Magón started to follow.
One of the guards turned around and leveled his assault weapon at the priest. “Stay out of this. It has nothing to do with the church.”
Magón waited until the soldiers were out of sight before he turned and ran into the cottage. Some of Lane’s clothes were scattered around. The bed was a tangle. The bathroom door was smashed, hanging drunkenly by a single hinge.
The priest locked the front door and went to the bathroom. Towels lay in a damp pile. The mirror was a haze of cracks and splinters. The shower curtain had been torn off the rod.
There was a cell phone tangled in the curtain.
Magón picked up the phone, studied it, and hit the button that redialed the number of the most recent outgoing call.
“Who is this?” a male voice asked instantly.
“A man of God,” Magón said, recognizing Faroe’s voice but not knowing if it was safe to speak openly.
“Father Magón?” Faroe asked.
“Yes.”
“You should carry your cell phone with you. Right now it’s ringing and kicking me into voice mail. Is Lane okay?”
“A little bruised, but not really hurt. He was cussing out the soldiers while they carried him off.”
In San Ysidro, Faroe leaned against the counter and almost laughed. “I hope they don’t understand English slang. Do you know where they’re taking him?”
“I asked. They ignored me. I pushed. They pointed an assault rifle at me. All I know for certain is that no helicopters have left the school.”
“Vehicles?”
“Momentito.”
Magón walked to the front of the cottage, which overlooked the long, sweeping road leading up to the school.
“Three Suburbans are leaving now,” Magón said. “I would guess Lane is in one of them.”
“Can you get into Lane’s cottage without being seen?”
“I’m inside it now.”
“Go to the bathroom. Lane was using the computer when he called me from there.”
Magón walked quickly back to the bathroom. He shook out the shower curtain.
Nothing.
He stirred the towels with his foot. He connected with something solid and ripped aside the towels.
“I have it,” he said into the phone.
Faroe smiled like a shark. “Is it running?”
“No. The screen is blank.”
“Can you turn it on?”
Magón juggled the phone and the computer. He hit the start-up button. Nothing happened.
“It’s not working,” Magón said. Then, “Wait. I see a power cord.”
Faroe waited impatiently while the priest fiddled with the cord.
“It’s not starting up,” Magón said. “The cord is in the wall and in the computer, but nothing happens when I press the start button.”
His name is Ivegot Thedrive!
“Look at the keyboard,” Faroe said. “In the top row of function buttons, above the row of numerals, right in the center, there is a transparent button.”
“I see it.”
“That releases the keyboard so you can get inside. Push it.”
Magón pushed.
The keyboard came free.
“Lift the keyboard and look inside,” Faroe said. “Tell me if you see any loose wires or missing pieces.”
Magón removed the keyboard and studied what was left. “I know little about the interior of computers.”
Faroe waited, reminding himself to breathe.
“There is a loose connection in the lower right-hand corner,” Magón said. “It could have been part of a module that has been removed.”
Shit.
“Well, that adds a real gloss to this cluster,” Faroe said. Then he grinned. “But good for Lane anyway. Did he get to take any luggage?”
“A small duffel.”
Faroe blew out a breath. He’d have to assume that Lane still had the hard drive.
Assumption is the mother of all fuckups, and she has many children.
He’d just have to hope that none of those bastards were his.
“Do you remember an incident a few years back,” Faroe asked, “when men were executed in the mountains south of you?”
“I remember several such incidents, regrettably.”
“The dead men were from your birthplace, or close by. They were miners, not narcotraficantes.”
“I know the incident. They were Pai-Pai, indigenous communal farmers. Many of them worked their own small gold mines. Seventeen of them were lined up and murdered. No one knows why.”
“Hector Rivas, your favorite parishioner, murdered them to protect a secret.”
Magón turned his head and spat on the bathroom floor.
“Yeah, I thought so,” Faroe said. “You’re undercover there. A spy for the church.”
“Spies and priests don’t live in the same world.”
“Some of them do. You, for instance. I’ll bet you’re gathering a case against ROG as the murderers of Cardinal Ocampo.”
“God doesn’t need my help. He already knows the guilty parties. They will pay their penalty on Judgment Day.”
“But the earthly church is a different matter,” Faroe said, ignoring Magón’s words. “The earthly church has to survive in this cruel, nasty, brutal world of ours. Survival goes to the swift, the strong, and the mean. The earthly church has survived on all three counts.”
“What is the point of this?”
“I could call Hector and blow your investigation right to hell.”
“Why would you help Hector Rivas Osuna?”
“He wouldn’t live long enough to enjoy it. Neither would Calderón or Ted Franklin. Are you listening, man of God? If Lane dies, none of you will have to wait for Judgment Day. I’ll punish sins of commission and omission. Do you understand?”
“I understood that since the first time I saw you with Lane,” Father Magón said finally. “I would help if I could. I can’t. The boy is beyond the reach of anything but my prayers.”
“I have something for you to do while you pray.”
“What?”
“Take a little helicopter ride with me to Pai-Pai country. If not, I’ll drop a dime with Hector.”
