Damage Control

by John Gilstrap

  Dom sorted it in his head. The dots all seemed to connect. That it made sense disgusted him. “So the church gets a six-million-dollar donation, and all they have to do is agree to give away three million in ransom.”

  “It’s not a pretty world, is it, Father? For all I know, the three million in ransom might have been earmarked to be returned to the church.”

  Dom’s mood darkened even more. “Children, Irene. Children have died for this plan. How can that be worth it?”

  “From the church’s point of view, I don’t have an answer for you. On Hernandez’s side of the equation, his business is defined by murder. After you’ve killed dozens, what’s a few more?”

  Dom put a hand on his forehead, as if taking his own temperature. “I’m trying to figure out how this can help Dig. It’s one thing to understand why all of it is happening, but we still have to find a way to bring them back into the country.”

  Irene’s eyes flashed. “I think I might have something for you there. I want to nail Trevor Munro—not just for this kidnapping and murder business, but for selling out his country. To do that, I’m going to need the testimony of our mole in Hernandez’s cartel. Her name is Maria Elizondo, and it’s time to bring her in. She’s earned her asylum—or will earn it as soon as she brings Digger back into the country.”

  Dom gaped again. “How is an informant going to do something that the FBI to whom she reports cannot?”

  “Maria’s been playing a few games with us,” Irene said. “She’s been baiting us with knowledge she claims to have about a network of smuggling tunnels into Texas, Arizona, and California that we don’t know about. She’s been telling us that if we give her asylum, she’ll reveal the tunnels.”

  “I’ve heard about these,” Dom said. “I’ve seen it on the news.”

  “You haven’t seen these,” Irene corrected. “Every time we hear about one, we blow it up or fill it in. These are new. And they’re the team’s route back into the country without being caught.”

  “How sure are you that she’s telling the truth?”

  “I’m rolling the dice. Given the stakes, she’s got every reason to be honest. She knows that if we took her bait and it turned out to be a lie, we’d throw her back like an undersized fish.”

  Dom cocked his head. “Would you?” he asked. “Throw her back, I mean?”

  “Right into Hernandez’s arms,” Irene said. “Betrayal is a tough business, Father, even when you do it for the right reasons.” She looked away. “I fear that I am about to become a living example of that.”

  Dom sensed his cue and he scowled. “Are you telling me that you think our conversation here is a betrayal?”

  “I took an oath, Father, and here I sit violating that oath. I can’t think of a finer definition of betrayal, can you?”

  Dom felt his face flush. “Forgive me, Irene, but that’s bullshit.”

  Irene recoiled, shocked.

  “And I say that in the presence of the Blessed Virgin. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that your oath was to the Constitution. I don’t care what’s classified and what’s sensitive information, and I have no idea what the laws are about such things, but I have dedicated my life to God’s law. Legal technicalities and career considerations aside, when we’re put in a position to choose between right and wrong, our obligations are clear.”

  Irene gave him a patronizing smirk. “I wish my world could be as simple as yours,” she said.

  Dom inhaled sharply through his nose and held it for a second as he considered how far to take this. He put his hand on hers.

  “Irene, I have to tell you that I could not care less that you’re the director of the FBI. I take no pride in that. I take pride in knowing a fine human being named Irene Rivers. In the years that we’ve known each other, you’ve always impressed me with your ability to put what is right ahead of everything else. Principle above practicality. At the end of the day, I believe that that is why you happen to have been promoted to an extraordinarily stressful job.

  “You and Digger are cut from the same cloth. He likes to tell people that he’s on the side of the angels, and when he does, he always injects a note of sarcasm so that people will know that he’s half joking. The fact of it is that he’s right. He is on the side of the angels. So are you. You risk everything that’s dear to you for the single purpose of protecting people who cannot protect themselves. If doing that is somehow a sin, then all I can say is God help us all.”

  Irene’s eyes had turned red and moist, something that Dom had never seen before. “Side of the angels, huh?” She tasted the words. “I like that, Father. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. And you can call me Dom.”

  Another tired smile. “You know, I don’t think I’d like that at all, Father. Have you ever just wished that you could unlearn things?” she asked. “Un-see things?”

  “I’m a priest, Irene. And a psychologist. I think that every day.”

  Irene stood, and Dom stood with her. Her security team became suddenly attentive.

  “Please be careful, Irene.”

  Before letting go of his hand, Irene bent and kissed it. “You’re very good at what you do,” she said. “I still don’t know if I can put the pin back in the grenade to get the murder charges turned back. I’ll keep trying, but do what you can with what I’ve given you. If the guys can hook up with Maria Elizondo, and just a few things go right, we should be able to get them home. And then we can mete out some serious justice for Trevor Munro.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Father Perón led the way to a bench in a garden on the southern side of the church. They sat in the shade of an exotic-looking tree, on a bench that was more appropriate to a picnic table than a place of reflection. Overhead, an arbor boasted dozens of sweet-smelling red blooms.

  Jonathan filled the priest in on what had transpired today. As he got to the end of the story, the sounds from the soccer game out front came to a crescendo.

