“The trick,” the smuggler continued, “is to look like tourists instead of outlaws. If the boat is too slick, too fast, CBP are certain to want to board you. A bunch of Pakis got arrested in BC a while back before they were even able to make the trip. They were buying maps, hanging around, and generally looking suspicious — that’s what got them. Fools paid upwards of thirty-five grand each to get to the States and then got themselves picked up on the front porch. Damn shame too. They shouldn’t have tried to move when all the agents were in town.”
Ehmet slouched on the sofa behind the captain’s seat. He spoke without opening his eyes. “What do you mean by that? ‘All the agents in town’?”
“I keep tabs on who they send out on detail. I know the staffing pretty well.”
“What is a detail?” Yaqub asked.
“The Mexican border is more newsworthy than this one,” Jiàn Zŏu said. “It is not uncommon for authorities to take agents from their postings here and move them to the southern border for weeks at a time to augment their numbers.”
“Cutting a foot off a board on one end and adding it to the other to make it longer,” Ehmet scoffed. “How witless.”
“Well,” Gruber said around his cigar, “their witlessness is good for us. Around a third of the Anacortes office and a quarter of the Bellingham agents are on detail or out on vacation. We’ll sacrifice a boatload of Malaysians and a duffel bag stuffed with BC bud.” He tipped his head at Jiàn Zŏu. “Whoever you are, I guess you’re important enough to absorb the loss of income from eighteen illegals and write off the arrest of the jockey and his helper. Anyhow, this will tie up every patrol boat in the vicinity while they try to get a piece of the action. Shame about losing that good weed though.”
Yaqub took a sip of ginger ale to try to quiet his stomach. “How will the authorities know where to find the boat full of Malaysians?”
“That’s the brilliant part.” Gruber took out his cigar and waved it like a magic wand. “The CBP port director in Anacortes thinks he has one of my girlfriends on his payroll. The thing is, the government don’t pay nearly as well as I do — and like I said, she craves the expensive shit. Anyway, she gives him the information I want him to have — which includes the tip on the Malaysian illegals and the weed. It’s a big boat, so they’ll turn this into a major operation, give it a fancy code name, and use their record of astounding investigative success to get more money from Congress — while we slip across the border in our little Bayliner fishing boat.”
Just as Gruber predicted, there wasn’t a patrol boat to be seen. He took them as far as Deception Pass at the north end of Whidbey Island, where two Chinese men in a skiff motored out to meet them.
“Big Uncle’s men,” Jiàn Zŏu said as the skiff pulled up alongside. It had stopped raining and the sun was just beginning to pink the eastern sky.
“You were going to release the remainder of the funds,” Gruber said, spinning his captain’s chair around so it faced toward them, away from the console.
“I will.” Jiàn Zŏu nodded, reaching into his pocket.
“Nice and slow, now!” Gruber spat.
The curtain to the V-berth behind Gruber suddenly slid open, revealing a young blond woman with a shotgun pointed directly at Jiàn Zŏu’s belly.
“Never fails,” Gruber said. “This is always the tricky part.” He held the cigar between two fingers and used the chewed end to point at the woman with the shotgun. “Remember those expensive girlfriends I was telling you about? Well, this one’s my favorite.”
“I am merely reaching for my phone,” Jiàn Zŏu said. “To make the transfer.”
“We should have killed the bearded fool,” Ehmet said fifteen minutes later as they sat in the skiff with Big Uncle’s men. Gruber’s Bayliner gave a rumbling burble in the water as it motored away back to the north.
“It doesn’t matter,” Jiàn Zŏu said, turning to Big Uncle’s man who sat at the outboard tiller, driving them back to the silver line of gravel that ran between the water and the dark line of old-growth forest. Dressed in olive drab Helly Hansen raincoats and matching sullen frowns, both men looked to be in their late twenties. “We are to take delivery of an important item. Do you know if it has arrived?”
The boat driver nodded, but said nothing.
The endless, mind-numbing uncertainty of the hours since their escape had worn Yaqub down to his last nerve. He just wanted all of this to be over, no matter how it turned out. “Is it in the car?”
The man at the tiller turned his head slightly to stare at him. He spat over the side, then shook his head. “Big Uncle wants to meet you.”
Yaqub felt as if he were the edge of a carpet that was coming unraveled at every turn. They were so close, and now this Chinese gangster was going to change the rules.
Ehmet sat at the bow, facing aft, his arms stretched out and running along the gunnels as if he owned the place. “We are in a hurry,” he said, peering out through narrowed eyes.
“So is Big Uncle,” the boat driver said, eyeing Ehmet as if he saw the latent danger there. “He has a big charity event tonight. We are to bring you by to pick up your item and get some food.” He turned to Yaqub, his look of respect falling into a sneer. “Don’t worry. You won’t be long.”
Chapter 50
The British Airways flight from Charles de Gaulle touched down just after noon. They had booked the seats at the last minute, which could pose a problem. Quinn knew it was a sure way to be flagged for extra screening, but it couldn’t be helped. Song had used a credit card under the name on her passport, assuring Quinn that only her most trusted allies in the Ministry of State Security were privy to that particular identity. Quinn was glad to finally hear the engines wind down and the chime letting everyone onboard know it was okay to get up — even if it meant facing a humorless officer from Customs and Border Protection. Worrying and waiting didn’t make it any less dangerous.
They traveled as a couple so Quinn had filled out the single form required for entry into the US. He reminded himself that he was John Martin from Sydney, Australia, in the States on holiday. “Holiday” was one of those words that sounded slightly Australian, no matter who said it.
It took them nearly fifteen minutes to get off the plane and enter the cattle chute that fed them toward US Immigration.
Song yawned as they walked, slowing some to let a crowd of college-age boys hustle by as if they were in a race to see who would be interrogated first. She leaned in toward Quinn.
“Do you remember how I was your stylist at the hospital in Kashgar?” She kept her voice low as other passengers jostled by.
“The spit bath.” Quinn moved his neck from side to side, working to rid himself of the cricks and kinks from the ten-hour flight. “I wondered when you would bring that up.”
“What do you mean, you wondered?”
Quinn leaned down to Song’s ear, whispering, “I’m a US Marshals’ Top Fifteen fugitive. I don’t know much about you, but I can tell you’re much too skilled to chance facial recognition spotting us as we go through customs. I’m assuming that towelette back in the hospital had some sort of reflective makeup on it.”