“Yes. That is good too. Call me on the intercom when it is time and I will escort you through the house.”
Marsh nodded in satisfaction. The money he had paid, over and above what was required, should ensure the best service and, so far, it had. Of course paying beyond the asking price also aroused suspicion, but those were the risks.
Two sides again, he thought. Ying and yang. Marsh and Marsh. Black and… black with crimson bolts flashed through…
Inside, the room was sumptuous. A corner sofa occupied the far side, made of black leather and deeply plush. A glass table with drinks decanter, wine and spirits stood nearby whilst a pod-machine offered coffee and tea in another corner. Snacks lay out on the glass table. Marsh smiled at it all.
Comfortable, but only for a short time. Perfect.
He slid in a pod of the strongest coffee and took a moment waiting for it to brew. Then he settled into the sofa and withdrew a laptop, placing the backpack carefully on the deep leather by his side. Never has a nuclear bomb been so pampered, he thought, wondering for a moment if he should prepare it a brew of its own. Of course, to a man like Marsh that was a no-brainer and within minutes the backpack sat with a steaming cup and a small iced cupcake at its side.
Marsh smiled. All was well.
A stint on the Internet; confirming emails told him that the onward chopper was already entering Columbia. No flags had been raised anywhere as yet, but it was still only hours since he left the bazaar in full swing. Marsh drank up and packed a small sandwich bag for the next flight, then buzzed the intercom.
“I am ready to leave.”
Twenty minutes later and he was in the air again, the flight of the backpack-nuke a twisted but comfortable one. They were aiming for Panama, where he would end the quick flights and begin the tiresome leg of his journey along the ground. The pilot veered his way through the air and through any patrols, the best at what he did and handsomely paid. When Panama’s sprawl began to appear out of the left-hand window, Marsh began to realize how much closer he already was to the United States of America.
Hurricane’s a-coming guys, and it ain’t gonna pass easy…
He settled in Panama City for several hours, changing twice and showering four times, each with a different scented shampoo. The scents mingled nicely and scraped away the faint aroma of sweat. He ate breakfast and lunch even though it was dinner-time, and partook of three glasses of wine, each from a different bottle and colors. Life was good. The view outside the window didn’t change and didn’t inspire, so Marsh fished out a case of lipstick he saved for just such an occasion and colored the pane bright red. That helped, at least for a little while. Marsh then began to envision what it would be like to lick that pane clean, but at that moment the ping of an incoming message interrupted his daydreams.
ETA—15 minutes.
Marsh grimaced, happy but dismayed at the same time. A forty-hour road journey lay ahead, along some of the worst roads in the region. Not a thought likely to inspire. Still, once done the next stage would be infinitely more interesting. Marsh packed up, arranged the coffee pods, wine bottles and utensils in order of color, shape and size and then headed out.
The SUV was waiting, burbling at the curb, and looking surprisingly comfortable. Marsh arranged the nuke, wrapped a seatbelt around it, and then attended to himself. The driver chatted for a while before realizing that Marsh couldn’t care less about his own shitty little life, and then settled down to drive. The road stretched interminably ahead.
Hours passed. The SUV glided and then jounced and then glided again, stopping several times for gas and spot checks. The driver wouldn’t risk being pulled over for a misdemeanor. In the end, this was just one more vehicle among many, one more spark of life traveling the eternal highway to destinations unknown, and if it stayed unremarkable it would pass unnoticed.
And then Monterrey lay ahead. Marsh began to smile hugely, tired but pleased, the long journey over halfway gone.
The suitcase nuke sat beside him, now only a matter of hours from the US border.
CHAPTER TWO
Marsh made the next leg of his journey under cover of total darkness. This was where everything would be won or lost; the unknown factor being raised an inestimable amount by local cartel bosses being introduced to the mix. Who could guess the minds of such people? Who knew what they would do next?
Certainly not them… or Julian Marsh. He was transported ignominiously, along with a dozen other people, in the rear of a truck bound for the border. Somewhere along the way this truck veered off the track and vanished into the blackness. No lights, no guides, the driver knew this route blindfolded — and it was good that he did.
Marsh remained aloof in the back of the truck, listening to families prattle and fret. The scope of his plan loomed before him. The moment of his New York arrival couldn’t come soon enough. When the truck ground to a halt and the rear doors swung open on oiled hinges he was the first out, seeking the leader of the armed men who stood watch.
“Diablo,” he said, using the code word that identified him as a VIP traveler, and that he had agreed upon payment. The man nodded but then ignored him, herding everyone into a small huddle beneath the widespread branches of an overhanging tree.
“It is vital now,” he said in Spanish, “that you move quietly, say nothing, and do as you are told. If you do not I will slit your throat. Do you understand?”
Marsh watched as the man met every eye including his own. The march began a moment later, along a rutted track and through stands of trees. Moonlight flittered up above, and the lead Mexican often waited until clouds obscured the brightness before continuing. Very few words were passed, and those only by the men with guns, but suddenly Marsh found himself wishing that he spoke a little Spanish — or a lot, perhaps.
He trudged in the middle of the line, ignoring the frightened faces all around. After an hour they slowed and Marsh saw a rolling, sandy plain ahead, dotted by straggles of trees, cacti and little else. The entire group crouched down.
“Good so far,” the leader whispered. “But now is the hard part. Border Patrol cannot watch the entire boundary constantly but they make spot checks. All the time. And you—” he nodded at Marsh “—have requested the Diablo crossing. I hope you are ready for it.”
Marsh grunted. He had no idea what the little guy was talking about. Soon though, men started disappearing, each with a small group of immigrants, until only Marsh, the leader, and one guard were left.
“I am Gomez,” the leader said. “This is Lopez. We will see you safely through the tunnel.”
“And those guys?” Marsh nodded at the departed immigrants, effecting a fake American accent as best he could.
“They pay only five thousand per head.” Gomez made a dismissive gesture. “They take their chances with the bullets. Do not worry, you can trust us.”
Marsh started at the sly smile fixed firmly upon his guide’s face. Of course, the entire journey had progressed far too smoothly to expect it to continue. The question was — when would they jump him?
“Let’s get into the tunnel,” he said. “I can feel prying eyes out here.”
Gomez couldn’t stop a flash of worry flickering across his face and Lopez scanned the darkness all around. As one the two men ushered him in an easterly direction, at a slight angle but toward the border. Marsh blundered along, deliberately misstepping and appearing inadequate. At one point Lopez even reached out to help him along, a helping hand which Marsh catalogued for later, logging it as a weakness. He was by no means an expert, but a bottomless bank account had once afforded him many things beside material trappings, the experience of world champion martial artists and ex-Special Forces troops among them. Marsh knew a few tricks, rusty though he may be.