Free The Watchman by Adrian Magson

smell, it would do. I took the same way back out of there that we’d come, until I got back on to a main street and saw a sign for San Diego and a schematic of a border control booth.
    One thing I hadn’t counted on was the volume of cars heading north. We stopped short by a good few hundred metres, at the back end of several lines going nowhere fast, some vehicles overheating. I guess if Parillas had been driving us back into the US, he’d have made a quick call and we’d have by-passed the lines. But I couldn’t do that without starting a riot.
    Several drivers were out of their cars, lighting up smokes and taking a drink, chatting with their neighbours or making phone calls. Others had their hoods raised, trying to cool the radiators. If you could ignore the undercurrent of frustration and impatience, it was a regular party atmosphere.
    I stuffed the cop’s gun under the seat, then got out of the car with the directory under my jacket and a coke can in my hand, and sauntered over to join a group of sleepy-eyed North American college kids. They looked as if they’d had a wild time last night and were regretting it. We exchanged nods and I continued on by, and walked right down the line until I saw a pedestrians-only sign.
    Ten minutes later, I was in front of a border control agent and showing her my passport. She took one look at me, saw the coke stains on my clothes and my rumpled appearance, and came to the only possible conclusion.
    â€˜Have fun in Mexico?’ she queried. Her hard face told me the question was rhetorical.
    â€˜I got ripped off by a cab driver,’ I said, and threw her a sheepish grin.
    She didn’t buy it, but gave me back my passport and nodded me through. She had seen plenty of men like me before, so another one heading back north with a sad tale to tell was nothing new.
    I walked out the other side and instantly spotted Beckwith. He was standing alongside a black SUV with tinted windows, parked in an official bay. Another guy stood alongside him, scratching at one leg. He was a buttoned-up individual in a tan suit and woolly grey socks, and a recent case of sunburn.
    I walked over to join them. Beckwith looked surprised and threw a glance behind me as if expecting somebody else.
    â€˜What happened? We heard you got separated.’
    Parillas, it turned out, was on his way, happily returning to the north by car. He had reported in and told them I was making my own way back as we’d agreed.
    I handed Beckwith the phone directory from the hotel. He flicked through a couple of pages, and when he saw some pen marks against names and phone numbers, he knew instantly what it was.
    The other man said nothing, but watched carefully.
    â€˜His name’s Mr Black,’ said Beckwith casually, and walked me away a few paces. ‘He’s along as an observer.’
    â€˜Mr Black.’ I gave him a look. ‘Really?’
    â€˜It’s what it says in his passport.’
    â€˜Is he as British as he looks?’
    Beckwith didn’t say, but the slow blink of his eyes was answer enough.
    I let it go and gave him a rapid de-brief. He wasn’t happy at what I told him; in fact he looked as if he wanted to take out a gun and shoot me on the spot.
    â€˜What the fuck are you saying?’ he grated, trying not to let the Brit hear. ‘Parillas is with the Tijuanas? I don’t buy it. You must be mistaken.’
    I didn’t bother fighting him on it; he was feeling bruised by the possibility that one of his men had gone bad. If true, it reflected on him as lead intelligence officer and the DEA as a whole. Having a foreign observer along to witness the fact wasn’t helping any.
    â€˜You didn’t know he was born in Tijuana?’ I said.
    He shook his head, but it was obvious by the set of his jaw that he’d already begun to put pieces together and was building a jigsaw. Either someone had made a huge error of judgement selecting