Ensenada was a port town that lived off tourism, fishing, agriculture, and a smaller, tamer version of Tijuana’s nightlife scene. Pescatore had been here once. He remembered cruise ships, strolling expatriate gringos, the smell of the Pacific.
The convent took up half a block on a side street. An arched double door opened in a high wall. The Suburban rolled onto the flagstones of a courtyard. Athos was waiting with an assault rifle at the ready, the brim of his cap pulled low over his eyes. He led the way to a house between a chapel and the main building of the convent.
“Where’s our team?” Pescatore whispered to Porthos.
“They are set up at strategic points around the neighborhood. Keeping watch, but not so close they draw attention.”
A nervous priest with square glasses and narrow shoulders opened the door of the house. An elderly nun hovered in a dim sitting room that smelled of cigarettes.
It was a guesthouse for visitors, mostly clergy. The priests had disguised Abrihet in a full-length habit and moved her to Ensenada in a bus full of nuns returning from the shelter in Tijuana.
Pretty good tradecraft, Pescatore thought.
There was a hushed conference. Athos told Pescatore it was the room on the right on the second floor.
Pescatore trudged heavily up the stairs in the armored vest. A whiff of faulty plumbing hung in the dark cool hallway. As he knocked, he felt a rush of anticipation similar to the one he’d experienced before finding Chiclet in the diner in Palenque. Except now he came as a protector, not a hunter.
Abrihet Anbessa opened the door.
As he’d imagined, she was small and slight and agile. She wore faded green jeans, gym shoes, and a hooded San Diego Chargers sweatshirt—no doubt acquired on the run—that was too big for her.
“Miss Anbessa, I’m Valentine Pescatore, the American investigator. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
She hesitated before shaking his hand. Her thick medium-length curls were held back with a headband. Her features had the angular, regal cast of her brother’s, but softer and more youthful. Frozen dread glittered in her eyes.
“Come in,” she said.
She sat in an armchair next to a round table with rosary beads on it. He took a hard wood chair. He saw a painting of the Virgin of Guadalupe, figurines of angels on shelves, a crucifix over the narrow bed in the corner. The fat-backed television was decades old. The room also had a sink, a microwave and a teakettle.
He said it looked like they were treating her well. She said they were. Her diction was clear and precise. She perched in the chair as if ready to spring out of it. Legs crossed, hands gripping the upholstery, she regarded him steadily.
“So…” he said.
“Would you like tea?” Her smile acknowledged the strangeness of the moment. It was a sweet and unexpected smile, and it lit up her face.
“Are you gonna have some?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll join you.”
“It calms me down. I have trouble sleeping.”
“I can imagine.”
It was hard to imagine, though. On her own, not knowing whom to trust, so far from home. The world beyond the walls was hostile turf prowled by armed strangers working for her enemies. Now a new set of armed strangers had shown up promising to help.
He told her the story of how they had found her. She cupped the steaming mug of chamomile tea with both hands, warming them.
“Your brother sends his love,” he said.
“How is he?”
Given everything that was going on, he had intended to avoid mentioning that Solomon had been wounded. He found that impossible now.
“Tell you the truth, there was an incident. He’s okay, but he got hurt. We got attacked a couple days ago when we were with him. We think it’s all connected to your situation.”
She stiffened, eyes wide. She asked questions. He assured her that Solomon was recovering. He asked how much she knew about the plan.
“Mr. Athos told me a few things.”
“He doesn’t talk much, huh?”
“He has been downstairs for two days,” she said with a kind of grateful awe. “I don’t think he has slept.”
He pictured Athos smoking cigarettes in the shadows, a sentry waiting to waste the first sorry bastard of an intruder who showed his face.
“He’s the guy I’d want guarding my door, believe me,” Pescatore said.
She asked more about her brother, about details of the plan. He answered to the extent he could.
“We think it’s the best option,” he said.
“When?”
“In a few hours.”
