Implant Page 19

  “Not really,” she admitted. “But I’ll trust you.” Her mind lingered on the word boyfriend. Did that mean Ian thought she looked young enough to pass for his girlfriend?

  An hour later Ian wore mirrored sunglasses with a white tank top that showed off his biceps and muscular shoulders. The gauze and tape on his chest were gone, as was the orange stain of the betadine on his skin. Julia wore short shorts and a chemise top with flip flops. He wore an Arizona Diamondbacks baseball cap and she had a cute green oasis sombrero. She’d shoved her other clothes into a bag and carried it over her shoulder, the probe from her destroyed laptop also inside.

  Ian put his arm around her shoulder and the two of them walked toward the border crossing. Julia felt every pressure point from his touch and mingled with the anxiety of approaching the border crossing she couldn’t help the goose bumps that rose on her neck and arms.

  “Calm down, you’ll be fine. And don’t look up at the cameras. Let the hat hide your face.”

  She hadn’t noticed the cameras, but standing near the gate that let people simply stroll into Mexico, opposite the long line of people waiting to cross in the other direction, were the two men that Ian had spotted earlier. One man read a Spanish newspaper and the other talked on a cell phone, but both eyed her as she approached. The first man ducked back into his paper at once, but the guy on the cell phone stared as she passed.

  But nobody stopped them as Julia and Ian walked through the gate and into Mexico. It was a Sunday and half the people heading south seemed to be out for a shopping expedition. There was a well-dressed family with a young girl in a white dress with bows in her hair who looked to be on her way to her First Communion.

  “I don’t like how those guys were watching me,” she said, once she was sure that neither of the men would follow them across.

  “They’re staring because you look hot.”

  She looked at him to see if he was kidding, but there was a blank expression on his face as he glanced first at the patrons standing in front of a taco stand and later at the man behind a table, selling lottery tickets. Studying his surroundings.

  His arm was still around her shoulders.

  “You don’t think they were looking for us?”

  “I thought maybe, at first, and I had contingency plans.” There was a hard edge to this last bit. “But seriously, I think they were just checking you out.”

  He kept his arm around her shoulder as they rounded a corner and walked deeper into town. Nogales, Mexico looked similar to Nogales, Arizona. A bit more run down, the streets more crowded with cars and foot traffic. And much bigger.

  “Did I hear you right this morning, that you speak Spanish?” he asked.

  “I said I could read a little. I took it in high school. But I don’t think I remember more than a few words or phrases.”

  “I’m sure some of it will come back to you,” he said. “Enough to get by in Mexico, at least. First things first, we need to change some money. Then, I figure we can catch a bus for somewhere south, like Guadalajara or Mexico City.”

  “And we’ll fly to Namibia from there?”

  “I was thinking about that. We’d have to fly to London first, and they’d probably route us back through the United States on our way to London. What if we flew to Cuba instead? We’d be safer from the CIA, and we could catch a direct flight to Europe from there. Maybe Spain or France. From there, I’m thinking it would be better to fly to South Africa first, then drive into Namibia by car.”

  “I can’t fly without a passport,” she said. Ian had picked up one from his safe deposit box in Tucson, together with the cash.

  “This is a Mexican border town. I’m pretty sure you can get a fake passport. First chance to practice your Spanish. After that, let’s catch a bus, make it as far south as we can and find a place to crash for the night.”

  Ian looked around, seemed to be satisfied with what he saw and dropped his arm from her shoulders. “I guess we’re far enough away to drop the pretense that you’re my girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  “You sound disappointed.” He laughed. She felt herself blush. “I think you liked playing spy. Secret agent stuff.”

  “Hey, why should you have all the fun?” she asked.

  “You were good. Acted perfectly natural.”

  If that had been acting, it had been the easiest role she was ever likely to have.

  Ian slowed his pace and turned toward her. “Julia, there’s something I wanted to tell you.”

  Julia tensed and was silent while Ian seemed to gather his thoughts. Had he been thinking about her as well while he had his arm around her? She felt her chest tighten.