Magón’s breath sighed across the phone. “I suppose I don’t have a real choice. But I do ask that you keep me out of this as much as is possible. The cardinal’s death is not insignificant.”
“Neither is Lane’s. I’ll do my best to keep your skirts clean. Go to the Mission San Isidro.”
“The church just off the Transpeninsular Highway?”
“No. The ruins. The site of the original church. The place where your church spent a hundred and fifty years trying to separate the Pai-Pais from their native religious beliefs. Be there in half an hour.”
The phone went dead before Magón could ask why.
SAN YSIDRO
MONDAY, 7:39 A.M.
63
AS SOON AS FAROE disconnected with Magón, Steele said, “Ascencio Beltrán called your cell. It rolled over to mine.”
Faroe would have asked how long the rollover connection had been in place, but he had more urgent things to worry about. “Number?”
Steele hit the send button and handed over the cell phone.
“While I talk to him,” Faroe told Grace, “get Sturgis to give us a direct number for Ted.”
“Why?” she asked.
Faroe was already speaking Spanish with Beltrán. The man had been so eager to talk that he answered his own phone rather than stepping Faroe through a bunch of flunkies.
“When do I meet the miner?” Faroe asked.
“It is not that easy,” Beltrán answered.
It never is.
“How hard is it going to be?”
“The miner is in a little town called El Alamo,” Beltrán said.
A little town called Cottonwood. Sweet. There can’t be more than a thousand places with that name.
“Where’s that?” Faroe asked.
&n
bsp; “In the Trinity Valley.”
Better.
“I’ve been there,” Faroe said. “It’s a good place to find miners.”
“Only if they wish to be found. The man I spoke of does not wish to be found, even by me.”
“Did you spook him?”
“No. I worked through cousins of cousins. He is very frightened. He spends most of his time praying in various village churches.”
“So he’s devout.”
“Aiee, he could teach kneeling to a nun.”
Faroe almost smiled. “I’ve got a helicopter. Do you have a contact who could meet us close to town and take us directly to the miner?”
“There’s a dirt airstrip on a small mesa about a kilometer south of the town.”
“Marijuana transport?” Faroe asked.
“Of course. The villagers, they are used to hearing helicopters and planes and such. The miner will not worry. My man will expect to be well paid.”
“I’ll bet. No one in Trinity Valley wants to be seen with a gringo who might be DEA.”
Beltrán laughed. “It is good to work with someone who understands.”
“Your man will be well paid. So will the miner.” Faroe glanced at his watch and did a quick mental calculation. The Aerospatiale was about to be put through its paces. “Tell your man we will be there in an hour.”
“Agreed. May we drink a toast over Hector’s grave.”
“Works for me.” Faroe punched out and said clearly, “Any movement on the sat phone I gave Lane?”
“Negative” came from the back of the bus.
He looked at Steele. “Tell them to rev up the chopper.”
Steele hesitated. “We haven’t had time to set up the usual cover for the helicopter. You’ll have to fly under the radar the whole way.”
Faroe nodded. He hadn’t expected anything else. He hit the redial button on Steele’s phone, memorized Beltrán’s number, and entered it into his own phone for future use. As Faroe worked, he heard Grace’s voice. The edge in it told him that Sturgis was stonewalling.
“…the point is that we have something that Ted wants more than he wants his next birthday,” she said.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Sturgis said.
“I’m the judge, remember? I gave you a number to call. Now I want Ted’s direct number—”
“Impossible.”
“—or you can explain to Ted why you booted a chance to get your hands on Lane’s computer,” she finished, talking over the lawyer.
“The legally constituted members of the task force won’t be happy when they find out you’re interfering with their investigation. I’d be surprised if you aren’t facing some federal charges. Unless you work through me, I’ll make certain that no member of the San Diego federal defense bar will touch your case with fire tongs.”
“Promises, promises,” she said sardonically. “Do you want the documentary history of Ted’s wire transfers or not? At the rate Ted’s burning through brain cells with alcohol, I doubt if he can remember half the transactions.”
“That’s not your problem.”
“It’s not yours, either. It’s Ted’s. If he can’t deliver the narco bucks to be seized, the feds won’t let him walk.”
“You have the files?”
“Yes,” Grace lied without hesitation. “You and the feds aren’t the only ones interested in the files. The traficantes who put up all the money want it back.”
“Ted will get it to them.”
“Not if the feds seize it.”
Faroe came and stood close. Grace tilted the phone so that he could hear the lawyer’s side of the conversation.
“Look, the money isn’t the problem here,” Sturgis said. “Ted could come up with fifty million in a heartbeat.”
“The same can be said of the traficantes,” Grace shot back. “But Hector doesn’t want to look like a burro in front of his buddies, so he wants a very specific fifty million bucks. The feds want their high-level money-laundering case at least as much as they want the money. No transaction records, no case. Are you still with me?”
“Yes,” the lawyer said unhappily.
