“He could have asked for double that amount,” Grace said. “And no, I’m not insured. Neither is Lane.”

Faroe blew out a long, silent breath, trying to shake off the past. Whatever else had happened between himself and Grace, her child wasn’t part of it.

And that child was in the hands of butchers.

“Come aboard,” Faroe said. “We can talk below.”

The relief that swept through Grace left her light-headed.

He’s not going to turn his back on me.

On Lane.

The step up from the dock was more than a foot and the ship moved unpredictably on the restless water. She looked warily at the gap between the dock and the deck.

Without thinking, Faroe held out his hand to her.

Grace ignored it. Instead she grabbed one of the stanchions and pulled herself aboard.

You want me, Faroe thought, but you don’t trust me. That hasn’t changed, either.

12

OCEANSIDE

SUNDAY, 10:03 A.M.


FAROE LED THE WAY through the hatch into the stateroom. Another hatch was open into the bilge below. The work light was pointed directly at the unfinished beam. Rough epoxy outlined the seams of the smuggler’s trap. Casually he picked up the section of the floor and closed off the bilge. The power cord kept the hatch ajar.

“Looks like one of those smuggling things you used to tell me about,” Grace said.

“Hell’s bells,” Faroe muttered. He picked up the floor section again and set it aside. “Go ahead, take a good look. This is going to be the worst-kept secret on the border.”

Grace studied the box for a moment. “I take it you won’t be smuggling elephants.”

In spite of everything he smiled. Her words were the punch line from a customs joke he’d once told her about Indian border inspectors and a devious mahout. Each day the mahout and his elephant appeared at the port of entry. The mahout was searched, as was his elephant. Then they were allowed to go on. This happened for weeks, until some smart inspector figured out that the elephants were the contraband.

“I told that story a year ago,” she said. “It was at the sentencing of a Mexican smuggler.” She looked into the bilge and added, “You may or may not appreciate the fact that I gave him ten years.”

“Then you’ve learned that there really are smugglers in this world. That’s a good thing for a judge to know.”

Grace’s smile faded. “Oh, I’ve learned a lot more about the nature of humanity and the shadow world, as you used to call it.” As of yesterday, I learned more than I wanted to know.

“I still call it that. Nothing’s changed, except we’re older and the crooks are younger.”

Faroe yanked the power cord out of the socket and dropped it into the bilge. He put the floor hatch back in place.

“Can I get you something?” he asked, trying to sound polite. “Water? Beer? There’s a little coffee left.”

“Coffee would be fine,” Grace said. “Black.”

That hadn’t changed either.

As Faroe rummaged for a clean cup, Grace looked over the rest of the salon. The TAZ had at least one computer, video screens, telephones like those she had seen in Steele’s office, and a smaller version of the Ambassador’s global clock.

“A wooden boat.” Grace didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at Faroe’s stubborn determination to do things on his own terms.

“She was built in Inverness, Scotland, in 1956,” Faroe said, handing Grace lukewarm coffee in a clean-enough cup. “She started out as a herring boat in the North Sea. If you dig down between the hull planks, you can still find fish scales.”

“I never figured you for a herring fisher.”

“I’m rigging her for blue-water cruising. She only does ten knots, but she can keep that up for months at a time.”

“Are you single-handing her?” Grace asked, then realized she was holding her breath for the answer. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Faroe nodded.

She told herself she wasn’t relieved. But she was. “Steele said you’d retired.”

“Yes.” The word as closed as Faroe’s expression.

She didn’t take the hint. “I can’t imagine you idling away the next forty or fifty years.”

Neither could Faroe, but it wasn’t a topic he wanted to discuss with anyone, including himself. If that made him pigheaded, so be it. A man was entitled to the occasional indulgence.

Silence grew.

“We never were very good at small talk,” he said, gesturing toward the little chart table in the center of the salon. “Do you have a ransom note?”

Grace sat at the small table. “Nothing that obvious. Carlos and Hector simply made it real clear that Lane wasn’t leaving without Ted’s-my ex-husband’s-signature on the form. Unfortunately, Ted is in the wind somewhere, not returning calls or e-mails. He’s not just ducking me, either. I’m getting calls from angry people at all hours of the day.”

