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  “Do I look to you like a courier?”

  “What you look like, señor, is a man who has had other discussions with the police.”

  “Look, I was the one attacked here.”

  “Of course, señor. And my job as agent in the national task force is to determine whether drugs or drug money was involved.”

  “There were no drugs,” Enrique said smoothly. “There was no money.”

  “You are certain of this how?”

  “Because Señor Orwell came seeking a grant to continue his scientific research that he started with Professor Vasquez. The professor has recently died. We are told it was a heart attack.”

  The agent’s phone rang. She slipped it from her belt and checked the readout. “I must take this. If you will excuse me, Mayor Morales. I am sorry for your troubles, Señor Orwell. Good day.”

  Enrique’s gaze followed the agent back through the orphanage gates. “There are too few such people in Mexican law enforcement these days. Agent Martinez is a true friend of the people. She has had numerous death threats. Her family lives in Mexico City under an assumed name.”

  Simon watched the unmarked car pull away and did not respond.

  “Is it true what she said, that you have had other run-ins with the law?”

  Simon remained silent.

  “Excuse me. It is none of my business.” The hand dropped from Simon’s shoulder. “Only, it appears you will need to apply for a new passport. I can certainly expedite matters. But this will be more difficult if you have a record.”

  Simon said carefully, “I have no priors.”

  “Excellent. In that case, it will only be a matter of a few days. A week at most.”

  “A week?”

  “Perhaps less. You could, of course, travel to your nearest consulate or the embassy in Mexico City.”

  “I’m broke. Everything I brought with me is gone.”

  “Then leave it with me.” Enrique started toward Sofia, then turned back. “Is it true what they say, that you can complete the professor’s work?”

  Perhaps it was just how everything the mayor did and said carried this polished edge. But Simon had the feeling that Enrique’s question was not so casual as it appeared. Or that the question had just popped into the mayor’s head. “Maybe. With time. And money.”

  Enrique flashed the smile made for billboards. “Then let us hope you are successful upon your return to your country, Señor Simon.”

  The mayor crossed the courtyard to where Harold stood in the dormitory doorway. The orphanage director turned and greeted Enrique as an old friend. They talked for a few moments, then Enrique patted Harold’s shoulder, called softly into the dorm, and walked back to his car. He waved at Simon before the driver closed his door.

  As the car pulled away, Simon thought, there goes a man who has everything.

  Which was bitterly ironic, as it was exactly what they used to say about him.

  Chapter 11

  Carlos was on the hunt. It was his favorite part of the job. And his job was anything his jefe told him to do.

  Carlos was lucky to be alive. Of the kids he ran with in his youth, he was the only one still drawing breath. And it was all because of his boss.

  When he was eleven, the war had come to his village.

  In Mexico, there was only one war these days. The gangs that controlled the drug trade were in the middle of a civil war, fighting each other for control and power. And the civil war gave no thought to innocents. In this war, there were only winners and losers. That was what the cartel men had said when they came to his village. Did Carlos and the other children want to win? Or did they want to die?

  The gang needed the village’s kids. That was why they came. To recruit every child over nine years of age. The gang loved hitting villages like his, close to major cities and familiar with the war and the violence. Everyone in his village knew a family who had suffered. They heard the tales from cities like Juárez or Chihuahua. So when the gang came to their village, the locals already knew the consequences if they refused to cooperate.

  The gang gathered all the kids in a dusty lot beyond the empty factory that once had employed half the village making pottery. They showed off their guns—the military-grade automatic rifles, the pistols, the Tasers, the machetes. They made the children hold them and handle them. They then gave the children a choice. The kids could join the gang and each receive five hundred American dollars to take home to their families. Or they could watch their families die. All of them. Even the animals. A lesson to be remembered by all who joined the gang. That there was no escape. That hope was a myth imported from north of the border, from the Yanquis who consumed the drugs and fueled the violence that had come to their village. Here, there was no hope. Only this choice. Join or die.

  Carlos had known there was no choice at all. Not for him. Only for his family. If he joined the gang, he would die an early death. Almost all the soldiers in every gang were dead before their twenty-fifth birthday. It was a tragic statistic that played on television and filled the newspapers. Mexico’s youth were being wiped from the face of the earth.

  But at least he could save his family. So Carlos had said yes and joined the gang.

  He spent four years as a mule, ferrying drugs across the American border. He traveled with the coyotes, pretending to be the son of some other family. So his own family would survive.

  All the money he earned he gave to his mother. He was the oldest of five children, and his family was now secure. They bought land. They prospered. His photograph was placed upon the altar in the corner of his mother’s bedroom. Every six months she pleaded with him for a new photograph. Carlos hated these photographs for two reasons. First, each photograph was a reminder to him of just how close death remained. Second, in each photograph he could see the change. Carlos had always been known for his smile. And it was still there, the teeth shining through his beard. But inside, where it mattered, there was nothing left. The photograph did not lie.

  Then when Carlos was fifteen, a marvel had come to his village.

