The Wrong Hostage

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Grace drew a deep breath and let it out. “And you’re willing. And able.”

  Faroe gave her a look out of cold green eyes, then went back to staring at the traffic ahead. Silence filled the car.

  And filled it.

  Pressing against the two people inside.

  Faroe lifted one hand, then the other, from the wheel, flexing his fingers.

  “There was a guy, a pretty good guy,” he said finally. “I thought he was a friend. I would have died thinking it except that I was wearing Kevlar underwear. Body armor.”

  Grace’s breath broke. “Where were you?”

  “In a filthy alley behind the Lisboa Casino in Macao. It started out as a drunken fistfight. At least I thought he was drunk.”

  Faroe looked at his right hand.

  Grace’s glance followed his. She saw a thin, livid scar that began on the back of his thumb and ran across to the base of his knuckles to his little finger. There were other scars, too, but this one was new.

  “After he got me in a clinch, he pulled a knife out of an ankle sheath and said, ‘Sorry, Joe.’ That’s when I understood he wasn’t drunk. He was trying to slit my belly and dump my guts on the ground with the fish heads and the prawn fondue.”

  “A friend,” she said, her voice raw.

  “We were working an investigation for a major multinational electronics firm. Somebody was tipping off Malay pirates about shipments of high-definition color televisions. Turns out the snitch was my pal, and he thought I was about to figure it out. So I strangled him while he tried to cut off my hand. Then I went back and told Steele I was done.”

  “That’s…” She swallowed hard and shook her head.

  “Shit happens.”

  “But you can’t blame yourself, not for that,” she said. “You were fighting for your life!”

  “He was working for the paycheck, same as I was. But after that I didn’t want to work anymore for other people or politicians or corporations that could write off lives and black millions as a business expense. I took my winnings off the table and started rigging out the TAZ.”

  “And now I’m dragging you back into it.” Her fingers laced together, squeezed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Consider it a charity gig. We international hired guns do them all the time.”

  “So you’re doing this as a special favor for me?”

  He glanced at her for an instant, then back at the jumbled, free-form traffic in front of them. “I don’t have a hidden agenda, if that’s what you mean.”

  Avoiding his sideways glance, Grace looked down at her hands clenched in her lap and thought again of what would happen when Faroe found out about Lane.

  “That’s not what I’m worried about,” she said.

  “Then what?”

  “I can’t—don’t—won’t—”

  The dashboard cell phone rang.

  Grace could have kissed it.

  TIJUANA

  EARLY SUNDAY AFTERNOON

  19

  “GOOD MORNING, GRACE, THIS is James Steele.” The speaker gave Steele’s voice a hollow ring.

  Grace glanced sideways, looking for advice.

  Faroe nodded.

  “Ambassador, I’m here with Joe,” she said. “We’re just inside Mexico.”

  “Ah,” Steele said, failing to keep the satisfaction from his voice. “From what Dwayne told me, I take it you’ve signed on.”

  “Don’t take it too far,” Faroe said. “While St. Kilda searches under rocks and in cesspools for Theodore Franklin, I’ve agreed to take a look at the school and give Grace my thoughts about breaking her son out. But all three of us know that it would be better if I bowed out.”

  “I’m disappointed to hear that,” Steele said, “particularly as I’ve turned up some interesting and pertinent background on the matter.”

  “Background? If it’s one of those cut-and-paste jobs that the research department pulls off Google, dump it in my e-mail. I’ll look at it later. Right now we’re heading for hip deep in alligators at the school.”

  “I know you think the research department is of limited usefulness.”

  “All the clippings in the world didn’t warn me about Macao,” Faroe said. “And I’m betting they won’t tell me what I already know—Grace is caught in a three-corner game.”

  “Explain.” Steele’s voice was icy, all irony gone.

  “Just before we came south, we did a drive-by peep of Ted Franklin’s office. The place is under tight surveillance, probably a task force led by feds. They certainly had all the moves.”

