by Bob Hamer
"So, have I educated you?"
"Yes." Boris took a huge gulp of Baltika and put the bottle on the desk. "My business requires assistance."
"Doesn't every business? What kind of assistance? If you're far enough in debt, maybe you qualify for a federal bailout."
"I don't need a comedian. I need a partner who isn't into handling the merchandise."
"I'll repeat an earlier question. What are you talking about?"
"Matt, all my girls are from the Ukraine. I need someone with no criminal record who can sponsor the girls. You're clean. We could set it up through your business."
"I'm listening."
"We move the girls from Odessa to Turkey . . ."
Matt interrupted, "Turkey?"
"Yeah, the Turks have lax entry requirements. It's easier to move them from Turkey into the U.S. than directly from the Ukraine."
"What do you need from me?"
"We can bring the girls in under H-1C, H-2B, even L visas depending on the business we create. I need a verifiable company for the I-129."
"You are way ahead of me. I have no idea about visas let alone H one whatever you said."
"The H visas are temporary nonagricultural workers. The L visa is for intracompany transferees. We could set up several businesses. Depending on what we created, we could bring in any number of girls. My people create the paperwork on the other side. I just need someone clean on this end."
"And you think I'm clean?"
"I checked you out. You don't have a record, and your credit is good. On paper you look like the dream American entrepreneur. More importantly, you and your ancestors aren't from Eastern Europe. No ski or 'i-a-n' at the end of your name."
"A reverse racial profiling, hey Boris?"
"Exactly. You're catching on."
"So what's in it for me?"
"Pure profit. No risk."
"There's risk if we get caught."
"Not if you set the company up right. You can argue the documents were counterfeited, the identity stolen. You're a smart guy. You can come up with any number of excuses."
Matt leaned back in the chair and put his hands behind his head. "Sounds pretty intriguing, I might be able to pull it off. Let me think on it. I want to make sure I can set it up so I've got plausible deniability in case immigration people start nosing around."
"Don't take too long. I need to move some more girls in here soon."
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Those inside could hear a vehicle approach. The noise startled the men and women huddled in the dilapidated building. A few men rose as if preparing to flee. Each worried the local authorities or even the federales had discovered the meeting locale and arrest was imminent. Eyes darted toward Dmitri.
The authorities cared little about the smuggling of Mexicans across the border, but other foreign nationals brought interest. Since 9/11, the United States pressured Mexico to halt the transporting of the OTM, the "other than Mexican." Both sides of the aisle in Washington were fearful of alienating the Hispanic vote, but the U.S. and Mexican governments reached an accommodation when it came to at least appearing to stop other nationalities from illegally crossing the border.
Everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief when they heard Oscar Cano talking with the driver; they were still safe.
Cano pulled back the wooden door to the garage, the rusty hinges groaning with the movement as he struggled to get it open. The light from the setting sun crept in as Cano entered.
"Everyone up. Grab your water and food. We leave now," said Cano.
The people rose, anxious to begin the next leg of a journey that for some began weeks ago. For Dmitri the journey began half a world away.
"Vaminos. Rapido."
Dmitri slowly got to his feet. He was older than any other traveler. All of whom spent their lives doing manual labor. His life was as a truck driver. It was not physical. The most labor-intensive work he did was hooking the trailer to the tractor. Usually others unloaded the cargo from the containers. His reason for coming to America differed from the others and was singular in nature.
"How long will the trip across the border be?" asked Dmitri.
"Not long," replied Cano.
"A few hours?"
"Si, a few hours."
The others heard the answer but said nothing. It made no sense to engage the coyote in discussion let alone argue with him. They knew the truth. The trip to Three Points, Arizona, the next stop on the journey, was at least three or four days. Several made the trip before only to be caught and deported. It was no Sunday stroll. The terrain was formidable. There were no safe routes by foot. A decade earlier American authorities concentrated their enforcement efforts on California and Texas, believing no one would choose to cross the Arizona desert. But as the Border Patrol stepped up efforts, the illegal crossers moved to the desert. Thousands died seeking the freedom and prosperity the United States offered.
Cano led the group behind the garage where the pickup truck parked. The driver got out and removed eight backpacks from the bed of the truck. He gave one to the first eight travelers boarding an old yellow school bus. At least half the windows were broken, and the sides of the bus were covered in graffiti. Most people passing by wouldn't suspect the bus even ran. In America it would be destined for the junkyard, but this was a Mexican border town. The rules were different.
The packs weighed thirty pounds and would be rotated among the travelers. For the women they were difficult to maneuver, but the backpacks were part of the deal. If you wanted to cross, you carried a pack.
The passengers climbed onboard and jostled their way through the narrow aisle, banging the packs on the seats.
"Cuidado, stupido!" shouted Cano from his position outside the door.
Each person took a seat.
Cano boarded. He glared at a young man seated on the bench behind the driver. Cano didn't need to say a word. The young passenger understood and headed to the rear of the bus as Cano took the seat.
