Four
“Where are you from, my friend?” The Mexican, one thin hand on his brown beer bottle, squinted through the empty bar’s midday gloom, and across the table at the Asp.
The Asp stifled a frown that would betray his frustration at the question.
He had conducted his Shanghai business successfully, despite a forger who had tried to re-trade a deal, and was therefore now dead. He had then crossed the Pacific by freighter without further incident, from Shanghai to Lima, Peru.
Although his mother had been born in Peru, and what Spanish the Asp spoke he had learned from her, he had not stayed long in Lima.
By back roads, and through back doors, he had crossed Colombia’s porous borders. Then the borders of Central America’s jigsaw of nations. Until he arrived here in Ixtepec, north of the equally porous border that separated Guatemala from Mexico.
Behind the Asp lay thirty-five thousand excruciatingly slow, but impeccably secure, kilometers. He had spent hours in his onboard cabin, practicing his Spanish. He had kept his facial hair shaved down to a Mexican-style mustache. He had acquired, and wore, Mexican peasant clothes.
But now, after hearing the Asp speak just a few words in Spanish, this man had realized instantly that the Asp was not Mexican.
Two thousand kilometers—thirteen hundred miles, he reminded himself—still separated him from the United States’ southern border. The closer he approached that border, the greater his risk became. His appearance was consistent with those around him here. But, with his accent, he dared not risk traveling without local assistance. Even though local assistance came with its own risks.
He answered the man. “I am from Peru.”
“Ah.” The man nodded. “I knew by your accent you weren’t local. What brings you to Ixtepec?”
“I’m looking for a Vaquero.” He used the word for “Cowboy.” It was the title applied to recruiters, who filled the northbound migrant pipelines to America.
“Me?” The Mexican pointed a finger at his chest as he shook his head. “Assisting people who want to sneak into the United States is against the law.”
“Of course.” The Asp pointed through the bar’s open door. “But the lady selling bread, on the plaza, suggested you might know of such a person.”
The Cowboy smiled, and nodded. “Ah. My aunt. I am not in the business, of course. But as you are a friend of the family, perhaps I could provide hypothetical advice. You are alone?”
The Asp nodded. “Hypothetically, what service would such a person provide?”
“First the traveler needs a place upon the back of the beast.”
“The beast?”
“The train that will transport you as far as Mexico City.”
“First I must buy a railway ticket?”
The Cowboy shook his head. “It’s a freight. As long as you are traveling under an organization’s protection, the railroad personnel and the police along the way will not trouble you. It is safe, but it is not luxurious. Our clients ride on the car roofs, rain or shine.”
“I am a simple man. That is quite satisfactory. What then?”
“In Mexico City, an organization’s staff will provide comfortable accommodations, until you can transfer to a bus. The bus will take you to the border crossing point you select.”
“What crossing point do you recommend?”
“Where do you want to settle in the States?”
“I need to get to Houston, initially.”
“Do you fear water?”
The Asp wrinkled his forehead, pointed at the man’s bottle. “Only in my beer.”
The man threw back his head and laughed, then said, “In that case, it’s easy. From east of Juarez, almost to the Gulf of Mexico, there never was, and never will be, the great wall you have heard of. The Rio Grande River, its canyons, and the Sonoran Desert through which the river flows, are wall enough. You will be assigned to a group that our affiliates will lead on foot to the crossing point. There all will cross the Rio Grande in inflatable boats.”
“Your question about the water. The river is swift?”
The Cowboy shook his head. “Not at all. Most of our clients are families. They fear for the little ones.”
The Asp hid a smile behind a cough. The transition from hypothetical advice to a negotiation between buyer and seller had been triggered by his single joke. “Boats? Doesn’t that attract attention?”
Again, the Cowboy shook his head. “We employ Chequadores on the U.S. side. Our checkers are the best informed, and most vigilant, anywhere on the border. They know the border patrol’s schedules perfectly. They know where the sensors, that detect footsteps and body heat, are located. They even know the schedules of the drones in the sky. Groups cross only when and where it is safe.”
“How large are the groups?”
“Twenty or thirty, total. Families, mostly. Simple people. Very compatible with yourself. After the crossing, and a few hours additional walk, you will all be met, then moved to secure and comfortable accommodations in the States, until a group for Houston is assembled. Then you will be driven by car or truck to begin your new life.”
