Damage Control (14 page)

Jonathan cocked his head.

“Tell me what you are not telling me,” he clarified.

“You can start with the reasons why my telephone stopped working more or less at the same moment when you arrived.”

Jonathan sipped from his cup to stall for time. He valued information above gold or diamonds, and as philanthropic as he was with his financial treasures, he hoarded information like the bitterest of misers.

“Why did your villagers so quickly show their hands as we were approaching? They clearly wanted us to see that they were unarmed.”

The priest smiled. “Asking another question is not the same as answering one,” he said.

“I’m getting there, I promise.”

“But first you must be sure whether the parish priest is trustworthy?”

This guy was good. Jonathan thought about dodging the question but decided on a nod. “Exactly. In my line of work, an abundance of caution is never penalized.”

“And what is your line of work, exactly?”

“I rescue people.”

Perón’s eyes narrowed. “Rescuing must be a dangerous business to require so many guns.”

“I rescue people from kidnappers. They tend to be a violent bunch. With all respect, Father, your country has turned kidnapping into something of a profit center.”

Something changed in Perón’s face. A cross between sadness and anger. “If Americans bought fewer drugs, and sold fewer guns, the world would be a safer place.”

“I’m not a politician, Father. I’m a tactician, and I need your help. That child’s life depends on it.”

The priest held up his hands, as if to fend off an attack. “Don’t place that on me,” he said. “Whatever trouble you are in is self-inflicted. If that child is hurt, it will be your responsibility, not mine. My
responsibility
is to notify the authorities that you are here, and let them sort it all out. Except I cannot do that because the telephones no longer work. I believe you still owe me an answer on that one.”

Jonathan shrugged. “I’m a careful man, Father. And the fact that you tried to make your call tells me that my caution is well-founded. And you still owe me an answer on your willingness to help me reunite a child with his family.”

“You’re asking me to grant you a favor, despite your threat of violence,” Perón said.

“I’m doing exactly that, Father,” Jonathan said. “If you turn us in, I believe the authorities will kill us. What damage I have done is merely defensive.”

Perón recoiled. “Why would the authorities do such a thing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yet you sound so certain.”

They’d arrived at the details that Jonathan had wanted to keep off the table. “They’ve already tried.”

“To kill you?”

Jonathan nodded.

It only took a few seconds for the priest to connect the dots. “This must mean that you are talented with the guns you carry.”

Jonathan shrugged.

“Who did you shoot?”

“The kidnappers,” Jonathan said. “What was supposed to be a simple ransom exchange turned out to be a bloodbath. I believe that this is being organized by people who have the ear and the resources of the local police. Who would have that kind of power?”

Perón shook his head. “I have no way of knowing.”

Jonathan smiled. “It gives me hope for the future that a man of your calling would be such a terrible liar. My only desire is to get that young man to safety. You can trust me, Father, just as surely as I must trust you. Now, please help me.”

Father Perón took a long time to decide on his next course. After settling himself with a deep breath, he said, “The drug lords own everyone. Those who don’t cooperate with them are killed.”

“Including the government?” Jonathan asked. “I’ve heard rumors to that effect, but is that what you think?”

Perón gave a coy smile. “Like you, I am not a politician, merely a parish priest. I am certain that our president could look your president in the eye and tell him earnestly that such is not the case.” He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “But presidents don’t always know all the things that their surrogates do. Perhaps they don’t want to know. It seems odd to me, however, that in a nation where the government controls other elements of our lives, they are somehow unable to stop these drug lords. Local politicians are terrified to stand up to them and enforce the laws. To do so would quite literally cost them their heads. Beheading is among their primary intimidation tools.”

“Do you know names?” Jonathan asked.

Perón’s features hardened. “You’re playing a very dangerous game, Mr. Harris.”

“I’m a pretty dangerous guy, Father.”

“To know names merely increases the danger. I can arrange for you to have shelter for the night. After that, you must go.”

Jonathan sighed. “Well, you see, Father, that’s where it gets really complicated. The level of betrayal to which I’ve been exposed is extreme. Whatever is happening, my route home is blocked. A name will help me unblock it.”

