Magón shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“Did you?” Faroe asked.
“At least as much as he does.”
“Then tell him this,” Faroe said. “If he shows us both ends of the tunnel, I’ll do everything I can to make sure that Hector Rivas Osuna doesn’t live to find him.”
“¿Aquí?” Galindo asked in Spanish. Then, surprisingly, in rough Spanglish. “Here? En México? Nunca. No, no, hombre. It no happen.”
“That’s why we need the tunnel,” Faroe said. “To get Hector out of Mexico.”
Galindo looked confused.
Magón translated Faroe’s words.
The miner looked shocked, then laughed with delight. “Hijo de la chinga—Aiee, lo siento, padre. I so bad mouth.”
Magón almost smiled. “We can pray for forgiveness together, Paulino. I, too, believe Hector is the son of a great whore.”
Refugio snickered.
Galindo looked at the diamonds, then at Faroe, and began speaking earnestly.
Magón translated. “Señor, I will help you. In God’s truth, I would pay you those diamonds to rid Mexico of this evil devil Hector.”
Smiling, Faroe shook the miner’s hand and said, “As soon as we find the tunnel, the diamonds belong to you and the families of the men who built it.”
Galindo talked quickly to Magón, who turned to Faroe. “He says that he is but a poor miner. He can’t draw or read maps, so how can he help you find the mine?”
“Ask him if he’s ever ridden in a helicopter.”
A moment later Magón said, “He hasn’t.”
Faroe smiled slightly. “Then he’s going to have quite a story to tell.”
SAN YSIDRO
MONDAY, 9:10 A.M.
67
HARLEY TOUCHED THE TINY electronic bud in his ear and turned to Steele. “It’s Mary. We got trouble.”
“What and where?”
“Right here. FBI in raid jackets.”
Grace turned from her cell phone. She’d spent the last ten minutes assuring her boss and his boss that she meant every word of her resignation. “Excuse me,” she murmured. “I have to go.”
She hung up just as someone knocked on the door of the bus.
“FBI,” said a man’s voice. “We can do it easy or we can do it hard. Open up, Steele.”
“Do you have a warrant?” Harley shouted.
“Want us to get one?”
Harley looked at Steele.
Steele mentally categorized the visible contents of the coach. Nothing illegal. Even so…
“Put away all papers. Shut and lock every door, every drawer, every cupboard,” Steele said. “Tell everyone in the other motor coaches to do the same and not to open up for anyone without my direct order or a warrant.”
Grace stuffed everything that was out on the counter into a cupboard and slammed it shut. The traveling lock clicked, ensuring that even if the ride got bumpy, the cupboard would stay closed.
Harley talked into his spidery headset while he put away everything but food. The ops in the back of the coach shut doors with themselves on the inside. Dead bolts slammed home, leaving nothing but the salon and the kitchen in open view.
“Do you want to wait in my suite?” Steele said to Grace.
She smiled thinly. “Not a chance. I know the letter of the law. I’ll make sure they behave.”
Steele laughed softly. “I do like you, Ms. Silva.”
“Grace, and it’s becoming mutual.”
A fist banged on the door again. “Open up, Steele, or I’ll be back with warrants that will put your ass in prison.”
Harley opened the door and stood in the doorway, filling it. “Good morning, gentlemen, ma’am. ID, please.”
The request was gently stated.
And Harley looked like a mountain ready to fall all over the three agents if they didn’t act civilized.
One by one they took out ID.
Harley looked everything over. “Supervisory Special Agent Cook. Agent González. Agent Daily. Nice raid jackets. Looks really sweet over your business suits.”
Cook pocketed his ID and started up the steps.
The other agents hung back.
Harley didn’t move.
“Get out of the way,” Cook said impatiently.
“Ambassador Steele,” Harley said without looking away from the short FBI agent. “Are we inviting them inside?”
“It will be quite crowded with three more people in here,” Steele said from behind Harley. “Is that necessary, Agent Cook? Indeed,” he added too softly for the other two agents to hear, “at this point is it even advisable?”
Cook narrowed his eyes. This wasn’t the first time he’d tangled with St. Kilda Consulting. He hadn’t learned to love them, but he’d learned they could bite.
Power was power, with or without a badge.
“Wait in the car,” Cook said to the other agents. “No point in crowding. Yet. I’ll let you know if that changes.”
“What about the others?” González asked.
Cook glanced around the park. Agents in task force raid jackets waited in cars, blocking the exit to the park.
“Tell them to stand down. For now. When the warrants come through, let me know.”
González didn’t say anything. She knew as well as her boss did that it was more like if than when. Even with a task-force-friendly judge, their probable cause was thin.
As in transparent.
Harley stepped aside.
Talon Cook walked inside the coach. The first thing he saw was Judge Grace Silva, Ms. No-Nonsense Nutcracker herself, in person, watching him with hawk eyes.
The cherry on the cake of this cluster.
“I’m sorry to see you here,” Cook said to her.
“I’m sure you are.” Grace’s smile was all teeth as she looked at the movie-star-handsome agent. Unfortunately he suffered from short man syndrome, which took about forty points off his considerable IQ. “Tell me, Agent Cook, just what basis in law you have for threatening Ambassador Steele with warrants and arrest in order to gain entry into his private motor home.”
