The Wrong Hostage

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Franklin looked over with new interest. “You sound like you know your way around.”

  “Believe it,” Faroe said, but it was Sturgis he was looking at. “So don’t bullshit me and all of us just might get out of this alive.”

  The drink paused halfway to Franklin’s mouth. He looked at Sturgis.

  Sturgis was watching Faroe like a man who’d just discovered that guns weren’t the most dangerous things in the room.

  Faroe smiled.

  It didn’t make Sturgis feel better.

  “If we find this file,” Faroe said, “you’ll work with us for Lane’s release.”

  “Ah, we’d do what we could, yes,” Sturgis said, “without, of course, admitting that Ted—”

  “Wrong answer,” Faroe cut in.

  And waited.

  “If you bring us that file, we’ll do everything in our power to see Lane safely into the U.S.,” Sturgis said unhappily.

  Faroe looked at Grace. “I’d get it in writing, but we don’t have time to play legal games.”

  Lane had twelve hours to live.

  I-5, HEADED SOUTH

  MONDAY, 12:35 A.M.

  48

  GRACE SAT WITH HER head against the headrest, watching cars flow by in both directions, a steel river that began at one international border and ended at another.

  Faroe hadn’t tried to talk to Grace. She hadn’t tried to talk to him. There was nothing to say.

  The father was safe in federal custody and the son was waiting to be executed for his father’s sins.

  “Are they following us?” Grace asked Faroe finally.

  “Not so far.”

  “Does the fact that you’re doing ninety-eight have something to do with that?”

  “Ninety-two, and I’m not the fastest car on the road.”

  As if to prove it, a Lexus rocketed by on their right, pursued by a beater with Baja California plates.

  Faroe checked the mirrors. “When you took the computer to Lane, did you know?”

  She froze. “What do you think?”

  “You didn’t know.”

  Her laugh was short and harsh. “I suppose I should be grateful for your trust.”

  “Actually Ted should be grateful there were witnesses back there. You would have cut him to bloody pieces with a broken glass.”

  “You weren’t exactly sending him love notes.”

  “I was trying to figure out an appropriate death for him.”

  Grace gave Faroe a sideways look. “And?”

  “Still trying.” Faroe smiled grimly. “But no matter what, I’m going to be a gentleman about it. I promise you can have your pound of flesh first.”

  Grace smiled in spite of herself. What am I going to do with you, Joe?

  She didn’t know she’d spoken the words aloud until Faroe said, “Ask me tomorrow.”

  Her laugh sounded more like a sob.

  He glanced at the dashboard clock. Steele should be setting down within the hour. At least there would be a safe place for Grace while Faroe went south.

  “Do you think Lane knows anything about this file?” Faroe asked.

  “He never said anything to me about Ted keeping files on the computer.”

  “I’ll ask when I call Lane. If he could rig a wireless connection, I could suck that file right through the satellite phone.”

  “Lane knows all about wireless and 3G and a lot of other things that go right over my head.”

  “I’d sure like to see what Ted figures is his federal Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card.”

  “What good would that do?” Grace asked.

  “I can’t answer that until I see it, but I’ve got a real good idea. I think the Plaza file is just that—a list of all the black transactions Bank of San Marco did for Hector, Carlos, and the rest of the narcotraficantes.”

  “But that would implicate Ted. Why would he do that?”

  “If he leads the feds to twenty or fifty or whatever million bucks, they’ll seize it, pat him on the back, and let him go.”

  “But—”

  “That kind of money would pay for a lot of federal task forces,” Faroe said, ignoring her interruption.

  “You make it sound like law enforcement is a profit center for the U.S. government,” Grace said tiredly. “I thought that was Mexico’s specialty.”

  Faroe shrugged. “Governments are made of people. Some people are better than others and everyone has a price. Sometimes, like in most of Mexico, bureaucrats and politicians get rich directly. Others run the money through political parties or even bureaucracies. It all boils down to money and power and to hell with the meadow that’s flattened while the elephants and donkeys dance for dollars.”

