Authors: Elizabeth Lowell
B
ROWN
F
IELD
M
ONDAY, 6:10 A.M.
I
MAGES POURED INTO
S
TEELE’S
computer, bounced from the helicopter to the satellite and back down to San Diego. Steele took one look at the photos and reached for the scrambled cell phone.
Grace answered it on the first ring. “Joe’s driving fast and needs both hands to flip off people who get in the way. Can I help?”
Steele smiled. The more he saw of Grace, the better he liked her. Balls and brains were a tough combination to beat.
“Tell Faroe that the situation has changed at All Saints,” Steele said.
“Lane?” she asked, her voice raw.
“Not directly.”
At the other end of the call, Grace sagged with relief.
“What?” Faroe shouted so Steele could hear him.
Grace held the phone to Faroe’s ear.
“Wood is sending me digital photos from the helicopter,” Steele said. “Overnight, the soccer field grew a full crop of tents. Armed personnel are all over the place like ants on honey.”
“So Hector owns the army, too?”
“Do you believe in coincidences?” Steele asked dryly.
“Not that one. How many soldiers?”
“Too many. Any extraction of Lane would have to be extremely quiet. Softly, softly, catchee monkey, and mind the fangs and claws.”
“The chopper is too loud,” Faroe said. “We might fake an emergency
landing, but we’d have to shoot our way out. The Aerospatiale isn’t built for that.”
“Wood and Murchison are examining water extractions. Jarrett and you could infiltrate wearing the uniform of the day. We would provide sniper coverage, of course, but if we used it…”
“It would all go from sugar to dog shit real quick,” Faroe finished.
He braked, hit the horn, and swerved around an idiot doing fifty in the fast lane while shaving and flossing his teeth.
“Can you cover the place from real-time satellite photos?” Faroe asked.
“If you don’t mind spending thousands of—”
“Spend it,” he cut in. “It’s on me. Can you get enough resolution for individual ID?”
“Not unless they look up and wave on command.”
“Is Lane’s sat tracker still working?”
“Yes,” Steele said. “He hasn’t moved.”
“Let me know if that changes. Anything else?”
“Your final option isn’t much of an option anymore.”
L
A
M
ESA
P
RISON
M
ONDAY, 6:15 A.M.
T
HE GUARD IN THE
visitors’ parking lot carried a pistol and charged Grace and Faroe ten dollars because they arrived in a Mercedes. The guard at the visitors’ gate carried a pump shotgun and charged them another twenty dollars because they were gringos.
The courier waiting for them inside the gate was unarmed and he refused a tip altogether.
“Por El Señor,”
he said.
For the grace of God.
The courier was wearing an Oakland Raiders cap and a Metallica T-shirt, and had the shy dignity of an altar boy.
He ushered them down a long, narrow alley lined with doors made from steel bars. From inside, hidden by the shadows, prisoners stared at them with glittering eyes. Several of them made smooching and sucking noises when they saw Grace.
She ignored them.
“Muy peligroso,”
the courier warned them.
Very dangerous.
“Only if you let them out,” Faroe said.
An inmate hissed at him.
The air smelled of raw sewage.
“Breathe through your mouth,” Faroe said in a low voice to Grace.
“So I can savor the taste? This makes Terminal Island and Lompoc look
like day spas.”
“You asked for it.”
She walked around a cloudy puddle that had gathered on the ground near what must have been a cracked septic line. “It’s a learning experience.”
“Only the first time. Whatever happens, eyes front and just keep walking like you’ve seen it all a dozen times before and weren’t impressed.”
“Like you?”
“Just like me.”
The courier led them out of the alley and into the main prison yard. It was as big as a large city block. Even this early in the morning, the space was crowded. Groups of men leaned against walls or gathered near the ratty palm trees, smoking and talking and waiting for something to happen. Anything.
The concrete walls around the courtyard were three stories high. Guards with shotguns and assault rifles prowled the catwalks wearing tan uniforms, sunglasses, and baseball caps.
There weren’t any guards in the main yard. The inmates were on their own.
A group of children were choosing sides for a schoolyard game, but there was no school inside La Mesa Prison. The tallest of the children proudly held a soccer ball. It was so scuffed and worn that its leather covering was the same color as the soil of the courtyard.
