The Sienna Sand

by Jeff Siebold

  “We did what we could,” Zeke said.

  * * *

  It was eight thirty in the morning and already the temperature had reached one hundred degrees. Of course we’d be assigned here in the middle of summer, Zeke thought.

  The counterintelligence team had been assembled and deployed when Abu Kamel, one of Mohammad Omar’s lieutenants, had been captured by a team of Navy Seals in the northern portion of the Kandahar Province in Afghanistan. Zeke and three others had flown into Bagram Air Base and were eventually driven to a secure site outside the Air Base and on the way to Kabul.

  “We won’t have a lot of time with Kamel,” said the Chief briefing the mission. “Military Intelligence wants a shot at him. But first we need to find the location of Mohammad Omar.” The man droned on.

  Zeke was distracted by thoughts about Abu Kamel and his background. The man’s family was hidden somewhere near Pakistan in the south Kandahar Province, their ancestral home. Kamel had two wives and six children, four boys and two girls. They were between six and fourteen years old, the oldest being Farzaad. Farzaad, which means ‘one who is high-born’ was being groomed to follow in his father’s footsteps, politically and militarily. Zeke thought that Farzaad might be the key.

  “Are you with me, Traynor?” asked the Chief.

  “I am, Chief,” said Zeke. “Can we get to the interview?”

  * * *

  Abu Kamel said nothing. Wearing an undignified prisoner’s jumpsuit and with handcuffs attached to a waist chain, Kamel stared at Zeke with anger and disgust. And in silence.

  In Arabic, Zeke said, “I’m not going to pretend to like you, Abu. But you’re a prisoner of war now.”

  Abu Kamel, obviously seething, said nothing.

  “And unlike ISIS, we don’t behead our prisoners of war. But be assured you will pay for the lives you’ve taken.”

  Abu Kamel seemed angry but unfazed.

  “You send young men to do your killing. And girls, wrapped in suicide vests. You promise them glory and convince them that the killing will find them a place in heaven, in paradise.”

  Abu shifted in his chair.

  “Would you send Farzaad to kill infidels with a suicide vest?” asked Zeke. “Would you allow him to find glory, too?”

  At the sound of his child’s name, Abu looked away, as if he were struck, slapped. He looked down for a minute and collected himself. Then he looked back at Zeke.

  Still speaking Arabic with an Afghan dialect, Zeke said quietly, confidently, “We have Farzaad.”

  Abu looked away, collecting himself again. He shook it off and paused. Then he said, “I don’t believe you.”

  Zeke said, “You waited too long to respond. Gave yourself away. We do have your son in custody, as well as your wife. Well, both wives, actually.”

  Abu brooded for a moment, and then he said, “No.” He shook his head to emphasize the point.

  “Bad luck for you,” said Zeke. He knew that Abu would willingly sacrifice his wives and children for the cause. All but his oldest, Farzaad.

  Abu looked at him with rage.

  There’s the leverage, thought Zeke.

  “He is just a boy,” Zeke said aloud. “An innocent.” He let the words hang in the air. “What we want is Mohammad Omar,” said Zeke. “But you know that.”

  Abu Kamel sat very still.

  “It’s too late for you, Abu,” said Zeke. “But you may be able to help the boy, help the children.”

  Abu didn’t move. But the rage was partially mitigated. Zeke watched his body language, his reactions, his breathing. He was listening.

  Zeke said, “Help us. And when we get Omar, we’ll free your children.”

  Abu gave an imperceptible nod.

  “You’re not a traitor, Abu. Anyone would make the same deal. Spare your children a lifetime behind bars in an Afghan prison. Torture and rape and a hopeless, dismal existence.” It was time to reinforce and rationalize, and Zeke knew what to say to the terrorist.

  “So tell me about Omar,” Zeke continued.

  * * *

  Two months later, Mohammad Omar and two dozen ISIS terrorists had been killed when an unmanned U.S. drone dropped enough ordnance on their mountain cave hideout to level it, leaving only a burning pile of rubble in the barren desert. By that time, Zeke had been assigned to a project in Gitmo, questioning a suspected member of the Taliban about an attempted bombing in Paris.

