Mouse Trapped

by Manda Mellett

  His fingers wrap around mine. “Good to see you, Mouse.”

  “You on the clock?” Drummer asks. “Or would you like a drink?”

  The Englishman attempts a smile, but as only one side of his mouth turns up, it’s not very effective. “Knowing the quality of the whisky you keep behind your desk, Drum, I’ll gladly take a dram.”

  As Drummer pours two shots—he doesn’t bother asking me—I take a seat, waiting while Devil smacks his lips in appreciation.

  “Have you got any information?” I ask, impatiently. The fact I’m in this meeting means Devil may have answers for me.

  He parks himself in the chair by my side, and rather than answering mine, poses a question of his own. “You get very far tracking down De Souza?”

  “The father? No. His military records just seem to end for no reason. I passed everything on that I found. I got no further than that.”

  The only corner of his mouth which can move, nudges higher. “I thought not.” He takes another sip of his drink. “He’s an interesting character. Or perhaps, I should say, one that very many people are interested in.”

  I raise an eyebrow, and jerk my chin toward my prez. “And?” I prompt.

  “He was in the army, never made it above sergeant before he got a dishonourable discharge. But he likes to play the soldier, so he’s given the title General to himself.”

  Drummer leans his elbows on the desk. “Dishonourable discharge? I thought any behaviour of the type leading to that kind of expulsion would have been encouraged. Wasn’t the army responsible for genocide?”

  “Not when you get three members of your own team murdered. And in particularly nasty ways. And when several leads pointed to you being responsible, their deaths being to your benefit.”

  “What did he do after that?” Understand the history, join the dots, know the man.

  “Well, he was no boy scout. Joined a gang, rose up the ranks.” He pauses to pass his now empty shot glass back to the prez. Drummer refills it. “You know my interest in slave trafficking? Well, he’s come up quite a lot.”

  “So why did you have to search for him, if you already know the name?”

  “Ah, because that’s not the name he’s known for.” He nods at me. “Already made some useful progress, with the history you’ve passed to me through Drummer, we were able to follow the trail. You started from the beginning, we were able to start at the end and work back. I had a hunch, it paid off. The name we had was El Procurador, The Procurer.”

  Prez sharpens his eyes. “Procurer of what? Or don’t I want to know?”

  Devil raises and lowers his shoulders. “Whatever you want to get a hold of. Guns, drugs, slaves. And on the latter, he’s not too concerned whether it’s women or children for sex, or men to work your fields. Pay the right price, he can get whatever you want.” As my eyebrows rise, he adds, “Heavy artillery if you’re looking for it.”

  “Jesus,” Drummer exclaims.

  “Yeah. That about sums it up. We knew what they called him, but not who he was or where he came from. When Mouse got me looking for a General De Souza, I tracked down what we knew of him. It was the key to us putting two and two together. Thanks to your man here, his identity is now known.”

  I seem to be floating above this conversation. Hearing it, but not participating. I knew it would be bad if Mariana was deported, but just how bad, I’d had no idea. “I’ve got to get this information to her lawyer.” Suddenly I’m spurred into action. As I start rising to my feet, Devil puts his hand on my arm.

  “Not so fast, Mouse. We’ve got to think carefully how we handle this new intelligence, and how it affects Mariana. This knowledge is critical to taking him down, and we need to have time to do that. We can’t have it discussed in an open court.”

  “You’re worried that once he knows you’ve learned the connection, he’ll disappear?” Prez’s eyebrows rise.

  Devil nods. “Seems a fair bet he’d reinvent himself again.”

  They’re not worried about my woman. “Mariana will be in danger if she returns…”

  The security consultant, or whatever he regards himself as, sighs. “It’s not her who he wants. It’s the boy.”

  “Drew? Why?”

  “It’s all supposition on my part, Mouse. But I’ve been finding things out and adding them up.” He glances at me, I nod. Data. Joining it all up. “He was injured before he was discharged. Nasty injury, especially for a man. Medical records show he’s infertile.”

