The Wrong Hostage sk-2

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Such as?”

  “Your son. How’s Lane doing?”

  A sickening jolt shot through Grace’s body, like brushing against a naked, charged wire.

  “Lane is fine.” She tried to modulate her voice, to stuff down the panic that had exploded just beneath her careful professional surface. “Why? What does Lane have to do with this?”

  “When I heard about his drug problems, I was concerned and so were some people in the White House. You know how tricky that kind of thing can be.”

  Grace heard the words as if they were being pushed through a distorter, tones trembling and booming until there was only sound, not meaning.

  Drug PROBlems?

  DRug proBLEMS.

  “I-” she managed.

  “It’s a concern,” Chandler said without waiting for her to finish. “We had a situation last session that was similar. A judicial nominee’s daughter had a cocaine problem and the opposition used it to suggest that the nominee would be soft on drug users. It didn’t get much traction, but it was a near thing.”

  Grace swallowed hard.

  “Nobody wants that kind of complication on the appeals court level,” the senator said. “These days we have such thin majorities and they shift from hour to hour. Surely you understand the need for caution.”

  An eighteen-wheeler rocketed by on the toll road, its slipstream buffeting the SUV.

  “Lane doesn’t have a drug problem,” she said.

  The senator hesitated, sighed, sipped. “Hey, it isn’t a big deal. It happens in all families and nobody’s saying it will jeopardize your nomination. The White House just wants to be sure there are no unpleasant surprises.”

  “Well, I’ve just had one,” she said. “Who gave you the idea that Lane is into drugs?”

  “Nobody had to. It’s kind of obvious.”

  “Because he’s a teenager from La Jolla?”

  “No, because he’s down in that rehab center in Ensenada,” the senator retorted.

  “All Saints School is a private high school on the beach north of Ensenada. It’s one of the best prep schools on any continent. The Roman Catholic Church runs it and some of Tijuana’s finest families send their children there, as well as wealthy families from South America, Europe, and Asia. It’s not a rehab center for junkies.”

  “Grace, I’m sorry if I offended you. I certainly didn’t mean to.”

  “No problem, as long as everyone understands that we didn’t send Lane to All Saints because he needed a drug-free environment. Please tell your informants, whoever they might be, the truth about Lane’s school.”

  There was a long pause, another sip, another sigh. Finally, Chandler grunted. “Odd. I can’t say who brought it up. I guess it was just an impression I got.”

  Even though fear was shifting the world beneath her, Grace made certain her voice was level. “Well, since you haven’t talked to me about Lane in months, and no one else in D.C. really knows my son, it must have been Ted who gave you the wrong idea.”

  “Well, now that you mention it…”

  “When did you talk to Ted?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “Did you see him?” Grace knew her tone was too sharp, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it.

  “He was in D.C. for a few hours, some kind of hush-hush meeting. He just stopped by the Hill for a few minutes to say hello.”

  She let out a long, silent breath. Someone had seen Ted in the last two weeks. Progress, of a sort.

  “Did he say where he was going?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Do you know where he is now?”

  “No. You sound upset.”

  “I haven’t seen or heard from Ted for more than three weeks,” she said. “I was hoping to contact him through you.”

  “Is something wrong? I mean, between the two of you? I thought the divorce was all very civilized.”

  “It was. It is. I just hoped that…” Ted would step up and be the father Lane needs. That Ted would at least call Lane once a week or even every two weeks.

  Another truck roared by, belching diesel into the unusually sultry air.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Grace said. “But if you hear from Ted, please ask him to contact me. I’m tired of being his answering service. A lot of people get angry at me because they can’t get through to him.”

  The senator coughed. “I hear you. Take care, Grace. We need women like you on the appeals court.”

  “Men, too,” she retorted, but she laughed. “Good-bye, Chad. And thanks.”

  She rushed back onto the toll road, leaving a rooster tail of dirt in her wake and wondering if drugs were what Calderon had on his mind.

  3

  TIJUANA, MEXICO

  AUGUST

  SATURDAY, 12:12 P.M.

