Dead or Alive

into the yard. There wasn’t much grass, but there were plenty of weeds and brown spots and piles of dog crap. He reached the rear of the trailer and squatted down so he could see the length of the trailer. There were two windows, but one was too small for an adult; the window closest to him was the only exit.

From the front, Jack heard Chavez’s knock, followed a few seconds later by a “Yeah, who’s there?”

“Hector, from next door. Hey, man, my phone’s disconnected. Can I use yours for a second?”

Footsteps clicked on the trailer’s floor. Hinges squeaked.

“Hey!”

A door slammed, followed by the pounding of footsteps. Jack looked up, on alert now. Shit… what…

“Coming your way!” Clark called. “Back window!”

Even as Clark said the words, the window slid open and a figure appeared, diving out headfirst. He landed with a grunt, then rolled over and jumped to his feet.

Jack froze momentarily, then said, “Stop, right there!”

Sinaga spun on him, head darting first left, then right. He charged Jack, and in the light filtering from the window Jack saw a glint of steel in Sinaga’s hand. Knife, some distant part of his brain told him. Then Sinaga was on him, knife slashing sideways. Jack backpedaled. Sinaga kept coming. Jack felt the fence railing slam into his back, then saw Sinaga bringing his arm around. He jerked his head sideways, felt an impact on his right shoulder. Slightly off balance by the wild swing, Sinaga stumbled sideways. Jack caught his arm, left hand on his wrist, and gave it a jerk, then wrapped his right arm around Sinaga’s neck, his larynx in the crook of Jack’s elbow. Sinaga bent his head forward, then butted backward. Jack sensed it coming but was able to only tilt his face sideways. The back of Sinaga’s head slammed into Jack’s cheek-bone. Pain burst behind Jack’s eyes. Sinaga flailed, trying to free himself, and slammed Jack back against the fence again, but losing his own footing in the process. Legs splayed out before him, Sinaga dropped straight down and landed on his butt. Jack held on, felt himself tipping forward over Sinaga’s head. Don’t let go, don’t let go… Arm still wrapped around Sinaga’s throat, Jack somersaulted. He heard a muffled crunch-pop. He landed in a heap, rolled sideways, sure Sinaga would be on him.

“Jack!” Chavez’s voice. Ding appeared, running through the gate. Without breaking stride, he kicked the knife away from Sinaga’s hand. He wasn’t moving. His head was cocked strangely to one side. His eyes blinked several times, but they were fixed, staring. His right arm was jerking, rapping softly on the ground.

“Christ…” Jack whispered. “Christ almighty.”

Clark ran through the gate, stopped short, then knelt down beside Sinaga. “His neck’s broken. He’s gone. Jack, you okay?”

Jack couldn’t take his eyes off Sinaga. As he watched, the man’s arm stopped twitching.

Clark said, “Jack, wake up. You okay?”

Jack nodded.

“Ding, get him inside. Quick.”

Once inside the trailer, Ding sat Jack on the couch, then walked down the hall to the bedroom and helped Clark manhandle Sinaga’s body back through the window. They met back in the front room. From the bathroom, the cocker was barking.

“Nothing moving outside,” Clark reported, shutting the front door. “Ding, check the fridge, see if a little food’ll quiet down Fido.”

“Got it.”

Clark stepped over to Jack. “You’re bleeding.”

“Huh?”

Clark pointed at Jack’s right shoulder. The material of his shirt was dark with blood. “Take off your shirt.” Jack did so, revealing a two-inch gash on his collarbone at the base of his throat. Blood trickled down his chest.

“Huh,” Jack mumbled. “Didn’t know. Felt something hit my shoulder, but I didn’t realize.”

“An inch or two higher and you’d be done, Jack. Put your thumb on it. Hey, Ding, see if Sinaga’s got some superglue.”

From the kitchen came sounds of drawers opening and closing, then Chavez walked out and tossed a tube to Clark, who handed it to Jack. “Put a line of that in the cut.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. Better than stitches. Do it.”

Jack tried, but his hands were shaking. He looked at them. “Sorry.”

“Just adrenaline, mano,” Chavez said, taking the tube. “Don’t sweat it.”

“He’s really dead?” Jack asked Clark.

Clark nodded.

“Shit. We needed him alive.”

“His choice, Jack, not yours. You can feel bad about it if you want. That’s natural. But don’t forget: He was trying to open your throat.”

“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know.”

Chavez said, “Don’t overthink it. You’re alive; he’s dead. Would you rather have it the other way around?”

“Hell, no.”

“Then chalk it up as a win and move on.” Chavez capped the superglue tube, stood up.

“Just like that? Move on?”

“Might take a little time to process it,” Clark replied. “But if you can’t, you need to stick to your desk.”

“Jesus, John.”

“If you carry this dirtbag around in your head, it’s going to get you or somebody else killed. I guarantee it. This job isn’t for everyone, Jack. There’s no shame in that. Better you figure that out now than later.”

Jack exhaled, rubbed his forehead. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Okay, I’ll think about it.” Clark smiled at this. “What?” Jack asked.

“That was the right answer. You just killed a man. I’d be worried if you didn’t have a little soul-searching to do.”

From the kitchen, Ding called, “Got something, John.”

Three days after it left on a charter flight from Dubai, the device touched down at Vancouver International Airport in British Columbia. Having landed the day before, Musa was waiting for the flight. His business card and letter cleared him into the customs warehouse, where he met the inspector.

“Silvio Manfredi,” Musa introduced himself, handing over his documentation.

“Thanks. Phil Nolan. Your package is over here.”

They walked to a nearby pallet on which the plastic crate sat.

Neither the card nor the letterhead had been difficult to create using Photoshop and a high-end desktop publishing program. Of course, the inspector would care little about a letter from the University of Calgary’s veterinary medicine department chair, but the psychological effect couldn’t be ignored. The inspector was dealing with a fellow citizen and a renowned Canadian university.

What Musa’s fourteen months of study had taught him was that customs inspectors the world over were overworked and underpaid, and lived by checklists and forms. For this particular type of shipment-radioactive materials-the inspector would be concerned with three forms of documentation: an invoice and bill of lading for the device; the stamps and seals from the International Air Transport Association (IATA) agent in Dubai, stating the origin of the shipment; and the myriad paperwork demanded by the Canadian Nuclear Safety Commission, Transport Canada, the Nuclear Substances and Radiation Devices license, the Canadian Nuclear Substances Act, and the Transportation of Dangerous Goods Act. While none of these documents had proven difficult to reproduce, the intelligence groundwork Musa and his men had conducted had alone taken eight months.

“So what is it?” the customs inspector asked.

“It’s called a PXP-40HF portable equine imager.”

“Come again?”

Musa chuckled. “I know. Quite a mouthful. It’s a portable X-ray machine for horses. A friend of the university president lives in Dubai. Has this prized Arabian stallion worth more than either of us will make in a lifetime. Horse