  For a time the only sound was that of the road and Steele’s finger tapping gently on his headset mike. “And the third corner?”

  “He looked like a Mexican federale to me,” Faroe said. “He must have put Grace on his radar earlier this morning, at her home. She led him right to me. We’ve covered ourselves for the moment, but I’m burned. You better get busy on Plan B.”

  Steele was silent, then sighed. “That is unfortunate. I’ll prepare to move Barlow into position.”

  “Barlow? Are you kidding?”

  “I assumed you would want someone who spoke good Spanish.”

  “Yeah, right, but Barlow lisps like Philip I. He’s what baja californios call a chilango. Border Mexicans treat chilangos just about as well as your average Texan treats Yankees like you.”

  “Who did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t have a roster in front of me,” Faroe said impatiently. “You’re the brains of the outfit.”

  There was a chilly silence on the line. Then Steele cleared his throat. “Judge Silva, you have more experience dealing with adolescent males than I do, so help me out. Joseph won’t formally commit to the job but he wants to control how the job is done. It’s a classic example of what diplomats and game theoreticians call a no-win situation.”

  Grace smiled slightly. “Ambassador, I’m not in a position to give advice. I’m alone in a car with said sulky male.”

  “Well, when he makes up his mind, please do let me know,” Steele said, biting off each word.

  Faroe was just pigheaded enough not to admit that his mind was already made up. He really disliked being so easily read by his boss.

  Ex-boss.

  Almost.

  “Until then,” Steele said, “I’ll just continue to perform my administrative and support duties, including the collection of very pertinent intelligence.”

  Faroe glared at the speaker. “Okay. Fine. I give up. Tell me what you have.”

  “I was struck by something Judge Silva told me yesterday about the school where her son is being held. All Saints. She said it’s run by the Roman Catholic Church, and that the school is very highly regarded.”

  “So?” Faroe said.

  “Well, that raises an obvious question,” Steele said. “What is the church doing as hostage-keeper for a well-known Mexican drug trafficker?”

  “The Catholic Church is like any other human institution, in Mexico or elsewhere,” Faroe said dryly. “If the collection plate is full, the priest is happy.”

  “Perhaps, but one of St. Kilda’s best young researchers came up with several interesting facts. First, All Saints maintains a web site with glowing testimonials from a number of prominent Mexican families, including the Calderóns.”

  Grace grimaced.

  “The Calderóns,” Steele continued, “are the Vanderbilts of northern Mexico. The paterfamilias was an interior minister and chairman of the political party that has ruled Mexico since the beginning of the last century.”

  “I already knew that,” Faroe said. “So what? It’s like saying the Kennedy family has been entirely straight, except for the days when Papa Joe was a bootlegger.”

  “I bow to your greater familiarity with the criminal backgrounds of leading families. But the Catholic Church is a somewhat different matter. Our young researcher did a thorough background on the people who run All Saints. She found that the school’s rector, a Father Rafael Magón, assumed h
is post under direct appointment by the Vatican.”

  Grace’s eyebrows rose.

  So did Faroe’s.

  “Father Rafael Magón is a church celebrity,” Steele said. “He comes from a famous Baja California family, and had been on the inside of the Vatican fast track before becoming rector at All Saints two years ago.”

  Grace straightened in her seat. “I’ve met Father Rafael several times. Even though he’s the soccer coach, he didn’t strike me as your average parish priest.”

  “Magón,” Faroe said. “I wonder if he’s from that family.”

  “What family?” Steele asked.

  “The one with the two brothers who organized a successful Baja del Norte rebellion in 1910,” Faroe said. “They captured the only two cities in Baja, Mexicali and Tijuana. Their insurrection became a lightning rod for the wacko left of that day. The Industrial Workers of the World and other anarchist organizations sent in reinforcements, a kind of International Brigade. They had a lot of fun for six months, playing at anarchist government.”

  “You’re talking about one of my grandmothers,” Grace said. “When the Magonistas lost, she went north with federales hot on her heels.”

