The Wrong Hostage sk-2

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Steele almost nodded.

  And almost smiled.

  The expression on the Ambassador’s face made Faroe wonder what he’d missed.

  53

  ALL SAINTS SCHOOL

  MONDAY, 2:25 A.M.

  LANE SWIPED AT HIS EYES, telling himself it was sweat, not tears, that kept blurring his view of the computer screen. He really wished he believed it.

  Another bout of thunder made the cottage tremble.

  He noticed the sound only because it meant that his mouthy guards wouldn’t be catcalling from the windows. His stomach growled and cramped with hunger.

  He ignored it.

  He couldn’t take a chance on eating drugged food. After he was free, he’d eat a double-sausage pizza as big as a coffee table. He’d bury his face in the spicy sauce and-

  After.

  But first he had to hack his way into his father’s file.

  The second sample key wasn’t any better than the first had been. He must be screwing up something because he was light-headed and scared and hungry.

  Focus, Lane told himself fiercely. You can do this in your sleep and you know it. It’s just a matter of concentration and time.

  Concentration he didn’t have.

  Time that was sliding away.

  Suck it up.

  Just. Suck. It. Up.

  Lightning burned through the little bathroom window. Lane didn’t notice it, or the thunder that followed. He was staring at the computer screen, his fingers poised over the keyboard.

  Shaking.

  54

  BROWN FIELD

  MONDAY, 2:30 A.M.

  GRACE AND STEELE SAT at the motor coach’s built-in dinette. Across from them, Faroe and Quintana conferred over a map of Baja California del Norte, orienting the journalist on All Saints School.

  In the background the three operators checked firearms and ammunition, set the defaults on cell phones and pagers, and inventoried the equipment that had already been laid aboard the coach. Their movements were economical, quick, and relaxed. They slid through the small space between Steele’s wheelchair and the cupboards with the casual grace of the physically fit. Every time they passed, they looked at the map, noting anything new that had been added by Quintana or Faroe.

  Grace was getting more and more nervous. Everyone was paying way too much attention to what everyone agreed was the most dangerous option.

  Brute force.

  She put her hand over the map. Both men glanced up at her.

  “I know I should shut up and let you do your thing,” she said, “but I can’t. I have to be certain we haven’t overlooked some other way to get Lane free.”

  Faroe put his hand over hers and curled their fingers together. “What angle do you think we’re missing?”

  “Politics.”

  “Whose?”

  “Start with Hector,” she said, looking at Quintana.

  “Hector smokes enough crack to put an elephant on the moon,” Faroe said.

  Quintana lifted his thin shoulders in an elegant shrug. “May he smoke too much and die soon.”

  “Someone else will take his place,” Faroe said.

  “It is the curse of American drug habits feeding Mexico’s political corruption,” Quintana said.

  “Somehow I can’t see Hector running for president,” Grace said. “And that’s the kind of politics I’m talking about.”

  “Very few traficantes care about politics,” Quintana said, “except to understand who to buy in order to be left alone. Traficantes have no interest in a director of public works, or a provincial secretary of education. They are only interested in the police. As long as they control the police, they are safe.”

  “Don’t forget the people who appoint men to direct the police,” Steele said.

  Quintana sighed and looked like a man who wanted a cigarette. “Important appointments are made in Mexico City. That is why men like Hector Rivas own jet aircraft that depart weekly with millions of gringo dollars headed for the corrupt bosses in our national capital. There was a time when the national power structure was as addicted to those weekly payments as Hector is to his cocaine. That is how one president ended up in exile and his brother in prison.”

  “But it’s better now?” Grace asked.

  Quintana hesitated. “At the highest levels, it is better or at least more discreet. But the corrupt relationship between trafficking and law enforcement still remains. Hector Rivas is the boss. Four of his nephews participate in the daily activities of payoffs and corruption. Several nieces are said to be involved.”

  “What about Hector’s own children?” she asked. “Does he have any?”

  “Si. It is not well known, but they are in the United States with their mother. He loves them very much. We know he visits them often, but we don’t know how. No one sees him crossing the border.”

  “They live in the U.S. so they can’t be taken hostage,” Grace said bitterly.

  “It is a way of life,” Quintana said.

  “It must be,” she said. “Carlos Calderon acted like it didn’t matter that his son was enrolled at All Saints.”

  “Oh, it matters. Many million times it matters.” Quintana pursed his lips. “Think of the narco dollars as a river. The river flows out into the desert and disappears into the ground. But down there, beneath the surface, everything still flows, yes? Underground rivers.”

  Grace nodded.

  “Then, hundreds of miles away, the water surfaces again. Carlos Calderon is where the dollars reappear. He is not a traficante, he is a facilitator, one of the principal links between the traficantes and the politicos. That is politics.”

  “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 Calderon is tainted. Lane is hacking his way into the closest thing we might have as proof of Calderon’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, mas 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 Mexi
can 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 Calderon could do if he felt seriously threatened by a U.S. senator.”

  Grace looked at Quintana. “What if you threatened Calderon 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 Calderon 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 Beltran.”

  “Beltran?” Faroe asked. “El Tiburon?”

  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 Tiberon 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.

  55

  BROWN FIELD

  MONDAY, 6:10 A.M.

  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 water 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.”

  56

  LA MESA PRISON

  MONDAY, 6:15 A.M.

  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 Senor,” 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 expe
rience.”

  “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.”