The Demands of the Dead (23 page)

It didn't save us.

The most dangerous part of the trip, for us, was heading east on highway 190 from Tuxtla. Now that we were off of Jose's finca, we were back to the same problems we had before we went there: If anyone in our chain of communication between the Cafe Historia and the EPR and Jose was compromised, they would know we were on our way back into town and they would be able to intercept us.

As we approached the outskirts of San Cris, I wondered whether we should have gone back west, gone straight to the capital, and avoided coming back to Chiapas altogether. We had just unthinkingly taken the ride back with Luis. A mistake, I realized.

So when I saw the white pickup parked on the highway side, the driver staring straight ahead through a closed window, I got a bad feeling.

“La Migra?” I said to Luis.

“Could be,” he said.

“
Jhon
, do you have trouble with La Migra right now?”

“I'm not worried about them,” he said.

“And you, Jose?”

“I am a Mexican, they won't be interested in me at all.”

“So all three of you stay here,” I said.

I went through my bags. I told Luis to keep driving for two more minutes. “Do you have any files, any papers with you?”

He pointed to his own bag, in the back seat, and Walter handed it to me. I rifled through Luis's bag and got what I needed. I put my notes together in one of his folders, as well as my disk with the encryption keys, and most of my other stuff. I kept my passport and wallet and the other tiny item I'd stolen from Luis's files.

“Pull over here. Here, Jose, you sit in the front.
Jhon
, keep my bag for me – the notes aren't critical, I've got it all in my head anyway, but I need the disk
. I'm going to walk into San Cristobal, and see if I can avoid getting deported. If La Migra stops you...”

Luis smiled. “I never saw you, I know.” And he certainly did know.

I got off the road. With sunglasses and a hat on, I was still American, but not necessarily from a distance. The walk to San Cristobal, if I went circuitously, was a short drive, but on foot would take at least three hours, and through a lot of people's private property. But that was the price of avoiding imminent deportation.

It took more than three hours, partly because I passed the afternoon in the Alcanflores forest northwest of the city before circling around through the western suburbs at sunset. I figured there was no sense not waiting for dark, since I had already missed the morning microbuses. It was upland forest, not quite a jungle like the lowlands where Jose lived. More like my forest back home.

I easily avoided being seen in Alcanflores all day and got into San Cristobal, unseen, at night.

Getting through the city at night, though, was a different problem.

I should assume they were watching both the Cafe Historia and Evelyn's house. The best move would probably be to just try to get out of the city altogether. The bus terminal was a risk, but maybe I could get on to a microbus, though that would need to wait until morning. Would immigration grab me coming out of a taxi and heading to a private home? It seemed potentially excessive for them, compared to trying to catch me on the road or street. A taxi was my best bet.

But a mistake nonetheless. I hailed one, got in, and found that the driver completely ignored my directions, driving all the way across town to a remote building on the northern outskirts. Two armed men at the gate approached the taxi with weapons drawn. “Please come with us.”

The three floors of concrete marked it as somewhere between a working office and a police station, and although there were only three men on duty, I got the sense that more were coming. All three were informally dressed, in jeans and tennis shoes, in a common office area with computers and desks, looking on to several adjoining rooms. They took my passport, handcuffed my hands in front of me, and led me into a small room with a bolted down desk and chair, which they then handcuffed my left hand to.

They left me waiting for a half hour or so, the usual power ploy, before the commander came in, locking the door behind him with a key. He had an empty holster, had left his sidearm outside.

Probably the right decision. For him.

He looked at my passport. “Mr. Brown, it seems that you have violated Mexican law and the terms of your tourist visa. We would like you to sign a deportation order.”

“I'd like to speak to the US Embassy, please.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. Do you want to speak to them before you sign the deportation order?”

“Yes please.” I kept my left hand very still under the desk.

“OK. Are you hungry? My colleagues and I were going to step out to get some food. Would you like anything?”

They were all leaving? “You are...all...leaving... I see.” I trailed off for a second. “Yes, please, get me whatever you are getting for yourselves.”

Here in the northern outskirts, silence ruled the night. I heard them all get up and leave, heard them get into a car, and drive away.

I looked up at the door. Locked from the inside. I was deciding that it would probably be worth trying to open, when I heard a car pulling into the driveway. A different engine. I made my own preparations.

I heard him come through the front door, saw the lights click on outside. Heard the footsteps. The door opened, and Officer Madero walked in. He was wearing the black fatigues of Public Security, with no rank or name insignia. Locked the door behind him with a key, which he carefully put in his pocket. He drew a baton, and raised it.

At that point, I actually did violate a series of Mexican laws.

I had picked the handcuffs, of course. From when they first left me in the room, and I figured they were going to leave me in there a while to make a point, I fished into my underpants for the paperclip I had taken from Luis in the car. Bend a paperclip twice and you get a fairly nice substitute for handcuff keys. Long before I was police, Shawn and I had practiced that one.

When the commander had come to get me to accept deportation, I hid my left hand because I was no longer really cuffed. He hadn't noticed because he wasn't looking for it. But because he was smart enough to leave his weapon, and two friends, outside, overpowering him would have done me no good.

But then he and his friends had gone for take-out, leaving me to get accidentally murdered by Madero's baton in an unsolved killing while waiting for deportation. When extrajudicial execution is coming for you, you'd better be ready to break some laws.