She nodded, eyes wide again, nostrils flaring.
“I have to warn you,” he said. “There are risks.”
“I understand. I want to get out of here.” She emphasized the last three words, her tone strained.
They sipped tea. She toyed with the rosary beads. He asked if faith had been a comfort to her.
“In fact, I am not religious,” she said. “But in a situation like this…”
“I know what you mean.” He rested his hands on the table. “Listen, Miss Anbessa. You should rest up, get ready. But first, there’s one thing. I’d like to record a statement. Your allegations against Perry Blake and the others. Later you’ll give formal testimony and everything, and we’d have a female investigator present for that. But this way, we have the basics on the record. I’ll send it to associates in the U.S. and Italy. Just in case.”
“Just in case we are dead?” Her voice was hollow.
Exactly, he thought. “God forbid. But this gives us insurance. You think you’re up to it?”
Without hesitation, she said she was.
He lifted his iPhone and framed the image. Her supple hands rose to smooth her hair. Her expression was diligent, like a student about to take a test. He started the video. Guided by his questions, she identified herself. She was from Asmara, had studied nursing, and had been in a medical unit during her compulsory military service. She described how she had come to work at the headquarters of the Blake Acquisitions Group in New York.
Her story tracked with what Zoraida Padilla had told Méndez. In the spring, Padilla had given Abrihet an unofficial promotion. She took responsibility for the executive floor, where Perry Blake made life miserable for anyone in his vicinity, including the cleaning crew, with his complaints, demands, and generally abusive and chaotic behavior.
“The first time I saw him, I knew he was trouble,” she said bleakly. “His manner with people was sometimes quiet and friendly, sometimes agitated—yelling, insulting. Erratic. Like on drugs.”
True to his reputation, Perry Blake spent the summer working around the clock along with his staff. Abrihet occasionally overheard conversations. She started following financial news about the Blake Group.
“I was taking business courses in the day, along with nursing classes, to major in hospital administration. Business is a new kind of English for me. It was interesting to read about the company and see them in real life. Sometimes there were reports lying on desks, and I would read. I was curious, I admit.”
Pescatore nodded at her to keep going.
She said Blake began talking to her when she cleaned his office suite and when he saw her in the hallways.
“I didn’t like it.” Her gaze shifted from the camera to Pescatore. “Short conversations. Where I was from, what I studied. Not exactly flirting. But I didn’t like the way he looked at me. How he said my name. Nothing specific to complain about. A bad feeling, that’s all.”
July was busy. Blake was wound up. His father, a rare presence at the office, arrived from California. Obese and irritable, Walter Blake was accompanied by Krystak, the security chief. Father and son spent hours behind closed doors. Voices were raised. Abrihet ate meals and studied during her free time in a kitchen area, which was connected by a vent to a conference room. She heard bits and pieces of meetings among the Blakes and others. There was tension be
tween Walter and Perry Blake. They were worried about an investigation. The employees were worried about Perry Blake’s moods.
Activity on the executive floor followed a pattern, she said. A crescendo during the week: meetings, phone calls, visitors, nights spent at computers. On Fridays Blake partied, often with a few executives, in his apartment in the building and at restaurants and clubs. Sometimes they started at the office or returned late to the office for a nightcap, raucous and belligerent.
One Friday night, she came across Blake snorting cocaine in his office with a blonde. They were half dressed. Abrihet turned away fast, but she believed Blake had seen her.
“That was the night it happened,” she said.
“You don’t have to talk about it. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”
She kept going. Her voice grew clipped and angry. He could see the fight in her now.
He picked the wrong victim, Pescatore thought.
Abrihet said, “I waited until very late to clean his office. About four in the morning. I thought he had left. The office was empty. I was working when he surprised me. Very fast.”
Blake was staggering, red in the face, his tie askew and shirttails out. He said her name, then threw himself on her without another word. He tore at her clothes. She fought back. The struggle moved from his office to an adjacent conference room. It went on for what seemed a long time.
