is only just. The Chinese are very good smugglers, but they are not very good Mexicans.”
The atmosphere was neither fresh nor stale. It had a peculiar, dense taste to it, as though the
same air had been there since the tunnel was built.
“How deep are we?” asked Vanessa.
“Deep enough to die if the tunnel gives way,” said Refugio.
The tunnel walls seemed to lean in, absorbing light and sound. Refugio’s voice was clear, but it
did not carry as well as it should have. The air was thick, flat, deadening, yet the lamps still
burned with a muddy yellow flame. Suddenly the walls changed from aggregate to wood, a dark
hallway more than 150 feet long. Sand that had seeped and trickled between the timbers lay in
small drifts across the floor and grated beneath their feet.
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“This is the bottom of an old river. The ground is very soft. More than thirty Chinese were
buried alive here before they finally brought in timber from the north of California. They had
many Chinese, you see, but very little wood.”
In the silence it seemed that they could hear individual grains of sand sifting between cracked
timbers, and the wood itself sighing under the interminable burden of heavy earth.
Beyond the shored-up section, the floor ascended steadily. Walking became more difficult.
Pebbles rolled beneath their feet as they climbed back toward the surface. At the foot of a short
stairway, Refugio pulled hard several times on a dirty cord that was strung along the wall.
When he turned away from the wall, the light from the lamp he was carrying washed over
Vanessa. The thick yellow glow and velvet shadows mellowed her brittle beauty. Refugio
stopped, caught by the unexpected softness of her body in the light. He stared at her with eyes
that were as intrusive as hands. Vanessa ignored him.
After another long look, Refugio led Vanessa and Masarek up the stairs, through a short
passageway and into a room that resembled a wine cellar. Instead of a trapdoor in the ceiling,
the exit was a full-sized door set in the far wall. The door was heavily carved and lacked anything
resembling a handle. Refugio waited several moments, then swore beneath his breath.
Shielding the door with his body, Refugio pushed against the wood in several places at once.
With a click, the door swung slightly toward him. From the other side of the door, a shaft of
blue-white light fell over them, dimming the lanterns into insignificant yellow puddles. Refugio
opened the door all the way.
“Welcome to the United States,” he said, smiling and gesturing toward the hard white light
made by electricity rather than kerosene. “Jucumba, California.”
Masarek went through the door first, relieved to be out of the tunnel. Vanessa followed, looking
around carefully, suddenly conscious of the weight of the pistol lying inside her purse.
The house they entered was an odd mixture of Mexican, Oriental and American culture. The
eaves curved upward, echoing the pagodas of China and Japan, an echo repeated by the
elegantly painted silk screen that divided the room. The hard lights, the indifferently made
furniture and the picture windows were American, as was the telephone and the varnished wood
cabinet containing a radio. The curtains and rugs were distinctively Mexican, aflame with colors.
The shrine holding a gilt-and-blue plaster Madonna was also Mexican.
A man appeared, moving slowly, with the awkwardness of age. When he came closer, it was
clear that he was not so much aged as crippled. He walked as though his knees were as rigid as
his shins. Unlike the Mexicans, his skin was more red than brown, though his hair was as black as
theirs.
“Don Refugio,” said the man in quick Spanish. “I was just coming to open the door for you.”
Refugio grunted. “Verdad? But I could not wait all day, so I opened the door myself. You are
getting too slow for even this job.”
“No, no,” said the man. “I am not too slow.” To prove his words, he ran three shuffling steps
across the room. “See, don Refugio? I am very fast.”
Refugio shrugged and turned away. “Stay fast, viejo. I have no other jobs for a cripple.” Refugio
switched to English for the benefit of the two foreigners. “That man is Ridgewalker. He used to
be an Apache and a smuggler. Now he is an old woman with no knees.”
Masarek looked at Refugio, then at the Indian whom age had robbed of quickness and pride.
“Send them all away,” he said. “I won’t discuss business in the presence of servants.”
Masarek’s voice was hard, his body relaxed. Being above ground had regenerated his
confidence. Refugio sent his men away with three curt words in Spanish. After the men were
gone, he leaned against the carved door until it clicked into place. When closed, the door
blended into a wall of carved panels that depicted mountains and waterfalls and elegant trees
bending beneath an invisible wind.