One of the kids spotted the outsiders and whistled an alarm. The entire group broke and ran toward the gringos, shouldering and elbowing to get close. They shouted in Spanish and thrust out their hands, palms up, demanding or pleading for money.
Grace hesitated.
“No,” Faroe said, taking her arm. “Nothing.”
“But—”
“Remember,” he cut in. “You’ve seen it all.”
“They’re children,” she said in a low voice, keeping her eyes front. “Why are they in prison?”
“They were born here.”
The courier looked over his shoulder at them.
“Hurry up,” Faroe said.
They walked quickly toward a small building huddled on one side of the main yard. The makeshift church was built of unpainted concrete blocks. A rusty cross made out of rebar was wired to the wooden front door.
When they reached the little church, Faroe loosened his grip on Grace’s arm and spoke in a voice only she could hear. “Remember,
amada,
you’re inside the prison but outside the pale. Tijuana is San Diego’s Indian country. La Mesa is Tijuana’s Indian country.”
“Odd place for a church.”
“Wait until you see the mother superior.”
The courier knocked softly on the wooden door, pushed it open, and gestured for them to enter. Inside, rows of battered wooden benches faced an altar dominated by a dark-skinned plaster Christ with
indio
features, a massive crown of thorns, and a blood-drenched torso. To one side a serene, unusually beautiful Virgin Mary smiled her blessing down from a niche in the concrete-block wall. The niche was crowded with burning candles. The air was thick with their sooty smoke.
A white-haired woman in an ankle-length straight skirt and a blue zippered sweatshirt knelt at the altar rail. After a few moments, she rose and turned toward Grace and Faroe. Tall, very well built beneath the modest clothes, the woman was striking. She had the high cheekbones and large, almond-shaped eyes of a cover model. Those eyes were blue, very dark against the frame of white hair that once had been blond.
Grace glanced once more at the shrine. The other woman clearly had been the inspiration for the painting of the Virgin.
“Good morning, may God bless you,” the woman said in clear, unaccented California English. She came down the aisle between the benches, moving gracefully toward her visitors. “I’m Sister Maude.”
Her handshake was firm and her smile gracious. She dismissed the courier and invited them into her quarters at the rear of the chapel. A propane gas ring burned beneath a teakettle. She poured hot water into three chipped, cracked mugs and added powdered coffee. She put the mugs out on a table, gestured to the mismatched chairs, and sat down facing her guests.
“Dimas Quintana warned me you don’t have much time,” Sister Maude said. “How can I help you? You may speak freely here. This is a house of God.”
Faroe looked around with the eyes of a man who didn’t trust much on earth and less in heaven.
“Excuse my bluntness,” he said, “but we’ve had mixed results with some of God’s representatives here on earth.”
Sister Maude studied the two of them over the rim of her cup. “The church is a human institution, as well as a holy one. There are errors. There are sins. There are realities that require even the most devout of Christians to conceal their full intentions from the worldly forces that work to see God and his believers fail.”
For several moments, Faroe studied Sister Maude, who was studying him in return.
“We have to trust somebody,” Grace said.
Sister Maude’s smile made her look a decade younger. “God’s message is that, precisely. What is your problem,
señora
?”
“My son is being held prisoner.”
“Here?” Sister Maude asked, surprised.
“No. Close to Ensenada, at All Saints School.”
“Hector Rivas Osuna is holding him,” Faroe said, watching the nun closely.
At the mention of Hector, Sister Maude’s serenity vanished. “Him,” she said, the word a curse on her tongue. “I often wonder why God has not seen fit to include Hector Rivas in our La Mesa congregation. He has many enemies here. I doubt he would last one night. Then I would gladly wash his body as I have so many others.” She sighed. “And I will say my rosary a hundred times for that uncharitable thought.”
“I know a priest who treats Hector Rivas with great respect,” Faroe said. “This priest has even agreed to act as Lane Franklin’s jailer. Father Rafael Magón.”
The nun turned her head as though to spit on the floor. Then she shook her head. “God’s will be done. Father Rafael Magón ministers to monsters. As long as traffickers give suitable amounts to the church, he permits traffickers to mount shrines to the saint of
traficantes,
Jesús Malverde, and Santa Muerte, the demon saint.”
“Magón isn’t the first,” Faroe said.
