39
The Pilatus P-3 landed at sunrise.
At Matamoros Airport on the southernmost tip of the Texas border with Mexico, the temperature on the ground was a balmy 88 degrees. Three black Chevrolet Suburbans waited on the tarmac. The members of Team One deplaned and were at once overcome by the scent of mesquite and yucca. Requiring no instruction, they divided themselves into groups and climbed into the vehicles.
The convoy left the airport by a restricted gate at the east end of the field, one mile from the main terminal, and traveled north on Highway 101 until reaching the Zona Industrial, a swath of warehouses and factories situated a stone’s throw from the American border. Matamoros was a center of maquiladora manufacturing, and the Zona Industrial was home to many of the world’s most famous corporations, including General Electric, Walmart, and Sony, to name a few.
In the cars, the six men and two women were given breakfasts high in carbohydrates, energy drinks, and snacks to sustain them in the hours ahead. The next leg of their journey would not be as comfortable. Most busied themselves as they ate, studying maps, memorizing radio frequencies, mentally repeating the tasks they would be asked to perform during the coming crucible. All were professionals, and they knew how to use the time remaining to them wisely.
After thirty minutes the vehicles pulled up to a gate at the rear of an unmarked warehouse as large as two football fields laid end to end. The gate rolled back on its tracks and the vehicles entered a loading zone running the breadth of the building. They drove past three eighteen-wheelers lined up at the docks, bays open, an army of men and machines filling each with pallets of finished goods bound for export to the United States.
A fourth rig sat alone at the far end of the loading zone. The three SUVs parked beside it. The team members climbed out and stretched their legs. Several recognized the name of a large American chain of supermarkets painted on the side: Pecos Supermarkets. Atop the cabin was a refrigeration unit designed to chill the truck’s interior to 32 degrees Fahrenheit. The rig was a meat hauler used to transport freshly slaughtered beef and poultry from industrial farms in northern Mexico to stores in the United States.
At 7 a.m., a lean, mustachioed Mexican wearing a white straw Stetson and mirrored aviators emerged from the factory. The leader of Team One was expecting him. The two men shook hands but did not exchange names.
“You have something for me?” asked the Mexican.
The leader of Team One was blond and compact and tanned. He had served for ten years in the South African Army, where he’d earned the nickname Skinner. He handed the Mexican a plastic freezer bag containing the passports used to pass through Mexican immigration control. From here on out, no one would carry any form of identification, false or otherwise.
“Eight. All accounted for.”
“Excelente,” said the Mexican.
The Mexican led the members of Team One to a dressing room adjacent to the loading platform. To one side hung row upon row of jumpsuits; to the other, fur-lined parkas. Gloves were piled into a rack in one corner. Insulated boots occupied another. The men and women moved from one garment to the next, selecting those that fit. They emerged ten minutes later looking as if they were bound for the Arctic Circle.
The Mexican accompanied them into the rig. A concealed door at the rear of the cargo area opened into a narrow compartment. There was no room to sit. The team filed in and took their places shoulder-to-shoulder. The Mexican closed the door. A short time later, the refrigeration unit rattled into operation. The compartment grew colder. Frost crusted eyebrows and eyelashes.
The manifest called for the rig to haul five tons of beef carcasses to a meat processing plant in Harlingen, Texas. Loading began promptly at seven-thirty and ended one hour later. The truck left the Zona Industrial at 9 a.m. The stop at the border was short and uneventful. The supermarket chain was too large to be suspected of smuggling illegal immigrants. A company such as that did not break the law.
At 10 a.m., the truck arrived at the meat processing plant. The team waited patiently, shivering in the cold. No one complained. They were earning too much money to let a chill bother them. Unloading the carcasses was a slow affair. It was not until one in the afternoon that the rig was emptied and the Mexican with the white Stetson and mirror aviators opened the door.
“Bienvenidos a los Estados Unidos.”
Team One had arrived on American soil.
40
Astor left home at 5 a.m. The office was 3 miles away. It was too early to wake Sully, and he didn’t want to drive the Ferrari or the Benz or even the Ford Fusion. For that matter, he didn’t want to get into anything with a motor. A brisk anonymous walk was his safest option. He took the stairs to the ground floor and said good morning to Don the doorman, who was eyeing him with suspicion, as if trying to figure out which Mr. Astor it was this time: the serious model of the last year or so, cordial, polite, in bed at eleven and up at five, or the ungoverned model of yore, back to his boozy, licentious ways.