Chapter 4: The Waiting Game

On October 4th, the tenth day, we welcomed Autumn Evans at the state capital’s airport. I went with Director Little to the high-level meeting and saw her at her hotel. She was dressed in black, looking serious, about forty years old, fair-skinned, about five foot five, with delicate features—looked like someone you’d see at a PTA meeting back in Ohio. No one approached her; we just watched from a distance. I was amazed at how well our Ohio colleagues had prepped her—she seemed fully in character after just ten days. That day, we had a meeting to finalize the next day’s plan, and I saw plenty of senior leaders in white shirts and uniforms. In our area, only the anti-smuggling bureau chief wore that uniform.

She moved through the lobby with the poise of someone who’d been living a double life for years. I caught her eye for a split second—there was a glint there, a mix of nerves and determination. It reminded me of actors before a big show, steeling themselves before the curtain rises.

On the eleventh day, October 5th, in the morning, “Mr. Sam” called as promised, telling her to meet at the famous Vietnamese café “Riverbend Café” by the riverbank. The café was near the border, only about a hundred yards from the Rio Grande—jump off the embankment and you’d be in Mexico. From the morning call to the 3 pm meeting, the drive from the state capital was just about right; she wouldn’t have time to wander. I could tell “Mr. Sam” was experienced.

Riverbend Café was the kind of place you’d never expect for an international sting—checkered tablecloths, the smell of strong coffee, and a jukebox that hadn’t worked in years. Outside, the river shimmered in the sun, deceptively peaceful.

After a quick huddle with the higher-ups, Director Little told me and Chief Bryan from the investigation section, “Bryan, you and Caleb take her on our intercity bus. If there’s nothing suspicious, approach her and communicate. If there is, report to us from the bus—we’ll coordinate by phone.”

I asked, “No technical equipment? Like invisible earpieces?”

Director Little said, “We don’t know what the other side is planning. The enemy’s in the open, we’re in the dark; we have to protect our special agent. We briefed her yesterday. You repeat the instructions to her, and I’ll give you some hand signal codes. Once you’re on the bus, confirm them with her again.” He gave us the rundown and had us repeat it. By then, Autumn Evans had checked out and was heading by taxi to the bus station. As before, the investigation team had a car tailing her.

The bus station was buzzing—kids tugging on suitcases, parents juggling coffee and boarding passes. Perfect cover. I watched Autumn Evans blend in, just another face in the crowd.

There are buses from the state capital to our city every twenty minutes, about a two-and-a-half-hour ride. Autumn Evans grabbed a quick meal at the station, then bought her ticket. Chief Bryan and I hung back, and after she bought her ticket, we lined up behind her—she still didn’t know us.

I kept my ball cap pulled low, pretending to scroll through my phone. Every so often, I glanced up, making sure she was safe, that nobody was tailing her except us.

October 5th was crowded, mostly with people coming back from border trips; the bus heading there wasn’t very full. On the bus, after confirming nothing was up, Chief Bryan sat next to Autumn Evans, pretending to run into an old acquaintance, and quietly confirmed the hand signals. Director Little had drilled us: first, if “Mr. Sam” really showed, Autumn Evans would invite him to dinner that night, and we’d plant technical equipment outside the private room to catch his contacts. If he didn’t join dinner and insisted on leaving the country that day, we’d arrest him at the border. If he didn’t leave, we’d keep following and adjust. Second, if “Mr. Sam” didn’t show but sent someone, Autumn Evans would complain about his sincerity and only continue cooperation after he proved himself. Third, if nobody showed—which was unlikely but worst case—Autumn Evans would tell “Mr. Sam” she’d never cooperate again, and he’d probably contact her later.

We rehearsed the hand signals quietly, like a pair of high school kids passing notes in class. The bus hummed along the highway, the landscape blurring past. I could feel the tension ratchet up with every mile closer to the border.

Once everything was ready, we stationed three people inside Riverbend Café, which was still busy. I was outside on the railing with Mariah Sanders from the port’s postal section. There was a huge old oak—said to be a hundred years old—and we could see the border river from there, though there wasn’t much to see. Through the window, we could see Autumn Evans inside. I took a deep breath and waited.

Mariah nudged me, nodding toward the café. “Place is packed,” she whispered. I adjusted my sunglasses and kept my eyes on the door, waiting for the signal.

A little after 3 pm, two men entered the café and found Autumn Evans. During their conversation, she handed them a small cosmetic box—the sample she’d brought. She ran her hands through her hair with both hands—our signal that the visitors weren’t “Mr. Sam.” We got the message: hold off, keep watching.

I jotted down their descriptions in my notebook—height, build, accents. Every detail could matter later. The waiting was the hardest part, but you learn to live with it in this job.

After chatting for over an hour, the two men took the sample and left. Autumn Evans went to stay at a hotel we’d arranged. After arriving, she tried to call “Mr. Sam” as instructed, but couldn’t get through. We sent a team to follow the two men, while I stayed put. That night, Autumn Evans pretended to visit the border night market, then returned to the hotel. Watching her from afar all day, I learned that the two men were from Hong Kong and took the night bus to Houston.

I watched the city lights flicker on as the sun set, the hum of traffic blending with the distant music from the market. It was a strange feeling—being so close to the action, yet so far removed.

That night, Autumn Evans finally got through to “Mr. Sam.” We had equipment in her room and could hear her say, “I took a huge risk coming here and brought the new sample you wanted, but you didn’t even show up! If you keep this up, don’t contact me again!”

Her voice was tight with frustration. I could almost picture her pacing the carpet, phone pressed to her ear. This was the moment we’d been waiting for—a chance to push “Mr. Sam” just a little further.

“Mr. Sam” said, “I’m busy here, nothing I can do. Don’t be mad, I’ll see you next time!” The two argued for a while, then hung up.

He sounded slippery, evasive—the kind of guy who’s always got an excuse. But Autumn played her part perfectly, letting just enough anger seep into her voice to keep him on the hook.

Early the next morning, the task force notified us that since the big fish hadn’t taken the bait, previous plans were canceled. Also, since the status of the two Hong Kong men in the organization was unclear, they’d be allowed to leave the country, and we’d try again to lure “Mr. Sam” out—meaning we’d successfully traded a few dozen grams of piperonyl methyl ketone. That day, Autumn Evans was sent back to Ohio. According to entry-exit records, the two Hong Kong men were surnamed Chu and Choi—the latter being Charles Choi.

The disappointment was palpable, but nobody gave up. We regrouped, reviewed the tapes, and started planning the next move. In this business, patience is half the battle. I reminded myself of that as I poured another cup of coffee.

On October 8th, the fourteenth day, “Mr. Sam” contacted Autumn Evans again, saying the product quality this time was excellent—which made sense, since the piperonyl methyl ketone she gave him wasn’t clandestinely made. He said he wanted to proceed with the 5,500-pound order, paid her a total of $150,000 in several installments, and this time wanted to handle the shipping and disguise plan himself, suggesting he was suspicious after the last inspection.

I could almost hear the collective groan from the team. The game had changed—he was getting smarter, more cautious. But at least we still had a line to him, and the money trail was getting easier to follow.