  “Well, that explains it,” Faroe said with a sideways glance and a smile.

  Grace knew better than to ask what had been explained.

  “Mexico City finally got its act together in the summer of 1911 and counterattacked,” Faroe continued for Steele’s benefit. “The federales sent the Wobblies scampering north to San Diego. The Magón brothers and some of their followers went south, into the Baja mountains. Their descendants are still around, still preaching revolution and social change to the mountain peasants and the Indians.”

  “Thank you,” Steele said, and meant it. “I sometimes forget that beneath your relentlessly shit-kicking persona, there lives a serious student of history.”

  Faroe swung the Mercedes around a slow-moving freight truck that was laboring up a grade, spewing black diesel smoke from its chrome stacks.

  “History is a slippery slope,” Faroe said. “Things change day to day, sometimes faster. The Magonistas gambled on the support of the international workers’ movement. They guessed wrong and they’ve been hiding in the mountains ever since. Maybe this new MagÓn has finally capitulated and thrown in his lot with the crooks, using his robes as cover.”

  “I wondered about that myself,” Steele said. “Do you remember Umberto Meinhof?”

  Faroe grunted. “The captain in the Swiss Guards? Is he still in charge of the Vatican’s diplomatic security detail?”

  “He is. I spoke with him at great length an hour ago. He confirmed that Magón was, and probably still is, a very bright light in the church’s diplomatic corps. But when I started to quiz him ever so gently about why such a star was stationed in the backwaters of northern Mexico, he acted as if I’d asked him to procure little girls for the pope.”

  Faroe whistled softly through his teeth. “And this very bright light is hanging around with traffickers? Interesting.”

  “I thought so,” Steele said gently.

  “Maybe the Vatican has decided to bring the Magonistas into the fold,” Grace said. “Not to mention the Indians who never really converted.”

  “Possible,” Steele said, “but that still leaves some things searching for an explanation. For instance, I got the impression that the Vatican had gone to some lengths to conceal Father Rafael’s connections to the church hierarchy.”

  Grace looked thoughtful.

  Faroe frowned out the window, trying to order the new piece with the rest of the puzzle in his mind. After a moment, he smiled ironically. “Okay, Steele, I concede your point.”

  “That being?”

  “Maybe there’s a reason to spend a buttload of money on researchers.”

  Steele’s laugh was as brief as it was genuine.

  “Let’s push a little harder,” Faroe said. “Call Captain Meinhof back. Tell him we’ll keep our mouths zipped, but in return we need a favor.”

  “And that favor would be?”

  “Hold on for a bit.” Faroe covered the receiver of the phone and talked only to Grace. “I assume the kids at a Catholic school all have to go to church.”

  “Of course. There’s a regular sanctuary on the campus, plus a small chapel on the bluff overlooking the ocean.”

  Faroe removed his hand from the receiver. “Tell Meinhof we’ll keep his secrets and Father Magón’s. But in return the good father has to be in the chapel confessional in exactly”—Faroe checked his watch—“seventy minutes. I feel the need for an honest and complete confession.”

  “But of course,” Steele said dryly. “I’ll call you if there’s any problem.”

  The connection went dead.

  “I didn’t know you were a Catholic,” Grace said.

  “I have plenty of things to confess. I hope the same goes for Father Magón.”

  BAJA CALIFORNIA

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON

  20

  SILENTLY GRACE WATCHED FAROE from the corner of her eye. He looked calm and determined, doing what he was very good at doing. She kept forgetting how focused he could be, intelligence like a laser illuminating everything in its path.

  Once she’d been the object of Faroe’s focus; his strength and intelligence had almost overwhelmed her. Yet it had been electrifying. Erotic beyond anything she’d ever known. When Faroe slipped the leash on his control, he was like riding a storm.

  That’s why she was frightened of what would happen if he focused on her in rage and betrayal.

  I can’t tell him the truth until Lane is safe. Otherwise Lane might not be safe at all.

  And every moment she didn’t tell Faroe piled up guilt on her side and rage on his.