“No. God’s ways are beyond my understanding.” Sister Maude bowed
her head briefly. “Some of the men and women who come to this chapel are as much pagan as they are Christian, so I must make allowances for their uneducated beliefs. But Father Magón is beyond belief. He ministers to those who murdered a great man of God—Cardinal Ocampo.”
Grace frowned. “I’ve heard that name.”
“He was the cardinal of the borderlands, all of them, from sea to sea,” Sister Maude said. “He was assassinated in the Guadalajara airport in ’93.”
“Why?” Grace asked, shocked and not hiding it.
“Cardinal Ocampo had begun denouncing
traficantes,
particularly ROG. Hector Rivas arranged his murder.”
“I remember the…incident,” Grace said carefully.
“It was investigated thoroughly,” Faroe said. “Both the government in Mexico City and the church in Rome cleared ROG of any wrongdoing. In fact, the federal police determined that the cardinal’s death was accidental, a case of mistaken identity.”
The nun’s hands trembled with anger that was human, if not charitable. “A cardinal in a limousine mistaken for a rival trafficker? They open the door and pump fourteen bullets into the cardinal’s red robes by
mistake
? That is murder.” She straightened and looked Faroe in the eye. “But sometimes the church must bend to government pressure. Hector Rivas goes free and even takes communion.” She crossed herself quickly.
Faroe knew enough history to be certain that the church didn’t bend easily.
Or for long.
Sister Maude took Grace’s hands in her own. “If Hector Rivas has your son, I will pray for you. Beyond that, I can’t help.”
“You can introduce us to Ascencio Beltrán,” Faroe said.
“Are you sure?” Sister Maude asked, shaking her head. “If Hector Rivas is the devil, Ascencio Beltrán is his chief rival in hell.”
Faroe smiled. “May the enemy of my enemy lead a long and fruitful life.”
L
A
M
ESA
P
RISON
M
ONDAY, 6:25 A.M.
W
HEN
G
RACE WALKED THROUGH
the prison alley again, she was braced for whistles and catcalls.
Not one rude sound came from the men.
Whatever these inmates had done outside the wall, they respected Sister Maude. Men took off their ball caps when she walked by. Some inmates approached her shyly, kneeling by the bars and asking her blessing.
Faroe and Grace followed the nun out of the main yard and through a gate watched by two burly men wearing designer exercise suits and high-crowned Stetsons.
“Welcome to Shangri-la,” Faroe said softly to Grace. “Private apartments for the dudes who can afford it or who have the raw physical power to hold on to real estate without paying rent.”
They followed Sister Maude into another alley with a dozen wooden doors opening onto it, like an auto court without a parking lot. The ramshackle buildings were made of corrugated plastic sheets and plywood. Makeshift plumbing dripped water and sewage. Electrical cords looped from apartment to apartment like orange and yellow spaghetti. At the far end of the alley, a man sat on a three-legged stool.
There was an assault rifle across his knees.
“That’s the first La Mesa guard I’ve seen down here,” Grace said.
“He’s not a guard. He’s a prisoner,” Faroe said. “The guards own the top of the walls but the yards belong to the inmates.”
“That’s a form of prison management we haven’t tried in the States.”
“You’d be surprised.”
Sister Maude led them to the front door of a two-story hooch with a television antenna on the front corner. She knocked and waited. After a moment, a scowling man came to the door. He had reddish hair and a wide scar that ran from the corner of his mouth to his forehead.
She spoke to him in Spanish, gesturing to Faroe and Grace.
He said he would ask
el jefe
and closed the door.
It popped open a minute later. The red-haired man invited them inside. The interior of the apartment was clean and well furnished, a surprise after the slapdash exterior. A large-screen plasma television hung from one wall. The screen showed a Mexican soap opera whose leading lady was in real danger of falling out of her tube top and breaking an ankle on her four-inch spike heels.
A gray-haired man with a big belly and a face that looked like it had been flattened with a two-by-four sat in a leather recliner, staring at the television.
The man with the red hair disappeared down a short hallway that led to another room.
“
Jefe
Ascencio,” Sister Maude began.
The man in the recliner held up his hand. In a few moments the screen faded and a commercial came up.
“Begging your pardon, Sister, but I had to see what kind of hellish problem my poor Amelia would find herself in,” Beltrán said wryly. “Those poor, sexy ladies always have a big problem at the end of each episode, as if they believe we watch for more than the moment her top slips down.”