The Asp frowned. “It seems that a large group, including mothers and children, would move slowly. And be easily spotted.”
The Cowboy smiled, as he raised a finger. “Here is the reason we enjoy such a good reputation! That is of no concern! Our services are guaranteed. Even if you are apprehended, you will merely be returned across the border. We provide up to three additional attempts at no additional charge.”
“Could I just hire a guide locally, up near the border?”
The man recoiled, eyes wide, as though bitten. “Hire a coyote at the border? My friend, unlike us they are all dishonest and violent criminals. Some smuggle drugs, even while they assist travelers like yourself. They abandon their clients to die in the desert at the first sniff of the border patrol. Or they slit their clients’ throats, then rob their possessions.”
“All of them do this?”
“Without exception.”
“Shocking.”
“Yet one hundred percent true. Also, while we pay taxes to the appropriate cartel, which insure your safe passage, you cannot be sure your border coyote has paid his. If you travel with one who has not paid, the cartels may kill you both. Or may kill your coyote, then leave you alone, to die horribly in the trackless desert.”
“Even more shocking.”
The Cowboy frowned as he shook his head. “Trust me, my friend, you don’t want a border coyote.”
“How much, then?”
“If you were Mexican, four thousand U.S. dollars from here to Houston, all inclusive. If you were Central American, six thousand. Clients from greater distances, like you, are more complicated. Ten thousand. All of these prices include our repeat guarantee. Payable in cash now.”
“That seems high.”
“If you were a chink, or a sand nigger, the fee would be even higher.”
For an instant, the Asp didn’t recognize the slang, but context left no doubt.
He said, “I have heard equivalent services are available for eight thousand.” Failure to haggle might arouse suspicion.
The Cowboy shrugged. “You get what you pay for. Also, because we treat you as family, we offer flexible payment options. Others may not. You can pay one third now, one third before you board our transportation, from Mexico City for the border. The balance upon arrival at your final destination in the States, about to begin your new life. Most of our clients have their relatives here in Mexico wire the last two payments to us. After they telephone them and report their safe completion of each stage.”
“Sadly, I have no relatives who could do that. May I just pay you now for the trip as far as Mexico City? Then we’ll see how it goes.”
The Cowboy’s mouth corners turned down, as though he was about to cry, as he shook his head slowly. “If you unbundle our services, our organization cannot guarantee you will obtain the better life you seek. Because you are like family to me already, I would prefer not to take your money on such a basis.”
The Asp had entered the bar with no intention of involving himself in the conspicuous human cattle drives offered by overacting hucksters like this one. But the Asp was, in fact, the very sort of “sand nigger” that the United States was most interested in interdicting. Anonymity, offered by blending in as just one simple, silent Mexican among many, during the kilometers between this little town and Mexico City, would be worth what it cost.
He slid the envelope across the table. The envelope contained fifteen hundred U.S. dollars. His research had showed that amount represented market value.
The Asp said to the smuggler of humans, “Of course you would prefer not to take it. But you will take it.”
* * *
The Asp collected his pack from the seat alongside himself, then stepped from the idling pickup truck. Its driver sped away, to return eventually to Mexico City, where the Asp had hired him. The Asp stood alone in dusty, moonless darkness, on a winding dirt track that ran parallel to, and ten kilometers south of, the Rio Grande River.
According to his study, the Rio Grande, like the Nile, flowed through a desert. The Sonoran Desert south of the river was in the Mexican state of Coahuila. On the north side, the Sonoran Desert sprawled across the sparsely populated Big Bend region of the American state of Texas.
The silent gray and white desert in which he stood was rocky. Also scrub-dotted, unlike the orange sand sea of the Sahara he knew, that began just kilometers west of Cairo.
The scent of the truck’s petrol exhaust, perhaps because it was like his father’s straight-six Jag sedan’s exhaust, reminded him of his brother’s seventh birthday. Or perhaps it was this night, which like that one was perfectly cool and still.
On that night the Asp’s parents had the servants pack a picnic, and then had given even the driver the night off. The Asp’s father, himself, had driven them all out to the Pyramids, to mingle with the tourists for the Son et Lumière show. All because his brother liked the lights.
The Asp would celebrate no more birthdays with his brother, or his father and mother, in this life. The journey from that happier time and place had already been long and painful, and remained to be completed.
