The Wrong Hostage (7 page)

O
CEANSIDE
S
UNDAY, 10:00 A.M.

W
HEN
F
AROE STEPPED OUT
onto the main deck of the
TAZ,
the morning sun was heating up the unusually humid air. The water in the heavily sheltered bay moved uneasily, echoing the power of the Baja hurricane boiling up from the south.
Chubasco
weather.

Just like the last time.

Grace Silva stood on the dock, looking up at him, shading her eyes with her hand even though she wore sunglasses. She wore a white silk T-shirt and blue jeans. She wasn’t thin, she wasn’t fat. She was just all woman everywhere a man liked to feel the difference.

Sixteen years hadn’t changed her nearly enough.

Damn you, Steele. Did you know or did you just guess?

“Hello, Joe. How have you been?”

For a moment Faroe didn’t answer. He didn’t trust his voice not to be too rough, too hungry, too angry, too everything. Grace had always done that to him, slid past his defenses and grabbed him where he lived and breathed and hoped.

Son of a bitch
.

He shoved his hands into the hip pockets of his jeans and looked out at the ocean beyond the jetty. The surface was gray, slick, almost oily. Waves were breaking with a deceptive, lazy grace that made the jetty tremble.

Not a good time to be out at sea.

Not a good time to be docked.

Welcome to life with Grace Silva
.

When Faroe looked back down at Grace, she’d removed her sunglasses. Some of the sixteen years showed around her eyes. She looked tired, tight, almost brittle. She also looked wiser, more mature, less sure of herself, and very unsure of her welcome with him.

“I’m fine, I guess, all things considered,” Faroe said. “What about you?”

“Have you talked to the Ambassador?”

Faroe nodded.

“Then you know I’m desperate. Otherwise I wouldn’t have the nerve to come here.”

“Nerve?”

“Yeah. Nerve. You’re not an easy man to face.”

“I’d think judges would be used to facing felons.”

Grace looked away from Faroe’s measuring green eyes, intense eyes shaped so much like Lane’s she felt like the dock had been snatched from beneath her feet, leaving her dancing on air. She wanted to scream, to run away, to throw herself into Faroe’s arms and find the wild oblivion she’d known only with him.

I’d think judges would be used to facing felons
.

“Usually they haven’t had sex with them,” Grace said bluntly.

Faroe almost smiled, almost swore. Then she squared her shoulders and drew a deep breath. The movement outlined her breasts against the silk of her shirt. Faroe wanted to look away but couldn’t. He’d felt a primitive physical attraction to her the moment he saw her sixteen years ago. That hadn’t changed.

He wondered if it ever would.

“Do you think this is easy for me?” she asked, her voice too husky.

Faroe stared at the wind vane on top of a sailboat’s tall mast. The vane pointed into the wind, helpless to do otherwise. And he, well, he was helpless, too.

Or hopeless.

“My son…” Grace’s voice failed. “I need you. Lane needs you. Help us. Please.”

Faroe turned and looked back at her. She wasn’t wearing makeup or high heels or an unbuttoned blouse or tight pants. Nothing to grab a man’s attention. Her nearly black hair was short, clean, and shot through with some silver threads a woman with more vanity would have hidden.

“Steele mentioned two names,” Faroe said. “I can understand how dudes like that might make you desperate. Steele certainly thought so. He normally doesn’t ask for a quarter million, unless you’re insured to the gills.”

“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
.

O
CEANSIDE
S
UNDAY, 10:03 A.M.

F
AROE 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 naïve.”

“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 Bogotá or Medellín 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.

“In what?”

“In whatever deal Calderón and Rivas are on the other side of.”

“You insulting, overbearing, obnoxious—” Grace bit off the rest. She needed him. Lane needed him. “No. I’m not involved.”

Faroe watched her closely, searching for the microexpressions of deception. He glanced quickly at the vital triangle at the base of her throat. Her pulse beat steadily beneath smooth skin that was the color of light toast. She faced him without flinching. Her lips were drawn back in a snarl that was much less civilized than her words.

Not lying.

“But you do have some idea of what Calderón and
el jefe chingón
want, right?” Faroe asked.

Grace translated the nickname in her mind and made a face.

