SAN YSIDRO
MONDAY, 7:39 A.M.
AS SOON AS FAROE disconnected with Magon, Steele said, “Ascencio Beltran called your cell. It rolled over to mine.”
Faroe would have asked how long the rollover connection had been in place, but he had more urgent things to worry about. “Number?”
Steele hit the send button and handed over the cell phone.
“While I talk to him,” Faroe told Grace, “get Sturgis to give us a direct number for Ted.”
“Why?” she asked.
Faroe was already speaking Spanish with Beltran. The man had been so eager to talk that he answered his own phone rather than stepping Faroe through a bunch of flunkies.
“When do I meet the miner?” Faroe asked.
“It is not that easy,” Beltran answered.
It never is.
“How hard is it going to be?”
“The miner is in a little town called El Alamo,” Beltran said.
A little town called Cottonwood. Sweet. There can’t be more than a thousand places with that name.
“Where’s that?” Faroe asked.
“In the Trinity Valley.”
Better.
“I’ve been there,” Faroe said. “It’s a good place to find miners.”
“Only if they wish to be found. The man I spoke of does not wish to be found, even by me.”
“Did you spook him?”
“No. I worked through cousins of cousins. He is very frightened. He spends most of his time praying in various village churches.”
“So he’s devout.”
“Aiee, he could teach kneeling to a nun.”
Faroe almost smiled. “I’ve got a helicopter. Do you have a contact who could meet us close to town and take us directly to the miner?”
“There’s a dirt airstrip on a small mesa about a kilometer south of the town.”
“Marijuana transport?” Faroe asked.
“Of course. The villagers, they are used to hearing helicopters and planes and such. The miner will not worry. My man will expect to be well paid.”
“I’ll bet. No one in Trinity Valley wants to be seen with a gringo who might be DEA.”
Beltran laughed. “It is good to work with someone who understands.”
“Your man will be well paid. So will the miner.” Faroe glanced at his watch and did a quick mental calculation. The Aerospatiale was about to be put through its paces. “Tell your man we will be there in an hour.”
“Agreed. May we drink a toast over Hector’s grave.”
“Works for me.” Faroe punched out and said clearly, “Any movement on the sat phone I gave Lane?”
“Negative” came from the back of the bus.
He looked at Steele. “Tell them to rev up the chopper.”
Steele hesitated. “We haven’t had time to set up the usual cover for the helicopter. You’ll have to fly under the radar the whole way.”
Faroe nodded. He hadn’t expected anything else. He hit the redial button on Steele’s phone, memorized Beltran’s number, and entered it into his own phone for future use. As Faroe worked, he heard Grace’s voice. The edge in it told him that Sturgis was stonewalling.
“…the point is that we have something that Ted wants more than he wants his next birthday,” she said.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Sturgis said.
“I’m the judge, remember? I gave you a number to call. Now I want Ted’s direct number-”
“Impossible.”
“-or you can explain to Ted why you booted a chance to get your hands on Lane’s computer,” she finished, talking over the lawyer.
“The legally constituted members of the task force won’t be happy when they find out you’re interfering with their investigation. I’d be surprised if you aren’t facing some federal charges. Unless you work through me, I’ll make certain that no member of the San Diego federal defense bar will touch your case with fire tongs.”
“Promises, promises,” she said sardonically. “Do you want the documentary history of Ted’s wire transfers or not? At the rate Ted’s burning through brain cells with alcohol, I doubt if he can remember half the transactions.”
“That’s not your problem.”
“It’s not yours, either. It’s Ted’s. If he can’t deliver the narco bucks to be seized, the feds won’t let him walk.”
“You have the files?”
“Yes,” Grace lied without hesitation. “You and the feds aren’t the only ones interested in the files. The traficantes who put up all the money want it back.”
“Ted will get it to them.”
“Not if the feds seize it.”
Faroe came and stood close. Grace tilted the phone so that he could hear the lawyer’s side of the conversation.
“Look, the money isn’t the problem here,” Sturgis said. “Ted could come up with fifty million in a heartbeat.”
“The same can be said of the traficantes,” Grace shot back. “But Hector doesn’t want to look like a burro in front of his buddies, so he wants a very specific fifty million bucks. The feds want their high-level money-laundering case at least as much as they want the money. No transaction records, no case. Are you still with me?”
“Yes,” the lawyer said unhappily.
“For that reason, and that reason alone, Ted should be willing to help us retrieve the computer. Lay aside the fact that Lane still thinks the world of Ted, loves him, and doesn’t know why he’s been abandoned.” The look on Grace’s face said that she wasn’t laying it aside, that Ted would pay. “We all get our onetime opportunities to make up for how we’ve screwed the pooch. This is Ted’s. So give me his damn number.”
“The alternative?”
Faroe took the phone. “If Ted decides to cut a deal with one side or the other that leaves Lane out, Ted is a dead dude walking. And so are you.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Hey, you’re listening. Give the son of a bitch a cookie.”
“I thought all you professional security types were cold and dispassionate,” Sturgis muttered.
“I am. That’s why I’m alive and you’ll be looking over your shoulder.”
“Christ, man, lighten up. Under other circumstances, I might like you. I certainly could find some work for you.”
“Ted’s number,” Faroe said. “Now.”
“I can’t. Professional responsibility to my client and all that.”
“Say hello to hell for me.”
“Wait! I’ll call Ted. I’ll tell him you have the files. It’s up to him whether he calls the number Grace gave me or not.”
“Ted calls in the next five minutes or he’s out of the game.”
“But-”
Faroe punched out of the conversation.
“Well, Your Honor,” he said roughly to Grace, “you got your way. You are now finally and fully a party to what may become conspiracy and murder in the first degree. How does it feel?”
Without a word she got up and disappeared into the back of the coach. Faroe followed as far as the salon, which was now empty. He grabbed a sandwich from the platter on the counter and made short work of it.
As he was chewing the last bite, she came back with her purse and sat down on the couch next to him. She lifted the flap of the heavy leather shoulder bag and produced a clean black steel semiautomatic pistol. She checked to make sure the safety was on, then reversed the pistol and presented it to Faroe, butt first.
“It’s fully loaded,” she said, “and there’s a round in the chamber.”