“He is a big strong man,” she said. “But he was so drunk, or drugged. Barely standing up. That saved me. He hit me, I hit him back. He kept going, like the Walking Dead on television.”
Her voice didn’t waver, but tears began. Pescatore had bought a packet of Kleenex at the Mexico City airport with this possibility in mind. He offered the packet. She took a Kleenex and wiped her eyes.
“He passed out in the conference room. On top of me. Totally out. I thought he died, a heart attack. But he was breathing. I ran. In his office, I saw his laptop computer on the desk. I wanted to call the police. But I was thinking no one would believe me against him. Also, I don’t have immigration papers. If I took the laptop, I could prove I was in his office and this happened. It sounds strange, I know. My mind was not clear.”
He handed her another Kleenex. She caught her breath.
“I thought: No, taking the computer is stealing. I saw the pen drive sticking out from the computer and I took it.”
“Why?”
“As I say, my mind was not clear. I wanted evidence. Also, I did have the idea the information could help me. Or hurt him.”
“Did you know it was documentation of criminal activity?”
“No. I thought it was perhaps important. He was careful with the laptop. He carried it with him or locked it in a safe. And I heard the talking about investigations. Definitely I thought he had things to hide.”
The idea of using the information in the pen drive had come later, she said. It took shape in the long-distance conversations with her brother, who had a chance to examine the documents more carefully. But they weren’t sure how to go about it.
“You hadn’t looked at the computer before?” Pescatore asked. “You said you read reports sometimes.”
“No. I looked at papers in the open. I never went into a computer or a drawer, anything like that.”
“Did you take anything else?”
“No.”
“Good. I’m just trying to reconstruct events. Do you have the photos Zoraida took of your injuries?”
“No. They were in my phone the kidnappers stole. At the motel.”
She slumped, the chair making her seem smaller, her eyes averted. He waited, leaning forward.
If we can get her in front of a jury, she’s gonna be great, he thought.
“After New York, this is the first time I talk about it,” she said quietly.
“I’m real sorry I had to put you through that.” He stood up. “Let me get you some more of that excellent tea.”
She smiled, dabbing at her eyes. She said that after she left Padilla’s house in Queens, a neighbor called to warn her that Krystak had come looking for her and had searched her studio apartment. Abrihet withdrew her savings, about three thousand dollars. She used the cash to ride Greyhound across the country.
“Why San Diego?”
“It was far from New York. And I knew Eritreans there. They helped me come to America through Mexico. I thought they could hide me, help me go to Italy. But they had moved. I couldn’t find them. Then my neighbor from New York called. Krystak had come to my building asking more questions. She was trying to help me, but I was worried they could follow her call to find me. I went down to Mexico to find smugglers.”
She stayed in a hotel in Tijuana while she tracked down a smuggler she had dealt with years before on her way to the United States. The smuggler told her the plan to go to Italy was unworkable. Abrihet told Pescatore about her attempt to cross north again, the kidnapping by the rip crew, the massacre in Tecate, her escape with Tayane Pires, the weeks in hiding. She identified photos of suspects and victims.
At about one a.m., as he was wrapping up the interview, she surprised him by asking if she could add a final statement.
“Of course,” he said.
She took a breath and looked solemnly into the lens.
“I would like to say I want justice. That’s all. Punishment for…for the people who hurt me and other people, many worse than me. Also, I cannot go home. I don’t have a country. I don’t have a passport. At this time, there is nowhere safe for me in the world. I would like a home where I can be safe. Thank you.”
“We’re gonna make that happen,” Pescatore said.
He went downstairs. In the sitting room, he slumped onto a couch and bridged his eyes with his hand, kneading his temples. Facundo asked how she was doing.
“Better than I’d be doing, I’ll tell you that. A real lady.”
The conversation had drained him. He was in charge of this expedition. Her fate was in his hands. With his iPhone, he sent the video file to Méndez and Maio using the WhatsApp messaging app. No matter what happened now, her story would see the light of day.