“Yeah,” Faroe said, watching her over the rim of his coffee mug. “
El jefe chingón
. The head motherfucker. That’s what they used to call Hector Rivas Osuna, back when I was buying dope in the Pussycat bar on Revolución in Tijuana.”

“Delightful.” Grace looked at her clenched hands and slowly unlocked her fingers. She didn’t know why Faroe was baiting her, but she knew that he was. “There was talk about money, but I don’t think it’s merely that.”

“Merely?” He smiled grimly. “Spoken like the wife of a billionaire.”

“Ex-wife.”

He shrugged and told himself he didn’t care. “So you’re half a billionaire.”

“Don’t count on it,” she shot back. “All I got from Ted was the house my salary had been making payments on for ten years, my car, and half of a horse ranch that is a college fund for Lane.”

“Then how could you afford St. Kilda Consulting?”

“The old-fashioned way—I mortgaged my house. Anything else you want to know about me and money?”

“If the boys down south don’t want money from you, what do they want?”

Grace had thought about that a lot on the way back from Mexico. “Ted.”

“Why?”

“They say he stole money from them.”

“Did he?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “He’s had dealings for years with Carlos, but I don’t know any of the details.”

“Yet you let your soon-to-be-ex-husband send your son south. Why?”

Grace made herself ignore the baiting tone and answered the question. If she’d thought yelling at Faroe would do any good, she’d have started screaming the instant she set foot on the dock.

“Lane is very bright, very bored in school, and a wizard with computers,” she said. “He’s a teenager in full hormonal rush. His judgment isn’t all it could be.”

“Drugs?”

“No! He hacked into the school computer and changed his grades.”

Faroe almost smiled. “I like the kid already.”

“Ted had been saying that I was spoiling Lane. Maybe he was right. But someone had to make up for Ted’s indifference to—” She stopped, got a better grip on her emotions, and said, “I knew that something had to be done about Lane. He loves me, but he wasn’t listening to me or anyone else.”

“He’s a teenage boy. It’s called age-appropriate behavior.”

“Is that what you did, kick back at anyone in authority?”

“Pretty much,” Faroe said.

“I feel sorry for your mother.”

“She was dead before I was fourteen.”

“Something else we have in common,” Grace said.

“What?”

“My mother died when I was thirteen. So did my brother and my father. I was babysitting a few blocks away or I’d be dead too.”

Faroe felt a sympathy he didn’t want and Grace didn’t need. “Car wreck?”

“My father was an undercover cop working drugs in Santa Ana. One of the drug dealers found out. He shot everyone and fled to Tijuana. By the time I got home…” She shrugged.

“You found them?” Faroe asked, horrified at the thought of a thirteen-year-old Grace walking in on a slaughterhouse.

“Yes.”

“Jesus.”

“That was the moment I dedicated myself to the law. Law was everything the gutter wasn’t. Law was all that separated humanity from violence and horror. I wanted to do everything I could to make certain that no more thirteen-year-olds walked into a house of blood and death.” Grace looked down at her hands, clenched again. She released her fingers. “Sorry. I don’t know where that came from. It was a long time ago.”

“You’re telling me why the law is your religion, and there’s no way you’d sell it out for a handful of silver.”

Her eyes widened, revealing both clarity and darkness. “You always saw parts of me better than I saw them myself. It intrigued me almost as much as it frightened me.”

“And you saw me. Scared the hell out of me. We’re alike in that, at least. Long ago, far away, and nothing to do with today.”

“You’re right.”
And you’re so very wrong
. “I went with Ted to see All Saints School. It was, and is, very impressive. A beautiful campus on the beach north of Ensenada, run by the Catholic Church. The teachers are excellent. Until yesterday, I’ve been able to come and go freely, to see him at least once a week. I could talk to him on his cell phone, until it broke. He used the school computer to e-mail me all the time, until three weeks ago.”

“What happened?”

“Something technical about the uplink.” She shrugged. “I use computers, but I don’t understand them.”

Faroe stood up, grabbed a pair of binoculars from a drawer, and went to the porthole. “Where’s Ted now?”

“I haven’t seen him in three weeks.”

Faroe looked over his shoulder at her. “Is that unusual?”

“No. We haven’t been close in years.”

“You always looked so good on the society pages, the happy and dynamic power couple, out to run the world together.”