Rather than swinging at my head, Madero actually raised the baton with the idea of smashing my right hand – he wanted to hurt me before killing me, evidently. Instead of dodging the blow and counter-attacking, I stop-hit him while he was winding up, my right middle finger into his right eye. A left palm heel to the nose, the handcuffs slowing my hand but whipping into his face on the reverse swing. His right arm was still up, still holding the baton, reflexively – and too late – trying to protect his face. I grabbed his wrist it with my left hand, wove my right arm in underneath into a standing
Americana
armlock, and wrenched his shoulder joint out of its socket. His shoulder was strong, but it popped out and the baton fell clattering to the ground. I wrapped both my hands around the back of his head,
muay thai
style, and pulled his head down into my upward swinging knee, destroying his nose, and he followed the baton to the ground. I lined up a gingerly kick, my heel to the hard part of his head, much less than full force. I didn't want to kill him, but I did want him to stay down. I kneeled on his neck, again lightly, and took his firearm from his holster.

“Please stay down and don't move,” I said, in English, the Spanish not coming to me in that moment.

I cuffed his unbroken arm to the table, emptied his pockets, picked up his baton, and unlocked the door. In the US, the charges would run to: resisting arrest, assault with a weapon, theft (of his weapons), and of course, assault police. Although, in my defense, he had failed to identify himself as a police officer. I walked out, locking the door behind me.

I was breathing hard, was hurting in all the places I'd hit him, and shaking from adrenaline. Besides the weapons, the only thing in his pockets had been a sheet of paper with an address on it, probably this address. I decided that taking his Glock could only do harm: no good could come from shooting anybody here. I took it to the bathroom, removed the magazine and the round from the chamber, and put them individually in the toilet, as well as the pistol, then pissed on it. They could go digging if they wanted it back. I left the baton on the bathroom floor.

The next move, I would formulate from somewhere other than here. I thought I might go up the hill and back into the woods. The city hadn't been especially kind to me, this time around.

I heard a car coming. La Migra, coming back.
Shit.
Out of time. If I rushed, I thought I might be able to get out before they got to the house.

I thought wrong. I came out the front door to see a black GM Suburban pulling into the driveway with its headlights trained on me. When its lights went off, all its doors opened at once.

Joe Marchese from the US training program got out of the driver's side. Janet Hamilton from the US Embassy came out of the passenger side. And from the rear doors, Walter and Evelyn.

I put my hands up and tried an awkward smile. “Well, this is a bit embarrassing,” I said.

Marchese drove us to a house the embassy used for business sometimes. It was bustling, even at this time of night. It turned out that Evelyn was related to Janet Hamilton. Evelyn's ex-husband was Janet's son. Evelyn was reluctant to use the connection for many reasons, as no doubt Walter was too, but they had dropped their anti-imperialism temporarily in exchange for my life. I was glad they had. When their activist network failed to give any clues about where I was, they had thought quickly and contacted Hamilton.

“We were lucky that officer Marchese knew about this immigration office,” Hamilton said, as we sat in a lounge drinking water.

“Yes, thank you Joe.” He left.

Hamilton looked at Walter and Evelyn. “Perhaps officer Marchese could give you a ride home, and Mr. Brown could follow you after we've talked?”

They looked at me, concerned.
You saved me once, I think I'll be alright from here.

“Okay Janet. Thank you again for all your help tonight.”

“We were very happy to help.”

When we were alone, Janet Hamilton spent a few moments studying me as she sat, knees together, back straight. I was leaning back in my chair, the adrenaline still slowly leaving my system, trying to keep my breathing controlled. I had decided on a gentlemen's agreement – that I wouldn't mention that Public Security had sent someone to kill me – again - if they didn't mention that I broke his arm and nose and left him cuffed and bleeding in an interrogation room after pissing on his service weapon in a toilet.

“You spent the past few days very close to the Zapatista networks, didn't you?” She said, gently. I said nothing.

“Is there anything you think the political office should know, anything that might help us work better here?”

She was a diplomat, and very subtle, but I got the distinct impression that she wanted me to give them counterinsurgency information about the Zapatistas.

I sighed, drained my glass of water and poured myself some more from the pitcher. It had lemon slices in it and it was, after everything I'd been through, very good.

“They're just poor communities, Ms. Hamilton. Poor indigenous people. They're not a great big military organization. I thought they were decent people.”

She continued to study my face. “There's something else. Your colleague, from Public Security, Lieutenant Sergio Chavez. He has disappeared. Apparently evidence has emerged of links to organized crime. He's now a person of interest to the police. He, he hasn't been in touch with you at all, has he?”

Chavez. I knew where he was. But no good could come from Janet knowing.

Not yet, anyway.

“No, ma'am, he has not.”

It was a long night, and not over yet. Another official from the embassy gave me a ride back to Evelyn's, where Walter gave me my stuff back, including the disk with the keys, which I immediately used to get on to my email with Maria. She had sent me the photo of The Trainer, I could tell from the size of the attachment, but I would check it later – coordinating the next 48 hours was more important now.

On the encrypted channel, I told Maria to tell Hoffman to tell Chavez the name of my hotel in Mexico City and when I would be there tomorrow. On the clear channel, I told Hoffman that I was going to go to Mexico City in three days.

It was time to start using the fact that I was being monitored.

Evelyn found a bottle of wine. When I had a small glass in my hand, I told Walter and Evelyn what had happened. Evelyn was composed, but horrified. Walter was focused.

“Just one guy,” he said. “What does that mean to you?”

“Limited resources?” Evelyn said

“Shouldn't be,” Walter said.

He was right. “If it was Public Security, they have excellent integration with La Migra. But including the three of them leaving him alone with me? That can't have been a sanctioned move.”