The driver turned the ignition, grinding the starter several times. The bus sputtered and coughed as the engine attempted to kick over. With one giant belch the engine fired. The driver put it in gear, and the group headed west beyond the newly constructed twelve-foot border wall.
The sun had set, and just a sliver of the moon was visible in the clear Mexican skies. The stars provided most of the light. The passengers craned their necks to look north where the United States and unknown opportunities awaited.
Several miles outside town the bus stopped, and the passengers exited. The real journey was about to begin. The rest of the trip would be on foot, and no one was guaranteed a successful crossing.
The trip was one the coyote took every time. The route may change depending on Border Patrol sightings, but the group would make its way north through Arizona's Altar Valley. Eighty percent of the valley was government-owned, shared by the state and the Feds. Some was Indian reservation. Some managed by the Federal Bureau of Land Management. Heading through the Altar Wash, the southern third was made up of the Buenos Aires Wildlife Refuge. It almost sounded picturesque, a vacation holiday. But for those making the trip on foot with limited resources and guides who didn't care, the trip could be a death march. Each year the Tucson Section of the U.S. Border Patrol averaged more than 200,000 apprehensions. Those were the lucky ones. The Sonoran Desert was the hottest of the North American deserts. Many died in its heat. Dehydration was the serial killer.
The backpacks weren't food, bedding, or first aid kits for weary travelers. The thirty-pound packs were filled with drugs. This trip it was cocaine. Sometimes it was marijuana, sometimes heroin. These border crossers illegally entering the country were also pushing controlled substances through the pipeline. This was no longer about poor people seeking work in America. It was drugs, crime,
and human trafficking via Cocaine Alley.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
I can see all kinds of legal problems," said Dwayne as he sipped his Diet Pepsi.
He and Matt were sitting at an outdoor table of a Westwood café next to Kami's where Matt just had his hair cut. The afternoon sun was beating down on the street as waves of heat floated up from the asphalt. Matt wiped the sweat from his brow as he waited for a couple to pass on the sidewalk.
"That was the first thing I thought of when Boris proposed the plan last night. It's going to take the lawyers months to sort this out back at headquarters. I'm just not sure how I can back out or even delay for more than a week."
He viewed Boris with suspicion and contempt, the same feelings he had for much of headquarters. It was a healthy perspective on both. It kept him safe on the street. Too many times the bad guys had time constraints the Bureau wouldn't acknowledge. The Supreme Court said, "Justice delayed is justice denied." In the shadow world of the undercover agent, decisions delayed wreaked havoc on operational plans.
"Let me run it past the ADIC. If Barnes supports us in theory, maybe he can run interference in D.C. As I see it, the primary issue is actually bringing women into the U.S. Once they are here, we can't send them back if they want to stay. We'll have to coordinate with ICE. Then there's the liability if something happens to the women in route. I'm not sure I can get the approvals in a week."
"They sure make it look a lot easier on TV. It's amazing what they can accomplish during a commercial break."
Dwayne could only smile. "If we are going to push this, I think we'll need as much information as we can get on the whole operation. Can you talk to one of the girls?"
"I don't know. My lack of interest in his women made me an acceptable business associate." Matt paused, "I'll think of a reason . . . maybe a massage."
"The more ammo I can give the ADIC, the stronger our case will be at headquarters."
"While I'm thinking up a reason for an erotic massage, you think up my story to Caitlin."
"The truth will set you free," said a laughing Dwayne.
"Freedom isn't free, especially in a community property state with no-fault divorce laws."
MATT LEFT WESTWOOD AND headed over the Sepulveda Pass to Gallo's Gym. Maybe if he could get in a good workout, he could relax enough to think of a plausible story for Boris . . . and Caitlin.
He parked on the street, dumped quarters in the meter, and walked down the back alley leading to the gym. No sign marked the entrance. Gallo's wasn't open to the public. In fact, it wasn't open to a lot of boxers. Rock only took those willing to work. As Rock said, "The sick, lame, and lazy need not apply."
He was surprised when he got upstairs to find he was the only boxer at the gym. He and Rock talked for about fifteen minutes. Then Matt put in time on the heavy bag, the speed bag, and the rope. He worked up a sweat in the forty-five minute session but also came away with a story.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
On his way to the Russian Veil, Matt called Caitlin and apologized for another missed dinner. He conveniently forgot to mention his back was hurting and he might need some nonprofessional medical assistance.
He drove east a few miles before turning into the parking lot.
Matt eased his body out of the car and slowly made his way to the rear entrance where he was greeted by Stump, smoking a cigarette.
"Gonna stunt your growth."
Stump uttered an obscenity.
"Boris around?" asked Matt.
"He's in his office."
Matt hobbled over to the office, slightly hunched over, and knocked on the door.
"Come."
Matt opened the door.
"I didn't expect to see you so soon. I thought it would take several days for you to have an answer for me on my business proposition."
"I spoke with my attorney this afternoon. I'm looking into ways to legally set up multiple corporations through an offshore holding company."