“We have a warrant for the arrest of one Joseph Faroe.”
Grace didn’t even blink. “For?”
“Interfering with a task force investigation.”
She held out her hand.
“The judge hasn’t signed it yet,” Cook said. “We’re expecting it to come through at any moment.”
“And what is the basis for this purported warrant?” she asked evenly.
Cook didn’t answer.
“I thought so,” she said, glancing at Steele.
He just smiled.
“Obviously we have something you want, whatever that might be,” Grace said. “You have something we want. That’s the traditional basis for a negotiation. Have a seat, Agent Cook.”
OVER TIJUANA
MONDAY, 9:33 A.M.
68
THE HELICOPTER CAME IN from the north and circled the eastern edge of Tijuana like an American border patrol aircraft slightly off course. The pilot made slow orbits over the hillside slums and shantytowns of Colonia Libertad.
Galindo sat in the front seat, next to the pilot, looking a little dizzy from the circling. Faroe looked over his shoulder, orienting him to the aerial view of reality while Magón translated. Galindo had never been in an aircraft, much less in an aerobatic helicopter. He was having a hard time sorting out perspective.
Finally he spotted a crowded highway intersection.
“There, I remember,” he said over the intercom in rough Spanish. “We travel on that when they bring us to the warehouse.”
Ahead of them lay the patterned ground lights of the Tijuana airport looking sullen beneath a haze of jet exhaust, heat, and humidity from the storm circling over the Pacific. Beyond the airfield was the fenced and plowed border.
Faroe touched the pilot on the shoulder and pointed to the industrial buildings behind the airport perimeter fence.
“The
n it has to be in there, right?” Faroe asked in Spanish.
Galindo nodded quickly. “Yes. Yes. I remember the noise. Big jets shake the ground and we dig deep.”
“Let’s have a closer look at those buildings,” Faroe said. “Maybe you’ll remember the shape of a door or windows or something.”
“That’s restricted airspace,” the pilot said in English over the intercom. “Unless you want to dogfight the Mexican air force, we can’t get any closer.”
“I think I see one of your status lights flashing red,” Faroe said.
The pilot looked at the status lights. Green. He ducked his chin, staring at Faroe over the top of his aviator glasses. Then he shrugged. “Sure. Why not? It’s not my bird.”
He fingered the dials of his radio and brought up the airport tower frequency.
While the pilot argued with the air traffic controller about just how urgent a need the helicopter had to land, Galindo stared at the ground, trying to recognize something, anything, that would identify which building might be hiding the entrance to the tunnel.
“Look,” the pilot said to air control. “I have a status light flashing red every time I get above sixty feet. I don’t know if I can make it over the border. I can declare an in-air emergency, land, and then we’ll all spend the rest of the day doing paperwork, or you can just give me clearance to fly straight and low for Brown Field.”
After a supervisor was called in, the pilot got clearance for a shortcut to the border.
“Going down,” the pilot said over the helicopter intercom. “Look sharp. This card can only be played once.”
The helicopter passed over the field, then dropped to about thirty feet above the taxiway that led to the warehouse area.
“Slow down and let Galindo have a good look,” Faroe said. “It’s got to be on this side of the airport, somewhere close to the border fence.”
The pilot slowed.
Magón talked urgently with the miner, who kept shaking his head and staring anxiously at the hangars and industrial buildings. Then Galindo started talking rapidly in creole, pointing to one of the warehouses.
“That’s it,” Magón translated. “He recognized the printing on the roof.”
The helicopter flew slowly over a large sheet-metal hangar with four twin-engine executive jets parked in front. From the look of it, part of the hangar also served as a warehouse.
Faroe read the sign painted on the roof. “Aeronáutico Grupo Calderón. I’m shocked, dude. Just totally shocked. Who’d a thunk?”
The pilot snickered.
“Is he sure?” Faroe asked.
“They transported him in vans with curtains,” Magón translated, “but he remembers that name on the side of the vans.”
“Gotta love advertising,” Faroe said. “And there’s how they got rid of the dirt.” He pointed to the fake hills and raised landscaping that surrounded the building.
Magón was quiet.
Too quiet.
“You didn’t know about that nasty little alliance between the drug trade and Grupo Calderón?” Faroe asked.
“I knew there was a relationship,” Magón said, his voice thick with disgust. “I didn’t think it was this close.”
“It’s so close that I don’t know who’s pitching and who’s catching. Ask Galindo about the entrance on this side.”
“The tunnel entrance is at the back, on the left, in a big supply closet,” Magón said.
“What about the other end of the tunnel?”
Magón didn’t have to ask Galindo. The miner was already pointing toward another industrial sheet-metal warehouse a quarter mile away, on the other side of the border.
“It must be that building there,” Magón translated. “He can give you distances and compass directions from memory. They had to be very precise to come up in the right place on the other side.”
Faroe touched the pilot on the shoulder and gave him a thumbs-up. “Take us home.”
