“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 Calderons.”

Grace grimaced.

“The Calderons,” 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 Magon, assumed his post under direct appointment by the Vatican.”

Grace’s eyebrows rose.

So did Faroe’s.

“Father Rafael Magon 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.”

“Magon,” 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 Magon 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 MagOn 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 Magon 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 Magon’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 Magon.”

20

BAJA CALIFORNIA

SUNDAY AFTERNOON


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.”