“Just do it!”

Faroe punched in the number, hit the transmit button, and held out the phone.

Grace took it and began counting rings.

On the fourth ring, a male voice said, “Bueno.”

“I need to talk to Hector Rivas,” she said in English.

“?Quien habla?” the man demanded.

“Grace Silva.”

“What you want?” the man asked.

“Hector knows what I want. If he wants you to know, he’ll tell you. Get him.”

Faroe waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Just when he thought Hector wouldn’t take the bait, Grace began talking.

“Hello, Hector.”

“Ah, Your Honor, how strict you are,” Hector said in Spanish. “Poor Fernando is whipped. He takes such good care of your son, too.”

“He’d better. Without a live and healthy Lane, you’ll never see your hundred million again.”

Hector made a rhythmic, juicy sound.

“Put Lane on the line,” Grace said.

“No es possible,” Hector said in Spanglish, loudly, like a man trying to get through to a very dim person.

She grimaced. His words were a little slurred, a little hissed. He’d been drinking as well as smoking. “It’s very possible. If I don’t have proof of life, you don’t have Ted’s files.”

“The boy, he fine. Take my word.”

“And here’s a hundred million. Take it to the bank.”

Hector laughed out loud. “Aiee, a ball-breaker.”

He shouted an order in Spanish.

Grace hit the mute button. “He thinks I’m a ball-breaker. He’s telling someone to bring Lane.”

Faroe’s grin was a hard slice of white.

She released the mute just as Lane’s voice came on.

“Mom?”

“Are you okay?” she asked quickly.

“Yeah, I guess so. They even brought me a Big Mac for dinner. Whoopee.”

“Do you have everything you need?” she asked carefully.

“Uh,” he hesitated, then understood what she was asking. “Yeah, I’ve got everything I need. I’m-Wait a minute. I wasn’t done!”

“You see?” Hector asked in Spanish. “Your son is good. Now, where is your husband?”

“You mean my ex?” she asked. “Last time I saw Ted, he was folded into a car trunk, in handcuffs and leg chains and with a gag in his mouth. Joe Faroe is nothing if not thorough.”

Faroe laughed silently.

“Que bueno,” Hector said, chuckling. “You bring him to me right now and I give you Lane.”

“No.”

“?Que?” he asked sharply.

“I’m not going to do business with you in any part of Mexico. That is not negotiable.”

“I so sad. You no trust Hector.”

“Yes, it’s sad, and it’s not going to change,” Grace said crisply. And her fingernails dug into her palms. “You pick a place on this side of the line for the exchange. You have two hours to set it up.”

“Ah, you worry I kill the boy after noon.”

“I think you’re too smart to be that stupid,” she said. Especially if you lay off the booze and crack. “The problem is Ted-we can’t keep him in the trunk forever.”

Hector laughed so hard he choked. “Aiee. Such a woman! But I no can cross the border.”

“If tons of marijuana can, you can. You have millions of reasons to.”

“Do you have the information?” Hector asked in rapid-fire Spanish. “The banks, the transactions, all the numbers-you understand?”

“I understand. We have what you need. Faroe, ah, persuaded Ted to talk.”

“These records, you truly have them?”

“The records will be present at the exchange.” She gave Faroe a cold, lawyerly smile.

There was a humming silence.

Grace’s nails dug deeper into her hands.

Faroe pried apart her left hand and rubbed the scarlet crescent marks.

“Do you know the Otay Mesa crossing?” Hector asked.

“Yes. I know the Otay crossing,” she repeated so that Faroe would know.

He closed his eyes in relief or prayer.

“We trade there,” Hector said in Spanish. “Bring Ted Franklin. I will hear from his lips the truth of the records. You understand?”

“Yes. Ted will be with me. Where, exactly, do we meet?”

“I will call you. And, senora?”

Grace’s heart stopped, then beat faster. “Yes?”

“Joe Faroe will be with you and Ted. No one else.”

“Joe? I hadn’t planned-”

Hector talked over her in rough English. “Faroe come or no deal. I want that smart gringo where I can see him. ?Claro?”

“Very clear. He’ll be with me.”

Hector hung up.

So did Grace.

“Did I just hear you promise that I’d be with you?” Faroe asked.

