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Authors: Elizabeth Lowell
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made a low sound.
“Despite the bloodshed,” Steele continued, “the operation itself was a success. Forty percent of the money recovered came back to St. Kilda, as per the contract. Joe took his five percent, told me to go to hell, and walked out. I haven’t heard from him since. Knowing him, by now he could be anywhere on earth.”
“Knowing St. Kilda Consulting,” Grace said, “I’d bet you know exactly where Joe is.”
“To what point?” Steele asked. “He’s never been motivated by money. The idealism that led him to be an agent for the Drug Enforcement Administration was kicked out of him in federal prison. What does that leave you for leverage?”
“Pride. I can clear his name.”
And I should have done it before now. I should have believed in him and searched and…
But she’d been married then, the mother of a young child.
Now she was divorced and fighting for that child’s life.
“How can you do that?” Steele asked.
“I have the rest of the story, the part that never made the news. Joe was set up and sent to prison because he wouldn’t hand over two men beneath him as politically convenient international scapegoats. I have proof, and I have the political clout to arrange a pardon. How’s that for leverage?”
Steele raised his eyebrows. “It will be interesting to find out. Your driver will give you a single-use cell phone. It will ring as soon as I’m certain of a few things.”
Grace hesitated. “Please don’t tell Joe my name ahead of time.”
Surprise flickered over Steele’s face. “Why?”
“He hates me.”
“Interesting,” Steele murmured. “You’re the first.”
“What?”
“Joe Faroe is a man of few emotions. Prison taught him that. How do you feel toward him?”
“He was the worst mistake of my life.”
And the best .
But that was something Steele didn’t need to know.
O CEANSIDE, C ALIFORNIA
S UNDAY, 9:55 A.M.
10
J OE F AROE 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
“Despite the bloodshed,” Steele continued, “the operation itself was a success. Forty percent of the money recovered came back to St. Kilda, as per the contract. Joe took his five percent, told me to go to hell, and walked out. I haven’t heard from him since. Knowing him, by now he could be anywhere on earth.”
“Knowing St. Kilda Consulting,” Grace said, “I’d bet you know exactly where Joe is.”
“To what point?” Steele asked. “He’s never been motivated by money. The idealism that led him to be an agent for the Drug Enforcement Administration was kicked out of him in federal prison. What does that leave you for leverage?”
“Pride. I can clear his name.”
And I should have done it before now. I should have believed in him and searched and…
But she’d been married then, the mother of a young child.
Now she was divorced and fighting for that child’s life.
“How can you do that?” Steele asked.
“I have the rest of the story, the part that never made the news. Joe was set up and sent to prison because he wouldn’t hand over two men beneath him as politically convenient international scapegoats. I have proof, and I have the political clout to arrange a pardon. How’s that for leverage?”
Steele raised his eyebrows. “It will be interesting to find out. Your driver will give you a single-use cell phone. It will ring as soon as I’m certain of a few things.”
Grace hesitated. “Please don’t tell Joe my name ahead of time.”
Surprise flickered over Steele’s face. “Why?”
“He hates me.”
“Interesting,” Steele murmured. “You’re the first.”
“What?”
“Joe Faroe is a man of few emotions. Prison taught him that. How do you feel toward him?”
“He was the worst mistake of my life.”
And the best .
But that was something Steele didn’t need to know.
O CEANSIDE, C ALIFORNIA
S UNDAY, 9:55 A.M.
10
J OE F AROE 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
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