  “But—”

  “You heard Ted back there, conniving with his lawyer and government agents to work out what amounts to a political solution to his large, personal legal problems. If that isn’t a kind of corruption, what is?” Faroe asked.

  “If you believe that, why bother?”

  “I like meadows,” Faroe said evenly. “I especially like the individual blades of grass. Like Lane. If I can keep the elephants from smashing him while they dance, that’s good enough for me.”

  Silence grew.

  Miles of it.

  They were within sight of the helicopters circling the border when Grace said bitterly, “Shade upon shade of gray.”

  Faroe didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

  “So a rich, politically connected snake like Ted talks to the political types in Main Justice,” Grace said. “He convinces them that it’s in the best interests of everybody to let him pay an informal multimillion-dollar fine and slither off into his hole.”

  “Don’t ask me to like it,” Faroe said. “And don’t ask me to pretend it doesn’t happen.”

  “I won’t. When you add the clever spinning of facts by a lawyer like Sturgis, Ted could end up looking like an upstanding citizen committing a selfless act of civic virtue. If Sturgis is good enough, they’ll probably give Ted a presidential citation.”

  “Yeah,” Faroe agreed, his voice tightening with anger. “And he’s already on his way to flushing both you and Lane right out of the system.”

  “I can live without a judgeship—of any kind.”

  Faroe shot her a fast glance. No tears, no frowns, just the kind of determination that didn’t know how to quit.

  The only thing I can’t live without is my son.

  “Ted won’t be able to explain away Lane’s imprisonment,” she said fiercely. “I won’t let him.”

  “You’re not going to like hearing this,” Faroe said, “but I have to say it. By now, Ted and Sturgis are well on their way to painting you as a lying slut and Lane as a doper and a screwup who got himself in trouble in Mexico.”

  She took a sharp breath.

  “Lane won’t die a hostage,” Faroe said, his words all the more terrible for the calmness of his voice. “He’ll probably be an accidental overdose. If Hector doesn’t stick a needle in the kid’s arm, Sturgis will see to it that one is ‘found’ on the beach next to the body.”

  “Stop it.”

  “I’m trying to. But with Ted lawyered up and federally protected, we’re holding the slippery end of a very shitty stick. Powerful people, whether politicians or crooks, don’t like loose ends. Loose ends distract from the big, bright plasma-screen picture of reality that gets peddled all day, every day, on the news channels.”

  Grace looked over and at Faroe. In the flickering mercury-vapor lights of the freeway overheads, he looked like one of the Huichol death masks she’d seen in Lane’s cottage.

  “It can’t be that easy to bury the truth,” she said.

  “It’s easier. Bust some mutt with a few kilos of cocaine and watch your career soar. Get evidence that points toward one of Mexico’s leading political families and watch your career tank. It isn’t important to really do something about drugs—it’s only important to appear to do something.”

  Without warning, Faroe
took an off-ramp and sped down smaller and smaller roads. He pulled into the parking lot of Brown Field just as a helicopter leaped off the tarmac and headed out for Spring Canyon to shut off the flow of illegal aliens that neither the U.S. nor the Mexican politicians wanted to stop.

  They just wanted to appear to.

  “Were we followed?” Grace asked.

  All Faroe said was “Time to call Lane.”

  ALL SAINTS SCHOOL

  MONDAY, 1:00 A.M.

  49

  CIGARETTE SMOKE CAME INTO Lane’s room through open windows, along with gusts of warm, humid air from the storm that was inching closer to shore.

  That’s why I’m sweating.

  Heat, not fear.

  But his sweat was cold.

  In the spaces between the cry of wind and waves, men’s voices came from outside along with more smells of burning nicotine and something else, something Lane couldn’t identify. If one guard wasn’t smoking, the other was.

  They were less than six feet from Lane’s bed.