Ten minutes later another car, a Jeep SUV appointed like a limousine, approached. Handsome, in its blocky way, as the Jag had been in its curvaceous glory, the Jeep arrived at the rendezvous. It dropped off the guide, along with the large backpack that contained the inflatable boat.
The guide’s greasy hair hung to his shoulders. He smelled of tobacco and sweat, and wore his shirt open. A gold crusader’s cross dangled from a gold chain that encircled his neck.
Hands on his hips, he looked the Asp up and down, then pointed at the Asp’s backpack. “You’re taking that into the States with you?”
The Asp nodded. “You’re charging me four times, to compensate for the three empty seats you usually fill. So there should be space.”
“It’s not a question of space. It’s a question of what’s in your bag. I’m already carrying a kilo and a half.”
“You didn’t say you transported drugs, as well as people.” And I didn’t ask, because the people who told me about you already told me.
“Listen, man. Coahuila is Los Zetas territory. I pay my taxes to the Z’s. They let me freelance a kilo and a half every trip, because I kick up to them from my take.”
They told me all of that, too. What attracted me to a drug smuggler, operating on the fringe of the Los Zetas cartel, is that, unlike a mere smuggler of peasants, a smuggler like you needs to avoid the Americans almost as badly as I do.
The Asp said to the guide, “I am carrying no drugs. I’ve brought my own water. Like I was told.”
The guide pointed at the bulging pack. “That’s a lot of water, friend.”
“My personal belongings are in it, also.”
The Asp had exchanged most of the diamonds, and almost all the gold, that the Sheik had issued to him, in Shanghai. The Latin American and United States currency which he had received for the gold and diamonds had been in small, easily spent denominations. So his pack now bulged.
The Asp knelt, unzipped his pack’s front pocket, removed an envelope, and passed it to the guide. “Five thousand U.S. As agreed.” He dug through the pack, then handed across more bills. “And another thousand. To compensate you for any anxiety my pack may cause you.”
“Anxiety? If you’re lying, and the Z’s think I kicked up for a kilo and a half, but brought across more, they won’t just kill me. The Z’s will hack my corpse apart. Then send video of the pieces to my relatives.” He slit open the envelope with the folding knife he carried, then counted the bills. Then he rubbed the additional bills between his thumb and forefinger as he cocked an eyebrow. “No drugs?”
The Roman Catholic supermajority which dominated the south half of this hemisphere was merely a geographically distinct branch of the tree from which sprouted Cairo’s Coptic Christian underclass. The Asp had learned to hate the Copts. He had little doubt he could learn to hate their cousins in this hemisphere.
The Asp raised his palm. “I swear upon the grave of the sainted Virgin Mary.” He hoped the reference was appropriate.
The coyote frowned. Then he squatted, with his back to the raft pack, shrugged into the pack’s straps, and stood. “Whatever you say. From now on, keep up and shut up.”
* * *
By the time the coyote led the Asp through the hundred-meter-wide brush and reed belt along the river’s south bank, both the Asp and the guide had sweated through their shirts. Nourished by the Rio Grande’s water and the silt it carried, the foliage offered both concealment and early warning of another’s approach. Even the Asp could not pass silently through the dense vegetation. It was a cleverly selected spot to prepare for the river crossing.
Ten meters from the water’s edge, the smuggler paused and dialed his phone. His sweat-damp face shone in the light and shadow painted by the phone’s glow.
After moments, he nodded, then switched off the message from his lookouts. “We’re clear. Let’s go.”
He unpacked the inflatable, then filled it using a foot-operated pump. With the Asp’s assistance, he dragged the boat to the water’s edge. They clambered aboard, then the current swept the boat downstream. The crossing itself took scant minutes, because the small boat was assisted by the current, which trended from the south bank toward the north bank. On the north bank, the river had carved a ten-meter-tall slope that would have to be climbed like a cliff, more than hiked up. Using a screwed-together plastic paddle, the coyote stroked first from one side of the tiny craft then the other.
Once they had set foot in America, the coyote’s lack of urgency surprised the Asp.
He deflated, then buried the raft. Then he transferred the plastic heroin bags, and his drinking water, into a smaller pack that had been folded in with the inflatable.
* * *
The guide set a pace that the Asp matched only with difficulty. His strength and stamina were returning, but he never had been, never would be, the athlete his brother had been.
