After a few minutes a new picture appeared of a shed half-filled with boxes: WAREHOUSE #7. ABUJA, NIGERIA. A red light flashed in a corner of the screen.
“They’re trying to contact us,” explained Cienfuegos. “Everyone wants to know where his shipment of opium is, and I can’t answer because I’m locked out. Everyone is. Have you ever used a holoport?”
“I never had reason to,” Matt said.
“It’s easy if you have access,” said Cienfuegos.
And that’s why you’re willing to serve me, thought Matt. Only El Patrón’s handprint—or that of his clone—could unlock the security system and disarm the weapons on the border. For the first time Matt realized what the old man had really intended. It wasn’t enough to fill his tomb with slaves for the afterlife. El Patrón had meant to kill everyone in Opium.
With the border closed and no one alive to open it, supplies would run out. Oh, the few Real People might scratch out an existence eating squirrels, but the vast eejit army would perish. And how long could the Real People survive without medicine, seeds, livestock, or food? Opium was a one-crop country, and everything else was imported. When all were dead, El Patrón would rule a kingdom of shadows, with ghostly eejits tending the fields and Celia eternally preparing meals and Daft Donald forever polishing Hitler’s car.
But he didn’t count on me, Matt thought.
“How do I dial up Esperanza?” he said aloud.
“I don’t know, mi patrón,” said Cienfuegos. “If you wait long enough, all the addresses will appear.”
Matt watched as pictures flashed onto the screen. Places in the United States and Aztlán appeared, although officials in those countries were not supposed to be involved with the drug trade. Warehouses in Russia, India, Japan, and Australia were shown, lingered a few minutes, and faded.
The air in the room was cold, and a hum vibrated almost out of the range of hearing. Matt shivered. He’d gone from near solitude to someone who would have to stand up to presidents and generals. The thought of going toe-to-toe with Glass Eye Dabengwa filled him with dread. He’d seen Glass Eye. The sight of those motionless yellow eyes had turned Matt’s spine to water, and the man wasn’t even looking at him. No matter how many pillows Cienfuegos put on Matt’s chair to make him look tall, Glass Eye would know he was just a kid.
The Convent of Santa Clara appeared with the words ESPERANZA MENDOZA. SAN LUIS, AZTLÁN.
“Put your hand on the screen,” said Cienfuegos in a tense voice. When Matt obeyed, a thousand tiny ants swarmed over his skin and his heart raced madly. He’d felt this reaction before. It was what happened when El Patrón’s defense mechanism was deciding whether you were friend or foe. He saw the jefe step away.
The sensation passed. The screen dissolved into a long, dark tunnel swirling with milky vapors. It looked for all the world like a passageway you could climb into, and Matt found himself attracted to it. He smelled the sharp odor of rain falling on dust.
“Stay back!” shouted Cienfuegos from somewhere nearby. Matt realized he’d been about to fall into the tunnel.
The holoport found its destination, and the scene cleared. A nun, sitting at a table, was embroidering a portrait of the Virgin of Guadalupe. She was as real as someone seen through an open window, so close that Matt felt he could reach out and touch her.
The nun dropped her embroidery. “Oh! Oh! It’s a transmission! What do I do? What do I do?”
“Don’t be frightened. I only want to talk to you,” Matt said, surprised at her panic.
“I shouldn’t be here at all,” the woman protested. “I’ll get into such trouble. I never thought the holoport would activate—”
“If you aren’t allowed to talk, please call Doña Esperanza,” said Matt. But at that moment Esperanza herself came in.
“Sor Artemesia, you booby!” scolded the woman. “You’re going to get your head handed to you for poking into places where you don’t belong.”
“I meant no harm! This was such a nice room to sew in while María was at the hospital—”
“Weren’t you supposed to be teaching her math?”
“Well, I meant to. Really I did. But she didn’t want to study. She says that visiting the sick is a greater duty and that Saint Francis—”
“Go find her!” thundered Esperanza. Sor Artemesia fled.
Esperanza was a small, extremely fierce-looking woman with black braids pinned across her head like a crown. She was dressed in black and wore silver rings on every finger and a large silver brooch with the portrait of an Aztec god. The jewelry did nothing to lighten her appearance. She reminded Matt of a crow on a piece of roadkill. “You survived,” she said without a trace of a smile.