"Sounds like it could work. Can this attorney be trusted?"
"He's my attorney, not some guy I saw advertising on TV. He's covered me in the past. He thinks it's a tax shelter so I'm not worried about him. He knows who pays his fees."
"If he becomes a problem, let me know. I'm not afraid to cancel the guy's ticket if he can't provide quality legal protection."
"Thanks, Boris, I'll keep your offer in mind."
Matt faked a painful look as he lowered himself into a chair.
"You okay? You look like your hurting."
"Yeah, I threw my back out. I popped a handful of Celebrex but it's killing me."
"Why not let one of the girls work on it?" offered Boris.
"I need real help."
"No, seriously, my girls can help." He picked up the phone. "Tell Irina to come in."
The ruse worked. It wasn't Matt's idea to handle the merchandise; Boris suggested the massage. With his credibility still in tact, he might get a chance to ask questions without arousing suspicion.
There was a knock on the door, and before Boris could answer, a short, slender blonde with shoulder-length hair walked in. She looked to be a teenager. Even though she was heavily made up, her face had a few tell-tale blemishes. She should have been preparing for the high school homecoming dance, not entertaining men in some low-life bar in Los Angeles.
"Irina, this is Matt. He needs you to work on him."
She smiled but it was not a welcoming smile, more obligatory, the kind a hostess offers at Denny's late into the lunch-hour rush. She turned to the door and began to walk out.
Matt lifted himself out of the chair with an Emmy Award-winning pain performance. "Thanks."
"Get back to me when your lawyer has some answers, but tell him to hurry."
Matt grabbed the door, held it for the young Ukrainian, and allowed Irina to lead the way.
They headed down the long hallway passing several rooms before they came to a partially opened door. Irina opened it and motioned for Matt to enter.
"I give you few minutes to get ready. Take off clothes. Lie face-down on bed. Cover with sheet if want."
Matt was no rookie when it came to massages. He boxed long enough to welcome trained hands rubbing out all kinds of knots; a deep-tissue massage solved a lot of hurts. Matt just wasn't sure Irina knew Swedish massage from Russian erotica.
The room was dark. A single dim lamp provided the only illumination. Matt assumed it was too dark to videotape the activities, unless the Russian installed infrared cameras. Caitlin would not be real happy with this setup. Death might be preferable. Water from a desktop fountain trickled in a steady, relaxing flow. Instead of a massage table a single bed raised several feet off the ground took up most of the tiny room. It was obviously duel purposed, a convenient height for a massage yet wide enough for two should the cash flow. Having seen the bar in daylight, Matt questioned the cleanliness of the dark room, but bedbugs were the least of his worries. Matt disrobed and climbed onto the bed. He took a deep breath, lay on his stomach, pulled the sheet up, and positioned his head comfortably on a cushioned doughnut. God, I may need some help on this one.
Within a minute Irina knocked on the door and walked in without waiting for a response. She closed the door and punched the button on the portable CD player. The whine of the device warming up was quickly overcome by the soft music of a Mohawk Indian playing the native flute. Matt heard the familiar sound of a zipper unzipping. He knew she hadn't opened a gym bag and suspected the quasi-medical practitioner was making herself comfortable as well. Matt decided to take the offensive. Talk is cheap, but talking adults might be too preoccupied to engage in less wholesome activities.
"My lower back is killing me. I threw it out last night. Maybe you could concentrate on that."
"You want back rub?"
"Just back rub?"
"Yes, just a back rub."
"I not give many just back rubs."
Matt laughed, "I suspect not."
"I know a little about how to do it, but I not really a massager." She pulled down the sheet and oiled her hands. She vigorously rubbed her hands together and placed them on Matt's back. He could feel the warmth immediately. Then she began rubbing Matt's back.
"Where are you from?"
"I am from Lviv. It is in the Ukraine."
"Are most of the girls from there?"
"Yes, all girls I know here from Ukraine. Most are from Odessa."
"How long have you been here?"
"I think several months. I not sure of time." She continued to rub Matt's back. "Does that feel better?"
"Yeah, it's helping."
"I can do more than just rub back."
"No, I'm fine with what you are doing."
"Boris would want to make sure you happy with my service."
"I'm just fine. Keep working on the back."
"You different than other men."
"How so?"
"No one want just back rub, not even Boris."
"I'm not Boris." He let her work on the lower back for a few minutes and then said, "Tell me what it's like for you here in America."
Irina continued to rub Matt's back and said nothing. She paused briefly to get more oil. As she slapped her hand on his back, Matt heard an almost indistinguishable sniffle. She continued to rub. Matt heard the noise again.
"Are you okay?" asked Matt.
Irina didn't respond but tears began to flow.
Matt turned over and sat up. Irina stood there in her underwear, her face soaked in tears. When Matt started to say something, she put her finger to his lips and shook her head. She pointed to the far corner at the ceiling. In the faint light he could make out what appeared to be a tiny microphone. Matt understood. Boris's electronic surveillance system included the rooms.