  If Mom calls now, Lane thought frantically, they’ll know.

  Yet there was nothing Lane wanted or needed more than to hear his mother’s voice and know that he wasn’t truly alone.

  The satellite phone beneath his pillow vibrated. Instantly he blocked any view from the window by diving under the sheet. He pushed the connect button.

  And said nothing.

  “It’s Faroe,” a man’s voice said softly. “If you can hear me but can’t answer, blow into the microphone. Once for yes.”

  Lane’s breath sighed over the receiver.

  At the other end of the line, Faroe’s heart kicked with relief. “Good. Are you okay?”

  Lane breathed into the phone again. Once.

  “Is there anyone in the room with you?” Faroe asked.

  Lane blew twice into the phone, then whispered, “Wait.”

  “As long as you want,” Faroe said.

  Sweating, Lane lay beneath the sheet, holding the phone until his hand ached from the pressure.

  The guards’ voices faded as they went on another tour of the cottage’s perimeter.

  “Okay,” Lane said softly. “They’re gone. It usually takes them a couple of minutes to get back to the window.”

  “Has anything changed since we were there?” Faroe asked quickly.

  “No,” Lane said, keeping his voice so low it barely transmitted. “Father Rafael came to see me. He said he thought things would be okay. Do I trust him or not?”

  “Until we find out a little more, treat him as an unknown quantity,” Faroe said. “But if things come unstuck, use your own judgment. He might be the best option you have. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah,” Lane said. “Is Mom there with you?” The question was tentative.

  “She’s here,” Faroe said carefully. He didn’t want the boy falling apart on the phone. Or Grace.

  “Good,” Lane said. “I just didn’t want her to be alone right now. She worries a lot.”

  Faroe smiled even though his throat ached. “Do you have access to a file called ‘the Plaza’ on your hard drive?”

  “That’s Dad’s file,” Lane said, his voice suddenly cautious. “He trusted me with it.”

  It was about the only way Lane had connected with his father in years—showing him how to use the computer.

  “I know,” Faroe said. “He told us about it.”

  “You saw Dad?” With an effort, Lane kept his voice low. “Tonight? Is he coming to get me before”—Hector kills me—“the deadline?”

  Faroe wondered how Lane had found out, then decided it didn’t matter. What mattered was keeping Lane from panicking.

  “Ted showed up in Lomas Santa Fe, at the ranch,” Faroe said carefully. “He wanted your computer. He wanted the Plaza file.”

  Lane listened for the guards, heard only the wind and waves. “So?”

  Sitting in the SUV, Faroe wondered what to say. How do you explain to a kid what a self-serving piece of shit his father is?

  “I don’t have enough time to explain it to you,” Faroe said evenly. “Can you trust me on this or do you want to hear it from your mother?”

  Before Lane could answer, Grace leaned forward and said, “Tell Joe everything you can. Please. It’s our only way to help you.”

  Back at the cottage, the strain in Grace’s voice made Lane’s eyes tear. He swallowed hard. “Okay.”

  “Is it a big file?” Faroe asked.

  “No, but it’s encrypted.”

  “How?”

  “Do you know what PGP is?”

  “Pretty Good Privacy,” Faroe said.

  “Yeah. I taught him how to do it. He’s got the key. I don’t.”

  Shit. But all Faroe said was “So you can’t read it.”

  Lane closed his eyes and sweated cold. His mother’s voice had told him more than her words. “Please don’t be mad. It’s Dad’s file. He asked me to keep it for him, to make sure nothing happened to it.”

  “And now I’m asking you to break that confidence,” Faroe said.

  “I don’t know what’s right. If it’s Dad’s, if he needs it…”

  Faroe cursed silently but didn’t lean on Lane. Nor did he ask for Grace to take over. Lane was having a tough enough time surviving without being caught in a tug-of-war between his parents.

  “I respect what you’re saying,” Faroe said softly, “but until I know exactly what’s in the file, I can’t tell you what’s at stake. All I know is that file is the only leverage we have to get you out of All Saints.”

