Border Sweep

by Don Pendleton

  Bolan waited patiently, one ear cocked toward the stairwell. Randy Carlton was due any minute. Another door opened, and he dodged back into the doorway. Footsteps on the hard tile were interrupted by a door slamming, then a jangle of keys. Someone else had left an office, and Bolan let the door ease closed a little, putting his weight on the knob to dampen the squeal of the hinges.

  A slender shadow speared across the floor, then stopped, and Bolan heard the sound of a briefcase hitting the floor. The body behind the shadow mumbled something, then scraped the briefcase on the tile as it was picked up. The hatless shadow began to move again, and Bolan thought for a moment the man was heading for the rest room. He let the door close a little more and waited. The footsteps approached in a stuttering rap on the floor, hesitated for a moment, then passed on. Bolan sighed with relief when he heard the sound of feet on the stairs.

  Someone in the stairwell said a casual hello, his voice bouncing back up the stairs in a tinny echo. A second later Randy Carlton passed the open crack, and Bolan called to him in a hoarse whisper. The tall border patrolman stopped and turned in what seemed like slow motion.

  Bolan yanked the door open and waved him in.

  Carlton moved sluggishly, obviously still in pain. "What the hell is going on, Mike?"

  "I don't know. Somebody just went into Sipe's office."

  "Who?"

  "I couldn't tell. He looked familiar, but I didn't get a good look at him."

  "Probably just somebody stopping by to say hello. No big deal."

  "I'm not sure."

  "He come in before you or after you?"

  "After."

  "Anybody follow you?"

  "No, I was careful about that. How about you?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Then we'll just wait here and see who it is."

  "Why don't we go on down and say hello?"

  "I thought about it, but I think we might get more out of it if we let him take us to his leader."

  The two men continued to talk in whispers while Bolan kept his eye to the narrow opening.

  "I sure hope we don't have to wait long. This isn't exactly the most covert surveillance I can imagine," Carlton said dryly. "Sooner or later somebody's gonna have to use the head. Then what do we do?"

  "If you've got any better ideas, I wouldn't mind hearing them," Bolan snapped.

  Twenty minutes later, there was still no sign of the anonymous visitor, and Bolan was beginning to get impatient. He regretted being so harsh with Carlton and was about to apologize when he heard a squeal at the end of the hall.

  He stuck his head out just far enough to peer down along the wall. The hulking stranger surveyed the corridor, and satisfied that it was empty, backed out into the hallway as he pulled the door closed behind him. Bolan pulled his head back, confident that the intermittent light of the bare bulbs overhead had been too weak to betray him. A second later he heard footsteps heading back toward the stairway. This time the man no longer cared about being heard. The warrior eased the door a little wider, the Beretta gripped tightly in his hand. He saw the shadow on the floor bouncing along at a steady clip, the head wobbling slightly from side to side with each step. A second later the man passed the rest room door, and Bolan inhaled sharply. The heavy footsteps began to retreat down the stairs. Now he knew why the features had looked familiar.

  "Allenson!" Bolan hissed. "What the hell is he doing here?"

  "You sure it was him?"

  "No doubt about it. You tell anybody you were meeting me here?"

  "No, why?"

  "I'd like to know a little bit more about Patrolman Allenson. Are you ready to admit he's in this about as deep as he can get?"

  "I still don't understand how he could have a reason to be involved with any of this, do you?"

  "Sure. I can name a hundred reasons. And his might not even be on the list."

  "I guess I just give people too much credit."

  "Maybe so. But I'll tell you what, after the talk I had with Ray Conlan, nothing would surprise me."

  "Now wait a minute, Mike. I'm the first one to say I don't like the son of a bitch. He's an arrogant bastard and a bully, but it's still a long way between that and murder."

  "You said yourself," Bolan argued, "that you weren't too sure who you could trust. Not even in your own outfit."