“Yes. Is that a problem? He’s obviously going to use the warehouse just like you said.”

“Yeah, but I hadn’t planned to be there with you.”

Surprised, Grace asked, “Where were you going to be?”

“At the Mexican end of the tunnel, sneaking up on Hector.”

Silence.

“What’s Plan B?” she asked.

“I’m working on it.”

Faroe went to find Father Magon. If anyone had a direct line to Carlos Calderon, it would be the Vatican spy.

72

TIJUANA

MONDAY, 10:15 A.M.


LANE SAT IN A broom closet and thought about playing soccer-with various heads used for the ball. His recent nomination for butthead of the hour was Fernando Diaz, one of Hector’s endless stream of nephews. Or maybe they were his bastards.

They sure had the attitude for it. The thought of kicking some of them right between the goalposts kept Lane from focusing on the steady throb of his bruised face and the fact that his bladder was so full his back teeth were floating.

And then there were all the seconds ticking away into minutes and minutes into-

Don’t go there.

Don’t think about it.

Think about kicking Fernando in the balls.

Lane was real tired of Fernando whispering through the door, telling him all about how he was going to be dog food by twelve-thirty.

Dad won’t let that happen.

Will he?

Lane wished he had more confidence in his dad, but he didn’t. This would be just one more in a long line of moments when his dad let him down.

Hey, the good news is that it will be the last time.

Lane tried to laugh.

It sounded too much like a sob.

He went back to running his fingertips over the mops, brooms, vacuum hoses, and dustpans that were hanging on the walls, waiting to be used. If he was some slick ninja, he’d break off a broom handle and go through the vatos outside like a one-man demolition derby.

But he wasn’t a ninja and he had too much sense to pretend otherwise.

No point in dying before he had to.

“Hola, nino,” Hector said, opening the door to the utility closet.

Lane squinted against the sudden light. His heart filled his throat, beating like a captive bird.

“You okay?” Hector asked.

Oh, sure, I’m just frigging fantastic, locked in a closet waiting to die. And Hector’s breath could kill scorpions at twenty feet.

“I could really use a bathroom,” was all Lane said.

With surprising strength, Hector pulled Lane to his feet and pointed to a door across the hall.

“Don’ be long,” Hector said around the cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. “You daddy, he wait.”

“Dad? He’s coming here for me?”

“You go. Then we go. Andale, nino.”

Lane was so relieved he nearly wet himself. He could hardly believe that his father was really going to come through for him.

“Dad?” he asked.

“Si, si,” Hector said impatiently. “?Andale!”

Lane hurried across the hall. With every step he felt the slight weight of the hard drive in his pocket.

73

SAN YSIDRO

MONDAY, 10:15 A.M.


FAROE AND GRACE WENT back to the main salon in time to see Steele and the FBI agent cautiously shaking hands across the table.

“Supervisory Special Agent Cook has agreed to an arrangement that will ensure complete FBI control of events in their jurisdiction,” Steele said, weighing his words with the care of the ambassador he once had been. “His surveillance and weapons teams will cover the exchange, with full authority to shut the operation down if he, as field commander, decides it’s too dangerous.”

Faroe went still and deadly. “Shut it down? Dangerous? All he’s worried about is Franklin getting a bullet in his fat ass.”

“Right now,” Cook said, “I’d put a bullet in him myself. Snitches. Jesus. I hate the slimy rocks they live under. I’ve already told Ted and his attorney that they’ll cooperate to the fullest or any deal for immunity we might have in the works is DOA.” He looked at Grace. “I wish you’d come to me instead of St. Kilda. It would have been cleaner.”

“When it mattered, I didn’t know you existed,” Grace said. “But even if I’d known you by your first, last, and middle name, I’d have gone to St. Kilda Consulting. They represent my interests and only mine.”

Cook’s mouth turned down at one corner. “After working on the Calderon task force for two years, if my son was a hostage, I’d think about going to St. Kilda myself. And kiss my career good-bye.”

Faroe poured himself a cup of coffee from the urn on the kitchen counter and turned to Cook. “But you still have to play the game like your badge trumps everything, right?”

“Operational control? Is that what’s chapping your ass?” Cook asked. “You know that I have to go to my bosses with clean hands. That means operational control on this side of the line.”