“You’ll be the second to know.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“It’s the best I can give you,” Faroe said. “I’ve designed a trap that Hector can’t refuse-he’ll use his tunnel to bring Lane north and kill Ted. But Hector doesn’t know what we know.”
“Which is?”
“A paranoid warlord on crack will think he can set up the exchange in his warehouse over on Otay Mesa, kill everybody who’s there just for shits and giggles, and run back south like the weasel he is.”
“From here, Hector’s plan looks good,” Grace said bluntly.
“His plan will only work over my dead body.”
“That’s not funny.”
“At least if I die,” Faroe said, “there will be a good reason. I’m not sure I can say that about some of the other times I nearly bought it.”
Grace looked at him for a long time. Then she closed her eyes and told herself that if she could play showdown poker with the head of a federal task force for fifty million dollars, she could do it with the Butcher of Tijuana for her son’s life.
Couldn’t she?
Faroe waited for one of the longest ten counts of his life. When he couldn’t take anymore, he said, “Amada? You okay?”
“No. Call Hector.”
“You sure?”
“Just do it!”
Faroe punched in the number, hit the transmit button, and held out the phone.
Grace took it and began counting rings.
On the fourth ring, a male voice said, “Bueno.”
“I need to talk to Hector Rivas,” she said in English.
“?Quien habla?” the man demanded.
“Grace Silva.”
“What you want?” the man asked.
“Hector knows what I want. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you. Get him.”
Faroe waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Just when he thought Hector wouldn’t take the bait, Grace began talking.
“Hello, Hector.”
“Ah, Your Honor, how strict you are,” Hector said in Spanish. “Poor Fernando is whipped. He takes such good care of your son, too.”
“He’d better. Without a live and healthy Lane, you’ll never see your hundred million again.”
Hector made a rhythmic, juicy sound.
“Put Lane on the line,” Grace said.
“No es possible,” Hector said in Spanglish, loudly, like a man trying to get through to a very dim person.
She grimaced. His words were a little slurred, a little hissed. He’d been drinking as well as smoking. “It’s very possible. If I don’t have proof of life, you don’t have Ted’s files.”
“The boy, he fine. Take my word.”
“And here’s a hundred million. Take it to the bank.”
Hector laughed out loud. “Aiee, a ball-breaker.”
He shouted an order in Spanish.
Grace hit the mute button. “He thinks I’m a ball-breaker. He’s telling someone to bring Lane.”
Faroe’s grin was a hard slice of white.
She released the mute just as Lane’s voice came on.
“Mom?”
“Are you okay?” she asked quickly.
“Yeah, I guess so. They even brought me a Big Mac for dinner. Whoopee.”
“Do you have everything you need?” she asked carefully.
“Uh,” he hesitated, then understood what she was asking. “Yeah, I’ve got everything I need. I’m-Wait a minute. I wasn’t done!”
“You see?” Hector asked in Spanish. “Your son is good. Now, where is your husband?”
“You mean my ex?” she asked. “Last time I saw Ted, he was folded into a car trunk, in handcuffs and leg chains and with a gag in his mouth. Joe Faroe is nothing if not thorough.”
Faroe laughed silently.
“Que bueno,” Hector said, chuckling. “You bring him to me right now and I give you Lane.”
“No.”
“?Que?” he asked sharply.
“I’m not going to do business with you in any part of Mexico. That is not negotiable.”
“I so sad. You no trust Hector.”
“Yes, it’s sad, and it’s not going to change,” Grace said crisply. And her fingernails dug into her palms. “You pick a place on this side of the line for the exchange. You have two hours to set it up.”
“Ah, you worry I kill the boy after noon.”
“I think you’re too smart to be that stupid,” she said. Especially if you lay off the booze and crack. “The problem is Ted-we can’t keep him in the trunk forever.”
Hector laughed so hard he choked. “Aiee. Such a woman! But I no can cross the border.”
“If tons of marijuana can, you can. You have millions of reasons to.”
“Do you have the information?” Hector asked in rapid-fire Spanish. “The banks, the transactions, all the numbers-you understand?”
“I understand. We have what you need. Faroe, ah, persuaded Ted to talk.”
“These records, you truly have them?”
“The records will be present at the exchange.” She gave Faroe a cold, lawyerly smile.
There was a humming silence.
Grace’s nails dug deeper into her hands.
Faroe pried apart her left hand and rubbed the scarlet crescent marks.
“Do you know the Otay Mesa crossing?” Hector asked.
“Yes. I know the Otay crossing,” she repeated so that Faroe would know.
He closed his eyes in relief or prayer.
“We trade there,” Hector said in Spanish. “Bring Ted Franklin. I will hear from his lips the truth of the records. You understand?”
“Yes. Ted will be with me. Where, exactly, do we meet?”
“I will call you. And, senora?”
Grace’s heart stopped, then beat faster. “Yes?”
“Joe Faroe will be with you and Ted. No one else.”
“Joe? I hadn’t planned-”
Hector talked over her in rough English. “Faroe come or no deal. I want that smart gringo where I can see him. ?Claro?”
