The Wrong Hostage

10

OCEANSIDE, CALIFORNIA

SUNDAY, 9:55 A.M.

JOE FAROE WAS HEAD down in the bilge of the TAZ, mixing epoxy and watching the resin slowly change color. The oak of the hull where the trap would be concealed was fifty years old. It had been exposed to the waters of two oceans and the pounding of countless waves. Matching the smuggler’s trap to the salt-aged and oil-stained wood in the bilge was more art than science.

Faroe had been working on it most of the night and into the day.

In the glare of the halogen work light, the wood was brown, then gray, then brown again. The cuts he’d made to receive the trap revealed fresh, bright wood. He’d dyed the rib from Tijuana with several shades of stain. Now he had to match the color of the epoxy exactly or he would have to start all over.

Again.

Naturally, the moment the epoxy was ready, the satellite phone rang.

Other than cursing, he ignored the interruption. With a foam brush he painted glue onto the ends and the bottom of the trap.

Above him, in the stateroom, the phone rang a third time, then a fourth. The answering device snapped on and played Faroe’s new greeting.

“If you reached this number by mistake, hang up. If you didn’t reach this number by mistake, hang up.”

The caller punched in a digital code that overrode the message. Only three people knew that code. Faroe didn’t want to talk to any of them.

He finished applying the epoxy and eased the box into position in the beam.

“Joseph, I need to speak with you. Immediately.”

When Steele chose, he could put the bite of command into his aristocratic voice.

Faroe hesitated.

Then he went back to work with a pad of steel wool, rubbing the excess epoxy off the seam.

“If you don’t pick up the call,” Steele said, “I’ll send an Oceanside cop out to your address to conduct a welfare contact. You’ve been sick, you know, and I’m very concerned that you might be lying helpless, ill, unable to reach the phone.”

Faroe cursed again, louder this time. He tried to scrape away the last of the excess epoxy but it had already hardened. Now he would need a belt sander to finish the job.

He rolled over, sat up, and punched the talk button on the cellular phone. “No.”

Steele ignored him. “I have a message from an old friend. U.S. District Judge Grace Silva.”

Faroe chalked up the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach to surprise. It sure didn’t have anything to do with the flood of memories that threatened to choke him. Some of the memories were the best of his life. Some were the worst.

He didn’t know which kind hurt more.

“Joseph?”

“I knew a Grace Silva back when I was with DEA. She wasn’t a judge then. She was a federal defense attorney. A good one. Too damn good.”

And once, long ago, he’d believed that she’d set him up to be dragged through the gutter with the rest of the criminal slime for the entertainment of the TV cameras.

“It’s the same woman,” Steele said. “She wants to retain the services of St. Kilda.”

“What does a politically prominent federal judge need with a bunch of private, and therefore unsavory, consultants?”

“I’m sure she’ll tell you. She’s approaching your dock as we speak.”

The feeling in Joe’s stomach went from hollow to something more complex. “Steele, what do you want with a tight-assed feminist and a very respectable party hack who has been rewarded with a position on the federal bench?”

“Is that how you think of her?”

“It’s how she comes across in the newspapers.”

And Faroe had been a fool for lingering over the articles, staring at the pictures, trying to find the ghost of the most explosively passionate woman he’d ever known.

“St. Kilda occasionally needs the services of powerful politicians,” Steele said.

“So service her.”

“Unfortunately, she refuses to be serviced by anyone but you.”

Faroe knew he was being baited. Steele was a master at that. But he’d never cast a lure like Grace Silva into the pool.

“I got the feeling the two of you were once very close,” Steele said.

“So is a snake to his skin. Doesn’t keep him from shedding it.”

“Good. The judge made it quite clear that her interest was business only. She has already wire-transferred two hundred and fifty thousand dollars into St. Kilda’s accounts.”

Faroe went to the refrigerator that was built into the stateroom bulkhead. He looked at the cold beer but took a bottle of spring water instead.

“Silence isn’t a useful answer,” Steele said.

“I don’t need the money.”

“Judge Silva said that she was in a position to offer you a presidential pardon.”

Faroe drank down half the water before he said, “I don’t care whether I can vote or not, and I don’t need to worry anymore about carrying a firearm. So I’m pretty much okay with my status as a convicted felon.”

“Surely you’d prefer to have your name cleared.”

“Actually, my spotted past makes a pretty good pickup line. Woman asks me what I do, I tell her I’m a convicted felon. The dull ones run. The rest move closer.”

Steele made an impatient sound. “Judge Silva must have gone to considerable trouble to unearth the story of your unfair arrest and imprisonment.”

“Grace always did worry about unfair treatment. In front of a jury she could work up tears on behalf of some of the most brutal smugglers of drugs and human beings on the entire Mexican border.”

“Then I’m surprised you had anything to do with her.”

“You had to be there to understand,” Faroe said roughly.

Monsoon thunder all around, lightning blazing, a kind of hot rain pouring over him that he’d never felt before or since.

He’d spent a long time trying to forget, but it wasn’t long enough. In the silence between lightning and thunder, she still haunted him.

“What does Grace need with me or with St. Kilda?” Faroe asked finally.

“Her son is enrolled in some highly regimented private school just north of Ensenada. She wants help bringing him home.”

“Send one of your newbies,” Faroe said. “It will give him or her practice in the fine old art of bribery.”

“Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. A Mexican businessman named Carlos Calderon and another man, Hector Rivas Osuna, object to the boy’s removal.”

Faroe whistled through his teeth. “That’s a real pair to draw to.”

“You always understand things the first time through, Joseph. It almost makes up for your lack of other graces. Please give the judge a civil hearing. I’ve already discussed the financials with her. Your cut will be a hundred thousand dollars.”

“Back up. I’m not accepting assignments. I quit, remember?”

Faroe was talking to himself. Steele had cut the connection.

A low, haunting voice floated down from the dock. “Permission to come aboard?”

Past and present colliding.

I don’t need this.

But part of Faroe sure wanted it. The dumbest part of him. The one that was guaran-damn-teed to get him into trouble.

I turned forty last year. I don’t react like this anymore.

The dumb part of him just kept pushing.

“I’ll be up in a second, Judge.”