  "But… I mean that was just frustration. Hell, I know some guys turn their backs once in a while, take a little under the table and all, but holy shit…"

  "There's one way to settle it."

  "Sure. We can catch up to him. 'Nice day, isn't it, Buck? Oh, by the way, just between us… you didn't happen to blow away my partner the other day, did you? And of course he'll tell us. What could be easier?"

  "Unless you can think of a good reason for Allenson to be here at the exact same time you were supposed to meet me, I think it wouldn't hurt to be a little skeptical." Bolan waited, and when Carlton didn't answer, he pushed a little. "Well, can you think of a reason?"

  "No. I can't think of a reason. But it has to be a coincidence."

  "You said you didn't tell anybody. He has no reason to be here on his own. That can only mean he came here because he knew you were going to be here."

  "But how?"

  "You tell me. You are being straight with me, aren't you, Randy?" Bolan flicked on the overhead light, and the small room was suddenly full of glare and harsh shadows.

  "What are you suggesting?"

  "I'm not suggesting anything," Bolan answered. "I merely asked a question. I'm waiting for a reasonable answer. Unless you have one, then I think we better assume the worst."

  "But I'm telling you I didn't say anything. Not to Buck, and not to anybody else. So he couldn't have known. Unless…"

  "Unless what?"

  "You said you called from a pay phone, right?"

  "Yeah."

  "Then… that bastard… somebody's been tapping my phone. How else could he have known?"

  "And if your phone's been tapped, then whoever tapped it knew a lot more about what you, Ralston and Ronny Sipe were up to than you had any reason to suspect."

  "That would explain how they knew what we were working on."

  "And why they got scared. You must have been onto something, something you didn't even realize, and it spooked them. Whatever it was, they must have felt it was just a matter of time before you put all the pieces together."

  Carlton grabbed the door handle. "Come on, let's follow him."

  "Not yet. We know who to follow, but we have something else to do first."

  "Like what?"

  "We have to get the files Ronny was working on. That ought to tell us a lot. And while we're at it, we might as well check his office for bugs. Come on."

  Carlton reached the doorway as Bolan stepped into the inner office. He knew right away something was wrong. The telephone receiver lay on the desk, its cover beside it. Whoever had taken it apart hadn't even bothered to hide the fact. Without looking, Bolan knew the files wouldn't be there, either.

  "I guess that's that," he said. "They must have been through this place with a vacuum cleaner. The files were right there the last time I was here, on top of the cabinets. And Allenson didn't have anything with him when he left here."

  "Don't worry about it, Mike. That's why they invented the photocopier. I have duplicates of everything we were working on. I told you we were moonlighting."

  "Let's go take a look. I'm particularly interested in two names."

  "What are they?"

  "Tyack and Calderone."

  "Never heard of Calderone. But if he's anything like Big Jaime, he's one mean mother."

  18

  Carlos Calderone sat on the elevated portico above the garden. Lounging in a lawn chair, he could see the rich green and sparkling water below him, the thick, high wall enclosing the garden, and the desert beyond. Not a drinking man, he sipped leisurely at a tall glass of orange juice, smacking his lips with satisfaction after each long draft.


  Turning to the young man on the chaise longue beside him, he smiled. "So, Alfredo, how much longer before everything is ready, eh?"

  "A day or two, Don Carlos, no more."

  "You are pleased with the toys I bought you?"

  "They are not toys, with all due respect, Don Carlos. They are very sophisticated machines. And, yes, I am very pleased."

  "Did you think, when you were sweating your ass off in university, that you would land such a fantastic position as I have given to you."

  "No, sir, I didn't. It is more than anyone has a right to hope for. I am very fortunate."

  "I see you appreciate what I have done for you."

  "Yes."

  "Then perhaps you can answer a question for me, Alfredo." Calderone drained the last of the orange juice with a long, loud rush of air through the straw, carrying the last few drops from the tall glass. He slapped the glass on a marble-topped table by his elbow, but said nothing.