The priest shook his head. “A name will help you find someone to hurt,” he corrected. “Once hurt, they will want to retaliate, only you will have moved on, leaving no other targets but my parishioners.”

Jonathan let the implication of it all sink in. “I’m sorry if I brought trouble to you.”

Perón allowed himself a smirk as he leaned back into his chair and crossed his legs. He sipped his coffee. “There is no ‘if’ in this equation, Mr. Harris. You have brought the most dangerous kind of trouble. And now you ask me for a favor.”

Jonathan slurped his coffee, then shook his head. “No, Father, I’m not asking you for a favor. I’m asking you to show Christian mercy for a teenager who has spent the last week being brutalized. I wish I could have helped him without hurting anyone, but it didn’t work out that way.”

Father Perón’s eyes grew sad as they focused on a place beyond Jonathan’s shoulder. “In short, you are asking me to do my job,” he said. When his eyes returned to meet Jonathan’s gaze, he’d clearly made a decision. “Tell me what you would like me to do.”

“Tristan needs to sleep and take a bath,” Jonathan said. “He could use a decent meal, as well.”

“This church has no kitchen.”

“But there are kitchens in your parishioners’ homes,” Jonathan countered. He pulled out a wad of hundred-dollar bills. “I can pay them for their efforts.”

“They won’t want your money, sir. My parishioners are good people. If they take in your—Tristan, is it?”

A nod.

“If they take in Tristan, they will do it out of the goodness of their hearts.”

Jonathan shook his head. “I insist. The people here have so little. I don’t want us to be a burden.”

Father Perón smiled. “Unless you feel that we might make a phone call.”

Jonathan let the comment hang. It was what it was.

Perón said, “And might I presume that if your money could buy silence, that would be okay?”

Jonathan hiked a shoulder and smiled back. “That would be fine with me, yes.”

“You have far more to fear from the people you cannot see than from those you can. Those families out there at the
fútbol
field will do Tristan no harm. Most don’t even have phones. But those businesses you passed down the hill do have phones, and while we peasants pay the drug lords, some of those businessmen are paid by them. It is not safe for you here.”

“Just a meal, then,” Jonathan bargained. “And some supplies. Enough food and water for a few days, and as much gasoline as you can spare.”

Father Perón regarded Jonathan for a long time before he spoke. “I’ll ask the parishioners to feed you and allow you to bathe. Perhaps some fresh clothes as well. You need to change your appearances, yes?”

“All things considered, I don’t think that matters much.”

“Perhaps not for you—I could clothe you in a dress and you would still look like a soldier—but Tristan appears to have no clothes.”

Jonathan decided not to explain about the blood, and to accept the offer. “I insist on paying,” he said.

“As they are part of the church’s charity stores, I will gladly accept.”

“Excellent,” Jonathan said. Then he hesitated.

“There’s more?” Perón asked.

“Well, yes, sir, there is,” Jonathan said. “That Toyota out there belonged to the terrorists who started all this. Assuming, as I believe we both are, that the original attackers are friends, not foes, of the local officials, I’d rather not spend any more time than necessary driving a vehicle that they’ll be looking for.”

Perón gave a patient smile. “That was a lot of words, Mr. Harris. Can you state your desire more simply?”

“Sure,” Jonathan said. “I want to buy your car.”

Father Perón coughed out a laugh. Clearly, it was not what he’d been expecting. “I don’t own a car,” he said. “The diocese owns the car.”

“What kind of car is it?”

“It’s not for sale.”

Jonathan’s eyes flashed. “Let’s be honest with each other, shall we? Everything is for sale. Every
one
is for sale. The only variable is price. What kind of car, Father?”

“It’s a three-year-old Nissan Pathfinder,” Perón said. “And it’s not for sale.”

“I’ll pay you one hundred thousand dollars for it,” Jonathan said. “Cash.”

Perón’s jaw dropped.

“But I need gasoline, too,” Jonathan said. “Ten twenty-liter cans. Enough to get me to the American border.”