“For that reason, and that reason alone, Ted should be willing to help us retrieve the computer. Lay aside the fact that Lane still thinks the world of Ted, loves him, and doesn’t know why he’s been abandoned.” The look on Grace’s face said that she wasn’t laying it aside, that Ted would pay. “We all get our onetime opportunities to make up for how we’ve screwed the pooch. This is Ted’s. So give me his damn number.”
“The alternative?”
Faroe took the phone. “If Ted decides to cut a deal with one side or the other that leaves Lane out, Ted is a dead dude walking. And so are you.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Hey, you’re listening. Give the son of a bitch a cookie.”
“I thought all you professional security types were cold and dispassionate,” Sturgis muttered.
“I am. That’s why I’m alive and you’ll be looking over your shoulder.”
“Christ, man, lighten up. Under other circumstances, I might like you. I certainly could find some work for you.”
“Ted’s number,” Faroe said. “Now.”
“I can’t. Professional responsibility to my client and all that.”
“Say hello to hell for me.”
“Wait! I’ll call Ted. I’ll tell him you have the files. It’s up to him whether he calls the number Grace gave me or not.”
“Ted calls in the next five minutes or he’s out of the game.”
“But—”
Faroe punched out of the conversation.
“Well, Your Honor,” he said roughly to Grace, “you got your way. You are now finally and fully a party to what may become conspiracy and murder in the first degree. How does it feel?”
Without a word she got up and disappeared into the back of the coach. Faroe followed as far as the salon, which was now empty. He grabbed a sandwich from the platter on the counter and made short work of it.
As he was chewing the last bite, she came back with her purse and sat down on the couch next to him. She lifted the flap of the heavy leather shoulder bag and produced a clean black steel semiautomatic pistol. She checked to make sure the safety was on, then reversed the pistol and presented it to Faroe, butt first.
“It’s fully loaded,” she said, “and there’s a round in the chamber.”
SAN YSIDRO
MONDAY, 7:44 A.M.
64
FAROE SLIPPED THE SAFETY on Grace’s gun and pulled the slide on the Browning just enough to confirm her warning. He reset the safety and released the magazine from the butt of the gun. The round brass shells of a dozen cartridges gleamed through the side slot of the magazine.
“You shouldn’t keep them stacked like this,” he said. “The magazine spring gets fatigued under a full load. The last two rounds might not mount properly.”
“How many bullets does a good shot need?”
A corner of his mouth kicked up. “You won’t mind if I have Harley tune this thing up?”
“Not if you get me a smaller gun in return. The Browning has always been too heavy for me.”
Faroe hit the intercom on the coach and asked for Harley. The bald bodyguard appeared from the part of the bus reserved for Steele.
“Look this over,” Faroe said, handing him the Browning. “Grace has been keeping the magazine fully loaded. She needs a smaller gun.”
Harley gave her a quick look. “You qualified with this Browning?”
“FBI all the way,” she said. “If the gun was going to be around the house, I wanted to know how to handle it.”
“Wish more people felt like that,” Harley said. “Let me see your hands, please.”
She held up both hands, palm out, fingers splayed.
“I’ve got just the thing,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
“What?” Faroe asked, looking at Grace’s expression.
“Ju
st surprised that you agreed to carry a gun.”
“And I’m surprised I’m letting Harley get you a new one.”
“Guess we just keep surprising each other.”
“Yeah.” Faroe rubbed a knuckle gently along her chin. “If—when—Ted calls, I want you to talk to him.”
“I’m not sure I can be civil to him.”
“Hey, at least you’re not sure. I flat know I wouldn’t be.”
She almost smiled. “What do you want me to say?”
“Tell him that if he wants the computer files, he’ll have to look Lane in the eye to get them. We’ll arrange the time and place and let him know where and when. And get a callback number in case our trace can’t.”
The satellite cell phone on Faroe’s lap rang. He glanced at the caller ID and shouted over his shoulder, “Harley, have communications trace this. Get on it now.”
“Yo!” came from somewhere inside the bus.
Faroe mounted the phone in a cradle, turning the unit into a speakerphone.
“I’m guessing it’s Ted,” Faroe said to Grace. “I’ll try to stay out of it.”
The phone rang for the third time.
“Keep him talking until we have a trace,” Faroe added.
He punched the button on the phone and leaned back, inviting her to speak up.
“Hello,” she said.
“Grace?” Franklin asked. “I thought this number belonged to someone called Joseph Faroe. Let me talk to him.”
“When it comes to Lane, Joe and I speak with one voice.”
There was an empty silence on the line, then unpleasant laughter.
“So he was your shack job before we were married?” Franklin said. “Tell him thanks for leaving his get in my—”
“We’ve been around this track before,” Grace interrupted. “I was faithful after we were married, which is more than you can say.”
“And that’s supposed to make up for all the years, all the support, all the money I lavished on you?”
“In the beginning I more than earned my share. I never asked for the rest of it. Not even for all that political currency you spent to get me appointed to the bench. That was your idea, not mine.” She smiled thinly. “And guess what? You won’t be able to use my judicial status to your benefit anymore. I resigned.”
The Wrong Hostage Page 30