  “It’s the implant.”

  She let out her breath, feeling foolish for overreading his comment. “What about it?”

  “I feel like it’s changing, or I’m changing. Not sure.” He stopped walking.

  “How do you mean?”

  “A couple of times I’ve used the implant feature where it’s supposed to make you more alert. Started in Utah, at the asylum, and then at the hospital.”

  Julia nodded. “That’s natural, that’s what it’s for.”

  “But it started to creep me out, you know. The more I used it, the more I felt I needed it. Like how you drink an extra cup of coffee when you’ve had a crappy night of sleep and it helps so much that you do it the next day and the next and pretty soon you need a whole damn pot just to crawl out of bed in the morning. So I decided to knock it off, only use it if things got really hairy. You know, emergencies.” There was a note of uncertainty in his voice.

  “Go on.”

  “Just now, crossing the border, I felt that surge. Like the implant firing off. Thing is, I didn’t give the implant any command.”

  “You think it’s going off by itself?” Julia’s attention had shifted now, her thoughts focused, trying to figure out if he could be right.

  “I was thinking about using the feature – the energy thing, and suddenly it just happened, but I didn’t move my fingers. I’m sure of it.”

  “Did you imagine moving your fingers?”

  “I don’t… think so. Hard to remember.”

  “Are you tired? Why did you think you needed an adrenaline boost?” Her voice came across more clinical than she had intended.

  “I don’t know. Not especially tired. It’s just…”

  “Better not use it, then. Just to be safe.”

  Ian fell silent, then started walking again. “I was just wondering if it was possible. You know, for the thing to go off by itself. Maybe I’m just imagining things, but it kind of seemed like it’s reading my mind, acting on my thoughts.”

  “The brain can learn and adapt, even in adults. We didn’t really anticipate this, but it’s entirely possible that the brain learns to fire areas in the motor cortex in sequence by itself, sort of like a learned reflex. I agree that’s a concerning development.”

  Ian continued walking, now a step ahead, seemingly lost in thought.

  #

  It was hard to tell what was bigger, Carlos Aguilar’s belly, his mustache, or the enormous silver buckle on his belt. The police chief seemed proud of all three, alternately patting his belly, stroking his mustache, and tapping his fingers on the buckle.

  While Anton Markov told Aguilar what he would require—nothing, or specifically, a blind eye—Aguilar watched with a skeptical expression. In spite of his oversized accoutrements, the chief gave an impression of competence. And even though Markov had dragged him from bed at four in the morning, Aguilar looked alert. Admirable in normal circumstances, but inconvenient in this case. Markov would have preferred to find the Querétaro police department corrupt and easily bribed.

  “They called you from Mexico City, I assume,” Markov said.

  “They called. Told me to expect an American to come bully my department. They tell me I have to cooperate.” He spoke English fluently, but with a strong accent. “Who are you, DEA?”
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  “That’s right. We’re after a drug lord and his girlfriend. They killed a man in Phoenix last week and they’re trying to flee to Central America.”

  Aguilar held his hands open wide in a gesture that said, what do I care? “That is business for the Mexican police. We arrest him, you can ask for extradition. Or maybe we try him in Mexican courts first.” He rested his hands on his belly.

  “This man is a gringo, not a Mexican national,” Markov said. “But he’s got connections in Mexico, and a lot of money.” He carefully framed his argument. Insult Aguilar or Mexico and the man would be sure to push back, in spite of orders from the Mexican government. “You arrest him and you’ll have to turn him over to the federales. And he’ll pay some money to his friends and be loose again.”

  Aguilar frowned and tapped at his belt buckle. Markov thought he had deciphered the gestures. Mustache meant he was angry, hands on belly meant he was stubborn, and buckle taps meant he was thinking but not yet convinced.

  “And you’re just going to arrest the man?” Aguilar asked. “No shooting?”

  “No shooting, except in self defense. You have my word.”