He looked past her to the two Americans. He glanced at Grace and dismissed her. Then he looked at Faroe and grunted.
“Some gringos are very brave,” Beltrán said. “Or did you think I would forget you, you son of a bitch.”
Faroe smiled. “Not likely,
jefe
.”
“You two know one another?” Sister Maude asked.
Beltrán pursed thick lips and nodded. “He is the reason I am here.”
“Hey, we offered you Terminal Island and you ran south,” Faroe said.
Beltrán chuckled thickly. “The gringo prisons up there are much
cleaner, it is true, but the warden down here, he is very understanding. So are the guards. I pay and they let me live and work as I wish.”
“Work?” Faroe asked. “I thought Hector Rivas had run you out of smuggling.”
“Rivas!” The old man turned his head and spat in the direction of a wastebasket. “That bastard has tried to kill me three times. I have one of his bullets in my head and another in my left kidney.”
“Hector Rivas is our enemy too,” Faroe said. “He has taken this woman’s son and threatens to kill him. We ask for your help.”
Beltrán scratched his belly through a gap in his loose shirt. “Why would I help you? You are no friend of mine.”
“I’m the enemy of your enemy, and sometimes that’s enough,” Faroe said.
Scowling, Beltrán gestured toward the leather sofa that sat at a right angle to his recliner. “I will listen but don’t expect more.”
Grace and Sister Maude settled onto the sofa on either side of Faroe while he gave a quick sketch of the kidnap, deliberately leaving out what Franklin had that Hector wanted.
“
Aiee, chingón
. Hector Rivas. He kill a boy as quick as a man. I have lost much to that son of a bitch. He owns the police, he owns the
politicos,
he has an army, he has the load cars and the tunnels, all the plaza, at his disposal. Most of all he has Jaime, the real brains. No balls, but…” Beltrán shrugged.
“Tunnels?” Faroe asked casually. “The Chinese ones?”
“Tunnels?” Beltrán said, smiling like a cat. “I know nothing of such things, the eighth wonder of the underworld, ROG’s great secret.”
“The Chinese tunnels were shut down a long time ago,” Faroe said.
“
Sí,
but Jaime built them again.”
“You mean the one the DEA shut down a while back?” Faroe asked. “The one that was good for forty tons of cocaine?”
“That was one of them, yes. A half mile long. It goes from a pottery warehouse in Mexico to a farmer’s barn in Campo, on the other side.”
That was one of them
.
Faroe was glad his game face had had a lot of practice. “Too bad they found it. A blocked tunnel doesn’t help me kill Hector, so it doesn’t help
you get out of La Mesa alive.”
“There is another tunnel,” Beltrán said.
Grace looked at her hands and prayed as she hadn’t since she was thirteen years old.
“Is it open?” Faroe asked.
“Like the plaza, yes, it is open.” Beltrán grinned, showing off some gleaming stainless steel teeth. A rich man’s smile, because only the rich in Tijuana could afford a dentist.
“Where is it?” Faroe asked.
“Ah, that is the mystery.”
“The men who built it know where it is.”
Beltrán’s smile was darker this time, shaded with something close to respect. “So quick. You would make a good
jefe
.”
Faroe waited.
“ROG found a small village of hard-rock miners, brought eighteen of them in under guard, and used them to construct two tunnels,” Beltrán said. “Later he killed the men.”
Sister Maude crossed herself and murmured, “Eighteen souls.”
“Innocents,” Beltrán agreed.
“Even for Hector,” Faroe said, “that’s a lot of bodies to hide in the desert all at once.”
“You remember the massacre three years ago, the men in the mountains east of Ensenada?” Beltrán asked.
“They were members of a tiny
ejido,
a communal settlement,” Sister Maude explained to Grace. “Armed men stormed the village at night, rounded up all the men, and murdered them with machetes and machine guns. No one knew why. It was just assumed they were smugglers or marijuana farmers.”
Beltrán shook his head. “They were miners, all of them.”
“The men who dug the two tunnels,” Faroe said. “Makes sense, if you’re Hector Rivas.”
Again, Beltrán smiled in approval. “When the first tunnel was discovered, Hector thought someone had talked. To protect the remaining tunnel, he sent men into the village. The executioners were sloppy. One miner survived.”