  JOE FAROE CAME OUT the front door of Tijuana Tuck amp; Roll carrying what looked like a two-foot-long section of vaguely curved abstract art carved from oak. The shop that had made the oak piece had been in the same location for more than forty years. It was a hangover from the days of gringo surfers and hot-rodders crossing the border for cheap custom car work. When angora dice and hand-stitched leather seats stopped being cool, the shop had chosen a different business model.

  It made the best smuggler’s traps to be had in a city whose economy was based on smuggling.

  The output of Tijuana Tuck amp; Roll was the kind of open secret Mexico thrived on. The shop was surrounded by a stout chain-link fence topped with lazy, deadly loops of razor wire, the kind that would cut a man to rags.

  Joe Faroe knew about wire like that, just like he knew about the auto upholstery shop’s real business.

  Been there.

  Done that.

  Burned the T-shirt.

  Faroe glanced across the street. The man was still there, still leaning in the shadow of a doorway. The watcher looked away when Faroe stared at him, but he didn’t move from his post.

  A cop, Faroe decided.

  The dude’s leather jacket and comfortable belly gave him away. For some cops, life was good.

  Okay, is he a Mexican cop or an American working south of the line, trying to figure out the latest smuggling wrinkle?

  Is he looking for an arrest or a shakedown?

  Faroe closed the chain-link gate behind him and stared at the cop whose leather jacket was almost as expensive as Faroe’s.

  The dude pretended he didn’t exist.

  Faroe kept staring.

  Finally the cop looked over casually and nodded. He was an old hand. He knew he’d been burned.

  “Have a nice day,” Faroe called across the street.

  The cop shrugged and turned away to light a cigarette.

  Faroe strolled along the buckled, treacherous sidewalk toward La Revo. He’d parked in Chula Vista and walked across La Linea-the border. Now he needed a cab back to the U.S. port of entry. There were always cabs next to the zebra-striped burro on the corner of La Revo and Calle Cinco.

  The cop stopped smoking long enough to talk into a cell phone or a radio. Faroe couldn’t tell which and didn’t care. For the first time in decades he had a squeaky-clean conscience.

  Around him the air smelled of broken septic lines and tacos with claws in them. The sidewalks were dirty and cracked, cluttered with hunched indio beggars, sidewalk souvenir sellers, and a timeless collection of hustlers, thieves, and ordinary people just trying to get by. They peddled leather boxes, brightly painted wooden toys, and T-shirts celebrating the joys of everything from drugs to anal sex. The shops were ramshackle and poorly stocked. The bars advertised lap dancers. Next door, phony pharmacists in white coats peddled cut-rate Viagra and knockoff cancer drugs.

  The tourist district of Avenida Constitucion tried to be respectable, but it reeked of shadowy bargains, furtive pleasures, and easy vice. Cheap smokes, cheap liquor, cheap sex; everything the bluenoses had squeezed out of San Diego had migrated a few miles south to Tijuana.

  Faroe walked the block that had
once held the infamous Blue Fox. Sidewalk bar barkers hailed him every few steps.

  “Hey, mister, you want some pussy? How about a little fun? Preeeety girls, right here, come in.”

  A thin man with a thinner black mustache had incorporated sound effects into his sales routine, pinching one side of his face between thumb and forefinger and jerking the flesh of his cheek juicily to suggest sex.

  Faroe had heard all the come-ons since he was fifteen. Once he’d smiled at the grimy tricks. Then he’d become indifferent. Now he was disgusted.

  He didn’t know if it was an improvement.

  He flagged a passing yellow cab and climbed in the backseat with his parcel. Instantly the driver made eye contact in his rearview mirror and gave him a broad, practiced grin.

  “I can find anything for you, senor. Girls, mebbe? I know where the clean ones are.”

  “La Linea,” Faroe said. “Go back through the Zona Rio.”

  The driver looked at Faroe’s eyes, shut up, and turned north.