“Very clear. He’ll be with me.”
Hector hung up.
So did Grace.
“Did I just hear you promise that I’d be with you?” Faroe asked.
“Yes. Is that a problem? He’s obviously going to use the warehouse just like you said.”
“Yeah, but I hadn’t planned to be there with you.”
Surprised, Grace asked, “Where were you going to be?”
“At the Mexican end of the tunnel, sneaking up on Hector.”
Silence.
“What’s Plan B?” she asked.
“I’m working on it.”
Faroe went to find Father Magon. If anyone had a direct line to Carlos Calderon, it would be the Vatican spy.
72
TIJUANA
MONDAY, 10:15 A.M.
LANE SAT IN A broom closet and thought about playing soccer-with various heads used for the ball. His recent nomination for butthead of the hour was Fernando Diaz, one of Hector’s endless stream of nephews. Or maybe they were his bastards.
They sure had the attitude for it. The thought of kicking some of them right between the goalposts kept Lane from focusing on the steady throb of his bruised face and the fact that his bladder was so full his back teeth were floating.
And then there were all the seconds ticking away into minutes and minutes into-
Don’t go there.
Don’t think about it.
Think about kicking Fernando in the balls.
Lane was real tired of Fernando whispering through the door, telling him all about how he was going to be dog food by twelve-thirty.
Dad won’t let that happen.
Will he?
Lane wished he had more confidence in his dad, but he didn’t. This would be just one more in a long line of moments when his dad let him down.
Hey, the good news is that it will be
the last time.
Lane tried to laugh.
It sounded too much like a sob.
He went back to running his fingertips over the mops, brooms, vacuum hoses, and dustpans that were hanging on the walls, waiting to be used. If he was some slick ninja, he’d break off a broom handle and go through the vatos outside like a one-man demolition derby.
But he wasn’t a ninja and he had too much sense to pretend otherwise.
No point in dying before he had to.
“Hola, nino,” Hector said, opening the door to the utility closet.
Lane squinted against the sudden light. His heart filled his throat, beating like a captive bird.
“You okay?” Hector asked.
Oh, sure, I’m just frigging fantastic, locked in a closet waiting to die. And Hector’s breath could kill scorpions at twenty feet.
“I could really use a bathroom,” was all Lane said.
With surprising strength, Hector pulled Lane to his feet and pointed to a door across the hall.
“Don’ be long,” Hector said around the cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. “You daddy, he wait.”
“Dad? He’s coming here for me?”
“You go. Then we go. Andale, nino.”
Lane was so relieved he nearly wet himself. He could hardly believe that his father was really going to come through for him.
“Dad?” he asked.
“Si, si,” Hector said impatiently. “?Andale!”
Lane hurried across the hall. With every step he felt the slight weight of the hard drive in his pocket.
73
SAN YSIDRO
MONDAY, 10:15 A.M.
FAROE AND GRACE WENT back to the main salon in time to see Steele and the FBI agent cautiously shaking hands across the table.
“Supervisory Special Agent Cook has agreed to an arrangement that will ensure complete FBI control of events in their jurisdiction,” Steele said, weighing his words with the care of the ambassador he once had been. “His surveillance and weapons teams will cover the exchange, with full authority to shut the operation down if he, as field commander, decides it’s too dangerous.”
Faroe went still and deadly. “Shut it down? Dangerous? All he’s worried about is Franklin getting a bullet in his fat ass.”
“Right now,” Cook said, “I’d put a bullet in him myself. Snitches. Jesus. I hate the slimy rocks they live under. I’ve already told Ted and his attorney that they’ll cooperate to the fullest or any deal for immunity we might have in the works is DOA.” He looked at Grace. “I wish you’d come to me instead of St. Kilda. It would have been cleaner.”
“When it mattered, I didn’t know you existed,” Grace said. “But even if I’d known you by your first, last, and middle name, I’d have gone to St. Kilda Consulting. They represent my interests and only mine.”
Cook’s mouth turned down at one corner. “After working on the Calderon task force for two years, if my son was a hostage, I’d think about going to St. Kilda myself. And kiss my career good-bye.”
Faroe poured himself a cup of coffee from the urn on the kitchen counter and turned to Cook. “But you still have to play the game like your badge trumps everything, right?”
“Operational control? Is that what’s chapping your ass?” Cook asked. “You know that I have to go to my bosses with clean hands. That means operational control on this side of the line.”
Faroe took a drink of coffee and waited for what he wanted to hear, or all bets were off.
“But that doesn’t mean I give a rat’s hairy ass what goes on at the other end of the tunnel,” Cook said. “If you want to shoot Hector between the eyes and drag him into the United States by his hang-downs, go for it. Just don’t tell me about it ahead of time.”
That was what Faroe wanted to hear.
“Deniability,” he said, saluting Cook. “It’s the major reason St. Kilda exists. You’ve got it. But we have a problem.”
“Just one?” Cook said acidly.
“Hector wants me where he can see me on this side of the line,” Faroe said.
“Do you think he suspects a trap?” Steele asked while Cook was still processing the possible meanings of Faroe’s words.
