Elizabeth Lowell - The Wrong Hostage

Faroe sure hoped so.

As Magon settled into the truck, he fingered the gold cross around his neck. It had been worn by others before him and had taken on the patina of their sweat. And his.

The ride was short and bumpy. Galindo’s house was hidden a hundred yards off the road in a grove of dusty green oaks. The house looked like a fortress built of round cobbles from a nearby stream bed. The stones had been cemented together into thick walls with very few windows. More like rifle slits than real windows.

They parked a hundred feet away and approached on foot. Faroe noticed that Refugio made enough noise for a mariachi marching band. Obviously the man didn’t want Galindo to think that enemies, rather than friends, were approaching the stone fortress.

Even so, the barrel of a long shotgun covered every step of the path they walked.

“Paulino, it is Refugio,” he called out in the local dialect, which was a creole of Pai-Pai and Spanish. “I bring a priest for you. See his cross?”

Magon held the cross up.

The barrel wavered, then withdrew.

After a few moments the heavy wooden door swung open. A small, stoop-shouldered man wearing dirt-caked jeans and a World Cup soccer T-shirt stood in the doorway. He had a full head of dusty black hair and hands full of a shotgun. He stared at the strangers for a long moment, particularly at Magon’s cross.

Finally Galindo set the shotgun aside.

Refugio embraced the little miner in the Mexican style, then introduced Faroe by name and Magon by his honorific, el padre . Galindo’s glance never lifted from the crucifix that hung around Magon’s neck.

The disbelief and awe in his eyes told Faroe that the miner recognized the cross as something more than a symbol of Christian faith.

Galindo talked quickly to Refugio.

Even before Refugio could translate the dialect into a more understandable form of Spanish, Magon lifted the heavy chain from his neck and handed the crucifix to the miner. Hesitantly, Galindo took the cross. He held it in the morning light, then slowly turned the crucifix over to examine the small maker’s marks on the back.

Galindo whispered a few hushed words, crossed himself, and looked at Refugio. “I hear of this crucifix.”

Magon nodded, not waiting for the translation. His creole was rusty, but it was his birth language, not easily forgotten. “I am from these mountains. Your grandfather probably found the gold that was beaten into this cross.”

Faroe understood just enough to be grateful for Refugio’s running Spanish commentary. It told Faroe that he could trust Beltran’s man, at least when it came to translating.

Reverently, the miner lifted the crucifix to his lips and kissed it. Then he returned it to Magon with a torrent of words.

“He tells me that since I am from these mountains, I know how dangerous they are,” Magon translated for Faroe. “Now that you outsiders know his secret, the rest of the world may soon know, too. Then he will have to leave, maybe go to some godless place like Chile, where men die in the copper mines from the acid in the air.”

“Tell him that I understand his fear,” Faroe said. “Tell him that I am afraid for my own son, who has only hours to live.”

Magon put his hand on Galindo’s shoulder and spoke earnestly to him for several minutes. Faroe caught some of it. Refugio filled in most of the gaps.

The rest became clear when Magon pulled out the chamois bag and spilled diamonds into Galindo’s hand.

Refugio gasped what could have been an oath or a prayer.

“I told Paulino that these would belong to him and to the seventeen families who suffered a loss,” Magon said in English to Faroe. “I promised to help them turn the stones into a new life here, one that doesn’t have to revolve around fear.”

“Did he believe it?”

Magon shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“Did you?” Faroe asked.

“At least as much as he does.”

“Then tell him this,” Faroe said. “If he shows us both ends of the tunnel, I’ll do everything I can to make sure that Hector Rivas Osuna doesn’t live to find him.”

“?Aqui?” Galindo asked in Spanish. Then, surprisingly, in rough Spanglish. “Here? En Mexico? Nunca . No, no, hombre . It no happen.”

“That’s why we need the tunnel,” Faroe said. “To get Hector out of Mexico.”

Galindo looked confused.

Magon translated Faroe’s words.

The miner looked shocked, then laughed with delight. “ Hijo de la chinga-Aiee, lo siento, padre . I so bad mouth.”

Magon almost smiled. “We can pray for forgiveness together, Paulino. I, too, believe Hector is the son of a great whore.”

Refugio snickered.

Galindo looked at the diamonds, then at Faroe, and began speaking earnestly.

Magon translated. “Senor, I will help you. In God’s truth, I would pay you those diamonds to rid Mexico of this evil devil Hector.”

Smiling, Faroe shook the miner’s hand and said, “As soon as we find the tunnel, the diamonds belong to you and the families of the men who built it.”

Galindo talked quickly to Magon, who turned to Faroe. “He says that he is but a poor miner. He can’t draw or read maps, so how can he help you find the mine?”

“Ask him if he’s ever ridden in a helicopter.”

A moment later Magon said, “He hasn’t.”

Faroe smiled slightly. “Then he’s going to have quite a story to tell.”

SAN YSIDRO

MONDAY, 9:10 A.M.

HARLEY TOUCHED THE TINY electronic bud in his ear and turned to Steele. “It’s Mary. We got trouble.”

“What and where?”

“Right here. FBI in raid jackets.”

Grace turned from her cell phone. She’d spent the last ten minutes assuring her boss and his boss that she meant every word of her resignation. “Excuse me,” she murmured. “I have to go.”

She hung up just as someone knocked on the door of the bus.

“FBI,” said a man’s voice. “We can do it easy or we can do it hard. Open up, Steele.”

“Do you have a warrant?” Harley shouted.

“Want us to get one?”

Harley looked at Steele.

Steele mentally categorized the visible contents of the coach. Nothing illegal. Even so…

“Put away all papers. Shut and lock every door, every drawer, every cupboard,” Steele said. “Tell everyone in the other motor coaches to do the same and not to open up for anyone without my direct order or a warrant.”

Grace stuffed everything that was out on the counter into a cupboard and slammed it shut. The traveling lock clicked, ensuring that even if the ride got bumpy, the cupboard would stay closed.

Harley talked into his spidery headset while he put away everything but food. The ops in the back of the coach shut doors with themselves on the inside. Dead bolts slammed home, leaving nothing but the salon and the kitchen in open view.

“Do you want to wait in my suite?” Steele said to Grace.

She smiled thinly. “Not a chance. I know the letter of the law. I’ll make sure they behave.”

Steele laughed softly. “I do like you, Ms. Silva.”

“Grace, and it’s becoming mutual.”

A fist banged on the door again. “Open up, Steele, or I’ll be back with warrants that will put your ass in prison.”

Harley opened the door and stood in the doorway, filling it. “Good morning, gentlemen, ma’am. ID, please.”

The request was gently stated.

And Harley looked like a mountain ready to fall all over the three agents if they didn’t act civilized.

One by one they took out ID.

Harley looked everything over. “Supervisory Special Agent Cook. Agent Gonzalez. Agent Daily. Nice raid jackets. Looks really sweet over your business suits.”