Trespassers

CHAPTER 1

Nogales, Mexico

Shortly after 4:00 Wednesday morning, a lone driver in a dark blue Chevy Malibu approached Nogales on the Mexican side of the border. He was aware of no other vehicle near him, except that one set of headlights in his rear view mirror. He paid no attention to the lights, his thoughts focused on getting back to his wife and kids in Tucson after his week long business trip in Mexico.

Suddenly his adrenalin spiked when he saw the headlights alongside him and felt the crash of metal on metal, his Chevy rammed hard by the SUV in the passing lane. His struggle with the wheel to stay on the road was futile, and in seconds he was plowed off the pavement and forced to stop his car. Before he could open the driver’s side door, a flashlight was in his eyes, and somebody yanked open the door.

Get the fuck out! a dark foreboding voice yelled

Hands grabbed his arms and pulled him into the darkness, and a sudden blow to his head knocked him out cold. When he came around a short time later, he was seated behind the wheel of his Malibu, his wallet lying on the seat next to him. He rubbed the bump on his head, fumbled with his wallet and discovered his money was gone. His credit cards, driver’s license and U.S. Green Card which allowed him to live and work in the United States were untouched. Given all the recent violence around Nogales, principally drug gang shootouts and murders, he thought himself lucky to be alive.

Should he call the police? Hell no. It would be pointless. So he put the Chevy in gear and drove slowly into Nogales under the dim streetlights leading to the border crossing. Careful to observe the speed limit, the checkpoint down the street soon came into view. Listening to a Mexican talk show on the radio, he passed a man who stood on the corner of a side street about three hundred yards up from the inspection booths. Just another pedestrian with a cell phone in his hand.

It wasn’t long before the driver passed through the Mexican side and stopped for inspection on the U.S. side. Engine idling, he showed the U.S. Border agent his documents. The agent examined them and asked him what he’d purchased in Mexico and what he was bringing into the U.S.

But the driver, who smiled at the agent, had no time to answer. For at that very moment the man he’d passed with the cell phone punched in a number that detonated the C-4 explosives packed in the Chevy Malibu’s trunk while the driver was unconscious outside Nogales. The explosion, heard a mile away, ripped the Chevy and its occupant into tiny pieces and killed three U.S. customs officials and six tourists. Inspection booths and infrastructure were blown to shreds.

It was the fifth attack on the border in recent weeks. A group called REVENGE NOW claimed responsibility.

CHAPTER 2

Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

Georgia Cummings had been on Neal McGrath’s to-do list since she joined the Georgetown University political science department in May. On this mid-summer night they had finished a candlelight dinner at an upscale Georgetown restaurant and returned to her apartment, where she had invited McGrath in for a nightcap. McGrath took this as a good sign.

What will it be professor, she asked. I’ve got some Johnny Walker Black and some Remy Martin. Or maybe you prefer the white lightening. Some Grey Goose, perhaps?

The Johnny Walker will be just fine, said McGrath.

A real traditionalist, I see, said Cummings. Without asking about ice or water, she quickly poured a couple of ounces into a heavy-bottomed glass and handed it to McGrath. Then she picked up the Grey Goose and did the same for herself.

Cheers, she said as she stepped close to McGrath and clinked glasses.

McGrath took something between a sip and a gulp, set his glass on the counter and put his arms around her waist. With her deep red hair, green eyes and full lips, Cummings was a strikingly attractive woman. He bent down and kissed her and she put her arms around his neck and kissed him back. Abandoning their drinks, they headed straight for the bedroom, and in less than a minute they were beginning to slowly undress each other.

My goodness, Neal, you are in good shape, she said as she ran her fingers over his chest and arms.

There’s nothing wrong with your shape, either, responded McGrath, as she stood in front of him in deep emerald bra and panties. He reached behind her and undid her bra clasp.

She moved her arms together and let the bra fall to the floor. Then she took hold of McGrath’s arm and pulled him down on the bed beside her. Cummings arched her back as McGrath reached down with both hands and pulled down her panties. Do you like my flower? she asked playfully, as McGrath looked down on her.

Very much, he replied. And it has a lovely bouquet.

The musk of the civet cat, she answered.

Really? I have to admire a woman who would enhance her lady business with Chanel No. 5.

Shows class and foresight, wouldn’t you say? she asked with a laugh.

Or unbounded optimism, replied McGrath.

Oh, you bad boy, she said. Aren’t you full of yourself?

McGrath ran his hand along her inner thigh, felt the slippery moisture between her legs and stroked her red pubic hair. The bush burns, but it is not consumed, he said in mock seriousness.

Oh, good. Stories from the old testicle, returned Cummings, as she let her knees fall apart.