  The jefe had managed to sweep away the gang. How he had done this was a matter of much debate. But no one questioned that it was the boss who had done this thing. And not just from his small village. Across the entire north of Chihuahua state, the cartels vanished.

  The jefe’s family had owned much of Chihuahua’s finest farmland for generations beyond count. They now owned hotels in resorts like Acapulco and inside the capital city. They could have slipped across the border and lived an easy life in the safety of America, where people walked the streets without fear of death. Though most of his family now lived elsewhere, el jefe had remained and fought for the little people. And made life safe once more for the family of Carlos.

  When the gang left their region, Carlos returned home and opened a small business repairing cars. He was too young to own the business outright. So his mother and his uncle, his late father’s brother, cosigned as partners. His mother arranged this. She was the smart one in the family and Carlos agreed with everything she suggested. He tried to tell himself he was content with his life, living in the small village and eating in his mother’s kitchen and repairing cars. He even started seeing a young woman.

  Then when Carlos was twenty, the jefe had called and asked to see him.

  The boss did not actually come himself, of course. He sent a car. The driver was very respectful. The boss did not order Carlos to come. He asked it. As a favor.

  When Carlos arrived, the boss came out of his fine office and personally shook Carlos’s hand and ushered him inside and offered him coffee and made sure he was comfortable. Then the boss ordered everyone out and told his secretary there were to be no interruptions. Then he asked, “Are you happy with your life?”

  Carlos shrugged. The drive from his village to this office had taken almost two hours, long enough to deci
de why the boss had called. “I am alive. Thanks to you. And my brothers and sisters will not be forced to do what I have done. Thanks to you.”

  The boss nodded slowly, accepting both the gratitude and the fact that Carlos had acknowledged the debt. “I have a problem. I was wondering if you could help me.”

  “If I can, I will do this thing.”

  “Do you not want to know what my problem is?”

  “If you want to tell me, I will listen. But it does not matter.”

  “What precisely are you saying?”

  “I will do whatever you ask.”

  The words hung in the cool, still air. Then the boss smiled. It was a beautiful thing, this smile. Huge and uncomplicated and full of power. It was as fine a reward as Carlos had ever known. “I have a man who is troubling me greatly.”

  “Give me his name,” Carlos replied instantly. “He will never bother you again.”

  Again the smile appeared. No words of thanks could possibly have matched the quality of this reward. “I seek to do everything I can to help lift up our little corner of Mexico.”

  “This I know,” Carlos said.

  “Unfortunately, to do this, I am sometimes forced to take actions that are outside the law.”

  Carlos wore a leather jacket that creaked as he shrugged. “This is Mexico. It is to be expected.”

  “If I am to be successful, no connection can ever be made between these actions and myself.”

  “I understand.”

  “For this reason, I regret that we shall not be able to meet together very often. Perhaps never again.”

  Carlos nodded his acceptance. The prospect of never being in this man’s presence again was bitterly disappointing. But he had found a purpose in life. He would do what was required of him.

  The boss rose to his feet. He was a young man, tall and strong and handsome. The power radiated from him like heat from the sun. “Know that you have my undying gratitude. Your family will want for nothing.”

  Carlos spoke the words he knew the boss wanted to hear. “Whatever you require. Tell me and it will be done.”

  Carlos was seated in his car, watching the orphanage’s front gates. He had tracked his quarry back to their lair. The attack was to be secret this time. His orders were clear. No fuss, no witnesses, no sign. Just make the Yanqui disappear.

  So far, this American had not been alone for an instant. The police had come and gone, the mayor, the woman Sofia. Now the town manager was poking around. But it was only a matter of time.

  Carlos had scouted twice around the orphanage exterior. Despite his size, he could join with the shadows and move in utter stealth. It was his gift, this silent passage. He took pride in his work, as he did the trust his boss placed in his abilities.

  Because cell-phone service was spotty in north Chihuahua, Carlos carried a satellite phone. It meant he could be reached anywhere, instantly. The phone was very cumbersome. But it was also virtually impossible to have a call over a satellite phone traced. When his phone buzzed, he picked it from the seat beside him, saw who called, and pressed the receive button. “Jefe.”

  “You are on him?”

  “He is two hundred meters away. The orphanage has only one entrance. If I move to where I can observe him, I will be seen.”

  “No, no. Stay where you are. In fact, I want you to pull farther back.”

  “I can take this one. Now, if you like. The others, they can be frightened into silence. Or erased as well. You know I can do this.”

  “No. The orphanage is not to be touched. And this man, I must rescind my order.”

  “You do not want him killed, even in secret?”

  “For the moment, he must live.”

  Carlos did not object to the change in orders. It was not his nature to object. Not with this man. “As you say, Jefe.”

  “Stay on him. Report back to me any movement. And be ready to move upon my command. His stay of execution is only temporary.”

  Carlos cut the connection and settled back into his seat. He did not move his car. There was no need. It was a perfect position for unseen observation. The orphanage gates opened onto a small village plaza. There were hundreds of such places in Mexico, thousands. Tiny hamlets that had been swallowed by growing towns and cities, yet which maintained their individual nature.