  In three minutes the taxi left the hustling, squalid streets of Old Town behind. Now Faroe looked out on the broad boulevards of Tijuana’s international district. When he’d first come to Tijuana, this river district had been an open sewer over a marshy land. It had been equal opportunity sewage-some stayed south of the border and some emptied with the Tia Juana River into the ocean at Imperial Beach, U.S. of A.

  The river still carried sewage, but it was underground now. On top were streets like the Paseo de los Heroes, whose high-end international shopping rivaled that of any city on earth.

  Stores. Discos. Nightclubs. Restaurants.

  Banks.

  Lots and lots of banks.

  Their business towers were modest compared to those in San Diego, but by the one- and two-story scale of the rest of Tijuana, the banks were giant, glistening, new. A mecca for money.

  Just shows what thirty billion dollars a year in outside income can do for a city, Faroe thought. Too bad the billions came mostly from ghetto addicts and barrio hypes north of the line.

  But that wasn’t his problem anymore. Steele and St. Kilda Consulting be damned, he was through with the crisscross, double-cross, black-is-white and white-is-black world he’d lived in all his adult life.

  Let some other fool risk his butt to save a world that doesn’t want to be saved, fuck you very much.

  Yet Faroe still felt sorry for the poor citizens in TJ who weren’t in on the money game that was going on all around them. They scrambled for a lousy living while most everyone else fattened on the sugar teat of smuggling.

  Too bad, how sad, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I’ve retired my broken lance and put poor old Rosinante out to pasture.

  And if Steele doesn’t understand, he can just shove it where the sun don’t shine.

  The cabbie dropped Faroe at the edge of the neutral zone called the port of entry. He walked along another street crammed with pharmacies and souvenir stands. A block south of the physical frontier, shops gave way to storefront travel agencies offering passage to Los Angeles and the Central Valley, Wenatchee and Burlington and Spokane, fifteen hundred miles away. Kansas, Chicago, New York, Colorado, the cotton fields of the South; any and all destinations welcoming cheap workers were represented by hawkers competing for warm bodies to fill their quotas.

  Faroe passed the long, snaky line of visa seekers outside the administrative offices of the Border Protection Agency. Like someone who has done it many times before, he pushed through the swinging doors that led to the auditorium-sized processing center.

  Last stop before American soil.

  A customs inspector wearing a blue shirt and a sidearm spotted Faroe’s parcel and pointed to the X-ray scanner.

  Faroe put the box on the conveyor belt and waited. A second inspector stared at the scanner screen, examining the contents of the parcels and bags on the belt.

  Automatically Faroe stepped through the metal detector and wondered with professional interest what would happen. He might not be in the business anymore but was curious to know how his secret traveling safe stacked up against pros.

  The scanner operator stopped the belt to look long and hard at the cleanly sawed oak timber. The outlines of a drawer were clear in the ghostly blue X-ray.

  The inspector, whose name tag said “Davison,” backed the belt up and ran the oak timber through again. He stared some more, then touched a button at his elbow.

  From the corner of his eye, Faroe saw two more blue shirts converge on the scanner.

  “This yours, sir?” the scanner asked calmly.

  “Yes.”

  A hand touched Faroe’s elbow as a neutral voice said, “Come with me, please.”

  One of the converging inspectors stood close enough to block Faroe’s route back to Mexico. The other barred his path to the United States. Both men had their free hand on the butt of a service pistol.

  “Sure,” Faroe said to the inspector at his elbow. “You want me to carry the box?”

  “That’s okay. We’ll take care of it.”

  A supervisory inspector grabbed the parcel off the belt and led the way. Faroe fell in behind, careful to keep his hands in plain sight. Obviously the official X-ray had found one of the compartments. The only real question was, had it found the other one as well?

  The sign on the door said “Secondary Inspection.” Inside was an interrogation room, a government-issue table, and two battered, straight-backed chairs. The two escorts followed Faroe to the door and made sure he went through. Then they turned and went back to their former posts.

  The supervisor, whose badge said “Jervis,” put the box on the table and faced Faroe coolly. “You look pretty calm for somebody in a lot of trouble.”