Just then McGrath’s iPhone started to ring. Oh shit, he said. I didn’t mean to leave that on. He retrieved the phone from his shirt pocket and was about to turn it off when he noticed the call was from Sam Goodwin, a veteran group leader at the CIA whom he had done work for in the past. Against his better judgment he took the call.

What can I do for you, Sam, asked McGrath.

Hi Neal, I’m glad I got a hold of you. Did I call at a bad time?

Well, yeah, you did. But when did that ever bother you?

Probably never, I guess. Listen, Neal, I need you to come in to Langley. I’ve got something hot I need to talk to you about.

I could say the same thing, you know, replied McGrath.

Sorry about that, Neal, but this is important, god damn it.

Why is it just your stuff that’s important? What about me? McGrath asked.

Look, this is about people getting killed. I think that trumps your orgasm count.

Okay, okay, calm down. What’s the story?

For the last four or five months, began Goodwin, "we’ve got border crossers up the ass. A goddamn human tsunami. And we’ve got a bunch of nihilists blowing up shit near the border for no discernable reason. And on top of that, we’ve got Mexican nationalist nut jobs dreaming about reclaiming the American southwest.

Okay, but what do you want from me? asked McGrath.

What do I want from you? Mexico is your area of expertise. This is what you teach, Mr. Georgetown professor. I want to pick your brain. Plus, I’ve got an assignment for you.

An assignment? Oh, no, no, no. I don’t do that shit anymore. Remember? Your last assignment almost got me killed.

I remember, said Goodwin, but you aren’t allowed to just retire. Not while you’re in your prime, at least.

Not allowed? What are you going to do, liquidate me? After a few seconds of dead air, McGrath continued. Okay, I know you’re kidding, but is this really necessary?

Of course it’s necessary. You’ve got knowledge and you’ve got contacts. Contacts we don’t have. Neal, your country needs you.

McGrath rolled his eyes and looked over at Cummings. No, it doesn’t Sam, Georgia needs me.

Georgia? What are you talking about, Neal? All fifty states, the whole fucking country needs you. Besides, you’re going to be working with Elena Rodriguez.

Really, said McGrath suddenly interested.

I thought that might get your attention. Goodwin chuckled.

All right, when do you want me there?

Eight o’clock tomorrow morning, replied Goodwin.

Eight o’clock? Jesus Sam, couldn’t we make it ten? Or nine, even?

No, it’s got to be eight. See you in my office then. Don’t be late.

McGrath slowly replaced the phone in his shirt pocket and turned back to Cummings. Who the hell was that, she asked, a quizzical expression on her face.

The State Department, McGrath lied. Someone I did some work for in the past. They’ve got another little project for me, I guess.

Cummings extended her arms and pulled him down to kiss her. Then we better get started, she said with a smile. Morning comes so soon this time of year.

CHAPTER 3

Television Parts Assembly Plant, Nogales, Mexico

It was after 11:00 p.m. when a dust-covered white Hummer drove up the dirt road on the hilly outskirts of Nogales, Mexico, a trail of dust following it. The Hummer pulled into the parking lot in front of a large white stucco building about two hundred feet long with a row of small windows high on the side. It stopped next to three white Nogales Public Transportation buses with green stripes running along the sides. Parked in the lot near the buses were a black SUV, two green Ford pickups and a Chevy sedan. The lights were on inside the building, and from out here in the parking lot came the sound of voices murmuring inside.

The structure was a rundown assembly plant, a maquiladora, and not long ago it buzzed with Mexican workers putting together U.S. television parts before shipping the sets abroad. That’s how it used to be. But like other maquiladoras in Mexico, this plant’s owners shut it down the previous Monday, dismissed the workers on the spot and transferred their jobs to China where labor was cheaper than in Mexico. It had happened suddenly and without warning.

A man dressed in a military uniform waited in the building’s open doorway, a silhouette formed by the light coming from inside the building. When the Hummer pulled up beside the buses, he tossed his cigar in the dirt, squashed it with the toe of his black boot, and then waved at the Hummer. The driver’s door opened, and a giant Caucasian male with a missing left ear stepped out. In his right ear he wore a diamond earring that glittered in the pale light that emanated from the building’s doorwell.

The Hummer’s front passenger door opened at the same time and another figure emerged. Shorter than the first, the man looked like a walking refrigerator. He closed his door and then reached for the handle of the rear door on his side, just as the person in military uniform appeared beside him.

