center divider and cross traffic only where the divider is broken.

There are several vehicles between us and the cargo carrier. The driver wants to know if he should pass them. Herman tells him no, to keep a few of the vehicles between us, but not to lose the container truck.

As we continue to climb the hill, the few cars ahead of us begin to pull out. Within ten minutes we find ourselves directly behind the U-Haul, trying to stay shielded behind the big box truck and not appear too obvious.

Herman tells the driver to back off a little and the guy says something back to him. “He wants to know how far we’re going,” says Herman.

“Tell him we’ll know when we get there.”

This doesn’t seem to satisfy him. He has a longer conversation with Herman.

“He says he stops at Rosarita,” says Herman. “He won’t go any farther north than that. He says the traffic up around Tijuana coming back this way in the afternoon is too much. He’ll lose too many fares.”

“Tell him we’ll pay him for his time.”

“You’re getting pretty extravagant,” says Herman. “Maybe we should count up our cash again, see what we’ve got left.”

“We’ve got close to six hundred,” I tell him. “For that he ought to take us to San Francisco.”

“I can tell you one thing, if they cross the border he won’t go beyond there. He can’t unless he’s got a visa and insurance. Maricela’s gonna have the same problem, and if you try and cross you’ll get your ass arrested.” The minute he says it Herman looks at me and bites his lip.

We both glance at Maricela. She is looking so intently out the side window, her face pressed up close to the glass, that she didn’t even hear him.

“If they try to cross the border, at least one of us has to make it to the kiosk to get the border patrol to stop them,” I tell him.

“That means me, since you can’t run for squat,” he says.

A half hour past the turnoff to El Descanso the road becomes a freeway and the driver tells us we’re approaching Rosarita. Just as he says it the U-Haul hits its turn signal to make a right on the next off-ramp.

Herman tells the taxi driver to slow down, and as we fall back I nearly panic when I realize the container truck is no longer out in front on the highway. Then I see it on the off-ramp in front of the U-Haul.

“ Derecho. Derecho, ” says Herman.

The taxi driver swings to the right and falls in line behind the U-Haul, nearly plowing into the back of the truck. The driver is angry, saying something in Spanish to Herman, both of his hands off the wheel for a moment as we lumber into the outskirts of Rosarita. We drive off of pavement and onto dirt streets.

I can’t tell what the driver is saying, only that he is getting short with Herman.

“You know, I’m getting the sense those two are together.” Herman is ignoring the driver, talking about the cargo carrier and the U-Haul.

I’m hoping that we’re coming to the end of the trip. Maybe they’ll stop for the night. “Herman, you got the cell phone?”

“Yeah.”

“Check it and see if we have a signal.”

He pulls it out, powers it up and waits, then shakes his head. “Nothing.”

We’re hanging back, rolling slowly along the dusty, unpaved street when half a block up the two trucks pull into a Pemex station. The driver of the U-Haul climbs down out of the truck and starts to gas up. The container truck pulls on through and stops in a wide area next to the little mini-mart in the gas station. It looks like a bladder break, all of them suddenly jumping out of the trucks.

“My father!” says Maricela. “That’s him!” Her face lights up as she points.

Where?

There's my father. Maricela reaches for the door, and before I can stop her she’s out, running along the edge of the road.

Herman is out before I can move.

I try to go and the driver grabs my arm. “ Seńor! ĄMi tarifa, por favor! ”

He wants his money.

By the time I look up, Herman has caught up to Maricela and pulled her into some bushes off the road.

I pay the driver and tell him in my best pidgin Spanish and sign language to wait. A few seconds later I join Herman and Maricela in the bushes.

“What’s wrong with you?” Herman is giving her a piece of his mind. “You want to get us all killed? To say nothing of a few thousand bystanders. Think, woman!”

Maricela looks as if she’s about to cry.

“She’ll be all right. Calm down. She got excited, that’s all. She didn’t know if he was alive or dead. When she saw him,” I shrug a shoulder, “she snapped. Cut her some slack,” I tell him.

Herman shakes his head slowly and takes a deep breath. He apologizes and removes his huge hands from her shoulders.

As we’re talking I hear the engine start behind us. Before I can even turn to look, the taxi driver pulls a U-turn from his parking position and heads the other way down the dusty street.