  “Está bien. You can arrest this gringo and take him to the border. I will write a letter if you are stopped. At the border, you can speak to border agents and American officials or your friends in D.F.”

  “That’s very reasonable,” Markov said. “Thank you.”

  “But you must take two of my officers to the hotel. They can observe.”

  Markov clenched his teeth for a moment, then he nodded. “Yes, of course.”

  He left Aguilar’s office and returned to the van, where two of his three agents waited. The other was posted outside the hotel where Ian and Julia had holed up for the night. As Markov pulled the van out of the parking lot, a police cruiser slid in behind and followed them down the road.

  Querétaro was a large, growing city a few hours north of Mexico City, more modern than the quaint colonial towns to the north but not urban blight, either. From here, Ian and Julia could sprint to the capital and catch a flight for Europe or anywhere else in the world.

  Markov’s team had arrived in Utah to a trail gone cold, with Sarah Redd’s men standing around the wreckage in Nephi, smoking and bitching about local law enforcement while they waited for something to fall into their laps. Markov demanded to know what the hell they were doing. “We’re securing the facility,” one man told Markov, incredulous. “What does it look like?”

  He’d sent their worthless butts back to Langley and relied mostly on local law enforcement. The Utahns were professional and anxious to help, a rare combination. It didn’t take long to piece together the aftermath of the failed airstrike.

  Three people had survived, then split apart at a truck stop north of Nephi. One of them—an escaped inmate from the psych ward—had hitched a ride with a truck driver and probably crossed into Canada before he disappeared. Markov ignored this trail.

  The other two were a man and woman, presumably Ian and Julia. Markov tracked them to Moab, where a security camera on Main Street captured the pair enter a grocery store, then leave almost two hours later. This was during Sarah Redd’s helicopter overflights of the town.

  Very late that same night, there was an incident at a hospital in Monticello in the southeastern corner of Utah. Hard to piece together what had happened. Security at the hospital was poor, the two eye-witnesses unreliable. Worse, before the local police showed up, someone from the night janitorial services had stumbled upon the mess left by Julia and Ian and cleaned it up, disinfected every surface, erased every clue.

  But it was clear that Julia had brought Ian into the hospital for surgery. Markov supposed that Ian took some injuries during the battle at the psychiatric ward. Whatever the extent of the wounds, they hadn’t prevented him from overpowering the security guard and the two fugitives fleeing the scene before the police could arrive.

  The trail resurfaced in Nogales, Mexico, where a couple crossed the border on Sunday morning, less that twelve hours ahead of Anton Markov and his team. For one brief moment, Julia glanced up at something in the sky—maybe a bird, maybe an airplane—and a security camera stole a peek at her face.

  In Mexico, Anton Markov tracked the fugitives to a dumpy motel called Las Palmitas on the outskirts of Querétaro. Markov, even though he’d spoken only English to Carlos Aguilar, had a good command of Spanish thanks to several years as a field operative in South America, and had bribed the hotel owner into giving him keys to the room. Markov prepared to burst into room with guns drawn.

  But then local police arrived. It took a few hurried calls to Langley and back to Mexico City to put enough pressure on Carlos Aguilar to allow Markov to proceed.

  It was now four-thirty in the morning. There was still time to catch the fugitives in bed. Markov wondered if he would find them sleeping in each other’s arms.

  The van pulled into the underlit parking lot, followed by the Mexican police car. Markov’s man stepped from behind one of the palm trees that ringed the hotel parking lot. He flashed a thumbs up.

  Markov parked the van and sent a man to either side of the hotel room door and a third around back, by the far window. He took out an M40 bolt action sniper rifle and attached a tripod. He’d have preferred something with semi-automatic functionality, as sniping was not his specialty, but there had been trouble getting needed weaponry across the border in a hurry.

  It shouldn’t matter in any event; it wouldn’t take an expert marksman to knock down Ian Westhelle at such short range. And that was only if Ian somehow managed to get past two agents, bursting into his hotel room while he slept. The plan was to kill Ian and take Julia into custody. Markov would make his apologies (backed by the US government) to the Mexicans, then return Julia to the States. Let Sarah Redd worry about her then. If she still wanted Julia dead, fine. It wouldn’t be his problem anymore.