  During his career, Faroe had made a study of ports of entry; he knew the game. Customs inspectors read body language for a living. Faroe’s expression, neck pulse, eyes, hands, and posture didn’t give the inspector anything to work with.

  “I’m clean,” Faroe said, “therefore I’m calm. You saw yourself that the box was empty.”

  Jervis pointed at the parcel, looked at Faroe’s passport, and said, “You want to think about that before you get yourself in any more trouble, Mr. Faroe?”

  “Nothing to think about. I’m clean.”

  “Empty your pockets on this table. Then stand over there and lean against the wall, hands up and flat, legs spread. Got that?”

  Faroe could have argued but didn’t bother. Jervis was paid for an eight-hour shift. He could spend it on Faroe or he could share the wealth with the next hundred people in line.

  “Yeah, I get it.” Faroe emptied his pockets, assumed the position, and waited while he was thoroughly, professionally patted down. “Relax, I’m not carrying.”

  “I’m an old man, Mr. Faroe. I got that way by being careful.” Jervis checked for knife sheaths along the calves and ankles before he straightened. “Go back to the table and pick up your pocket stuff.”

  Faroe went back to where his keys, change, passport, cash, and package waited. While he filled his pockets again, Jervis ripped through newsprint until he’d exposed the two-foot length of oak. In its own spare way, the wood was beautiful. Jervis shook it hard.

  Nothing rattled.

  Jervis grunted. “Looked like a hollow log on the scanner. Around here, we don’t like that. You’re in big trouble, mister.”

  “Not unless they’ve changed the rules since I wore a blue shirt,” Faroe said. “The box is empty.”

  “So it’s a trap. You admit that.”

  “It’s just what the declarations form says-a jewelry box. A handsome piece of wood for the wife to put her rings in.”

  Jervis eyed him. “You really were a blue shirt? Where? Here?”

  “Yeah.” Faroe shrugged. “It’s been years, but I was.”

  Jervis inspected the timber closely. After almost a minute, he pointed to one corner.

  “There,” he said. “I can see the seam of the lid, barely.
Nice work.”

  Faroe wasn’t worried that the inspector had found the outline of part of the box. The whole thing would be installed in the bilge of his boat, which at the moment happened to be lacking a two-foot length of timber. Once Faroe was finished doctoring the oak, even someone who knew the trap was in the bilge would have one hell of a time finding it.

  “Jewelry box, huh?” The inspector went over the board again carefully, looking for the catch with his sensitive fingertips. “This is about the only place the catch could be.”

  “Yeah?”

  Jervis poked at a round one-inch knot, the only imperfection in the tight-grained oak. Nothing moved. “Huh.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Faroe said. “You’ve X-rayed it. It’s empty.”

  Jervis sucked air through his front teeth. “I should confiscate this and burn it.”

  “Not a good idea. There’s this thing called illegal seizure.”

  Silence stretched while the customs inspector rocked on the heels of his leather boots and watched Faroe’s body language.

  “Get out of here,” Jervis said finally, jerking his head toward the door to America. “But you can fire your proctologist, because if I put your smart ass in the computer, you’ll get a body cavity search every time you cross a border anywhere.”

  Faroe nodded. “Have a nice day.”

  He picked up the timber and headed out the door. With long strides he headed to his car and an appointment with his safe-deposit box in Oceanside Federal Bank. If his luck held, by the time Steele found another only-you-can-do-this lure to dangle under his ex-employee’s nose, said ex-employee would be headed out to sea with several million in D-flawless diamonds tucked in the bilge.

  Faroe had earned his retirement the hard way. He planned on enjoying it.

  And to hell with saving people from their own stupidity.

  4

  ALL SAINTS SCHOOL

  SATURDAY, 12:20 P.M.

  THE UNEXPECTED ROADBLOCK ON the toll road had cost Grace ten minutes of anxiety while sweating federales gripped their automatic weapons and peered into cars. Now she confronted another new security checkpoint on the well-maintained dirt road that led to All Saints.