  “So,” it starts to make sense. “He finds out he has a son he never thought he had and wants him to groom.”

  “That’s my view. With no chance of having any other children, Drew’s the only male bloodline he has left.” Devil waits for a moment for that to sink in. “Seems like his wife, Mariana’s mother, kept her mouth shut as to where her two children were. But there’s a price on Mariana’s head. He’s had people looking for years. Luckily his contacts in the States aren’t that strong or haven’t much reach. So far, they’ve been unable to find her.”

  The news makes me suck in a breath. “If she’s sent back…”

  Devil’s face grows grim. “His network is far more extensive in Colombia. Government officials in his pay. He’ll know she’s back as soon as she steps in the country. Probably even before that, if her name appears on any deportee list that will need to be cleared by their immigration, or any application for her to get a Colombian passport or visa.”

  “He’ll want to use her to get Drew to go to him. If he thinks he can persuade her,” I shake my head, “he’s got no idea about her at all.”

  “If he gets his hands on her, he’ll use her as an inducement in some way or another.” Devil seems unaffected that we’re discussing the fate of the woman I’ve promised to marry. “If Drew knew she was being harmed, I doubt he could keep away.”

  “Drew’s not going anywhere,” I tell him forcefully, clenching my hands. “And neither is Mariana. With this information, there must be some way to keep her Stateside.”

  “Are there plans to take The Procurer out?” Drum steps in, a warning look in my direction.

  “We know who he is, but not where he holes up,” Devil explains.

  A really bad feeling starts growing inside me. “If Mariana returns to Colombia, he’ll know, and he’ll take her.” I stand so fast my chair rocks backwards and falls with a crash. “You bastard,” I roar, leaning over Devil and getting into his face. “You’re going to fuckin’ use her, aren’t you?”

  See? I can put information together too. Of course, that’s their plan.

  “Sit down, Brother,” Drum says sharply, then turns to Devil. “If that’s what you intend to do, I like it as little as Mouse does. Haven’t met her myself, but from what Mouse has said, she’s young, innocent, and not equipped to be an international spy.”

  Devil shrugs. “She won’t go without backup. Remember the GPS locator we used for Sam…?”

  Drummer humphs loudly. “Like that worked well, I can’t forget we almost lost her, Devil. I recall you and I havin’ words about that.”

  Instead of being cowed, Devil leans forward, and his eyes find mine. “Chances are she’ll be deported, Mouse. If we get her onside, we can make sure she’s protected.”

  “Chances are if she’s got a credible reason to be afraid of returning, the judge will let her stay,” I fire back. “I’m telling her lawyer.”

  “And put yourself in the sights of the CIA?” Devil challenges. “You’ll be blowing up a plan we, they’ve been working on for years. You’ll gain nothing from that.”

  I’m thinking fast. “How about keeping Mariana here and using a decoy instead? Someone who’s trained and can deal with this shit.”

  “You’re missing the fact that no matter what you say she could be deported. Her mother lost her plea for asylum and was sent back to a bloody rapist. Haven’t got much sway over what the judge determines or what mood he’s in on the day. Isn’t it better to have her onside so she can help us?”
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  Again I stand, this time placing my hands flat on the table. “And you’re talking about the woman I’ve claimed. The woman I want to be my wife. What do you expect me to fuckin’ do? Live apart? Go make a life for myself in Colombia? Once she’s deported, she can’t come back for five years at least.”

  Drum raises his eyebrows at Devil. “Man means what he says, Devil. He’s serious about the girl. I can’t lose him from the club. Don’t know what you have to do to get her out of this mess, but I say, you fix it. Don’t like putting bitches in danger. Mouse has given you enough, the identity of this Procurer you’ve been seeking. You owe him for that.”

  “She can’t do it, Devil.” For the second time, I find myself planting my ass in the chair. “She’s been living on her nerves all her life, I want her to feel easier, not make things worse. The life’s already gone out of her.” I want her here with me, so I can start building her back up. Taking away that fear she’s lived with for years. “I know her. Any suggestion of her coming face to face with the man who killed her mother, she’ll completely shatter. My assessment? Too risky. Unless you don’t give a damn. One more immigrant out of the country and what’s the value of one life?”

