The Wrong Hostage sk-2

by Elizabeth Lowell

The slab-sided barrel was thrust through his ornately tooled leather belt, but outside the waistband of his jeans. The pistol was as much a part of Refugio as his hat, and worn just as casually.

  Faroe shook hands in the gentle style of Mexico rather than the firm, you-can-trust-me gringo style. But when he spoke in Spanish, he was as direct as any Yankee.

  “We have very little time to save a boy’s life,” Faroe said, urging everyone toward the truck. “What can you tell me about this miner?”

  “His name is Paulino Galindo,” Refugio said. “He is a very frightened man. He lived most of the last year in an old mine shaft. I brought him food but only recently convinced him it was safe to move to the house where I am taking you.”

  “So you and Beltran have been holding this trump card for some time,” Faroe said.

  Refugio smiled. “But of course. Paulino is a symbol to the people here. They know what he has endured. We find it useful to have the support of the village because many of them grow fine sinsemilla marijuana.”

  “Yeah,” Faroe said. “I can see how Beltran would want to keep his sources happy.”

  Refugio looked sideways at Magon. “Are you truly Father Magon? Should I talk of these things outside a confessional?”

  “Yes, I’m Father Magon,” the priest said. “And I do not judge any of these people harshly. They are simply trying to survive in the leftover places of a world owned by the wealthy and the powerful. For the poor, it has always been that way.”

  “I am happy you have come,” Refugio said. “Paulino trusts nothing but the church, not even me. You will be the key in his lock.”

  Faroe sure hoped so.

  As Magon settled into the truck, he fingered the gold cross around his neck. It had been worn by others before him and had taken on the patina of their sweat. And his.

  The ride was short and bumpy. Galindo’s house was hidden a hundred yards off the road in a grove of dusty green oaks. The house looked like a fortress built of round cobbles from a nearby stream bed. The stones had been cemented together into thick walls with very few windows. More like rifle slits than real windows.

  They parked a hundred feet away and approached on foot. Faroe noticed that Refugio made enough noise for a mariachi marching band. Obviously the man didn’t want Galindo to think that enemies, rather than friends, were approaching the stone fortress.

  Even so, the barrel of a long shotgun covered every step of the path they walked.

  “Paulino, it is Refugio,” he called out in the local dialect, which was a creole of Pai-Pai and Spanish. “I bring a priest for you. See his cross?”

  Magon held the cross up.

  The barrel wavered, then withdrew.

  After a few moments the heavy wooden door swung open. A small, stoop-shouldered man wearing dirt-caked jeans and a World Cup soccer T-shirt stood in the doorway. He had a full head of dusty black hair and hands full of a shotgun. He stared at the strangers for a long moment, particularly at Magon’s cross.

  Finally Galindo set the shotgun aside.

  Refugio embraced the little miner in the Mexican style, then introduced Faroe by name and Magon by his honorific, el padre. Galindo’s glance never lifted from the crucifix that hung around Magon’s neck.

  The disbelief and awe in his eyes told Faroe that the miner recognized the cross as something more than a symbol of Christian faith.

  Galindo talked quickly to Refugio.

  Even before Refugio could translate the dialect into a more understandable form of Spanish, Magon lifted the heavy chain from his neck and handed the crucifix to the miner. Hesitantly, Galindo took the cross. He held it in the morning light, then slowly turned the crucifix over to examine the small maker’s marks on the back.

  Galindo whispered a few hushed words, crossed himself, and looked at Refugio. “I hear of this crucifix.”

  Magon nodded, not waiting for the translation. His creole was rusty, but it was his birth language, not easily forgotten. “I am from these mountains. Your grandfather probably found the gold that was beaten into this cross.”

  Faroe understood just enough to be grateful for Refugio’s running Spanish commentary. It told Faroe that he could trust Beltran’s man, at least when it came to translating.

  Reverently, the miner lifted the crucifix to his lips and kissed it. Then he returned it to Magon with a torrent of words.

  “He tells me that since I am from these mountains, I know how dangerous they are,” Magon translated for Faroe. “Now that you outsiders know his secret, the rest of the world may soon know, too. Then he will have to leave, maybe go to some godless place like Chile, where men die in the copper mines from the acid in the air.”

  “Tell him that I understand his fear,” Faroe said. “Tell him that I am afraid for my own son, who has only hours to live.”

  Magon put his hand on Galindo’s shoulder and spoke earnestly to him for several minutes. Faroe caught some of it. Refugio filled in most of the gaps.

  The rest became clear when Magon pulled out the chamois bag and spilled diamonds into Galindo’s hand.

  Refugio gasped what could have been an oath or a prayer.

  “I told Paulino that these would belong to him and to the seventeen families who suffered a loss,” Magon said in English to Faroe. “I promised to help them turn the stones into a new life here, one that doesn’t have to revolve around fear.”

  “Did he believe it?”

  Magon 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.”

  “?Aqui?” Galindo asked in Spanish. Then, surprisingly, in rough Spanglish. “Here? En Mexico? 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.

  Magon translated Faroe’s words.

  The miner looked shocked, then laughed with delight. “Hijo de la chinga-Aiee, lo siento, padre. I so bad mouth.”

  Magon 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.

  Magon translated. “Senor, 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 Magon, 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 Magon said, “He hasn’t.”

  Faroe smiled slightly. “Then he’s going to have quite a story to tell.”

  67

  SAN YSIDRO

  MONDAY, 9:10 A.M.

  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 Gonzalez. 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?” Gonzalez 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.”

  Gonzalez 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.”

  68

  OVER TIJUANA

  MONDAY, 9:33 A.M.

  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 Magon 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.

  “Then 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.

  Magon 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,” Magon 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. “Aeronautico Grupo Calderon. 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,” Magon 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.

  Magon was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  “You didn’t know about that nasty little alliance between the drug trade and Grupo Calderon?” Faroe asked.

  “I knew there was a relationship,” Magon 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,” Magon said.

  “What about the other end of the tunnel?”

  Magon 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,” Magon 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.”

  Magon 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.