Zetas could.
The plane taxied to the terminal and the safety lights winked off, and Rauschenbach waited patiently as the tired travelers queued up to disembark, the atmosphere redolent of the peculiar dank odor of wet dog and slightly burnt wool that was a constant on long flights. The couple in front of him started moving slowly down the aisle to the exit, and he hoisted his carry-on and dutifully followed them, for all appearances a fatigued businessman.
Immigration and customs were cursory, and within twenty minutes he had retrieved his fishing rod and reel cases and had made his way to the taxi stands, where he gave the driver of a tired Nissan station wagon an address on the outskirts of the city. The morning traffic was light, it still being well before business hours in the commercial district, and in no time they pulled to the curb near a dilapidated restaurant featuring a hand-painted image of a dancing goat playing pan pipes on a precariously mounted sign over a grimy picture window. The German flipped a few notes of the local currency to the appreciative driver and then watched as the cab rattled down the cobblestoned street, mud and oil coagulating along the filthy gutters like toxic plaque.
Inside, a hard-looking man in his fifties looked up from his position by the cash register when Rauschenbach entered with his bags and took a table in the corner. He was the only patron, and the proprietor seemed unenthusiastic about his good fortune in having attracted a customer. He approached carrying a stained laminated menu and handed it to the German, and then asked in a rapid-fire burst of Spanish whether he wanted coffee and was going to be ordering breakfast. Rauschenbach answered that, yes, he was indeed going to be taking his morning meal there, and then used the series of code words that had been agreed upon several days before. The man’s eyes widened, then he nodded and gestured for his guest to follow him to the back of the shabby establishment. They passed a kitchen that more resembled a science experiment than a place to cook food, and Rauschenbach was glad he hadn’t chosen to avail himself of whatever passed for breakfast there.
In the rear of the building, his guide knocked on a dark wooden door, and after a few moments it swung open and a younger man, perhaps in his late twenties, stood staring at the new arrival, a pair of opaque sunglasses shielding his eyes in spite of the dim light.
“You ready to get going?” the young man asked, looking him over.
“Yes. But I’ll want to get something to eat. If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon pick up a roll and some coffee somewhere to go,” Rauschenbach said. “No offense.”
“None taken. I don’t eat here either. You have the money?”
“As agreed. You want it now?”
“Yes. Give it to him.” He motioned to the older man, and Rauschenbach pulled a wad of American currency bound with a rubber band from his back pocket and handed it over. The man counted it quickly, and then nodded.
“All right. You’re in business. Now let’s get out of here – we’re already running late,” the younger man said, then offered to help carry the German’s bags. Rauschenbach handed him the reel case and trailed him out the back door to where a battered baby-blue Ford Ranger pickup truck waited in the alley. The man placed the reels into the cargo bed and Rauschenbach did the same with the rod case, preferring to keep his carry-on bag with him in the cab. The proprietor watched from the doorway, absently scratching his belly, and then pulled the rusting steel slab closed and bolted it.
A cloud of dark smoke belched from beneath the truck’s bed, and then the engine settled into a rough idle as the young man put the truck in gear. Neither man was feeling chatty, so they bounced down the street in silence before turning onto a larger artery and making for the road that led north, out of the city.
The hundred miles to the coast took six hours to navigate, and it was after lunchtime when they arrived at the ocean side town of Champerico, roughly twenty-five miles south of the Mexican border, whose chief attractions as far as the German could tell were a mosquito-infested lake and a black sand beach. They drove down the dismal main street, past buzzing motor scooters and un-muffled cars, until they hit the