He handed the list to Olsen, who was seated in front of the microphone. It had been determined he had the voice that matched Sawyer’s the most.
The major pointed at the appropriate code. “You ready?”
Olsen looked at the list, then back at the script that had been written for him. He jotted in the code at the appropriate place. “Ready now, sir.”
The major nodded.
Olsen leaned into the mic.
3
I.D. MINUS 21 DAYS
MUMBAI, INDIA
“Hurry! Hurry!” Ayush yelled from the truck.
Sanjay ran down the street as fast as he could.
Ayush was leaning out the open back, one hand gripping the side of the vehicle, the other held out toward his cousin. “Faster!”
It was Sanjay’s own fault that he was late. It had been the carambola. It wasn’t that he particularly liked star fruit, but he couldn’t avoid stopping at the stall selling it, the stall Kusum’s family owned. He’d stayed only long enough to see if she was there. If she had been, Sanjay probably wouldn’t have even been in time to see the truck pull away, but the only people working that morning were Kusum’s mother and sister, so he’d continued on his way.
Now he was angry with himself. Ayush had promised to help him get a job today with a European company that was looking for workers. Sanjay should have avoided the market completely. There were so many different routes he could have taken, three of which were shorter than the one he’d chosen. But Kusum…he just wanted to see her, that’s all.
“Sanjay! Come on! You can run faster!”
Sanjay tucked his head down, and concentrated all his energy into his legs. With a burst of speed, he shot forward, and came within a foot of grabbing his cousin’s hand before the truck accelerated out of reach. He slowed, knowing he’d missed his chance.
“Tomorrow,” Ayush yelled as the truck grew more distant. “Don’t be late!”
“I won’t be,” Sanjay said in a near whisper, too winded to yell back, as he moved to the side of the road and watched the truck dwindle to nothing.
What an idiot he’d been. An actual job with a European company. According to Ayush, they were paying more per day than Sanjay usually made in a week. If he had a job like that, maybe he could convince Kusum’s parents he was worthy of their daughter.
Tomorrow, Ayush had called out. So there was still a chance. Sanjay wouldn’t be late next time. He couldn’t be. He’d force himself to avoid the fruit stall, and be waiting at the corner before Ayush arrived.
Tomorrow, he, too, would become an employee of Pishon Chem, but until then, perhaps a piece of star fruit wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
13 MILES NORTHWEST OF
SAN JOSE, COSTA RICA
Ernesto Rios tried to move as little as possible. It was a skill he had perfected in the nine years he’d owned the garage on the road between the port in Puntarenas, on Costa Rica’s Pacific coast, and San Jose. He had long ago discovered that if he found the exact right position in the airstream of his electric fan, he could almost pretend the humidity didn’t affect him.
That wasn’t true, of course. The tropical humidity affected everyone. There was just no way around it. But there, in his little office when he had no pressing jobs to finish, he did his best to try.
Of course there was something he should be working on today-the old Ford a customer had given him in lieu of payment. Ernesto had promised his wife he’d get it running and let her use it. So far, he hadn’t been able to even turn the engine over.
Later, he thought as he closed his eyes. For now, perhaps a little nap wouldn’t be a bad idea. Just a few minutes.
A…few…
An air horn blared.
Ernesto’s eyes shot open as he sat up, dazed. He’d been so deep in a dream that for a second, he couldn’t figure out where he was.
The air horn sounded again.
He jumped up, realizing what it was this time, and circled out into the main part of the garage. Just beyond the single large door stood two men. Parked behind them was a cargo truck with a third man sitting at the wheel. One of the men outside was dressed like a typical truck driver in jeans and dusty button-up shirt. The other man, though, was wearing a suit, and looked like the businessmen Ernesto would sometimes see on TV. The man’s skin was fair, his light-colored hair neat and trim. A foreigner, Ernesto guessed.
“Hola, senor,” the trucker said.
“Hola,” Ernesto replied. “What can I do for you?”
“We’ve got a leak in our water hose. Need to get it fixed. Can you do that?”
“Sure. I can fix anything.”
The trucker glanced at the man in the suit, then back at Ernesto. “Need to do it quick, though. We have to keep on schedule.”
Ernesto shrugged. A busted hose wasn’t that big of a deal. He could do it blindfolded. “Let me take a look.”
As he stepped out of the garage, he saw that there were three more identical trucks pulled alongside the road, their engines idling. “You all together?”
“Just fix the leak,” the suited man said in perfect Spanish.
This surprised Ernesto. Since the suited guy had seemed disinterested, he had assumed the man didn’t speak his language. That was obviously not the case, so the garage owner would have to be careful what he said.
The man who’d been behind the wheel climbed out and had the hood open by the time Ernesto and the other two arrived. Ernesto stuck his head inside and checked around. Sure enough, one of the hoses was cracked near one end and no longer able to hold a tight seal. He didn’t know if he had the exact same size, but he was sure there’d be something in back that would work.
As he stood up, he smiled and said, “Fifteen minutes.”
“Do it in ten, and I’ll pay you fifty dollars US,” the foreigner said.
That was more than double what Ernesto would have charged. He walked quickly back to the garage, grabbed the tools he would need, and went in search of a replacement pipe. He found three in his supply room that were about the right size. One of them would work for sure.
He replaced the hose with a minute to spare, and pocketed the fifty-dollar bill the suited man gave him. Standing in front of his garage, Ernesto watched as the four trucks pulled out in unison and continued their eastward journey.
For a fleeting moment, he wondered what they were hauling, but then a drop of sweat ran down the side of his face and all thoughts of the trucks were replaced by images of the fan and the chair in his office.
Half a minute later, he was again perfecting the art of not moving.
THE PORT OF FREMANTLE
WESTERN AUSTRALIA
The Mary Rae arrived just before dawn, and was guided to the dock of the small harbor at the mouth of the Swan River. There, at exactly 8:30 a.m., the process of removing shipping containers full of food and clothing and other items commenced.
John Palmer’s interest was only in the group of twenty-five containers his company had been hired to pick up. They’d first be taken to his warehouse in Perth, then, at a date yet unknown to him, trucked to specific locations throughout Western Australia. His understanding was that this was part of an expansion plan by a Dutch retailer. Apparently, an American competitor was planning a similar expansion, so the Dutch were hoping to get in first and gain a foothold prior to the other company’s arrival.
The details didn’t really matter. For Palmer, it was getting the business that was important. The years of global stagnation had been hard on his company. He’d had to release some good people, and even sell one of his distribution centers. But this was a big job. Not only were there the twenty-five containers today, but at least another hundred were on their way over in the next two weeks. Beyond that, his new client had indicated that similar shipments would continue on a monthly basis if everything went according to their business plan.