The man in the backseat eased himself out in one fluid move that looked as if he would be just as comfortable stepping into a wrestling ring as he was standing here in a dirty Nogales parking lot. He had high cheekbones, a hooked nose, slicked-back dark hair and soulless brown eyes. Tonight he was dressed in a dark grey Italian-tailored business suit of the finest silk, crisp white shirt, silver tie and rattlesnake skin cowboy boots with thick black heels. A casual glance at the bulge under his suit coat revealed a shoulder holster with firearm.

He stood beside the Hummer under the glow of the outside light and raised his eyes to the red, white and green Mexican flag flapping listlessly in the breeze thirty feet up on the metal pole in front of the stucco building. The businessman turned his gaze across the street where in the moonlight he saw the fifteen-foot-high corrugated metal fence that extended far off into the distant hills. Three rows of barbed wire stretched across the top of the fence, clearly visible in the moonlight. A faint hint of a smile flitted across his thin lips.

Colonel Jimenez, he said, turning to the officer and shaking hands with him. Everyone here?

"Sí Señor. A good turn-out tonight."

Let’s go inside then, shall we?

Two minutes later the colonel and the man with one ear stepped through the doorway and led the businessman into the main room of the crowded assembly plant. It was lit by pale fluorescent lights overhead, and the crowd parted and stared in awe as the man in the grey business suit made his way forward. Everyone seemed to know who he was and what he could do, and they eagerly moved their plastic water jugs and knapsacks strewn on the floor around them to make a path for him. The room was littered with television parts, trash and rows of flattened cardboard boxes carelessly stacked against the far wall.

Tomás de la Torre, a silver metal case in his right hand, crossed to the center of the assembly plant’s main room as his rattlesnake boot heels clicked on the floor and echoed off the walls. When he reached the front of the crowd, the man with one ear swept a worktable clear of TV speakers so de la Torre might lay his silver metal case on it. De la Torre then turned to face the crowd and stood there for a moment, waiting for everyone to settle down as his fingers stroked a circular medallion that hung from a thick gold chain around his neck.

How many tonight? he asked the colonel.

Two hundred and fifty-two, the colonel answered.

They know what to expect?

Absolutely.

Everything arranged on the other side?

"Totalmente," the colonel replied.

Soon all conversations ceased and de la Torre motioned to a cluster of fifteen sullen-faced men who stood apart from the crowd as they’d been instructed to do. They were the hardened coyotes he’d personally selected to lead these people on tonight’s trip.

You men step over by the wall, de la Torre said, pointing.

You too, the colonel ordered. He pointed to four men in military uniforms, a sub-lieutenant, a sergeant and two privates.

To the crowd gathered in front of him de la Torre spoke in a deep authoritative voice, I know how you feel with this plant closing. It is a terrible blow. Heads nodded. But all is not lost. He reached down and lifted the medallion and let it rock freely like a hypnotist swinging a pocket watch. He said in a monotone voice, "Tonight Santa Muerte will answer your prayers."

At the mention of Santa Muerte, a murmur rippled through the crowd much as de la Torre expected. He waited patiently and rubbed the dark purple scar on the side of his face and neck. When quiet returned, he pointed to the men off to the side. "The men you see over there, the coyotes, see them? They will lead you safely."

A voice from within the crowd shouted, "Which route will we take, Patrón?"

You will use the sewer tunnels. In small groups, de la Torre said.

Sewer tunnels? someone in the front row muttered.

"Did Patrón say sewer tunnels?" Another voice whispered.

God help us, another voice muttered.

Two men and a woman in the back of the crowd picked up their knapsacks and hustled out the doorway. Four or five others appeared ready to follow.

De la Torre expected this reaction. This morning’s edition of La Prensa, lying on his Hummer’s back seat in the parking lot, was filled with news of the fifteen migrants who’d drowned in a flooded Nogales sewer tunnel three days ago during a monsoon. Even without the risk of drowning, the sewer tunnels were a living nightmare. Thugs with high-powered rifles and night scopes chased eleven-year-old kids down there. Untreated waste flowed in the best of times. You could smell the stench of decayed food, chemicals, dead animals and feces fifty meters outside the tunnel opening.

Listen, de la Torre said. The flooding is over, and these men will guide you. Trucks are waiting at my produce warehouse on the other side. They’ll take you to safe houses in Tucson and Phoenix. He stepped back and nodded to the man with one ear, his bodyguard named Zapeda.

The line starts here, Zapeda shouted.

De la Torre motioned to his other bodyguard, the heavy-set black man, who stepped up beside him, near the silver metal case that lay on the worktable. De la Torre pulled a key from his pocket, inserted it into the lock of the silver case and raised the lid. The black bodyguard signaled the first person in line to step forward and handed him a one hundred dollar bill. After each Mexican collected his or her one hundred dollars, he or she walked out the door into the parking lot to board a bus. The bodyguards stayed next to the table and eyed every transaction.

