Elizabeth Lowell - The Wrong Hostage

Wrong again.

“I guess Mother Nature knew what she was doing when she didn’t let you breed,” Grace said.

“Don’t give me that righteous act,” Franklin said. “It’s your life that’s all lies.”

Faroe still held Grace’s fist but everything in him wanted to let her loose on Franklin.

And help her.

Later. When Lane’s safe.

“Sturgis.” Faroe’s word was like a whip. “Turn around and put a muzzle on this mutt or get his lying ass out of here so that you and I can do some business.”

“Listen, you son of-” Franklin began.

“Shut it, Ted,” Sturgis said as he turned around. “This is going nowhere.”

“Your problem, not mine,” Faroe said. “As I understand it, you really need that computer, right?”

“I knew the bitch was hiding it!” Franklin snarled.

Faroe gave him a look that penetrated the four shots of whiskey Franklin had knocked back.

“Your lawyer gave you good advice,” Grace said. “Take it or go stand with your babysitters.”

Franklin looked again at Faroe, then backed off and headed for the bar.

“Do you need the whole computer, or just some data from it?” Faroe asked Sturgis.

“The entire computer would be best, but there are some lists…”

“What kind?” Grace asked.

“Deposit lists showing movement of funds from one set of offshore accounts to another,” Sturgis said.

“How are we supposed to recognize them from any other bunch of numbers that might be on the computer?” Faroe asked.

“The entire file is named ‘Plaza.’ It involves transfers from banks in Aruba and Panama to the Intercontinental Bank of Nauru.”

“Where’s that?” Grace asked.

Sturgis said, “Overseas.”

“The South Pacific,” Faroe said. “Its entire economy used to be based on bat shit-guano, to the tea party set. Then some bright schlub discovered the business of chartering international banking institutions. Now Nauru has more banks than it does citizens.”

Franklin looked over with new interest. “You sound like you know your way around.”

“Believe it,” Faroe said, but it was Sturgis he was looking at. “So don’t bullshit me and all of us just might get out of this alive.”

The drink paused halfway to Franklin’s mouth. He looked at Sturgis.

Sturgis was watching Faroe like a man who’d just discovered that guns weren’t the most dangerous things in the room.

Faroe smiled.

It didn’t make Sturgis feel better.

“If we find this file,” Faroe said, “you’ll work with us for Lane’s release.”

“Ah, we’d do what we could, yes,” Sturgis said, “without, of course, admitting that Ted-”

“Wrong answer,” Faroe cut in.

And waited.

“If you bring us that file, we’ll do everything in our power to see Lane safely into the U.S.,” Sturgis said unhappily.

Faroe looked at Grace. “I’d get it in writing, but we don’t have time to play legal games.”

Lane had twelve hours to live.

I-5, HEADED SOUTH

MONDAY, 12:35 A.M.

GRACE SAT WITH HER head against the headrest, watching cars flow by in both directions, a steel river that began at one international border and ended at another.

Faroe hadn’t tried to talk to Grace. She hadn’t tried to talk to him. There was nothing to say.

The father was safe in federal custody and the son was waiting to be executed for his father’s sins.

“Are they following us?” Grace asked Faroe finally.

“Not so far.”

“Does the fact that you’re doing ninety-eight have something to do with that?”

“Ninety-two, and I’m not the fastest car on the road.”

As if to prove it, a Lexus rocketed by on their right, pursued by a beater with Baja California plates.

Faroe checked the mirrors. “When you took the computer to Lane, did you know?”

She froze. “What do you think?”

“You didn’t know.”

Her laugh was short and harsh. “I suppose I should be grateful for your trust.”

“Actually Ted should be grateful there were witnesses back there. You would have cut him to bloody pieces with a broken glass.”

“You weren’t exactly sending him love notes.”

“I was trying to figure out an appropriate death for him.”

Grace gave Faroe a sideways look. “And?”

“Still trying.” Faroe smiled grimly. “But no matter what, I’m going to be a gentleman about it. I promise you can have your pound of flesh first.”

Grace smiled in spite of herself. What am I going to do with you, Joe?

She didn’t know she’d spoken the words aloud until Faroe said, “Ask me tomorrow.”

Her laugh sounded more like a sob.

He glanced at the dashboard clock. Steele should be setting down within the hour. At least there would be a safe place for Grace while Faroe went south.

“Do you think Lane knows anything about this file?” Faroe asked.

“He never said anything to me about Ted keeping files on the computer.”

“I’ll ask when I call Lane. If he could rig a wireless connection, I could suck that file right through the satellite phone.”

“Lane knows all about wireless and 3G and a lot of other things that go right over my head.”

“I’d sure like to see what Ted figures is his federal Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card.”

“What good would that do?” Grace asked.

“I can’t answer that until I see it, but I’ve got a real good idea. I think the Plaza file is just that-a list of all the black transactions Bank of San Marco did for Hector, Carlos, and the rest of the narcotraficantes.”

“But that would implicate Ted. Why would he do that?”

“If he leads the feds to twenty or fifty or whatever million bucks, they’ll seize it, pat him on the back, and let him go.”

“But-”

“That kind of money would pay for a lot of federal task forces,” Faroe said, ignoring her interruption.

“You make it sound like law enforcement is a profit center for the U.S. government,” Grace said tiredly. “I thought that was Mexico’s specialty.”