Faroe nodded. “Tell me about Carlos and Hector and your last visit with your son.”

Grace sipped, organized her thoughts, and gave Faroe the same presentation she’d given Steele. Faroe listened intently, his eyes focused on the grounds at the bottom of his own coffee cup, a fortune-teller looking for something in the murk.

He’s learned to listen, she realized. Sixteen years ago, he talked more. At least with me.

Not that they’d spent a whole lot of time talking.

“…and then I drove back to the border as fast as I could,” she said. She’d been crying silently all the way, but that wasn’t something Faroe needed to know. “I wasted hours calling everyone I could think of. Then I called your cell phone. St. Kilda answered.”

Faroe swirled the cup, drained the last dregs, and looked up at her.

Grace went still. His eyes were still that astonishing cool green, almost the color of a jade pendant she’d worn the night of their first date. She’d understood from the moment she first saw him that she would sleep with him, even though she knew better. All her life she’d been a dutiful, good girl.

But not with Joe Faroe.

He’s the worst mistake I ever made.

And the best.

“Sounds like Colombia, not Mexico,” Faroe said finally.

“What do you mean?”

“C’mon, Grace. You’re not that naive.”

“I’ve never been to Colombia and only rarely to Mexico,” she said.

Faroe shrugged. “Kidnap and extortion are a way of life in Colombia.”

She swallowed hard. “You have a way of making it sound so…”

“Ordinary?”

“Yes.”

“It’s much more common than you want to know,” Faroe said. “There are a lot of places in the world where hostage-taking is a way of life. Didn’t Steele tell you about what he so elegantly refers to as ‘the Sanguinary Exchange’?”

“What a grim phrase. I guess he was too much of a diplomat to use it with me.”

“Too bad. The term describes what you lawyers might call an exceptional business model.”

“Meaning?” she challenged. He still hates lawyers. Why am I not surprised?

“When a businessman can’t rely on contracts and statutory protections to guarantee performance, he finds other ways. If he fronts, say, a ton of cocaine to a smuggler, he expects the smuggler to put up a son or a daughter or a wife in return.”

Grace grimaced. “All right. Yes. Of course I’ve heard about such things, but not here, not as part of American life.”

“And you don’t want to know about it.”

“Not everyone likes living in the gutter. Most people want more.”

Didn’t we have this conversation sixteen years ago?

Both thought it.

Neither said it aloud.

“It’s all very civilized,” Faroe said, his voice neutral and his eyes cold. “The hostage takes a little vacation trip to Bogota or Medellin or Cartagena. They get to stay in a nice hotel, all the comforts that money can buy, no car batteries wired to their genitals, no cigarette burns. In a month or two, they fly home with a good suntan…so long as things go well with the shipment. If something goes wrong, too bad, how sad, you’re dead.”

Grace put her cup on the table hard enough to send coffee jumping over the lip. “Blunt. Yes, I remember that about you.”

“Pretty words don’t make a situation pretty. The Mexicans have been hauling loads for the Colombians for years.” Faroe set his own coffee mug aside. “I guess the Mexicans have taken over the kidnap part of the business model. But then, you kind of knew that, didn’t you? You’re a very bright person. You were usually miles ahead of me in terms of seeing how the world worked beneath the legalities.”

With cold eyes, he waited for her response.

“Do you really believe I’m involved with something as twisted and corrupt as drugs and hostages?” she asked.

“That’s a no-brainer. You are involved. The only question is how much you know.”

“You’re still a real hard-case son of a bitch, aren’t you?” Grace said it calmly, like she’d just discovered he still ordered his steak blood rare.

“It’s a hard-case world out there. And isn’t that what you’re spending two hundred fifty grand for? A hard-case son of a bitch who can deal with this problem efficiently, ruthlessly, few or no questions asked?”

Grace stared at Faroe, trying to see past the cold eyes and expressionless face of a man who’d spent his adult life working undercover against drug smugglers and murderers.

“Right,” she said. “I got what I asked for.” Lucky, lucky me.

“So, are you involved?” Faroe asked, pouring himself a little more coffee.