  Abu Kamel remained in an Afghan prison until he died of tuberculosis in 2016. His son Farzaad had been released in 2013 as promised. He was closely tracked and monitored, rearrested two years later, and executed for his part in a bombing in Syria.

  * * *

  “Actually, it’s probably better that what we did was classified,” said Zeke.

  Tracy nodded slowly and said, “It probably wouldn’t look good in the light of day. But I assume it was necessary.”

  “For the greater good. Always working to ‘Prevent and Save’,” said Zeke.

  “As opposed to ‘Protect and Serve’?” asked Tracy.

  “Something like that,” said Zeke. “These were very bad people.”

  Tracy was quiet for a minute. “Are you heading back to Calexico soon?” she asked.

  “I am. Clive’s going with me. Our contact there has arranged for us to do some joint surveillance with our friends south of the border. And as a bonus, they think they’ve found a new tunnel. We’re going to see about closing it down.”

  * * *

  “They’ve booked Carl Turow into FCI Cumberland as ‘Carl Townsend’ with a conviction for attempted murder,” said Clive Greene. “Story is, he tried to kill a dealer who owed him money.”

  “That’ll get him some cred,” said Zeke.

  “Cred?”

  “Credibility. He’ll want to go in as a bad ass. It’ll earn him some immediate respect, that and his aggressive attitude.”

  “Yes, Carl doesn’t back down, does he?” Clive said.

  “He does not,” said Zeke. “If there’s organized killing going on, Carl will ferret it out. He’ll get it from the other prisoners, I’m sure.”

  “It seems that it must be organized and carried out by the same killer,” said Clive. “What I wonder about is the motivation.”

  “It does seem odd,” said Zeke. “But that’s because we don’t have the whole story. I’ll bet the motives become clear as we get more information.”

  Clive nodded.

  “Once inside, Carl will be able to watch for the contraband and weapons, and hopefully determine which inmates are involved in getting those things into the prison.”

  “Most of it probably becomes available for sale,” said Clive.

  “To other inmates, sure,” said Zeke.

  “We’ll put you in the prison as a supplier, a food vendor. You’ll take orders and arrange deliveries to the kitchen, help with food storage and oversee preparation,” said Clive. “We set it up for Carl to be assigned to a work detail in that area and he’ll be able to stay in touch with you.”

  “Won’t there be questions, him getting a work detail like that almost immediately?” asked Zeke.

  “No, the Warden says they put the prisoners to work right away. They’re short-handed and need the help.”

  * * *

  “This place ain’t so bad,” Carl said. He was sitting on the lower bunk in his cell at FCI Cumberland, his bedding and small pillow piled next to him. “Could do with some tobacco, though. How would I score that?”

  His cellmate, a thin, dark man covered with tattoos who looked to be in his forties, said, “O.Z.’s the one to talk to about that. ‘Bout anything like that, really. You need it, O.Z. can get it.” He pronounced each letter separately, “O. Z.”

  Carl nodded sagely and said, “Yeah, that’s how it was in Williamsburg before I was transferred. Guy named PeeWee ran the store.”

  The cellmate, whose name was Junior, said, “You came here from South Carolina? I grew up near Salter.”

  Carl nodded,
disinterested. Then he said, “Where do I find O.Z.?”

  * * *

  It turned out that O.Z. wasn’t hard to find at all. He was sitting on a picnic table in the yard, near the prisoners pumping free weights in the corner. The sun was bright out in the yard, and O.Z. was wearing a pair of C de Cartier sunglasses.

  That’s six hundred fifty dollars, Carl thought. He’s showing off.

  Carl noticed that he was no longer the biggest man in the area as he approached O.Z. Several of the weightlifters stopped and looked at him as he worked his way toward O.Z.’s table. He got close and said, “You O.Z.?”

  The smaller man, who was just over six foot and less than two hundred pounds, looked at Carl and nodded. “Heard you were looking for some smokes,” he said.