  A moment later a slender young woman, her long black hair in a single ropelike braid down the center of her back, appeared out of nowhere, took the glass in one delicate hand and went back the way she had come. Alfredo stared after her, watching the pendular swing of the thick braid, its undulations alternately revealing and concealing the movement of her vertebrae as she walked. An exaggerated swing of her hips accented the suppleness of the spine, and Alfredo was mesmerized.

  When she was gone, he turned back to his mentor, who was watching him curiously. "As I was saying, perhaps you can answer a question for me, eh?"

  "If I can, yes, of course." Alfredo stumbled over the words, and felt his skin flush with embarrassment. "What would you like to know?"

  "I would like to know when your system will be ready."

  "I think in one or two more days. No more than that, certainly. Why do you ask?"

  "Because I find that I am surrounded by people who are very good at promises, and very poor performers."

  "The test went well, did it not?"

  "You got the car where it was supposed to go, of course. That was impressive, but you see, a system cannot be evaluated in a vacuum. All its components must work in concert, no?"

  Alfredo started to squirm in his seat. "That is true, but you cannot blame a computer for human error."

  "So, you see my problem, Alfredo? Error. Human error. I think I have had enough human error to last me for quite a while."

  "I understand, Don Carlos. I will push my men. It will be ready as soon as possible, I prom…"

  "No, Alfredo. No promises, please. I have an important meeting this afternoon. I want to be able to give assurances. If I do, and can't deliver, I will look like a fool. That is something I do not wish to have happen. It is something I cannot afford."

  "I agree."

  "That is all well and good. But do you also agree, Alfredo, that it is something you cannot afford?"

  Alfredo swallowed hard. This was a side of Don Carlos he had heard much about but never seen. It would be a good idea to watch his step. "Yes, sir, I do."

  "It is a hard thing I am trying to do, Alfredo. Very hard. And I am not unaware of your contribution. But American businessmen have a saying. It is one I like because I have no choice but to abide by it. Do you know what that saying is?"

  "No, Don Carlos."

  "What have you done for me lately? That is a good saying, is it not?"

  Alfredo stood up and looked out over the desert. He was beginning to see it in a new light. When he had first come to work for Carlos Calderone, he had seen the desert as a buffer, a kind of insulation to protect him from the intrusions of the outside world. Now he was beginning to understand that impregnability worked both ways. The world could not intrude on him. But he was trapped, a prisoner of his own device. There was no way he could escape, and if he understood the threat implicit in Calderone's oblique little lecture, he would soon regret it.

  "I think I better get back to work. We still have to refine the satellite linkage to make sure we are in constant touch with the Comrail system. All of the major components of the system are operational. The only thing that remains to be done is to integrate them and let the computer take over."

  "I don't know exactly what you mean, Alfredo, but I'm sure you do. And I'm sure we will be in constant touch, eh?"

  "Perhaps… perhaps you could come down later today. I could show you what we have already done. It is quite impressive, actually."

  "I'll think about it. But I must admit I am not accustomed to being invited to visit a room in my own house. That is unusual, is it not?"

  "I meant no disrespect, Don Carlos, I…"

  Calderone cut him off with an impatient hand. "I am busy, Alfredo. Later, eh?"

  Alfredo walked toward the sliding door across the patio. He watched Calderone's image in the polished surface of the door. It wasn't until he reached for the door handle, and saw a hand raised in a mocking salute, that he realized Calderone was also watching him. He opened the door and stepped inside, chilled to the bone even before he felt the first breath of conditioned air.

  Calderone smiled.

  Leaning back on the lawn chair, he closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the heat on his skin. He liked its warmth, and he liked the scent of the sunlight, the way it reacted with his body and changed him. Carlos Calderone was proud of himself. He had come a long way in a short time. Six years ago he'd been scrambling for a living, pushing his ancient Chevy to the limit, making three, sometimes four runs a week, sneaking across the border in the dead of night.

