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Exodus, the gap-toothed Tiburcio had once told him, red-eyed
     from fatigue and alcohol. The things I find, Licenciado. Cash, coins, more than you would think. Luggage. Food. Shoes. Sometimes
     underwear, and that causes me great sadness, Licenciado, because it is often a lady’s underwear, and it is often torn, and
     that means the smugglers and bandits have struck again. I find identification cards, textbooks, letters. Strange things: a
     trumpet. A toolbox with a beautiful complete set of tools, what kind of poor
naco
thinks he can outrun the
Migra
hauling that thing, Licenciado?
    Tiburcio was a feature article waiting to be written. But Méndez never got around to publishing anything about him in his
     days as a journalist. When Méndez became the head of the state human rights commission, Tiburcio had been full of tips about
     renegade police, smugglers and narcos. Now that Méndez was a kind of policeman himself, he still checked in occasionally with
     Tiburcio for news from no-man’s-land.
    Tiburcio the Ragpicker disappeared below the top of the fence as Calle Internacional leveled off. The violins were building
     to the whispery finale of the intermezzo when Méndez caught sight of two vehicles of the Diogenes Group parked on a side street
     in the Zona Norte. He told his driver to pull over. Four of his officers stood around a burly, handcuffed youth seated on
     the curb,wearing overalls and a red bandanna. As Méndez’s window slid down, his deputy commander approached with a quick salute.
    “Good morning, Athos,” Méndez said. “What are you up to at this uncivilized hour?”
    Athos wore a goatee, a black fatigue jacket with the Diogenes Group emblem, and black pants tucked into jump boots. He was
     not particularly big, but his corded neck, steel-gray mustache and steady stare gave him an air of quiet menace.
    “Good morning, Licenciado,” Athos said. “I was about to call you. We had an invasion.”
    “An invasion?”
    Athos allowed himself a grin, the web of wrinkles around his eyes creasing.
    “A Border Patrol agent crossed into the Zona Norte near the PRI headquarters chasing an individual last night. It sounds like
     this monkey got all the way across Calle Internacional.”
    Athos had a habit of calling suspects, witnesses and just about everyone else, except friends and co-workers, “this monkey.”
     It was not exactly an insult; his tone was dispassionate and weary, just acknowledging reality. He was a weathered street
     warrior who had dedicated thirty years to tactics and training: commanding SWAT teams, teaching at the police academy, guarding
     public officials. He lived a life of barracks solitude, haunting the headquarters of the Diogenes Group around the clock.
     His real name was Ramón Rojas. Méndez had a weakness for the works of Alexandre Dumas and considered the Diogenes Group to
     be his musketeers; he had nicknamed his deputy Athos because of his wisdom and solemnity.
    “Incredible,” Méndez said. “And your prisoner?”
    “Pulpo. A hoodlum and smuggler. Apparently he is the one the
gabacho
was chasing.”
    Pulpo looked up at the sound of his name, feral and alert. He caught sight of Méndez and became animated.
    “Listen, Licenciado, with all respect, this is a clear case of aviolation of human rights,” Pulpo drawled, his chiseled shoulders and arms straining against the cuffs. “That American is
     a madman. He almost killed me in front of my family. An international incident! And now these gentlemen, with all respect,
     are abusing my rights as well. I am the victim, not—”
    Athos turned his head to give him a look, teeth gritted, and Pulpo shut up fast.
    “Very good, Athos,” Méndez said. “We should call Isabel Puente in San Diego right away. Let’s continue this at headquarters.”
    A few minutes later, the three vehicles arrived at the headquarters of the Diogenes Group, a compound on a bluff at the base
     of Colonia Libertad with a view of the San Ysidro