The Wrong Hostage

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Is it something we can prove?” Grace asked.

  Faroe shook his head. “We don’t have time for courtroom proof.”

  “But we have time to mount an attack that could get Lane shot?”

  “Contingency planning only.” He released her hand, pushed back against the seat, and rubbed his face wearily.

  “Can’t we leverage Carlos’s political need to have a clean public image into a way to help Lane?” she insisted.

  Faroe reached for a cup of coffee and emptied it in three long swallows. “We don’t have enough time to convince anyone who matters.”

  “But—”

  “Your ex is trying to save his ass by handing a U.S. federal task force a gift-wrapped, high-level money-laundering case,” Faroe said impatiently. “Whatever he says about Calderón is tainted. Lane is hacking his way into the closest thing we might have as proof of Calderón’s complicity. The money trail. That’s what Hector wants, and he wants it enough to kill.”

  Steele fiddled with the joystick on his wheelchair and closed in on a cup of coffee. “Why would Ted Franklin put that information on a teenager’s computer?”

  “Because he didn’t trust his own accountants,” Faroe said. “But he still needed a record of money transfers, passwords, accounts, and the banks that hold them. All the hundreds—thousands—of details that go into money-laundering buttloads of money.”

  “Where is the money due to surface?” Steele asked.

  “As the funds to purchase the bank Ted peddled to Carlos, who peddled it to Jaime, who talked his uncle into buying his very own personal laundry,” Faroe said.

  Grace looked at Quintana. “Do you know anything that would give you leverage over Hector?”

  “Short of a sawed-off shotgun?” Faroe muttered.

  Quintana smiled rather grimly and concentrated on Grace. “Do not waste your son’s life trying to reason with ROG. They kill because they can.”

  “Listen to him, Grace,” Faroe said. “How many drug murders a year in Tijuana?” he asked Quintana.

  “Perhaps five hundred, más o menos. These are savages. You cannot bargain with them. You can only stop them with overwhelming force.”

  “And before you think of going to Ted’s senatorial buddy,” Faroe said to Grace, “think about this. At the end of the twentieth century the U.S. investigated Mexican money laundering. Investigators posed as drug traffickers and implicated a number of Mexican bankers. A classic sting. The Mexican bankers were lured to Las Vegas and arrested. Want to guess what happened?”

  “No. Yes. Tell me.”

  “Within three days, the entire Mexican political establishment closed ranks. American drug agents in Mexico were threatened with arrest, or worse. Our ambassador was recalled. The American attorney general apologized publicly about our outrageous conduct.”

  “Why?” Grace asked flatly.

  It was Steele who answered. “Mexico treated the entire matter as an attack upon its national honor. The administration in Washington, in its effort to avoid upsetting the fragile Mexican financial structure, acquiesced. It takes no great genius to imagine what a well-placed and powerful man like Calderón could do if he felt seriously threatened by a U.S. senator.”

  Grace looked at Quintana. “What if you threatened Calderón with exposure?”

  “I can attack a known traficante like Hector Rivas and survive. There is an element of public theater in my coverage that ROG understands and often enjoys.” Quintana smiled thinly. “But even my armored car and my dozen bodyguards cannot guarantee my safety or that of my family and employees if I attack the Calderón family. I am sorry.”

  Grace looked to Steele. “Aren’t there any politicians here or in Mexico who would be willing to help?”

  “That was my first thought,” Steele said.

  “And?” she asked.

  “I rejected it.”

  “Not enough time,” Faroe said. “Not enough secrecy. That’s why you came to St. Kilda, Grace.”

  Steele nodded. “Sometimes the only swift, sure way to untie a knot is with a sword.”

  “However…” Faroe said. He looked at Quintana. “Do you know where Hector’s family is in the U.S.?”

  “One. A daughter. Yes.”

  “We should explore that,” Faroe said quietly.

  For a moment there wasn’t any sound but that of the diesel generator powering the vehicle’s lights.

  “No.” Grace’s voice was emphatic. “Joe always thinks in straight lines. Isn’t there some indirect way? Doesn’t Hector Rivas have an enemy who wants to get even, someone who would help us?”