  “You look here,” Devil snarls, taking me by surprise. “I’m not from the US. Don’t give a damn about your immigration policies. Don’t give one fuck whether she stays here in a house with a picket fence or not. What I do care about is the hundreds of people separated from their families and turned into slaves, I do care about people being killed by others equipping their private armies, and the amount of drugs on the streets. You say she’s worth more than that?”

  “That’s what he’s saying,” Drummer points out. “You caught me in this trap once before, Devil. Yeah, so that turned out right in the end, but it could have gone south. Find another way, Devil. If you want to help Mouse, get a statement from the CIA to confirm there’s a credible threat to Mariana if she returns, help her to stay. But if you want to rely on me and my help in the future, do not set her up.”

  Devil shoots him a look which speaks volumes, but doesn’t offer any commitment one way or the other.

  Chapter 23

  Mariana

  Was I wrong to refuse to see Drew or Tse? I turn the question over and over in my mind, changing my view on the answer as many times as I ask myself. The reasoning that I was right comes back to me time after time. If I’m never going to see them again, better get used to it sooner rather than later. If all I have to rely on is myself, best I start now.

  I’m depressed, and it doesn’t take the time I’ve been studying as a nurse to understand that. Then again, most of the people around me are all trying to come to terms with their likely fate. That the system’s not letting me go even now that I’ve been proved innocent seems to have sealed my future. This country, the home I’ve only ever known, is determined to get rid of me.

  Apart from Tse and his people, apart from the blacks who were brought here as slaves, everyone in the States is an immigrant or a relatively recent descendant of one. Do they have less compassion due to that fact, that they don’t want anyone else to enjoy the advantages they had? Is it because my features are Hispanic, my skin not white, that they want me to leave?

  “Your lawyer’s here.”

  Without enthusiasm, I get up from the table where I was sitting wallowing in misery, and follow the guard. I can’t get excited, having resigned myself to months of staying here, then a one-way ticket to a place I don’t want to go.

  “Mariana.”

  Today Carissa’s there before me. She stands as I go to the chair opposite hers, then sits and pulls a folder toward her. Opening it, she peruses a document, while I’m getting myself settled.

  “I’ve got some news.” She takes off her glasses. “Your immigration hearing will be happening soon.”

  Is that good news? I hold out little hope that a judge would be sympathetic. For an answer, I shrug. But curiosity does push me to ask, “When?”

  “Your initial hearing will take place in a couple of days. That will only take a quarter of an hour. It’s just a formality. Your individual hearing is scheduled for next week. They’ll firm up the date nearer the time. Most immigration hearings are completed in under three hours, unless people have lawyers speaking on their behalf. This far out, it’s still too early to give an exact time and day. If the judge gets a lengthy case, it could be pushed back.”

  The judge probably hears so many sob stories, mine will barely register. Even if I’m luckier than most, having someone to represent me. At least I speak the language. Like a native. What a joke. I speak US English, I can barely introduce myself in Spanish. How will I cope when I’m deported? Do they speak any English there? Where am I supposed to go? Or do? The thought of getting off the plane in a foreign country, alone with no money, no idea of the culture or customs, terrifies me.

  “Have you spoken to Tse?” I suddenly find myself asking. “Does he know?” Whether he does or doesn’t, there’s probably little he can do.

  “I have updated him, yes.” She seems to want to say more, but as she removes her glasses once again, and looks at me searchingly, she shuts her mouth, shuffles papers, then brightens. “Well, I’ll be working on your case and the submission I’ll be making on your behalf.”

  I bite my lip. “If they decide to deport me, how long…”

  Her mouth purses. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “How long?” I insist, making my voice firmer.

