“What do you think the chances of us having trouble here are?” Petra asked. It was the question they had all avoided asking themselves or the group, but now that they were bearing down on the town, it was becoming progressively more difficult to ignore.

“Minuscule,” Cal said finally. “This is such a backwater, people don’t even need visas to move in and out of the country. Isn’t that what you said, Durell?”

“It’s a border crossing, mostly for trucks,” Durell said.

“How long do you think we’ll have to stay in Kathmandu?” Petra asked.

“Let’s see how we feel,” Cal said.

“We’re now officially in Raxaul,” Santana called out. She pointed to a city sign that whipped past.

Silence settled over the hulking SUV. Petra gradually slowed the vehicle. Signs were plentiful. Trucks were parked everywhere. The town itself appeared run-down and dirty. The only people walking the dark streets appeared to be prostitutes.

“Beautiful place,” Durell commented, to break the silence.

“We’re approaching the customs building,” Santana said. Ahead, built in the center of the road, was a nondescript building with areas for vehicles to pull up on either side. A few uniformed border officials sat on empty boxes beneath a bare overhead bulb. A single policeman sat by himself off to one side. He wasn’t even holding his rifle. It was leaning against the building. A hundred yards beyond the customs house was a large arched structure spanning the road and defining the border. A half-dozen people were walking unimpeded in each direction.

As the Land Cruiser approached, one of the uniformed agents stood up and held up his hand for Petra to stop. Petra lowered her window.

“Car documents,” the agent said in a bored voice, “and passports.”

They all handed their passports up to Petra. Santana got the car documents from the glove compartment. Petra handed everything out the window.

Without a word, the agent disappeared inside the building. A minute went by, then two. At five minutes Santana spoke up. “Do you think everything is okay?”

No one spoke. Everyone was becoming more and more tense with every passing minute. Their initial optimism of an easy border crossing was rapidly eroding.

Petra was the first to see the police Jeeps in the rearview mirror. There were four of them, and they came rapidly. In the blink of an eye, they boxed in the Toyota. Out of each jumped four policemen. All except two had their pistols drawn. The last two had assault rifles.

“Out of the vehicle!” the obvious commander barked. His left breast was covered with ribbons. “Hands raised! You are all under arrest.”

NOVEMBER 1, 2007
THURSDAY, 6:15 A.M.
NEW YORK CITY, USA