  “The bottom line is this,” Jonathan concluded. They’d fallen back into Spanish. “I need to seek sanctuary for this young man until I can figure out what is going on.”

  Perón’s eyes narrowed. The sun was a half hour away from being gone now, and in this light, the priest looked somehow even younger than before. “You are all wanted by the police,” he said, as if thinking aloud. “Because you claim you are innocent, I am to believe you, and I am to endanger everyone in this village to help you. Is that correct?”

  The soccer field erupted in cheers.

  “Yes,” Jonathan said. “But it’s more complicated—”

  Father Perón silenced him by raising his hand. “The Catholic Church did away with the notion of sanctuary as canon law nearly thirty years ago.”

  “That may well be,” Jonathan countered, “but given all the help American churches have lent to Mexican refugees—Latin American refugees in general—granting them safe harbor from immigration enforcement, I thought you might take a chance with us.” He hoped he was playing a strong hand. While U.S. law had never embraced the tenth-century notion of churches as safe harbors, there was a growing movement among American churches to fight against draconian immigration law.

  “And because a few churches in Illinois and Indiana have shown sympathy to men and women whose only crime is to find a job, I should feel obligated to shelter murderers?”

  Jonathan sighed as another cheer rose from the soccer field. “We’re not murderers, Father.”

  From the far side of the church—the north side—an adolescent voice yelled a triumphant “Yes!” in English, instantly drawing Jonathan’s attention.

  Damn kid can’t follow even a simple order, he thought.

  Jonathan stood. “Come with me, Father,” he said. Knowing exactly what he was going to find, he led the priest to the front corner of the church. From there, he could see Tristan mixing it up with the kids on the field. He was shirtless now, and barefoot, playing soccer in a pair of boxer shorts.

  Jonathan s
hot a look to Boxers and got a shrug in return. “What did you want me to do?” the Big Guy asked.

  “Where are his clothes?”

  “Better half-naked than thoroughly blood-soaked, I suppose. Less of a buzzkill for the other kids.”

  Jonathan turned back to Father Perón. “Forget about me,” he said. “Does that boy look like a murderer to you?”

  Perón watched the children play for a few seconds, and then he looked at Jonathan. “You are welcome inside my church,” he said. “Your guns are not. You decide.”

  With that, the young priest turned to his left and walked back through the sanctuary doors into the dark coolness of the church.

  Jackie Mitchell’s gut seized when her phone rang. This was what her life had become. Her office, once so beautiful with its soothing blues and modern leather and glass furniture, had become her prison—the place she dared not leave. The caller ID read, BLOCKED.

  She lifted the receiver. “God bless you.”

  “Um, Reverend Mitchell?” The male voice on the other end sounded impossibly young.

  “This is she.” Jackie’s sprits rose as she considered the prospect of dealing with something other than the violence she had wrought. “Who’s this?”

  “My name is David,” the young man said. “David Border. I’m your IT manager here at the Crystal Palace.”

  It took her a second to process “IT” as meaning information technology. “Of course, David,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

  He cleared his throat. “Well, ma’am, I don’t know if this is a problem or not, but Pam Vargas in the Security Department called me a few minutes ago to tell me that someone’s been trying to hack into our system.”

  Jackie closed her eyes. This couldn’t possibly be anything but bad news. “What does that mean, exactly?” She was pretty sure she knew, but she’d long ago learned that in times of crisis, it was important to make sure you defined all terms.

  David cleared his throat again. “Um, well, it means that someone was trying to get information off our system that they’re not entitled to have.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “Well, ma’am, that’s the thing. That’s the reason why Pam called me. Apparently, since the time of the, you know, incident, we’ve gotten a lot of attacks on our website and on our Good Works Pages, but this one was different. This one targeted contributors.”

  Jackie’s sense of dread blossomed to the size of a malignant basketball. “Any contributors in particular?” she asked, even though she felt certain that she knew the answer.

  Again, he cleared his throat. “Well, yes, ma’am. He seems to be focusing on our most recent contributors.”

  Exactly as she had feared. Just to be certain: “How recent?”

  “Call it the past six weeks,” David said.

  Jackie fought the urge to cry. She concentrated on keeping her voice firm and businesslike. “Can you give me names?”

  Another throat thing. She realized now that it was a nervous tic for him. “Yes, ma’am. The biggest push seems to be on All American Industries and Global Transformations. Most of the others, too, but those are the ones under the greatest scrutiny.”

  “Do we know what they were able to glean from these attacks?”

  Now he fell silent.

  “David?”

  “Well, ma’am, they pretty much got everything we have. I frankly can’t imagine how the information could hurt the companies involved, but I thought you needed to know. In fact, the absolute value of the information wouldn’t even have prompted me to call you. My concern is the ferocity of the attacks. In fact, there were at least two attacks. Almost simultaneously.”

  Her heart hammering, Jackie kept it together. “Where are they originating?”

  “We can’t trace that,” David said. “And that fact alone means that the hackers are very good at what they do.”

  Jackie didn’t know exactly what it all meant, but it felt distressingly like the end of everything. “As we speak, have the attacks stopped?”