“No. He just doesn’t trust me unless he can see me.”
“Smart dude,” Cook said. He looked at Steele. “Can any of your other people handle the job down south?”
“No,” Faroe said instantly.
“What?” Cook demanded. “You got a clone I don’t know about?”
“No, but now that this is officially a federal case, I won’t put St. Kilda operatives into a situation that could cost them their lives or their freedom.”
“Hey, look,” Cook said. “I told you I’m not going to ask what your ops might do on the other side. Ain’t my jurisdiction. Ain’t my problem.”
“You can promise immunity all you want,” Faroe said, “but it’s up to the director, the AG, and a mixed batch of judges to keep your promise.”
Cook didn’t look happy, but he didn’t argue. “The Ambassador told me what happened to you sixteen years ago.”
“Then you know why I don’t trust the system, and why I won’t have any more St. Kilda ops on your record as players.”
“So you’re planning to call off the southern end of the operation?” Cook asked.
“I didn’t say anything about anything. All I want from you is a ten-foot ladder and size twelve running shoes.”
Cook looked at Steele. “Is he for real?”
“He ran the fifteen hundred meters in college,” Steele said. “He still runs it.”
Grace wrapped her hand around Faroe’s arm. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m certainly not going to tell you in front of Cook because it might just possibly maybe could involve illegal reverse entry.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Jumping over the border fence while headed south,” Faroe said. “That’s just not the way things are done on Otay Mesa. Trust me on this.”
Her lungs ached with the screams she was holding back.
Holding your breath won’t help anyone.
Breathe.
“All right,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”
He smiled slowly. “Things that are still illegal in some states.”
Grace didn’t know she could laugh until she heard herself. Some of the tension gripping her eased.
Until she looked at her watch.
Breathe.
74
SAN YSIDRO
MONDAY, 11:15 A.M.
FAROE, GRACE, AND STEELE sat in the shadows beside the St. Kilda command center, watching. Unlike the chubasco that had drenched Ensenada and then blown on up the coast, the storm gathering in the trailer park had yet to break.
Faroe didn’t know if the clouds or the task force would cut loose first.
A pair of dark blue FBI buses, a mobile command center, and at least a dozen undercover sedans and trucks had joined the St. Kilda motor coaches in the small park. Weapons teams in Kevlar helmets and blue coveralls prowled with undercover investigators from the Rivas task force and command officers from a half dozen local, state, and federal agencies.
Alpha males and a few tight-lipped alpha females walked stiff-legged, waiting for the signal to kill or die.
“This pretty much defines a Mongolian goat-fuck,” Faroe said. “It reminds me why I left government service. Too damn many servants.”
Steele smiled. “Be proud. You’ve started a wildfire that is burning asses all the way to Washington, D.C. My last phone call was from the attorney general’s chief aide, wondering what in the name of J. Edgar Hoover we were doing by injecting ourselves into a federal investigation of the highest priority.”
“What was your answer?” Grace asked.
“I told him that several St. Kilda operators had agreed to act as confidential informants for the task force in expediting the arrest of the Mexican national who is number three on the FBI’s ten most want
ed list. I also pointed out that the Justice Department regularly relies on evidence gathered by private investigators.”
“Did that make him feel all warm and squishy?” Faroe asked.
“I didn’t ask about the state of his underwear,” Steele said.
“All he wanted was deniability for the AG if something goes wrong,” Grace said.
“Precisely,” Steele said. “He also reminded me that confidential informants are not permitted to perform actual law enforcement duties.”
“Meaning?” Grace asked.
“No guns,” Faroe said, flipping the satellite phone end over end. “No boots. No badges. Those toys are reserved for sworn agents of the United States.”
“No guns, huh?” she said.
“Cross our hearts and hope to die,” Faroe said.
“That’s a grim saying,” she muttered.
“So I promise not to shoot anybody inside the United States,” Faroe said, launching the satellite phone again. “Under the United States, that’s a different matter.” He looked at Steele. “Did you really refer to me as a CI?”
“Confidential informant. It’s just a description.”
“So is shit. And that’s how agents think of snitches. Oh, excuse me. CIs.”
Faroe spun the phone upward again.
At the top of its arc, it rang.
He grabbed the phone, punched a button, and said, “Faroe.”
“Hola, asshole,” Hector said. “You know El Rey Mexican Foods warehouse at Otay?”
“I can find it.”
“Bring Franklin, the ball-breaker, and you. One hour.”
“We’ll be there. But before anything happens, I’ll need proof of life. Be ready to let us see Lane and talk to him.”
“She jus’ talk-”
“We talk to him before we give you the files or there’s no trade. ?Claro?And we hand the files to you personally. I don’t trust any of your men with the information and neither should you.”
Hector laughed. “Si, gringo. You listen.”
“I’m listening.”
Faroe concentrated, repeated back seven numbers, and waited for confirmation.
The line went hollow.
Lane punched out the call on his end. “That was Hector. The exchange is set for the warehouse of El Rey Mexican Foods, just like we hoped. I’ve got the front door code.”
The Wrong Hostage sk-2 Page 33