The Asp and the guide had consumed the water that each carried, while on the move. So the Asp’s throat was dry and his muscles aching when, tiny and faint in the distance, a vehicle’s headlights winked, then went dark.
The guide grunted, corrected course toward the rendezvous. At four-minute intervals the headlights winked again, for a single heartbeat.
The distance to the pickup vehicle had diminished to perhaps eight hundred meters.
The Asp’s heart rate, already high, increased. It would be soon, or it would be never.
Ten paces later, the Asp began to question his ability to read human nature.
Then the guide said, “Damn! Stone in my boot.”
He knelt, tugging at his right boot top with one hand, while he waved the Asp past with the other. “You keep on toward the car. I’ll catch up.”
Passing the kneeling guide on the man’s left, the Asp withdrew his knife from his left trouser pocket, then flicked open its blade.
The Asp heard fabric whisper against fabric as the man stood, then rushed him from behind. The Asp saw, at the edge of his peripheral vision, the knife the man had withdrawn from his boot. He raised it, to slash the Asp’s throat. The guide lunged for the Asp’s backpack with his free hand.
The Asp was unsurprised by the attack. Mildly surprised by its clumsiness.
He sidestepped, then parried the guide’s knife stroke with his own right forearm. The attacker’s momentum carried him past the Asp. Then the Asp drove his own knife into the guide’s side, above the kidney. The Asp twisted the blade, a wound that stifled the coyote’s scream to a faint sigh.
The Asp barred his right arm across the man’s throat, then wrenched out his blade and slashed the man’s neck, from one carotid artery to the other. He hopped backward, avoiding the worst of the blood gush, and let the guide crumple on the rocky ground. There he bled out noiselessly.
The Asp had been sure the guide assumed that a client willing to pay far above the going rate to cross the border was running drugs on his own. He had been almost as sure that the man would therefore try to rob him of them, his fear of the cartel overbalanced by greed. The Asp had correctly presumed the man would strike after they crossed the river, when he was free of the inflatable boat. But his client was still burdened with his own pack, and also further fatigued by the long trek.
If the guide had simply performed his part of the bargain, the Asp would have relied on him to keep silent. There was honor among thieves. The Asp would then simply have vanished into the great American abyss. Just like thousands of Mexicans did each month.
Once the guide’s attack had proven his untrustworthiness, killing him became not merely justifiable, but a necessary precaution.
The only true gamble had been that the guide did not carry a pistol. Or that, if he did, he would not use it, because a shot echoing in the desert might attract attention.
The Asp knelt, rolled the corpse onto its side, and retrieved from the man’s pack the money he had paid the guide. He also removed one of the dead smuggler’s plastic heroin bags. He released the body and it flopped back, face up, its dead eyes staring at the stars.
The Asp stood as the headlights winked again, a beacon drawing him deeper into America’s dark heart. During his journey, so far, he had successfully relied on the presumption that others did not carry guns. But now he was in America. Here everyone, criminals, police, shopkeepers, women, children, carried guns everywhere. He would henceforth approach all Americans as though he were approaching one of the Nile cobras from which he had taken his nom de guerre.
He shook his head and sighed. American society’s casual acceptance of violence disgusted him.
Astride the bloody corpse he had just created, the Asp cocked his head at the irony of his observation. Then he reminded himself that American violence was random, Godless bestiality. On the other hand, violence furthering God’s purpose was simply a tool. As was the soldier who used it.
He grasped the guide’s head by its hair, then, with his free hand’s fingers, located the cartilaginous interval between two cervical vertebrae. The guide’s hunting knife was notched along its spine. This created a saw-toothed edge, sharp and sturdy enough to cut brush, or to dismember game.
The Asp paused for breath when he had finished sawing. Then he re-gripped the guide’s hair, and twisted. Cartilage popped, and the head tore loose, as easily as a roasted lamb’s leg did. The head dangled by its hair from the Asp’s fist, leaking like a broken melon in a paper sack.
He laid the head, eyes up, alongside the torso, then slit the heroin bag with the guide’s knife. Squeezing the head’s dead, but still-pliable cheeks, he poured white powder into the mouth until it mounded up between the dead man’s lips, and streaked his face.
If the body were found before desert scavengers ravaged it, the presumption would be that, just as the guide had feared, the cartel had disciplined a freelance cheat.
The headlights winked again. The Asp stood, then circled wide to approach the vehicle from behind.