Vanessa walked to a heavily curtained window. She pulled the cloth aside slightly, ignoring the
two men. In the distance she could see the buildings of Calexico and Mexicali, a single entity but
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for the geographic accident of an international border dividing their sprawl into two unequal
cities.
Refugio turned to Masarek. “You have seen my houses and my tunnel. It is as I told you – a very
safe way to take something across the border. Well worth the $15,0001 will charge for its rent.”
“I would not pay you that much if the tunnel bypassed hell,” said Masarek, his voice colorless.
“You are also buying my services – and my silence.”
“Both have yet to be proved.”
“Perhaps the price is too high,” Refugio conceded, shrugging, “but you have not told me what it
is you want done. I have shared with you the secrets of my work and you have shared nothing.
So my price is high. Offended pride, you understand.”
“Your price is ridiculous.”
Vanessa listened to the two men argue. Refugio oozed reason, while Masarek displayed casual
contempt. She listened, counting the houses between herself and the outskirts of Calcxico. When
she had counted them four times, the men were no closer to agreeing than when she had started.
Vanessa let the colorful curtain fall back into place. “Refugio.”
At the single word from Vanessa, both men stopped arguing. Refugio turned and stared at the
white-skinned woman whose voice was oddly different. When she spoke again, he realized that
her speech had lost its intriguing breathiness.
“Our employers are willing to pay you, within reason, for your services. Fifteen thousand dollars
is not within reason. Ten is. No,” she said when she saw Refugio begin to speak. “I’m not
bargaining. Ten thousand dollars or nothing at all.”
Refugio knew inflexibility when he met it. He hesitated, then nodded a curt agreement. Ten
thousand was three thousand more than he would have settled for.
“That’s too much money, of course,” said Vanessa. “In return for it, you will cooperate
completely with both Masarek and me. If I tell you to do something, you will do it without
argument.”
Vanessa waited, measuring the proud Mexican with a single glance.
“Yes,” he said at last.
“Good. As for what you will help us smuggle – and yes, steal – you don’t need to know anything
beyond what Masarek will tell you.” Vanessa’s smile took none of the hardness from her voice.
“Nor,” she continued smoothly, “do you need to know our real names or anything else about
our lives. Any man you send after us will be fortunate to walk away as well as your tame
Apache.”
While Vanessa spoke, she produced a packet of money from her purse. With a deft movement
of her hands she fanned the money, twenty $100 bills. Refugio stared.
“If you agree to the terms,” continued Vanessa, “you can have this $2,000 now. If you don’t
agree, you may keep $500. You may, of course, try to take the rest, and then Masarek will kill
you. Do we have a bargain, Se?or Refugio?”
Vanessa’s long fingernail traced the fan of bills, making them rustle seductively. Refugio smiled.
He took the bills with a swift movement that surprised Vanessa.
“You are una bandida,” Refugio said appreciatively. “You understand how to get what you
want. That is good.”
The words were said softly, in the tones of a man speaking to a lover. Refugio’s dark eyes
looked at every inch of Vanessa. He pocketed the bills and laughed quietly.
“We’ll do well together, you and I,” Refugio said in a warm voice. “Bandida.”
Refugio’s caressing laugh and eyes repelled Vanessa. She turned aside and saw Masarek’s face.
To anyone who did not know him, his expression had not changed, but Vanessa knew Masarek.
She smiled, hoping she would be nearby when Refugio could no longer laugh.
“Masarek,” Vanessa said coolly, “will stay with you from now on. You’ll leave today for Hunters
Point.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re sure that Ho’s truck won’t be searched at the gate?”
“My cousins say it is an open secret. The truck hasn’t been searched for more than a year.” He
Page 37
smiled. “The Navy probably knows about the betting slips in the truck, but it’s a small thing.
Soldiers gamble. If not with Ho, then with someone else.”
Vanessa hesitated, then nodded curtly. The laundry truck was an unavoidable risk.
“When will I get the rest of my money?” asked Refugio.
“In the tunnel, after you return from San Francisco.”
Refugio nodded slowly. “Bueno.”
“Yes,” said Masarek, “it will be good.” His smile was calm, predatory. “Very good.”
Juarez
40 Hours Before Trinity
“Momentito,” said Ana. She covered the telephone receiver with her palm and whispered in
rapid Japanese to Kestrel. “Refugio calls. He must speak Spanish because Masarek is there.”
Kestrel set aside his rice bowl and watched Ana with an alertness that belied his lack of sleep.