  “Heard you were the man to talk to,” said Carl.

  “You heard right,” said O.Z. “You want to buy a pinner?”

  Carl looked at him. “No, man, I don’t want no damn pinner. I wanna buy a whole damn cigarette.”

  “OK, big man. That’s twenty,” said O.Z.

  “Steep price,” said Carl. “Should be closer to fifteen.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ but supply and demand,” said O.Z. “Buy it or not. Do what you like, big man.”

  Carl said, “Alright.” He slipped a twenty dollar bill out of his pocket and flashed it quickly so O.Z. could see it. He set it on the picnic table next to him.

  The man snatched up the bill and set a Camel cigarette on the table in its place. Then he scooted a foot further away, and Carl picked up the cigarette.

  “You just got here,” said O.Z.

  “Yeah,” said Carl. He lit the cigarette with a kitchen match that appeared in his hand as if by magic and took a puff.

  “Word is there’s been some killings in here,” said Carl. “You hear anything about that?”

  “Why you wanna know ‘bout that?” asked O.Z.

  Carl leveled his gaze at the smaller man. “I plan on staying alive is all. Don’t need no surprises in that area.”

  O.Z. said, “I just know what everybody else knows. Inmates been getting their throats cut up in here.”

  “Steak knives, they say,” Carl said. He blew white smoke in O.Z.’s direction.

  “I heard that, too. Whatdaya think it’s about?”

  “No tellin’. Sounds like it could be a gang thing.”

  Chapter 6

  “How long have you been digging these tunnels?” asked Ernesto Martinez. He was a round man of average height with coarse black hair and blunt features. He was twenty-two years old.

  The man with him, a small and agile man with a long nose, said in Spanish, “It’s going on fifteen years now.” The smaller man was preoccupied, checking a large drill to assure its drill bit was tight and making even progress in the soil. “Here we go,” he said, and started the drill again.

  The sound was overwhelming in the small space, and Ernesto was grateful for his headphones. He put them on. The smaller man had opted for simple earplugs instead.

  The area was well lit by two small flood light towers, and ventilated by a huge fan. A medium sized generator powered these items, as well as the electric drill. The sound from the drill droned on for a while, and Ernesto thought of how smart it was to build this tunnel here, under an industrial section of the city that was noisy with trucks and manufacturing warehouses. It disguised the drill noise in the streets above.

  The smaller man, Ricardo Gomez, was known as “El Topo,” which means “The Mole,” because of his propensity to remain underground in the tunnels for hours at a time. And because of his large nose, thought Ernesto. The drill noise droned on.

  Ernesto, now bored with the drilling process after six hours of digging, thought back on the journey that led him to this underground place.

  As a young man, Ernesto had grown up on a farm in an agricultural district of Mexico where his uncle grew tomatoes and lettuce, mostly for export to the United States. Ernesto had worked the farm and attended school until he was seventeen, at which time he joined his uncle in his other business, escorting illegal immigrants over the US border. Ernesto acted as a guide for groups of refugees, families, and extended families, some from Mexico but many from Honduras and El Salvador, who were seeking a new life away from the gangs and the violence.

  “Take them east, out in the desert,” said his Uncle Hernan Cortez. “And make them wait until dark. Tell them they will be crossing over after midnight.”

  Ernesto had done this, with the help of two of his friends. They were waiting in the desert near the border when Uncle Hernan and his hired farm workers drove up in three pickup trucks while firing their rifles into the air. They robbed the refugees of their money and their valuables, and left them in the desert to die.

  Ernesto didn’t mind that much. He wasn’t fond of the refugees’ whining and crying, and he didn’t want to be caught by the U.S. Border Patrol while moving the refugees into the United States. He took his share of the valuables and went back to work on the farm.

  Later his uncle had introduced him to a man, a self-important man, who, according to his uncle, ran the border crossings “between here and Tijuana.” The man assigned Ernesto to a border area fifty miles long, occasionally working with El Topo, Ricardo Gomez. He had been working those fifty miles for four years now.