  “Hector has killed all his enemies and many of his friends,” Quintana said.

  “You’re saying that there isn’t a single person in northern Mexico who wants Hector and his gang stopped and could help us do just that?” Grace said.

  Quintana thought for a moment. “Perhaps, yes, perhaps. Ascencio Beltrán.”

  “Beltrán?” Faroe asked. “El Tiburón?”

  The Shark.

  “You know him?” Quintana asked.

  “He was a major marijuana smuggler sixteen years ago. Then he dropped out of sight. Some say he was killed. Some say he was in jail.”

  “He is alive,” Quintana said. “He is living in the only place in Tijuana that Hector Rivas does not control. It is the place no one controls. La Ciudadita.”

  Faroe smiled oddly. “The little city within the city. I’ll be damned.”

  “What is La Ciudadita?” Steele asked.

  “The street name for the federal prison at La Mesa, in south Tijuana.”

  “Will El Tiberón help us?” Faroe asked.

  Quintana’s shoulders shifted in a shrug. “He might, but first you must convince Sister Maude.”

  “Who is she?” Grace asked.

  “The unsainted saint of La Mesa,” Faroe said. “Will she see me?”

  “Us,” Grace said instantly.

  “You don’t want to see La Mesa Prison,” he said, his voice flat.

  “Haven’t we had this conversation before? What does want have to do with any of this? Sister Maude might feel better about your intentions if you have a woman with you.”

  “She’s right,” Steele said. “There are times and places where men alone just can’t get the job done.”

  Quintana said, “I will call Sister Maude.”

  What Faroe said made Grace wince.

  BROWN FIELD

  MONDAY, 6:10 A.M.

  55

  IMAGES POURED INTO STEELE’S computer, bounced from the helicopter to the satellite and back down to San Diego. Steele took one look at the photos and reached for the scrambled cell phone.

  Grace answered it on the first ring. “Joe’s driving fast and needs both hands to flip off people who get in the way. Can I help?”

  Steele smiled. The more he saw of Grace, the better he liked her. Balls and brains were a tough combination to beat.

  “Tell Faroe that the situation has changed at All Saints,” Steele said.

  “Lane?” she asked, her voice raw.

  “Not directly.”

  At the other end of the call, Grace sagged with relief.

  “What?” Faroe shouted so Steele could hear him.

  Grace held the phone to Faroe’s ear.

  “Wood is sending me digital photos from the helicopter,” Steele said. “Overnight, the soccer field grew a full crop of tents. Armed personnel are all over the place like ants on honey.”

  “So Hector owns the army, too?”

  “Do you believe in coincidences?” Steele asked dryly.

  “Not that one. How many soldiers?”

  “Too many. Any extraction of Lane would have to be extremely quiet. Softly, softly, catchee monkey, and mind the fangs and claws.”

  “The chopper is too loud,” Faroe said. “We might fake an emergency landing, but we’d have to shoot our way out. The Aerospatiale isn’t built for that.”

  “Wood and Murchison are examining wa
ter extractions. Jarrett and you could infiltrate wearing the uniform of the day. We would provide sniper coverage, of course, but if we used it…”

  “It would all go from sugar to dog shit real quick,” Faroe finished.

  He braked, hit the horn, and swerved around an idiot doing fifty in the fast lane while shaving and flossing his teeth.

  “Can you cover the place from real-time satellite photos?” Faroe asked.

  “If you don’t mind spending thousands of—”

  “Spend it,” he cut in. “It’s on me. Can you get enough resolution for individual ID?”

  “Not unless they look up and wave on command.”

  “Is Lane’s sat tracker still working?”

  “Yes,” Steele said. “He hasn’t moved.”

  “Let me know if that changes. Anything else?”

  “Your final option isn’t much of an option anymore.”

  LA MESA PRISON

  MONDAY, 6:15 A.M.