  “What about Dad? Isn’t he coming for me?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Faroe listened to the silence for what seemed like an eternity.

  Finally Lane drew a shaky breath, then another one. The third time his breath didn’t break. “So it’s betray Dad or die? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m saying that your father never should have put that file on his son’s computer. He never should have signed his son into All Saints. He never should have touched Hector Rivas Osuna’s dirty business.”

  Lane’s eyes widened. He knew who Hector was.

  Everyone in northern Mexico knew who Hector was.

  “Are you saying D-Dad is a crook?” Lane asked, his voice barely a whisper.

  “I believe so,” Faroe said, “but I can’t prove it until I see that file. Is there enough charge on the satellite phone to send the file to your mother?”

  “No. I’ll decrypt it. Then…well, then…” I’ll know something I don’t want to know.

  But not knowing meant that he would die in less than twelve hours.

  “Lane?” Faroe asked.

  Lane grabbed what he did know and held on to it like a rope tossed to him across muddy floodwaters. “PGP is an old commercial program. It’s good enough but not great. I’ve got a couple sample keys and a hacker friend told me about a trapdoor in the program. I might be able to squeeze through it.”

  Faroe drew a deep breath. “Can you do that with what you have at the school?”

  “Sure. All I need is time.”

  “What about the guards?”

  “The Chicharrones Brigade already think I’m hiding under the sheet playing with myself. They laugh about it.”

  Faroe bit back raw words of frustration. “Go for it, son. How’s the charge on the phone?”

  There was a muffled sound before Lane said, “About a quarter.”

  “Shut it down. Save it for another call in four hours. Unless your situation changes radically—then you call right away. Want a quick word with your mom?”

  “Just—tell her I love her. If I hear her voice I’ll—”

  “Okay, I understand. She sends her love. So does your dad.”

  “Then why doesn’t he come get me?”

  He’s too busy saving his own ass.

  But all Faroe said was “Be careful.”

  Lane punched the end button, shut down the phone, and hid it under the pillow again.
<
br />   Voices drifted in through the window. The guards were laughing and talking about the bets that had been placed on how Hector would kill Lane.

  So far no one had put money on simple execution.

  SAN DIEGO

  MONDAY, 1:23 A.M.

  50

  ANOTHER BORDER PATROL HELICOPTER leaped from the tarmac of Brown Field and swung sharply off into the darkness over Spring Canyon. Searchlights probed the tangle of brush where coyotes, feral dogs, smugglers, bandits, and sweating illegals hid. A mile away, along the south edge of Spring Canyon, the lights of Tijuana’s Colonia Libertad washed in a glittering tide against the steel wall of the border. The night was alive with fear and hope.

  Grace and Faroe stared out the windshield, waiting for Steele’s plane to land. The airfield in front of them was pools of darkness and strips of light. Thin fingers of mist curled around the pedestal lights at the edges of the hardstands.

  A group of people came out of the night and raced across the asphalt runway, disappearing into the darkness on the other side.

  “What was that?” Grace asked, startled.

  “Illegals,” Faroe said. “Ghosts in the night. They disappear and then reappear a thousand yards or a thousand miles away. By dinnertime those runners could be in Chicago or New York or Atlanta.”

  “You really enjoy the shadows, don’t you?” Grace asked.

  “It’s the only place I’ve ever felt completely alive.”

  She made a sound that could have been a laugh. “Completely alive, huh? In other circumstances I’d be insulted, or at least disappointed.”

  “In other circumstances, I’d tell you that we met and loved in that shadow world. Best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “And the worst,” she whispered.

  “That too. Have you figured out which hurts most?”

  She made that sound again, half laugh, half sigh, all sadness. “No.”

  “Neither have I.”

  Off to the east, above Otay Mesa, a pair of powerful lights appeared in the darkness—an aircraft on a straight-in final approach.