Later, with all the migrants waiting in the buses outside, de la Torre turned to the cluster of coyotes and four military men. Now, before you men board the buses, we have a little matter to attend to.

He reached into the right breast pocket of his suit, pulled out a small index card and studied it for a second. Fabían Carrillo? De la Torre pronounced the name with icy innocence. "Is Señor Carrillo here?" His eyes slowly scanned the group of coyote guides, and one of them, wiry and unshaven, held up his hand.

Ah yes, please step out and come here close to me.

The man raised an eyebrow, hesitated and then took a cautious step forward.

Toño Goros? De la Torre called out. Toño Goros? Are you here?

A man with a slight paunch, a rim of red monkish hair around his baldhead, and circles under his eyes, slowly raised his hand. "Sí Patrón. I am here."

Step forward, please.

Goros stayed put, his brow furrowed. He looked around, his eyes wide, as if calculating whether or not to bolt. After a moment, he ran his hand on his head, rubbed the back of his neck, stepped forward and stood next to Carrillo.

Well gentlemen, it seems we have a small matter to discuss, said de la Torre.

Carrillo and Goros shifted their feet and struggled to hold de la Torre’s eyes without flinching, while Goros stuffed his hands deep in his pockets and clutched his testicles. Neither man uttered a word.

Let me be more precise, de la Torre said. His eyes narrowed first on one man and then the other. Do you know what the punishment is for stealing money from me?

"What are you talking about, Patrón, Carrillo said. I didn’t—"

De la Torre held up the palm of his hand like a traffic cop stopping a car. I’ve warned you about this before, he snapped, slowly unbuttoning his jacket.

CHAPTER 4

CIA headquarters, Langley, Virginia

At 8:00 sharp, Wednesday morning, Neal McGrath stepped into Sam Goodwin’s CIA office on Langley’s fifth floor and took a seat at the dark grey metal conference table. McGrath, in his early forties, a hardened veteran of Army Special Forces combat and now a Georgetown University professor, had worked for Goodwin when he was a CIA Scholar-in-Residence. His current research on Mexican nationalism had prompted Goodwin’s ill-timed call the previous evening. Coffee cup in hand, he greeted the two others Goodwin had called in, Elena Rodríguez and Tony Nuñez. They chatted amiably, which came easily as they knew each other, McGrath and Elena in particular, and waited for Goodwin.

Not that long ago, Elena had been a graduate student of McGrath’s at Georgetown. After graduation, Goodwin recruited her, and she used her parents’ Cuban citizenship and family connection to get a job in the Cuban Ministry of Interior. When Goodwin learned that McGrath was going to Havana to conduct interviews for his latest book last year, he had asked him to look up Elena. At that time, Goodwin played down Elena’s situation and simply told McGrath that she was in a bit of trouble where she worked. Only after he arrived in Havana did McGrath learn that Elena was in a bit of trouble because of Cuban intelligence’s well-founded suspicion that she was a spy. With Cuban security forces closing in, McGrath had engineered their daring escape across the Florida Straits in a small sailboat during a hurricane.

Shortly after they returned to D.C, they moved in together, but after several months Elena got her own apartment. They remained friends, but McGrath was never sure why she left, and would have rekindled the romance in a heartbeat.

Two minutes later Goodwin entered the room and closed the door behind him, a worried frown on his face. I just got off the phone with the Director, he said. There’s been another terrorist attack on the border.

Nogales? McGrath asked.

That was yesterday. This one happened early this morning, Goodwin said.

Where? Elena asked.

Yuma Sector Border Patrol Station, Goodwin said.

What happened? Elena asked.

A car exploded in the parking lot.

Anybody killed? Nuñez asked.

Two agents, Goodwin said and reached for his coffee.

"Did REVENGE NOW claim responsibility?" McGrath asked.

You got it, Goodwin replied.

Jesus, Elena said. This is getting serious.

And we still don’t know who they are, Nuñez said.

We’ve got a task force working on it. Goodwin removed his glasses and pressed the bridge of his nose. "The fact is, Neal, our counter terrorism people believe we have a national security threat. It’s not only border attacks by this REVENGE NOW terrorist group, about which we know very little. We’ve got undocumented Mexicans flooding across the border all the way from San Diego to El Paso. Of course, that’s not new. But the current numbers are unprecedented. In addition, this ‘MEXICAN HOMELAND’ movement is out in Phoenix orchestrating all these protest marches. He paused for a moment to sip his coffee. All of which is why I asked you to come in this morning."