  Ahem. “Yes, ma’am, they have.”

  “Does that mean they gave up?”

  He hesitated. “I suppose it could mean that,” David said. “But they really hit us hard. The smarter bet is that they got what they were looking for and they left.”

  It was exactly as Jackie had feared, her worst nightmare. “All right then,” she said. “Thank you, David. Is there anything we can do to stop this sort of invasion in the future?”

  “I’m not even sure how they broke through the firewall,” he said. “When I figure that out, maybe we’ll be able to stop it. But I’m telling you, Reverend Mitchell, that these were very sophisticated attacks.”

  “God bless you for your efforts,” Jackie said. “Please keep me informed of your progress.”

  She laid the receiver back on its cradle, but she kept her hand in place. She had to make another phone call, and it was the last number in the world she wanted to dial. How could things have spun so desperately out of control?

  Tears pressed against her eyes, but she willed them away. She’d broken her vows to God, and now this was His will. She would suffer in Hell for all that she’d done, but there were others to think about right now, and they needed to be her concern. She needed to make the call to protect them.

  Steeling herself with a giant breath, she picked up the receiver and pressed in the number from memory.

  In the end, Jonathan had no choice. He left his arsenal in a pile outside the door, under Boxers’ watchful eye. All but his backup piece, a .38 revolver that he kept in a patch pocket on his right calf. Call it his little poker bluff with God.

  “I’m back here,” the priest called from the darkness as Jonathan reentered. The sound came from a room off to the right-hand side of the altar. Jonathan strolled down the center aisle, between the two rows of chairs, and when he arrived at the foot of the altar, he cast a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure no one was looking, then crossed himself and offered a shallow genuflect.

  “You are Catholic,” Father Perón said from the shadows. He held a cup and saucer in his hand, stirring it slowly.

  Jonathan could smell the coffee from thirty feet away. “More so than I usually behave,” he said.

  “True of most Catholics from your country. May I offer you some coffee?”

  The room off to the side wasn’t exactly a vestry, but it appeared to serve in that capacity. Call it a cross between vestry and bar. Built cheaply yet sturdily of what appeared to be local hardwoods, the room had a utilitarian yet homey feel about it. Jonathan just wished that he could turn up the light a little. Tall shelves lined two of the four walls, and when Jonathan noted the contents, he smiled.

  Father Perón was not a teetotaler, and his tastes apparently ran toward single malt scotches, forming an instant bond with his parish’s latest visitor. Sixteen-year-old Lagavulin was a religious experience unto itself, and there it was on the top shelf of the racked and stacked liquor, just at eye level.

  Jonathan settled for the proffered coffee.

  “Please have a seat,” said Father Perón, gesturing with an open palm to a wooden chair that might have been part of a dining room set in a different world. “Make yourself comfortable, and then tell me the rest.”

  Jonathan cocked his head.

  “Tell me what you are not telling me,” he clarified.

  “You can start with the reasons why my telephone stopped working more or less at the same moment when you arrived.”

  Jonathan sipped from his cup to stall for time. He valued information above gold or diamonds, and as philanthropic as he was with his financial treasures, he hoarded information like the bitterest of misers.

  “Why did your villagers so quickly show their hands as we were approaching? They clearly wanted us to see that they were unarmed.”

  The priest smiled. “Asking another question is not the same as answering one,” he said.

  “I’m getting there, I promise.” />
  “But first you must be sure whether the parish priest is trustworthy?”

  This guy was good. Jonathan thought about dodging the question but decided on a nod. “Exactly. In my line of work, an abundance of caution is never penalized.”

  “And what is your line of work, exactly?”

  “I rescue people.”

  Perón’s eyes narrowed. “Rescuing must be a dangerous business to require so many guns.”

  “I rescue people from kidnappers. They tend to be a violent bunch. With all respect, Father, your country has turned kidnapping into something of a profit center.”

  Something changed in Perón’s face. A cross between sadness and anger. “If Americans bought fewer drugs, and sold fewer guns, the world would be a safer place.”

  “I’m not a politician, Father. I’m a tactician, and I need your help. That child’s life depends on it.”

  The priest held up his hands, as if to fend off an attack. “Don’t place that on me,” he said. “Whatever trouble you are in is self-inflicted. If that child is hurt, it will be your responsibility, not mine. My responsibility is to notify the authorities that you are here, and let them sort it all out. Except I cannot do that because the telephones no longer work. I believe you still owe me an answer on that one.”

  Jonathan shrugged. “I’m a careful man, Father. And the fact that you tried to make your call tells me that my caution is well-founded. And you still owe me an answer on your willingness to help me reunite a child with his family.”

  “You’re asking me to grant you a favor, despite your threat of violence,” Perón said.

  “I’m doing exactly that, Father,” Jonathan said. “If you turn us in, I believe the authorities will kill us. What damage I have done is merely defensive.”

  Perón recoiled. “Why would the authorities do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yet you sound so certain.”

  They’d arrived at the details that Jonathan had wanted to keep off the table. “They’ve already tried.”