  56

  THE GUARD IN THE visitors’ parking lot carried a pistol and charged Grace and Faroe ten dollars because they arrived in a Mercedes. The guard at the visitors’ gate carried a pump shotgun and charged them another twenty dollars because they were gringos.

  The courier waiting for them inside the gate was unarmed and he refused a tip altogether.

  “Por El Señor,” he said.

  For the grace of God.

  The courier was wearing an Oakland Raiders cap and a Metallica T-shirt, and had the shy dignity of an altar boy.

  He ushered them down a long, narrow alley lined with doors made from steel bars. From inside, hidden by the shadows, prisoners stared at them with glittering eyes. Several of them made smooching and sucking noises when they saw Grace.

  She ignored them.

  “Muy peligroso,” the courier warned them.

  Very dangerous.

  “Only if you let them out,” Faroe said.

  An inmate hissed at him.

  The air smelled of raw sewage.

  “Breathe through your mouth,” Faroe said in a low voice to Grace.

  “So I can savor the taste? This makes Terminal Island and Lompoc look like day spas.”

  “You asked for it.”

  She walked around a cloudy puddle that had gathered on the ground near what must have been a cracked septic line. “It’s a learning experience.”

  “Only the first time. Whatever happens, eyes front and just keep walking like you’ve seen it all a dozen times before and weren’t impressed.”

  “Like you?”

  “Just like me.”

  The courier led them out of the alley and into the main prison yard. It was as big as a large city block. Even this early in the morning, the space was crowded. Groups of men leaned against walls or gathered near the ratty palm trees, smoking and talking and waiting for something to happen. Anything.

  The concrete walls around the courtyard were three stories high. Guards with shotguns and assault rifles prowled the catwalks wearing tan uniforms, sunglasses, and baseball caps.

  There weren’t any guards in the main yard. The inmates were on their own.

  A group of children were choosing sides for a schoolyard game, but there was no school inside La Mesa Prison. The tallest of the children proudly held a soccer ball. It was so scuffed and worn that its leather covering was the same color as the soil of the courtyard.

  One of the kids spotted the outsiders and whistled an alarm. The entire group broke and ran toward the gringos, shouldering and elbowing to get close. They shouted in Spanish and thrust out their hands, palms up, demanding or pleading for money.

  Grace hesitated.

  “No,” Faroe said, taking her arm. “Nothing.”

  “But—”

  “Remember,” he cut in. “You’ve seen it all.”

  “They’re children,” she said in a low voice, keeping her eyes front. “Why are they in prison?”

  “They were born here.”

  The courier looked over his shoulder at them.

  “Hurry up,” Faroe said.

  They walked quickly toward a small building huddled on one side of the main yard. The makeshift church was built of unpainted concrete blocks. A rusty cross made out of rebar was wired to the wooden front door.

  When they reached the little church, Faroe loosened his grip on Grace’s arm and spoke in a voice only she could hear. “Remember, amada, you’re inside the prison but outside the pale. Tijuana is San Diego’s Indian country. La Mesa is Tijuana’s Indian country.”

  “Odd place for a church.”

  “Wait until you see the mother superior.”

  The courier knocked softly on the wooden door, pushed it open, and gestured for them to enter. Inside, rows of battered wooden benches faced an altar dominated by a dark-skinned plaster Christ with indio features, a massive crown of thorns, and a blood-drenched torso. To one side a serene, unusually beautiful Virgin Mary smiled her blessing down from a niche in the concrete-block wall. The niche was crowded with burning candles. The air was thick with their sooty smoke.

  A white-haired woman in an ankle-length straight skirt and a blue zippered sweatshirt knelt at the altar rail. After a few moments, she rose and turned toward Grace and Faroe. Tall, very well built beneath the modest clothes, the woman was striking. She had the high cheekbones and large, almond-shaped eyes of a cover model. Those eyes were blue, very dark against the frame of white hair that once had been blond.

  Grace glanced once more at the shrine. The other woman clearly had been the inspiration for the painting of the Virgin.

  “Good morning, may God bless you,” the woman said in clear, unaccented California English. She came down the aisle between the benches, moving gracefully toward her visitors. “I’m Sister Maude.”

