Elizabeth Lowell - The Wrong Hostage

It was about the only way Lane had connected with his father in years-showing him how to use the computer.

“I know,” Faroe said. “He told us about it.”

“You saw Dad?” With an effort, Lane kept his voice low. “Tonight? Is he coming to get me before”- Hector kills me -“the deadline?”

Faroe wondered how Lane had found out, then decided it didn’t matter. What mattered was keeping Lane from panicking.

“Ted showed up in Lomas Santa Fe, at the ranch,” Faroe said carefully. “He wanted your computer. He wanted the Plaza file.”

Lane listened for the guards, heard only the wind and waves. “So?”

Sitting in the SUV, Faroe wondered what to say. How do you explain to a kid what a self-serving piece of shit his father is?

“I don’t have enough time to explain it to you,” Faroe said evenly. “Can you trust me on this or do you want to hear it from your mother?”

Before Lane could answer, Grace leaned forward and said, “Tell Joe everything you can. Please. It’s our only way to help you.”

Back at the cottage, the strain in Grace’s voice made Lane’s eyes tear. He swallowed hard. “Okay.”

“Is it a big file?” Faroe asked.

“No, but it’s encrypted.”

“How?”

“Do you know what PGP is?”

“Pretty Good Privacy,” Faroe said.

“Yeah. I taught him how to do it. He’s got the key. I don’t.”

Shit . But all Faroe said was “So you can’t read it.”

Lane closed his eyes and sweated cold. His mother’s voice had told him more than her words. “Please don’t be mad. It’s Dad’s file. He asked me to keep it for him, to make sure nothing happened to it.”

“And now I’m asking you to break that confidence,” Faroe said.

“I don’t know what’s right. If it’s Dad’s, if he needs it…”

Faroe cursed silently but didn’t lean on Lane. Nor did he ask for Grace to take over. Lane was having a tough enough time surviving without being caught in a tug-of-war between his parents.

“I respect what you’re saying,” Faroe said softly, “but until I know exactly what’s in the file, I can’t tell you what’s at stake. All I know is that file is the only leverage we have to get you out of All Saints.”

“What about Dad? Isn’t he coming for me?”

“I’m sorry.”

Faroe listened to the silence for what seemed like an eternity.

Finally Lane drew a shaky breath, then another one. The third time his breath didn’t break. “So it’s betray Dad or die? Is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m saying that your father never should have put that file on his son’s computer. He never should have signed his son into All Saints. He never should have touched Hector Rivas Osuna’s dirty business.”

Lane’s eyes widened. He knew who Hector was.

Everyone in northern Mexico knew who Hector was.

“Are you saying D-Dad is a crook?” Lane asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“I believe so,” Faroe said, “but I can’t prove it until I see that file. Is there enough charge on the satellite phone to send the file to your mother?”

“No. I’ll decrypt it. Then…well, then…” I’ll know something I don’t want to know .

But not knowing meant that he would die in less than twelve hours.

“Lane?” Faroe asked.

Lane grabbed what he did know and held on to it like a rope tossed to him across muddy floodwaters. “PGP is an old commercial program. It’s good enough but not great. I’ve got a couple sample keys and a hacker friend told me about a trapdoor in the program. I might be able to squeeze through it.”

Faroe drew a deep breath. “Can you do that with what you have at the school?”

“Sure. All I need is time.”

“What about the guards?”

“The Chicharrones Brigade already think I’m hiding under the sheet playing with myself. They laugh about it.”

Faroe bit back raw words of frustration. “Go for it, son. How’s the charge on the phone?”

There was a muffled sound before Lane said, “About a quarter.”

“Shut it down. Save it for another call in four hours. Unless your situation changes radically-then you call right away. Want a quick word with your mom?”

“Just-tell her I love her. If I hear her voice I’ll-”

“Okay, I understand. She sends her love. So does your dad.”

“Then why doesn’t he come get me?”

He’s too busy saving his own ass .

But all Faroe said was “Be careful.”

Lane punched the end button, shut down the phone, and hid it under the pillow again.

Voices drifted in through the window. The guards were laughing and talking about the bets that had been placed on how Hector would kill Lane.

So far no one had put money on simple execution.

SAN DIEGO

MONDAY, 1:23 A.M.

ANOTHER BORDER PATROL HELICOPTER leaped from the tarmac of Brown Field and swung sharply off into the darkness over Spring Canyon. Searchlights probed the tangle of brush where coyotes, feral dogs, smugglers, bandits, and sweating illegals hid. A mile away, along the south edge of Spring Canyon, the lights of Tijuana’s Colonia Libertad washed in a glittering tide against the steel wall of the border. The night was alive with fear and hope.

Grace and Faroe stared out the windshield, waiting for Steele’s plane to land. The airfield in front of them was pools of darkness and strips of light. Thin fingers of mist curled around the pedestal lights at the edges of the hardstands.

A group of people came out of the night and raced across the asphalt runway, disappearing into the darkness on the other side.

“What was that?” Grace asked, startled.

“Illegals,” Faroe said. “Ghosts in the night. They disappear and then reappear a thousand yards or a thousand miles away. By dinnertime those runners could be in Chicago or New York or Atlanta.”

“You really enjoy the shadows, don’t you?” Grace asked.

“It’s the only place I’ve ever felt completely alive.”

She made a sound that could have been a laugh. “Completely alive, huh? In other circumstances I’d be insulted, or at least disappointed.”

“In other circumstances, I’d tell you that we met and loved in that shadow world. Best thing that ever happened to me.”

“And the worst,” she whispered.

“That too. Have you figured out which hurts most?”

She made that sound again, half laugh, half sigh, all sadness. “No.”

“Neither have I.”

Off to the east, above Otay Mesa, a pair of powerful lights appeared in the darkness-an aircraft on a straight-in final approach.

“Steele,” Faroe said.

An oversize buslike vehicle that had been parked on an isolated tie-down area started up its diesel engine. Running lights and interior lights snapped on.

At almost the same moment, another vehicle drove through the perimeter gate and headed for the bus. As it passed under a light on the front of a small hangar, Faroe got a good look. It had the unmistakable profile of an armored messenger truck. He punched his speed dial and within a few seconds was speaking with a St. Kilda communicator.

“Is someone supposed to be meeting Steele?” he demanded.

Grace could hear the distant, disembodied voice on the other end of the phone line. He sounded amused.

“Okay,” Faroe said, snapping the phone shut.

“And?” Grace asked.

“Looks like Steele has been rounding up the usual suspects and then some.”

Faroe started the Mercedes and joined the odd caravan that was assembling on the hardstand.

Ambassador James Steele came down the ramp in the arms of a mammoth linebacker of a man named Harley. Steele rode with his arm around the bodyguard’s neck. He was dressed in a newly pressed suit, a clean white shirt, and a perfectly knotted tie.