  The man he worked for was covered in blue tattoos, contrasting with his dark, tanned skin. He looked muscular and fit, like a body builder, and he wore his jet black hair oiled and combed back. It touched his collar. There were rumors about him, how he had suddenly appeared as an important part of the cartel, the organization. How he had skipped up the ranks into a leadership role. How he was a favorite son. Tatouage was his name.

  * * *

  “How much longer do we have to drill?” asked Ernesto at their next break.

  The smaller man, smoking a cigarette, seemed anxious to get back into the tunnel. He kept looking at the entrance, a wide hole in the dusty dirt of an unused restaurant’s basement.

  “We have two or three more days to complete this one,” said El Topo. “We’re on time with it.”

  “Where will you go up?”

  “Into the warehouse, up through the floor. It’s a thin, concrete floor. We can break through it with ease, if they haven’t done so already.”

  He was referring to the men who were awaiting the tunnel’s completion on the U.S. side of the border. Once finished, the tunnel would carry a variety of items- drugs and refugees mostly- into the states. It was one of many tunnels that had been constructed in the last four years. The tunnels were very profitable.

  More than five hundred thousand people crossed the border in a year, and Ernesto estimated that to get in, they paid an average of eighty thousand pesos each, or four thousand U.S. dollars. The revenue for the whole year was over two billion dollars U.S.

  They came for a number of reasons, and from all walks of life. Most were escaping gangs in their home countries, El Salvador and Honduras especially. They feared for their families and left their homes for the United States. The twenty-five hundred mile journey was a difficult one, and many refugees stalled when they arrived at the U.S. border.

  “How many tunnels have you dug?” Ernesto asked El Topo.

  “Many, many tunnels,” said the smaller man. “As soon as I finish one, I start another right away.”

  “Always the same way?” asked Ernesto, trying to stay out of the tunnel a few minutes more.

  “Oh, no,” said the man. “When I started, we did not have these electric drills and this ventilation equipment. We used shovels and hand drills, and we hauled the dirt back out in small wheelbarrows. Also, we worked mostly in the dark.”

  “But now we have electric drills and lighting and fans. Things have certainly changed,” said Ernesto.

  El Topo took a long drag on his cigarette and flicked it away. “Si, it has changed,” he said. “And it is more organized. Better funded.”

  Ernesto nodded in agreement. Wh
en the tunnel they were building was completed, hundreds of Central American immigrants would pay for their passage into the United States, the land of opportunity. Tunnels were routinely discovered by the US Border Patrol, and when they were discovered, they were closed down, filled in. But a tunnel that stayed open just a couple of months easily paid for itself by smuggling immigrants and drugs into the country. And most of the tunnels were never discovered.

  “This organization is very impressive. Who is in charge?” asked Ernesto. He saw that the smaller man was ready to return to the tunnel he was building.

  “Of the border crossings here in this area? Tatouage is.”

  “He has advanced quickly,” said Ernesto.

  “He has,” said The Mole.

  * * *

  “You are truly a genius, my friend,” Ernesto said to El Topo. “I am very impressed.”

  Ernesto was looking up through the opening in the floor just above his head. The jagged hole had a moment ago been the underside of a poured concrete foundation, but with the use of the drill and a hand axe, El Topo had opened the hole quickly.

  Ernesto stuck his head through the hole. He saw two men in the space, standing nearby and watching for them. “It is clear,” he said.

  The room above was a dark room with plenty of space for boxes to be stacked around its perimeter, up to about eight feet high. The walls were metal, as was the roof, and the top of the floor was gray, bare concrete. This was clearly a warehouse of some kind.

  El Topo said, “Come back down and we’ll finish the hole.”

  The two men put their earphones back on.

  Ernesto lowered his head and took a position behind the small man, who seemed almost acrobatic in the limited space. He twisted himself and raised the drill, opening and smoothing the hole around the edges.

  Ernesto noticed El Topo squinting in the limited light, his mouth closed tightly against falling debris. The floor fell away, mostly in dust, and in a few minutes they were done.