Faroe shrugged. “Governments are made of people. Some people are better than others and everyone has a price. Sometimes, like in most of Mexico, bureaucrats and politicians get rich directly. Others run the money through political parties or even bureaucracies. It all boils down to money and power and to hell with the meadow that’s flattened while the elephants and donkeys dance for dollars.”

“But-”

“You heard Ted back there, conniving with his lawyer and government agents to work out what amounts to a political solution to his large, personal legal problems. If that isn’t a kind of corruption, what is?” Faroe asked.

“If you believe that, why bother?”

“I like meadows,” Faroe said evenly. “I especially like the individual blades of grass. Like Lane. If I can keep the elephants from smashing him while they dance, that’s good enough for me.”

Silence grew.

Miles of it.

They were within sight of the helicopters circling the border when Grace said bitterly, “Shade upon shade of gray.”

Faroe didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

“So a rich, politically connected snake like Ted talks to the political types in Main Justice,” Grace said. “He convinces them that it’s in the best interests of everybody to let him pay an informal multimillion-dollar fine and slither off into his hole.”

“Don’t ask me to like it,” Faroe said. “And don’t ask me to pretend it doesn’t happen.”

“I won’t. When you add the clever spinning of facts by a lawyer like Sturgis, Ted could end up looking like an upstanding citizen committing a selfless act of civic virtue. If Sturgis is good enough, they’ll probably give Ted a presidential citation.”

“Yeah,” Faroe agreed, his voice tightening with anger. “And he’s already on his way to flushing both you and Lane right out of the system.”

“I can live without a judgeship-of any kind.”

Faroe shot her a fast glance. No tears, no frowns, just the kind of determination that didn’t know how to quit.

The only thing I can’t live without is my son.

“Ted won’t be able to explain away Lane’s imprisonment,” she said fiercely. “I won’t let him.”

“You’re not going to like hearing this,” Faroe said, “but I have to say it. By now, Ted and Sturgis are well on their way to painting you as a lying slut and Lane as a doper and a screwup who got himself in trouble in Mexico.”

She took a sharp breath.

“Lane won’t die a hostage,” Faroe said, his words all the more terrible for the calmness of his voice. “He’ll probably be an accidental overdose. If Hector doesn’t stick a needle in the kid’s arm, Sturgis will see to it that one is ‘found’ on the beach next to the body.”

“Stop it.”

“I’m trying to. But with Ted lawyered up and federally protected, we’re holding the slippery end of a very shitty stick. Powerful people, whether politicians or crooks, don’t like loose ends. Loose ends distract from the big, bright plasma-screen picture of reality that gets peddled all day, every day, on the news channels.”

Grace looked over and at Faroe. In the flickering mercury-vapor lights of the freeway overheads, he looked like one of the Huichol death masks she’d seen in Lane’s cottage.

“It can’t be that easy to bury the truth,” she said.

“It’s easier. Bust some mutt with a few kilos of cocaine and watch your career soar. Get evidence that points toward one of Mexico’s leading political families and watch your career tank. It isn’t important to really do something about drugs-it’s only important to appear to do something.”

Without warning, Faroe took an off-ramp and sped down smaller and smaller roads. He pulled into the parking lot of Brown Field just as a helicopter leaped off the tarmac and headed out for Spring Canyon to shut off the flow of illegal aliens that neither the U.S. nor the Mexican politicians wanted to stop.

They just wanted to appear to.

“Were we followed?” Grace asked.

All Faroe said was “Time to call Lane.”

ALL SAINTS SCHOOL

MONDAY, 1:00 A.M.

CIGARETTE SMOKE CAME INTO Lane’s room through open windows, along with gusts of warm, humid air from the storm that was inching closer to shore.

That’s why I’m sweating.

Heat, not fear.

But his sweat was cold.

In the spaces between the cry of wind and waves, men’s voices came from outside along with more smells of burning nicotine and something else, something Lane couldn’t identify. If one guard wasn’t smoking, the other was.

They were less than six feet from Lane’s bed.

If Mom calls now, Lane thought frantically, they’ll know.

Yet there was nothing Lane wanted or needed more than to hear his mother’s voice and know that he wasn’t truly alone.

The satellite phone beneath his pillow vibrated. Instantly he blocked any view from the window by diving under the sheet. He pushed the connect button.

And said nothing.

“It’s Faroe,” a man’s voice said softly. “If you can hear me but can’t answer, blow into the microphone. Once for yes.”

Lane’s breath sighed over the receiver.

At the other end of the line, Faroe’s heart kicked with relief. “Good. Are you okay?”

Lane breathed into the phone again. Once.

“Is there anyone in the room with you?” Faroe asked.

Lane blew twice into the phone, then whispered, “Wait.”

“As long as you want,” Faroe said.

Sweating, Lane lay beneath the sheet, holding the phone until his hand ached from the pressure.

The guards’ voices faded as they went on another tour of the cottage’s perimeter.

“Okay,” Lane said softly. “They’re gone. It usually takes them a couple of minutes to get back to the window.”

“Has anything changed since we were there?” Faroe asked quickly.

“No,” Lane said, keeping his voice so low it barely transmitted. “Father Rafael came to see me. He said he thought things would be okay. Do I trust him or not?”

“Until we find out a little more, treat him as an unknown quantity,” Faroe said. “But if things come unstuck, use your own judgment. He might be the best option you have. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Lane said. “Is Mom there with you?” The question was tentative.

“She’s here,” Faroe said carefully. He didn’t want the boy falling apart on the phone. Or Grace.