“That’s quite a story,” Faroe said. “Too bad I can’t verify it unless I talk to the survivor.”
Beltrán laughed with delight. “If you get tired of being poor, I would make you my second-in-command. But I need much money to introduce you to this miner. For me, for my courier, and for the poor miner, you understand.”
“Do it,” Grace said quietly.
“How much,
jefe
?” Faroe asked.
“A million dollars. American, of course,” Beltrán said. “Cash, you understand.”
“A million dollars?” Grace laughed sharply. “That’s crazy.”
“A million dollars is not much for a life, when it is your own—or your son’s.”
“Only drug dealers have that kind of cash,” Grace said.
“Or money launderers,” Faroe said.
“I don’t have access to Ted’s accounts.” She looked at her watch and tried to swallow the bitterness clawing up her throat. “Even if I did, I couldn’t raise that much cash in less than six hours.”
Faroe took her clenched hand in his own and gently straightened her fingers.
“The meeting with the miner must be arranged immediately,” Faroe said to Beltrán. “He must give me complete and detailed information about the tunnel. To sweeten the deal, if I get the chance, I’ll throw in Hector Rivas. Dead.”
Beltrán thought about the terms, then nodded his acceptance. Even if Hector killed the boy, there would still be money up front that Beltrán would keep.
A lot of money.
“Sí,”
Beltrán said.
Faroe reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small packet. Skillfully he undid the folds of paper and held it out toward Beltrán.
Diamonds gleamed and shimmered with every breath Faroe took.
“Hijo de la chingada,”
Beltrán said softly, almost reverently. Then, without taking his eyes off the sparkling stones, he called, “César,
¡andale!
Bring your loupe.”
Beltrán took the open jeweler’s packet with an ease that said he was used to handling loose stones. He stared down at the shimmering band of white fire gathered like pay dirt in the seam of a gold miner’s pan.
The redheaded man with the scar came to the doorway of the living room.
“Sí, jefe?”
“Are these real?” Beltrán asked.
César looked at the dozen stones in the fold of the paper. His eyes widened. He licked his lips unconsciously, then looked first at Beltrán and then at Faroe.
“Wow!” César said in unaccented English.
“I paid more than a million for that packet in Ciudad del Este,” Faroe said. “I know diamonds. Do you?”
“Oh, he knows,” Beltrán said. “He used to be a cat thief, cat burglar, whatever you call them. Before that, he was a jeweler.”
César took the diamonds over to a window, pulled up the shade, and carefully laid the paper on the sill. He picked up one of the stones and held it to the light. The stone was big enough that he could handle it with stubby, massive fingers that looked more suited for strangulation than finesse.
“You have a good eye,” César said, going through the stones with the speed and precision of a professional. “If these came from Ciudad del Este, on the Triple Frontier, they were probably mined in Brazil or are smuggled goods from somewhere else.”
“What are they worth?” Beltrán asked. It was the only thing he cared about.
César shrugged. “It’s all about demand.” He handed the packet back to Faroe. “But you’d have to be a complete burro not to get a million American for these in Hong Kong.”
Beltrán started to say something, remembered Sister Maude, and said something else instead. “I am in prison in Mexico. How can I expect to turn that pretty pile of glitter into money in Hong Kong?”
“If you can arrange multikilo hashish shipments from here, you can convert those diamonds into cash,” Faroe said evenly.
Beltrán pursed his lips and traced his mustache with his forefinger.
Faroe tapped the jeweler’s parcel and waited.
Beltrán traced his mustache again.
Faroe started to put the packet back into his pocket.
“I will call the miner,” Beltrán said, holding out his hand. “No guarantees.”
Faroe had expected something like this. He opened the packet, selected three of the stones, and cradled them in his palm.
“Here’s the deal,
jefe,
” Faroe said. “You work on thirds. A third now, a third when you deliver the miner, and another third when we locate the tunnel to our own satisfaction. The miner gets the three smallest stones, two when he tells me about the tunnel and one when we locate both ends of it. Since he knows you’re involved, I’m sure the miner won’t lie to me.”
Beltrán pursed his lips, shifted his belly a bit, and finally reached for the diamonds in Faroe’s hand.
“The miner lives in the mountains,” Beltrán said. “I can get a message to him, but the nearest phone is three kilometers from the village. If he agrees, I’ll call you.”