  Her handshake was firm and her smile gracious. She dismissed the courier and invited them into her quarters at the rear of the chapel. A propane gas ring burned beneath a teakettle. She poured hot water into three chipped, cracked mugs and added powdered coffee. She put the mugs out on a table, gestured to the mismatched chairs, and sat down facing her guests.

  “Dimas Quintana warned me you don’t have much time,” Sister Maude said. “How can I help you? You may speak freely here. This is a house of God.”

  Faroe looked around with the eyes of a man who didn’t trust much on earth and less in heaven.

  “Excuse my bluntness,” he said, “but we’ve had mixed results with some of God’s representatives here on earth.”

  Sister Maude studied the two of them over the rim of her cup. “The church is a human institution, as well as a holy one. There are errors. There are sins. There are realities that require even the most devout of Christians to conceal their full intentions from the worldly forces that work to see God and his believers fail.”

  For several moments, Faroe studied Sister Maude, who was studying him in return.

  “We have to trust somebody,” Grace said.

  Sister Maude’s smile made her look a decade younger. “God’s message is that, precisely. What is your problem, señora?”

  “My son is being held prisoner.”

  “Here?” Sister Maude asked, surprised.

  “No. Close to Ensenada, at All Saints School.”

  “Hector Rivas Osuna is holding him,” Faroe said, watching the nun closely.

  At the mention of Hector, Sister Maude’s serenity vanished. “Him,” she said, the word a curse on her tongue. “I often wonder why God has not seen fit to include Hector Rivas in our La Mesa congregation. He has many enemies here. I doubt he would last one night. Then I would gladly wash his body as I have so many others.” She sighed. “And I will say my rosary a hundred times for that uncharitable thought.”

  “I know a priest who treats Hector Rivas with great respect,” Faroe said. “This priest has even agreed to act as Lane Franklin’s jailer. Father Rafael Magón.”

  The nun turned her head as though to spit on the floor. Then she shook her head. “God�
��s will be done. Father Rafael Magón ministers to monsters. As long as traffickers give suitable amounts to the church, he permits traffickers to mount shrines to the saint of traficantes, Jesús Malverde, and Santa Muerte, the demon saint.”

  “Magón isn’t the first,” Faroe said.

  “No. God’s ways are beyond my understanding.” Sister Maude bowed her head briefly. “Some of the men and women who come to this chapel are as much pagan as they are Christian, so I must make allowances for their uneducated beliefs. But Father Magón is beyond belief. He ministers to those who murdered a great man of God—Cardinal Ocampo.”

  Grace frowned. “I’ve heard that name.”

  “He was the cardinal of the borderlands, all of them, from sea to sea,” Sister Maude said. “He was assassinated in the Guadalajara airport in ’93.”

  “Why?” Grace asked, shocked and not hiding it.

  “Cardinal Ocampo had begun denouncing traficantes, particularly ROG. Hector Rivas arranged his murder.”

  “I remember the…incident,” Grace said carefully.

  “It was investigated thoroughly,” Faroe said. “Both the government in Mexico City and the church in Rome cleared ROG of any wrongdoing. In fact, the federal police determined that the cardinal’s death was accidental, a case of mistaken identity.”

  The nun’s hands trembled with anger that was human, if not charitable. “A cardinal in a limousine mistaken for a rival trafficker? They open the door and pump fourteen bullets into the cardinal’s red robes by mistake? That is murder.” She straightened and looked Faroe in the eye. “But sometimes the church must bend to government pressure. Hector Rivas goes free and even takes communion.” She crossed herself quickly.

  Faroe knew enough history to be certain that the church didn’t bend easily.

  Or for long.

  Sister Maude took Grace’s hands in her own. “If Hector Rivas has your son, I will pray for you. Beyond that, I can’t help.”

  “You can introduce us to Ascencio Beltrán,” Faroe said.

  “Are you sure?” Sister Maude asked, shaking her head. “If Hector Rivas is the devil, Ascencio Beltrán is his chief rival in hell.”