Next, Pescatore wrote a brief note to Méndez. Within a few minutes, a WhatsApp response from the Mexican appeared: All set on this end. Good luck, brother.
The plan was to roll at dawn. Pescatore and the others reviewed contingencies and prepared their gear. Pescatore dozed on the couch.
At five thirty a.m., Abrihet came downstairs carrying a small backpack. Athos, Porthos and Facundo treated her with great gentleness and courtesy. The nun served a breakfast of eggs, tortillas, fruit and coffee.
Pescatore helped Abrihet put on an armored vest. He sat with her and went over instructions.
“Ready?”
She nodded.
“Everything’s gonna be fine,” he said. “A Sunday-morning drive, that’s all. Be over before you know it.”
“Orale, muchachos, a la chamba,” Porthos said, hefting a rifle. “Let’s get to work.”
The nun and Abrihet exchanged tearful embraces and whispers. Before going outside, Abrihet raised the hood of the sweatshirt over her head. Pescatore held the armor-plated door of the Suburban for her. He climbed in and pulled the door after him, a ponderous dragging weight. It thudded shut.
Pescatore and Facundo flanked Abrihet. Davila drove. Porthos rode shotgun. Athos was in the lead Suburban in front of them. The three-vehicle convoy cruised through empty streets and headed north on the coastal highway. The sunrise illuminated a wall of cliffs. Rows of whitecaps flowed onto beaches. Seagulls swooped above occasional joggers and surfers.
“Beautiful,” Abrihet said. The hood gave her an elfin look.
“Sure is.”
He wondered how long it had been since she had ventured out in daylight. He watched the roadside, the sparse traffic, the toll plaza when they stopped to pay. Everything seemed suspicious to him, everyone a potential halcon, a street lookout of the cartels.
Car to car. That’s what we need to worry ab
out. A drive-by ambush.
At the convent, Porthos had gone over the risks. Porthos knew a lot about road shootings. He had spent time studying them with Leo Méndez, who was obsessed with them. Méndez could rattle off statistics and cases from across the Americas: The vice president of Paraguay assassinated in a SUV. The Tijuana police chief peppered at the wheel by a shooter so accurate the bodyguard was killed by rounds that went through the chief. The Argentine folksinger riding with a cartel-connected promoter when sicarios struck en route to the Guatemala City airport.
Speaking of Guatemala, watch out for motorcycles, Porthos had said. Interesting fact: Thousands of people have been killed by shooters on motorcycles in Guatemala. Licenciado Méndez told me it got so bad they banned motorcycle passengers. Our Mexican hit men like bikes too.
Pescatore’s fingers tapped the barrel of the AK-47. I don’t know how Leo sleeps at night with all that morbid shit in his head.
The trip was uneventful. Soon they were rounding a curve from Playas de Tijuana and heading east on Calle Internacional, the border highway. The fence came into view again, topping the line of hills that led to the San Ysidro port of entry. Pescatore nudged Abrihet. He pointed at the U.S. Border Patrol vehicles on the north side of the fence.
“That’s San Diego,” he said. “We’re almost there.”
She nodded. Porthos’s radio came to life. It was Athos in the lead Suburban.
“Checkpoint.”
As they crested a rise, they saw police cars and red cones blocking the right lane at a point where the road leveled off. Half a dozen cops in jumpsuits and body armor stood with long guns across their chests. A few wore ski masks. It looked to Pescatore like a checkpoint run by the tactical unit of the Tijuana municipal police. A commanding officer watched the traffic go by in the left lane. Raising a black-gloved hand, he pointed imperiously at the first vehicle in the convoy. The other hand held a pistol, muzzle down. The officer directed the three Suburbans to pull over.
Abrihet swiveled toward Pescatore, starting to speak.
“Don’t worry,” he said with feigned tranquillity. “Not a problem. We’ll take care of it.”
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