Goodwin, his index finger tapping on the table, glanced at McGrath and continued. Since your research is on Mexican nationalism inside the U.S, I would appreciate anything you can tell us about any one of these issues and any links you see among them.

McGrath pursed his lips and pondered the question for a few seconds. "Off the top of my head, I don’t have anything particularly insightful for you, Sam. My work on Mexican nationalism is focused on socio-economic issues. You know, language and history, territory, songs, literature, ethnicity, all those forces that give a people a common sense of identity. Like the issues stressed by MEXICAN HOMELAND.

But, interjected Goodwin, "what about the motives of MEXICAN HOMELAND leaders? I mean what the hell do they hope to gain?"

The obvious goal would be to forge political support for Hispanic leaders, McGrath said. Let’s face it, if undocumented Mexicans became American citizens, they would form a major electoral base.

Spoken like a true political scientist, Goodwin said. But take it one step farther. Wouldn’t it be easy for a demagogue to claim Mexicans would do much better economically if the US hadn’t stolen the entire southwest from them? The remedy, of course, being to steal it back.

"American theft of the southwest is part of the Mexican narrative, said Elena. They teach it as early as grade school."

A separatist movement like that is a national security threat, Goodwin said. "And not inconceivable in light of REVENGE NOW terrorism."

McGrath frowned. But who can say—

Goodwin held up his hand. Look Neal, let’s suppose for the sake of argument that the idea of retaking land Mexicans think belong to them is in play. If so, then it’s possible undocumented Mexicans pouring into the U.S. and nationalism stoked by MEXICAN HOMELAND are connected to this hell-raising on the border."

With the goal to gain control of the Southwest? McGrath asked, his tone of voice skeptical. He sat back in his chair and eyed Goodwin. So that’s what the Agency thinks?

It’s a theory we’d like to prove or disprove.

Seems far-fetched to me, McGrath said. I worry more about armed militias, white separatist groups like neo-Nazis and Skinheads, all of them hostile to Mexicans. Maybe more separatist than you think the Mexicans are.

Especially in Arizona? Goodwin said.

Correct. McGrath said. Where they sell guns like AK-47s to whoever has the money. Many wind up in Mexico, paid for by drug cartels and human smugglers.

"But any way you slice it, Neal, you got to admit there’s a crisis on our doorstep.

For the next five minutes Goodwin briefed McGrath on the Agency’s latest Threat Assessment and the possibility of an orchestrated Reconquest operation.

Fine, McGrath said. I suppose it makes at least a little sense. Certainly worth an investigation.

Goodwin took another sip of coffee, and then set the cup on the table. He stared at McGrath for a second. I’m glad you agree, said Goodwin. What we need is reliable information, and that’s where you come in.

Me? I’ve told you everything I know.

You can do better. So here’s that little assignment I mentioned last night. I’d like to send you to Mexico City.

"Mexico City? You’ve got to be kidding. Forget it. I couldn’t possibly—"

You have personal contacts there, Goodwin said.

Personal contacts?

Carlos Ortega for example. Number two man in CISEN, Mexico’s CIA. You know him, right?

Yeah, but—

He may have information he’d share with you, but not with us. It’s a question of trust and–

Sam. Sam. Wait a second. McGrath held up his hand to slow Goodwin down. "Listen, I agree border-crossers are a real problem, and REVENGE NOW terrorism is no laughing matter. Neither is MEXICAN HOMELAND. But you’ve got the whole bloody CIA, Homeland Security, Immigration and Customs Enforcement, FBI and Border Patrol all geared up to work this one. Hell, you’ve got Elena and Tony Nuñez sitting right here."

So far no one has produced anything actionable.

Listen, Sam, McGrath said. Truth is, I can’t add a damn thing. I’m happy to tell you everything I learn from my research, but—

For the record, Neal, I don’t have to remind you about Mexican culture. Personal loyalties and friendships trump organizational personnel. Personal ties take years to build. You have them in spades—

Personal ties go only so far. Furthermore—

The point is, Goodwin said, you and Carlos Ortega are tight. He’d talk to you in ways he’d never talk to us.

McGrath remained silent for a few seconds. Sure, like Goodwin, he was worried about MEXICAN HOMELAND and REVENGE NOW. But go to Mexico on behalf of the CIA? Look, there’s no guarantee Ortega would give me significant information, assuming he even has it. He may know less than we do.

You’re close to Martín Montoya, the Governor’s Chief of Staff in Phoenix, too, Goodwin said. "Right?

McGrath pursed his lips and did not respond.

"Seriously, Neal, all I’m asking is for you to use your contacts. See what you can pick up about these border crossers and REVENGE NOW. Help