American Airlines 777 from San Juan, Costa Rica, eased downward, ten miles east of the Statue of Liberty. Manuel Perez glanced around the cabin. He hated to fly. Killing didn’t make him nervous, but the sound of landing gear being extended sometimes did. As it descended toward New York, the plane hit a pocket of bumpy air. The turbulence rattled him. Then the aircraft moved through a layer of clouds, and suddenly a crisp view of New York City appeared: Manhattan, the majestic skyline above the rivers, fronting on the harbor, and the five boroughs connected by bridges. For a moment, in the brilliance of the early June day, everything looked clear and clean, like in a movie.
They flew above Central Park. Perez loved this city. He hoped to come back with his wife soon, take the kids to the big zoo up in the Bronx, maybe even to the new Yankee Stadium. His little girls loved beisbol, and his wife was fluent in English, just as he was. Nicoleta had worked in New York when she was in her twenties and still loved the place.
Maybe they’d even buy an apartment here a few years down the road. Still, he hated this current job. Hitting a target in the United States was definitely not something he would have wished to do.
To Perez’s right, in the distance, he could see the Statue of Liberty presiding over the harbor. The aircraft shifted into its final descent over Queens.
In another twenty minutes, he had picked up his single bag and proceeded to immigration, where he now stood quietly as the American immigration officer scanned his passport. The officer read the name on his Costa Rican passport. Orestes Pinero. The agent switched into Spanish. “Buenos dias.”
“Buenos dias.”
“Traveling here on business or pleasure?” the officer asked.
Since 9/11, these people asked irksome questions. Perez knew what to expect and had already memorized the details of a pharmaceutical buyers’ convention that was in progress at two of the midtown hotels. So he handled the nosey questions well. He had even booked a hotel to cover his stay and his ID.
The immigration officer waited for something on his computer screen. His brow furrowed. Perez remained calm. But was this whole thing going to blow up right at the start? He was entering the U.S. illegally on a freshly forged passport. Were the Americans one step ahead of him? To get pinched here at the airport over something minor would be catastrophic. His cover story would unfold eventually, fingerprints could lead to something in a database somewhere, and -
“?Hay problema?” he asked. The peon of an immigration officer was looking at the screen too long … much too long. It went through Perez’s head: someone somewhere squealed. He was walking into a trap. He turned and scanned the room. Security people all over. Nowhere to escape.
The immigration officer frowned. He was a nice-looking Latino in his thirties. Probably a Puerto Rican, Perez guessed. Clean cut, olive skinned. He looked a little like a cop. He refused to smile. His brown eyes slid from the computer screen to meet his. He then scrutinized the passport once again. “New?” the immigration officer asked in Spanish, looking back up.
“New what?” Perez asked.
“The passport?”
“Yes. Just issued. My first trip.”
“Uh-huh,” the customs man said. Then he smiled. “Enjoy your visit,” he said. The immigration man closed the passport and returned it.
Within ten minutes, Perez had found a taxi and was on his way into Manhattan, still unwinding, promising himself that never again would he do this. The risks were too high.