  He was searching for a place to belly up with the rifle when the hotel owner came scurrying from his owner’s quarters.

  “No quiero problemas,” the man said. I don’t want problems. He rubbed his hands together and his eyes darted out to the police car. Thankfully, the officers stayed inside.

  “No se preocupe,” Markov said. Don’t worry. He continued in Spanish, “We’ll reimburse you for any damage.”

  “Damage? What kind of damage?”

  “I said don’t worry. Now, you’re sure the rooms on either side of number eighteen are vacant?”

  The man nodded. “There’s someone in room six and in room eleven. The others are empty.”

  “Muy bien. Now go back to your office. This man is a dangerous criminal, I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  The man hurried away. Markov found the darkest place in the parking lot that still offered a good view of the front door of the fugitives’ motel room and lay on his belly. He spent a long minute adjusting his scope and double checking the equipment. As soon as he was sure, he took a penlight and blinked it twice against the hotel room door.

  One of the two CIA agents lifted the ram while the other stood behind his shoulder with a shotgun at the ready. It would be a violent, chaotic few seconds. So much could go wrong. Markov had no doubt they would get Ian; the man had no chance under the circumstances. But there was even odds that Julia would go down as collateral damage.

  Markov wanted to be there with them, and not back here as backup with the sniper rifle. But he was too old, too slow for a man like Ian.

  The agent slammed the ram into the door. It was a flimsy thing, and burst open on the first blow. The man tossed the ram aside and the two agents burst into the room with shotguns lowered.

  Chapter Twenty-seven:

  Charles Ikanbo’s brother paced back and forth across the parquet floor in the office of the Central Intelligence Service in Windhoek. His breath smelled of alcohol, but he didn’t slur his words or otherwise seem drunk.

  William liked his drink, but Charles couldn’t remember ever seeing him drink hard
this early in the morning. Maybe he’d been up all night.

  “It’s all gone wrong,” William said. “I don’t know why they’d pull out now. We were so close, and they have as much to lose as we do.”

  “Are the Chinese leaving?” Charles asked. He didn’t know what this was about, only that his brother, the Minister of Mines and Energy, had shown up at his office mid-morning, insisting on talking to him.

  “No, they’re not leaving. Not willingly. Ah, this has all gone wrong. And I’m committed now. Everything is ready. If only the Old Crab wasn’t so stubborn, I could still go forward without the Americans.”

  Charles still had no idea what William was talking about. The Old Crab, however, was the nickname for General Katz, the half-German, half-Namibian Minister of Defense, and head of Namibia’s small, underfunded military.

  Both the Central Intelligence Service and the military had purposefully been kept small. They would never be strong enough to fight off the South Africans, the thinking went, but had to show enough muscle to keep bush wars in Angola and other neighbors from spreading to the country. Not so strong, however, as to encourage that other plague of post-colonial Africa, the military coup.

  It had been the firm position of President Nujoma, who had led Namibia’s liberation movement since the 1950’s, secured its independence from South Africa in 1990, and run the country as president until 2005. As someone who had known how fragile African governments could be, he walked a tightrope between impotence and strength. So far, Nujoma’s successors had been wise enough to follow his lead.

  Problem was, there were so many Blackwing contractors in the country now that the Chinese had beefed up their camps, that it felt like the north of the country was for all intents occupied by foreigners. If things went wrong it would take a major offensive to pry them loose. The Old Crab was not the one to do it.

  “Are the Chinese planning something?” Charles asked. “Why haven’t I heard anything? And why would the Ministry of Mines and Energy be involved?”

  “No, it’s not the Chinese, you fool. They’ve already got everything they want. Why would they risk that?” William looked around the room and his eyes fixed on the small refrigerator that Charles kept in the corner of his office. “What have you got in there? I could use a drink.”