Magón kept translating. “The other entrance is in a bathroom in the manager’s office of that building. Galindo was in charge of the calculations. He only missed by one meter over a distance of six hundred meters.”
Faroe’s eyebrows rose. “Then he can find both entrances again, right?”
Galindo nodded eagerly. He understood Spanish a lot better than he spoke it.
Faroe called Steele to tell him they’d caught a break.
No one answered.
Frowning, he tried again.
Still no answer.
The helicopter picked up speed, then dropped off the radar as soon as the terrain allowed. Soon waves were rushing by beneath. Just beneath. The pilot circled back into U.S. airspace at wave-top height and settled onto the sandy RV park north of Imperial Beach.
Faroe started swearing under his breath when he spotted the extra cars through the flying sand caused by the prop wash. He thought about keeping everyone aboard and running for it.
He didn’t.
There was no time to run and no place to hide.
“Everybody out,” Faroe said.
Galindo and Father Magón stumbled to the ground, shielding their eyes from the sand.
“That’s it,” the pilot said as Faroe jumped out. “I’ll get away with that stunt once. But if you don’t start checking in with customs and immigration, there will be F14s from Miramar waiting to shoot you down.”
“Thousands of Mexican peasants make it across the border every night,” Faroe said.
“They aren’t flying helicopters.”
Faroe slammed the cockpit door.
Instantly the chopper lifted off the sand just enough to fly back out to sea, below the radar. Everyone turned their backs on the gale of sand and air. The grit from the prop wash hadn’t even settled before a black Suburban raced up. The two people who jumped out had FBI written all over them.
No wonder Steele wasn’t answering his phone.
SAN YSIDRO
MONDAY, 9:40 A.M.
69
“NICE OF YOU TO give us a ride to the motor coach,” Faroe said as two agents ran up.
Agent González and Agent Daily didn’t smile.
“ID,” Daily said curtly.
“Last time I checked, this was the United States,” Faroe said to him. “So why don’t you show me some ID first?”
“Read my raid jacket,” Daily retorted.
“Want to read mine?” Faroe asked. “I’ve got quite a collection. Gotta love eBay.”
Magón bit back a smile.
González flipped out her badge holder. “Who are you and where did you come from?”
“You may not know it, but we’re on a real short clock,” Faroe said. He gestured toward the vehicles parked across the exit. “Who’s in charge of all these boys and girls?”
“Agent Talon Cook,” she said.
“Ah, good old Short Order. Take us to him.”
Agent Daily coughed. “Are you Joe Faroe by any chance?”
“Does it matter?” Faroe asked.
González pulled out a two-way. When Cook picked up, she said, “We’ve got three unidentified males, two probably Mexican nationals—”
“Don’t bet on it,” Magón said, smiling.
“—and one six-foot-plus, dark-haired, green-eyed American with attitude who’s got the moves to back up his smart mouth.”
“Faroe,” Cook said, disgusted.
“Hey, Short Order,” Faroe said loud enough for the radio to pick it up. “Still hangin’ tall?”
Daily coughed again.
“Bring the son of a bitch to Steele’s coach,” Cook said.
“What about the other two men?”
“Pat them down and keep them with you. If you find any weapons, cuff them.”
“What about the chopper?” González asked.
“You see any numbers on it?”
“No.”
“Then what chopper are you talking about?” Cook asked sardonically. “Get Faroe over here.”
“You
want him patted down?”
“Oh yeah. I really hope he’s carrying. Then I’ll have his ass in prison.”
“Hold your breath, darlin’,” Faroe called out.
What Cook said was illegal over U.S. airwaves.
Daily coughed again.
“Better take something for that,” Faroe said, holding his arms out and taking a wide stance. “Might be contagious.”
“Smart-ass,” Daily muttered.
Faroe winked.
While Daily patted him down, Faroe congratulated himself on leaving Grace’s Browning in the motor coach with Harley. A lot of times, a weapon was just more trouble than it was worth.
This would have been one outstanding example.
Daily patted down the other two men, found only the antique gold crucifix, and looked at Magón curiously.
“All clean,” Daily said into his two-way.
“Bring Faroe” was all Cook said.
SAN YSIDRO
MONDAY, 9:50 A.M.
70
AGENT COOK OPENED THE door while Faroe was still a step below the doorway, which put the men on a fairly even footing.
“Well, well,” Cook said. “Look who’s going back to prison.”
Faroe took the last step up.
Cook held his place long enough to give a hard push.
Faroe had been expecting it. He didn’t budge.
The FBI agent smiled. His teeth were perfect and white, his hair curly and black, his body fit and muscular. He would have been pretty if his eyes weren’t like ice.
Faroe knew for a fact that the FBI agent was deadly in unarmed combat.
Too bad Cook can’t get over being short. It makes life hell on everyone over five feet six who gets close to him.
“You playing doorstop today?” Faroe asked.
Cook turned just enough to let Faroe inside.
Grace got up and came to Faroe with questions in her eyes.
He nodded slightly.
She was so relieved she sagged against him. He put one arm tight around her, tucked her into the banquette, and slid in beside her. He knew Cook would feel better looking down on him.
The Wrong Hostage Page 32