  “Joe,” she said softly, “do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  He glanced quickly at her. “Why should I mind? There are some downright personal things between us.”

  Grace pushed back the memories of just how personal they’d been. After a moment she asked, “Are you ever frightened?”

  “Hell, yes. Every day. Sometimes a lot more often. Why?”

  “Right now, I’m so scared I feel like hurling. Yet you sit there like someone taking a Sunday drive. So I ask again. Have you ever been afraid, like I’m afraid right now, a sickening certainty of things spinning out of control?”

  “I looked down the barrel of a revolver once,” Faroe said. “The barrel was short and the sun was just right. I could see the crosshatching on the blunt end of the round that was about to come under the firing pin. The thirteen-year-old holding the gun was scared, too. I could see his finger so tight on the trigger that his black skin was white.”

  “What did you do?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Same thing you’re doing. I swallowed hard. Then I reached out real slow, real careful, and moved the muzzle to one side. I got it through about twenty degrees of arc before the kid flinched.” Faroe reached up and touched the hair above his right ear. “The crosshatched round literally gave me a buzz cut. I was deaf in this ear for a week.”

  “Did you—kill him?”

  Faroe laughed roughly. “What for? I helped him clean out his britches. Then he helped me clean out mine.”

  Grace shuddered and shook her head, wondering how he could laugh about an experience like that.

  “So, yeah, I’ve been scared lots of times,” Faroe said. “Fear of death is a natural reaction closely tied to survival. It’s a universal part of the human experience.”

  “You say you’re scared, but you don’t act like it. Every time I think of Lane and Hector and Ted, I—” Her voice broke. She held out her hands. Fine tremors shook them.

  Faroe caught one of her hands, kissed it gently, lightly, and released her the same way. “Up north, you live in a nice, neat, lawful world, but even there, gangs and mafias and terrorists use violence or the threat of it to get what they want.”

  Grace cupped the hand he’d kissed
. “It’s not the same.”

  “No, it’s more personal now. A fist in your gut. Breathe, amada. You’re still a long way from being a Hindu holy man.”

  She made a sound that could have been a laugh or a throttled cry.

  “Just relax and accept what is rather than what you want it to be,” he said. “South of the line, violence isn’t just a fact of life. It’s a way of life. Just like it’s a way of life in most of the rest of the world, all the places you read about in the headlines, failed states and feral cities. Mexico is veering dangerously close to being a failed state. Tijuana is arguably a feral city.”

  “It can’t be that bad.” But there was more hope than certainty in her voice.

  Faroe barely suppressed a cold smile. “Let me put things in perspective. When I first came to the border, the weapons of choice were a Model 1911A Colt and the M2 carbine. The Colt had the shock power of a sledgehammer but it rode nicely against the hip, even without a holster. The M2 was popular because with a sharp file and a few minutes it could be morphed from a semiautomatic shoulder weapon into a light machine gun.”

  Grace looked at him. In profile he looked as hard as the weapons he knew too much about.

  “Now the pistolero’s tools are different,” Faroe said. “Glocks are the favorite pistol, and a Glock would cost an honest Mexican cop half his yearly pay. For long guns, Mexicans prefer H&Ks or Uzis that can rip through a thirty-round magazine in five seconds. Northern Mexico is the new Dodge City. Shoot first, shoot most, and to hell with the bystanders. They should have stayed out of the streets, anyway.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Am I? There were some contract killings in Texas, north of the border. That’s in the U.S. of A. The murders were carried out by renegade federales. If that’s happening in the U.S., you know it’s worse south of the border. We just don’t hear about it. Or if we do, we don’t listen.”

  “You said renegade federales. Not official.”

  “In northern Mexico, police badges are as cheap and meaningful as dime-store whistles. Guns are what count. The borderlands are medieval fiefdoms held by the man with the most money, because money means arms. Power. Entire police departments are for sale to the highest bidder. They become militias for competing bands of traffickers. Police fighting police, federales fighting federales, and all variations in between.”