  There was a whitewashed church, and a small grocery, and a pair of cafés, and seven little shops that somehow managed to eke out an existence. Old men sat on weathered benches beneath dusty trees. Another man sat behind the wheel of a truck, waiting with the eternal patience of a Mexican peasant. No one paid Carlos any mind.

  He stared at the gates, content to wait and observe. He understood the boss. There was no need to trouble him with discussions or further questions. The American would be kept on a long leash. He would be allowed to breathe the air another day. Perhaps two. But the orders remained in place.

  The American would never be allowed to cross the border alive.

  Chapter 12

  Simon went upstairs and took a long shower, trying to wash off the morning and the sweat and the emotions. Occasionally he heard Sofia’s voice in the office below him. She sounded upset. Simon assumed she had just heard it would take a week to get him a new passport. Through the guestroom’s open window, he saw that Pedro’s truck was parked by the front gates. Which was a good thing. He had an idea and he needed Pedro’s help.

  A fresh bandage had been laid out on the bed, alongside a tube of antibiotic cream and another T-shirt and drawstring trousers. Juan, no doubt. The kid was incredible. As Simon peeled off the wet bandage, Sofia’s voice rose momentarily, long enough for him to catch one word. Reckless. Simon sat on the stool and toyed with the key strung around his neck. Reckless had been Vasquez’s favorite way of describing him.

  The last time Simon had seen the professor, Vasquez entered the bar during Simon’s shift and ordered him to stop wasting time and get back to his real work. By that point, Vasquez was the only person at MIT who hadn’t written him off.

  Simon started to offer his standard response, that he spent so much time in the bar, he might as well get paid for his troubles. But something in the professor’s gaze stopped him. Vasquez had barely been able to contain his excitement. He was working on a new method of generating power. For years the professor had searched for a means to break the Mexican power company’s stranglehold over the poor. Vasquez was never more passionate than when he was defending the oppressed of Mexico.

  In Mexico, electricity was controlled by a government monopoly called Comisión Federal de Electricidad, or CFE. Vasquez accused the CFE of fostering an attitude of corruption. Nothing was done without kickbacks. The senior bureaucrats running CFE had fought and schemed all their lives to arrive at the point where they could line their pockets. Supplying power was the least of their concerns. CFE had the highest cost per kilowatt of any major power company in the entire world. CFE was so inefficient, over half of all power generated was lost between the station and the end user. The professor could go on for hours about CFE.

  That night the professor had revealed to Simon the project that had consumed his every free hour for years. He made a major breakthrough, but more was needed. Much more. And Simon was the answer. Of that the professor was absolutely certain. He spoke with a believer’s fervor. Vasquez was convinced of this.

  Simon leaned over the bar and watched as Vasquez described his work, using bar napkins and a pen that blurred and stained over the wet spots. Simon was totally captivated, rushing back from filling orders. Amazed at the man’s vision. Jealous of the professor’s ability to dream. And frightened of letting him down.

  When Simon descended the orphanage stairs, Harold played a piano while Juan stood and sang beside him. Simon was surprised at the quality of the boy’s voice. It broke a couple of times, as Juan struggled to work through the change to manhood. I
t bothered Juan a lot more than it did Harold, who beamed approval and said several times, “Good, that is excellent. You are ready!”

  Pedro stood on the shaded stoop outside Harold’s office. Simon knew there was more at work than the town’s assistant manager holding up a post in his former home. Pedro was waiting for him. Bearing the weight of his sister’s words.

  “I know you took a risk bringing me here. I appreciate that,” Simon said, then repeated the same words he had told Sofia. “I don’t want to do anything that might harm these kids.”

  Pedro swiped his face with a hand broad as a shovel, as though a hard life had expanded and flattened it. “This is south of the border. Very few things are the way any of us want them.”

  Simon nodded, more in respect to what the guy had lived through than an acceptance of his words. “I need two things. First, a passport.”

  “Enrique is handling this.”

  “He also said it was going to take a week.”

  “Maybe less. Four days, he hopes.”

  “Still, do I stay here for another four days?”

  “Harold says you are our guest.” Pedro did not speak so much as sigh the words.

  Simon tried to keep the relief from his face. He had virtually no money and nowhere else to go. And this place did seem to offer a basic level of comfort and safety. “Okay. Great. Thanks.”

  Pedro shrugged. Clearly the decision was not his, and the gratitude was misdirected. “And the second thing?”

  “Harold showed me a video of Vasquez in his lab making the apparatus work. I need his data.”

  “What are you saying?”

  He took a breath. “I need to get into his lab.”

  “You are as Sofia describes. Reckless. A threat.”

  “You heard what Harold said. This machine could be a big deal. And I need to find out what Vasquez was closing in on.”

  “Harold would also say we should not take this risk.”

  Simon saw the man fish his keys from his pocket and knew he had won. “Then I guess we better not tell him where we’re going.”