  “As soon as they can arrange a charter plane,” she gives in and tells me. “Tse will be bringing a bag you can take with you. But only as a last resort. I’ll be doing everything I can for you to be permitted to stay.” I stare down at my hands as she continues, “Your fiancé will be arranging to cover the cost of your flight. That you’ve paid for your own deportation will count for you if you ever return legally to the States. Otherwise the outstanding bill will be just one more obstacle to get over.”

  She’s holding out a glimmer of hope for a time in the future when I’ll be free to come back.

  “Is that a possibility?” I perk up. “Could I return?”

  She sighs. “The judge will determine how long before you can apply for a green card. I’m assuming if you get married, Tse will be able to sponsor you, otherwise your brother once he’s turned twenty-one.”

  Though it will be almost six years before Drew can help, and I don’t want to force Tse into a relationship that however much he says he wants, I think is crazy. A wonderful dream. But impractical. “I won’t be able to return for five years in any event.” Five years. My eyes close. That seems like a lifetime.

  “That’s the minimum. It could be ten or twenty. Depends on the judge.”

  I’m only twenty. I could live the same number of years in exile, I think, as she reminds me how long I could be gone. There’s no guarantee I could ever come back.

  Carissa gives me a moment, then stands. “I’ll be with you when your case is heard. I’ll be doing everything I can to persuade the judge to allow you to stay. You’re not facing this alone, Mariana. Tse will be there, of course.”

  “It’s a public hearing?”

  A nod. Then a spoken, “Yes.”

  It’s no better knowing that my time in the immigration processing centre is coming to an end. If I was more hopeful of the outcome, I’d be ecstatic. As it is, each time I feel the slight optimism that I might be going home with Drew, I tamp that notion straight down, knowing if I build myself up, the disappointment would crush me.

  Trying to keep any thought in my head is like trying to catch a particular fish from a shoal with my bare hands. As soon as I think of something I need to decide on, another idea enters and pushes it away. Until finally, exhausted, I give up thinking at all, and end up staring at the ceiling, my brain numb. Then the worrying starts all over again as I’ve made no plans, have no clue what to do after I arrive, as I expect is inevitable, in Colombia.

  What happens? Do they just p
oint you in the direction of the airport and leave you to get on with your new life? Is there any support mechanism at all?

  It won’t come to that. I won’t be deported. I most likely will be.

  As Carissa has pre-warned me, a short initial hearing takes place after a couple of days. Then nothing more until I get my time in front of the judge.

  It’s a bit like waiting for the guillotine to fall. You get to the point where you know it’s coming, can’t evade it, Christ, you can’t ignore it, but there’s part of you that wants to get out of the way. When a guard comes to get me one morning, I know there’s something different. I’m given the clothes that so long ago I arrived in. They hang off me now as I’ve lost so much weight. Detention centre for dieting, must recommend it. It doesn’t have anything else going for it.

  There’s a truck waiting, I step inside, once again handcuffed and chained to the floor. Windows again high so I can’t see out of them. There’s half a dozen people with me. They speak Spanish, I don’t understand it.

  A trickle of excitement bubbles in me even while I try to suppress it, the thought that I could be heading for my freedom. The idea that Tse might be there. Drew? No, I doubt Tse would have brought him, just in case it doesn’t go my way. But Carissa, Carissa seems to know her stuff. When I’m free, I’ll have to find some way of paying Tse back, her fees must have cost him a fortune. My foot’s tapping impatiently, just wanting to get there, get this done and over with. There’s a chance I’ll be able to go home. Just the idea has my heart singing.

  It’s stupid, pointless, but every mile of the way to the courthouse, I’m getting my hopes up and can’t push them away. The threat of Colombia seems to recede as surely the judge will see my home, my rightful place is here?

  There’s a turn that unbalances me as though the truck’s gone around a sharp corner, then shortly after, it pulls to a stop. I eye my companions, they look resigned, maybe their cases aren’t as strong as my own, maybe they were caught crossing the border. Maybe they haven’t got anyone to represent them. I might be a hateful person, but I’m thinking if the judge turns them down, he’s more likely to let one through. Please let that one be me.