  That life seemed so distant now, and it was hard to imagine ever having lived it. He had made enough money to pay the bills, but there was never enough left over. Once the Border Patrol started installing motion detectors in the desert, it became a game of wits. When he caught on, he realized it was a game he could only lose. The detectors were unreliable, but the more of them there were, the riskier each transit became.

  Going to jail, back then, hadn't been a problem. There were always ways to deal with that. The world had no shortage of upturned palms, especially federale palms, but greasing them was expensive, and took better than half of his earnings. Even if you weren't caught, you had payoffs to make. And if you got in trouble, the cost was high. It reached a point where he realized most of his labor was going to support the expensive taste of corrupt officials on both sides of the border.

  That would have been hard enough to bear, but once the self-righteous bastards started playing both sides of the street, milking him for protection, then busting him and hitting his wallet a second time, he had had enough. That had been three years ago.

  Now all the bile he had stored, the bitterness of being robbed by those who were supposed to uphold the law, was about to be released. It had been a struggle, but it was going to be worth it. Once he had started hiring coyotes to make the runs, splitting the take while they had all the risks, his bank account had grown dramatically. The richer he got, the easier it was to hire others to do the dirty work. It had gotten finally to where it was a point of pride to be working for Don Carlos.

  And as his reputation among the coyotes grew, so did his business. Like a binary star, they circled around a common center, absorbing additional energy from every direction, simultaneously expanding and feeding one another. Now that he was reaching out across the border and starting to organize the growers, there would be no stopping him. At a stroke he could lock up the supply and the demand.

  There were problems, of course, but nothing he couldn't handle. It was big time or bust. By the end of the year, he would have the world on a string.

  Getting off the deck chair, he walked to the back edge of the portico and looked out over the desert. Already, off near the horizon, he could see small clouds approaching from every direction. In less than two hours he would unveil his master plan. Those who wanted to could buy in. Those who didn't could take their chances.

  * * *

  "Gentlemen, I see that some of you are not convinced that my little plan will work, even t
hough you do not yet know what it is." Calderone stood at the head of a long table. He looked down the rows, fixing his eyes on each seated man in turn. "Am I right?"

  Raul Ramirez, his shaved head gleaming under the indirect light from the ceiling, banged his fist on the table. At nearly three hundred pounds his size alone would have commanded attention. His reputation for bloodthirstiness was merely an embellishment. Ramirez was a careful man, but even so, stories about the swift and merciless revenge he exacted upon would-be welshers were legion. In one case he was said to have killed six men single-handedly, slitting their throats one by one while a henchman kept the migrant workers at gunpoint. When he had finished, he had turned the knife on his own man on the theory that a dead witness could do him no harm.

  A can of beer in one huge fist, he rapped the table repeatedly with the other. When the room fell silent, Ramirez stood and walked to the head of the table to stand beside Calderone. "Give me one good reason I should cut you in on my business," he rumbled. "I do all right on my own."

  "How much did you make last year?" Calderone challenged. "Tell us all."

  "It's none of your damn business, Carlos." The table buzzed at the calculated insult of the first name only. Not even a "Señor Calderone" would have been respectful enough for Calderone's pretensions, but being called Carlos by a slob like Ramirez was insufferable.

  Calderone bristled, but he wanted to prove a point. There was no sense ruffling any fence-straddling feathers. Not yet, anyway. "Raul," he said, smiling, "how can I possibly persuade you of the wisdom of my proposal if I have to argue in a vacuum? You don't have to tell me to the penny. A round number will be sufficient." Calderone patted the large man on the stomach. "You are more than comfortable with round things, aren't you?"

  Those seated at the table tittered, then when Ramirez cursed good-naturedly, they broke into applause.

  "In any case, I should wait until this afternoon when we are all here together. It is not a simple thing to explain, and I would rather do it only once."