“Cuidado,” warned Ana, speaking softly yet very rapidly into the phone. “They may know more
of the language than you believe.”
Refugio’s harsh laugh came clearly through the phone. Then he spoke so quickly that even a
Mexican would have had difficulty understanding him. Ana frowned, concentrating.
“Momentito.” Ana covered the receiver and spoke to Kestrel in soft Japanese, bending over
until her face was only inches from his ear. “They are to leave immediately for a place called
Hunters Point, San Francisco. It’s some kind of a military base. They are going to steal
something. He isn’t happy about the risk, but has agreed to do it anyway – for more money, of
course.”
“Yes,” said Kestrel impatiently. “But what is he going to steal?”
Before Ana could ask Refugio, his voice came loudly through the telephone. He was yelling in
English and cursing in Spanish.
“My men are Mexican, pendejo! If I speak English to them they don’t understand me when I ask
for two cars with California license plates. But someone must get the cars because you won’t let
me leave the house. It’s too bad you don’t speak Spanish so you understand what I say to my
men. Qué lástima, cabrón! You’ll just have to trust me. Or maybe you’d rather walk to San
Francisco and back?”
Refugio’s voice faded. Ana held the phone to her ear, then shook her head in answer to Kestrel’s
silent query. Abruptly, Refugio’s voice returned, speaking Spanish in a normal tone.
“What are you going to steal from Hunters Point?” asked Ana quickly. She listened, covered the
receiver, and turned back to whisper to Kestrel. “He doesn’t know. He’ll take two of his men,
plus Masarek and the woman. He needs two cars with California plates. The licenses and the cars
have to be legitimate. After Hunters Point, they’ll switch vehicles and drive back to the tunnel in
the second car.”
Kestrel frowned harshly. General Arisue had ordered him to stay in Juarez until his orders were
clarified. Yet Kestrel was fascinated by a prize that was worth the insane risk Masarek was taking
by invading an American naval base.
“Ana. Are you sure Refugio said Hunters Point?”
“Yes.”
Kestrel’s frown deepened. Hunters Point was one of America’s major Pacific naval depots,
debarkation point for many of the warships that harried the Imperial Navy.
“When will he be at Hunters Point?” asked Kestrel.
Ana spoke rapidly, listened, then turned to Kestrel. “The car they’ll use after Hunters Point has
to be in Oakland by 3 A.M. on the 16th, so he assumes that the theft will occur before then.”
The 16th. Less than two days away. If he had to stay in Juarez because of the test, then someone
would have to go to Oakland in his place. He could not trust Refugio to deliver the weapon
unless someone was there, watching him. But the only person who could go in Kestrel’s place
was Ana. Takagura had been adamant in his belief that Ana was the only other person he could
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trust with the Emperor’s highest secrets.
Yet the thought of sending Ana made Kestrel deeply uneasy. She was trained only for the safer
aspects of espionage, translating periodicals and enemy documents obtained by other agents
who risked their lives to steal the information.
“Can Refugio get the cars or does he need Takagura’s help?” asked Kestrel.
“The cars are taken care of,” said Ana after a moment. She added, “They’re paying him 15,000
American dollars.”
Kestrel shrugged. “Our bargain remains. Three times what they pay him, I will pay.”
Ana’s eyes widened, but none of her shock showed in her voice. She spoke into the phone and
then listened.
“The Englishwoman will meet them in Oakland after the theft and drive back with them to the
tunnel. She’s more than just Masarek’s whore. She is his equal, perhaps his superior.”
Kestrel’s eyes narrowed, emphasizing the harsh planes of his face. Ana looked away quickly; this
was the Kestrel she sensed beneath the polite, polished exterior, the samurai she both admired
and feared.
“Where will she meet them?” asked Kestrel.
Ana asked Refugio, waited, then translated quickly. “Oakland. I know the place he means. On
the waterfront. Factories. Cars and many trucks. A few more won’t be noticed.”
“Tell Refugio not to kill the woman when he kills Masarek. I want to question her. Tell him if I
can’t meet him on the waterfront, you will. You’ll pick up him, the woman, and whatever they
stole and bring them to his cousin’s flower shop. When I get there, I’ll give him $15,000. The
other $30,000 wil be paid when we’re safe in Mexico. Do you understand?”
Ana nodded, understanding too much – and not enough. She buried her unease beneath a rush
