Elizabeth Lowell - The Wrong Hostage

“Yeah, I get it.” Faroe emptied his pockets, assumed the position, and waited while he was thoroughly, professionally patted down. “Relax, I’m not carrying.”

“I’m an old man, Mr. Faroe. I got that way by being careful.” Jervis checked for knife sheaths along the calves and ankles before he straightened. “Go back to the table and pick up your pocket stuff.”

Faroe went back to where his keys, change, passport, cash, and package waited. While he filled his pockets again, Jervis ripped through newsprint until he’d exposed the two-foot length of oak. In its own spare way, the wood was beautiful. Jervis shook it hard.

Nothing rattled.

Jervis grunted. “Looked like a hollow log on the scanner. Around here, we don’t like that. You’re in big trouble, mister.”

“Not unless they’ve changed the rules since I wore a blue shirt,” Faroe said. “The box is empty.”

“So it’s a trap. You admit that.”

“It’s just what the declarations form says-a jewelry box. A handsome piece of wood for the wife to put her rings in.”

Jervis eyed him. “You really were a blue shirt? Where? Here?”

“Yeah.” Faroe shrugged. “It’s been years, but I was.”

Jervis inspected the timber closely. After almost a minute, he pointed to one corner.

“There,” he said. “I can see the seam of the lid, barely. Nice work.”

Faroe wasn’t worried that the inspector had found the outline of part of the box. The whole thing would be installed in the bilge of his boat, which at the moment happened to be lacking a two-foot length of timber. Once Faroe was finished doctoring the oak, even someone who knew the trap was in the bilge would have one hell of a time finding it.

“Jewelry box, huh?” The inspector went over the board again carefully, looking for the catch with his sensitive fingertips. “This is about the only place the catch could be.”

“Yeah?”

Jervis poked at a round one-inch knot, the only imperfection in the tight-grained oak. Nothing moved. “Huh.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Faroe said. “You’ve X-rayed it. It’s empty.”

Jervis sucked air through his front teeth. “I should confiscate this and burn it.”

“Not a good idea. There’s this thing called illegal seizure.”

Silence stretched while the customs inspector rocked on the heels of his leather boots and watched Faroe’s body language.

“Get out of here,” Jervis said finally, jerking his head toward the door to America. “But you can fire your proctologist, because if I put your smart ass in the computer, you’ll get a body cavity search every time you cross a border anywhere.”

Faroe nodded. “Have a nice day.”

He picked up the timber and headed out the door. With long strides he headed to his car and an appointment with his safe-deposit box in Oceanside Federal Bank. If his luck held, by the time Steele found another only-you-can-do-this lure to dangle under his ex-employee’s nose, said ex-employee would be headed out to sea with several million in D-flawless diamonds tucked in the bilge.

Faroe had earned his retirement the hard way. He planned on enjoying it.

And to hell with saving people from their own stupidity.

ALL SAINTS SCHOOL

SATURDAY, 12:20 P.M.

THE UNEXPECTED ROADBLOCK ON the toll road had cost Grace ten minutes of anxiety while sweating federales gripped their automatic weapons and peered into cars. Now she confronted another new security checkpoint on the well-maintained dirt road that led to All Saints.

A clean-shaven young man in Levi’s and a loose cotton guayabera stood in the center of the road. A lethal-looking black submachine gun hung across his shirt from a long leather shoulder strap. He supported his elbows on the weapon as he watched her SUV approach. Except for the casual shirt, he looked just like the dark, sweaty men on the toll road.

The gun was certainly the same.

Grace hated guns. She had one, knew how to use it, and hated it just the same, hated what it implied: law alone couldn’t protect everyone in all places, all of the time.

In addition to the armed man in the middle of the road, she noted a black Suburban with heavily tinted windows parked off to the side. The driver and passenger-side doors were open. There were two more guards in the vehicle. One wore Levi’s and a T-shirt, the other had on a black suit with a white shirt and tie.

Both men held assault rifles across their laps.

Uneasily Grace stopped and rolled down her window, holding out her passport. “I’m here to see my son.”

The guard’s eyes widened when he read her passport. His right hand dropped to the receiver of the submachine gun. His index finger curled around the trigger guard. He turned and whistled to the men in the Suburban. The man in the suit picked up a hand radio and started talking.

Face carefully blank, Grace waited. Card players weren’t the only people who needed poker faces; judges did too. Hers was as good as any and better than most.

Beneath it she was scared spitless.

It is not something to be discussed over the telephone .

“Windows open, por favor, ” the guard standing in the road said.

Despite the polite tone, it wasn’t a request.

Grace punched buttons until Ensenada’s hot, humid air filled the vehicle. The sun was hidden behind a gunmetal haze of monsoon moisture, and the temperature was hovering near one hundred.

That’s why I’m sweating. It’s hot .

But her sweat was cold.

The young guard circled the Mercedes, peering carefully through the open windows, making sure the cargo space was empty.

The man in the suit continued to talk into the radio. Grace couldn’t hear him, but she knew from the way he watched her that he was talking about her.

The guard with the submachine gun completed his inspection and looked over his shoulder. The man in the Suburban listened to his radio, then nodded.

“Go ahead, senora, but drive immediately to the soccer field,” the guard ordered.

“Why? Is there something-?”

“Soccer field,” he cut in, curtly waving her forward. His right hand was still curled around the trigger guard of his weapon.

The implied threat turned Grace’s anxiety into anger. Just as she started to tell the guard what a rude jerk he was, she saw past his weapon to the square-cut tails of his loose shirt. The tails had caught at his waistband, exposing a shiny badge on a leather holder tucked into his belt.

She recognized the badge. It was issued by the same agency that had provided her Mexican identity card-the Mexican Department of Justice.

“Are you a federal policeman?” she asked quickly.

The guard followed her glance. He yanked the shirttail over his badge.

“Go,” he said fiercely. “ Andale. Ahora . Now, quick!”

When Grace hesitated, the guard shifted his weapon. The muzzle described an arc that came very close to her face. Close enough that she could see into the black eye of the barrel.

She punched the accelerator.

Grit and dust shot in all directions as the SUV’s big tires spun in response to the sudden power. The guard leaped back and shouted something Grace chose not to understand.

All she wanted was to see Lane, to hold him, to find out what was going on.

It took her less than a minute to reach the soccer field. It was just inside the school grounds on a shelf of land between the administration building and the sandy bluffs that fell down to the ocean. Large, energetic crowds were gathered along both sidelines of the well-groomed grass, shouting and hooting at the action on the field.

Grace shot into a vacant space behind one goal and shut off the engine. Her dark glance searched the field, frantic to see her son.