Perón furrowed his brow as he thought through the opportunity that had just been presented to him. “You understand that the monies you pay go to the parish, yes? Not to me personally.”

“I would never suspect otherwise,” Jonathan said. And since he wasn’t spending his own money, he couldn’t have cared less. “You should think of this as a unique opportunity.”

“Well put,” Perón said. “Ours is an impoverished parish with many charitable needs.”

“Indeed,” Jonathan said. It’s not often that you get to watch the process of rationalization in real time. “So, we have a deal?” He extended his hand.

“The gasoline will cost you another hundred thousand dollars,” Perón said. “Cash.”

At first, Jonathan was stunned. Then he erupted in laughter, throaty and guttural. “Father Perón, I like your style. Go for the gusto, right?” He reemphasized his waiting hand. “Two hundred and twenty five thousand dollars it is.”

Perón started to shake hands, but then the hand paused in midair. “Two hundred,” he corrected.

Jonathan winked. “Hey. I’m a sucker for a charitable cause.”

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

J
ackie filled Abrams in on the details of the cyber attack, pausing every few sentences to let the raucous boor vent his derisive laughter.

When she was done, Abrams said, “Holy hell, Madre. Your shit pile just keeps getting deeper and deeper, doesn’t it?” And then he laughed again. Everything Jackie said was a giant joke to him. “How the hell am I going to keep your ass off the gurney in the lethal injection room if you keep screwing up like this?”

In her mind, she could see his big frame with his gray hair and his bushy mustache. That threatening air about him that permeated everything he did and every word he spoke.

“It’s your own fault, you know,” Abrams pressed. “I told Mr. Hainsley just this afternoon that it was a mistake for you to overreach. It’s not enough for you to be three-million greedy, you needed to be six-million greedy. How many friggin’ pink limousines do you need, anyways?”

Never in her adult life had anyone spoken to her as Abrams did, and never before would she have tolerated it. She’d learned, though, that she needed to endure, because Abrams was her connection to the practicalities that governed the dark side of humanity.

And he wasn’t done. “I hope that sixteen-year-old was hung like a stallion, lady, and sent you to the moon with orgasms. Otherwise, I can’t imagine how all of this was worth it.”

“He was seventeen!” she snapped. “And he said he was eighteen. I am not a pedophile.” And he had indeed been hung like a stallion, and a more tender, sensitive soul never walked the earth. But no one cared about such details.

“Tomato, to
mah
to,” Abrams said. “It’s still a stinkin’ shit pile.”

“Enough, Mr. Abrams,” she snapped. “Must you take such pleasure in your work?”

“You can’t even call it work if you have fun at it, Madre. But let’s talk about what kind of special shovel we can build to make that pile smaller.”

The scatological metaphors had long ago grown tiresome. “First tell me what you think it all means,” Jackie said.

“I can’t say for sure, but there’s a good chance it means that somebody is putting the right pieces together. That’s bad for you and your board members.”

“It’s bad for you, too, Mr. Abrams.”

“Probably not, actually. You must have figured out by now that my name’s not really Abrams. My client isn’t really Dennis Hainsley, either. They can trace all that to ground, and they got nothing. What are the chances that somebody called the cops on you?”

Jackie switched to her wireless headset and paced her office as she spoke. When she got to the window, she traced the pleats of the Belgian linen drapes with her finger. “I can’t imagine who,” she said. “Outside of a very small group, no one even knows that the children were taken.” A thought flashed through her mind, triggering a gasp. “Oh, my goodness. When the bodies were found, were the families notified?”

“Negative,” Abrams said. “The bodies were found by the right people. Nobody’s gonna know anything about them.”

She stopped pacing. “You’re planning to repatriate the remains, aren’t you?”

“Repatriate!” Abrams laughed. “Who the hell uses words like that? What, you walk around with a friggin’ dictionary? No, we’re not going to
repatriate
the bodies. We’re not even gonna return them. We’re gonna burn them so no one will ever know they were there.”

“But you can’t,” Jackie declared. “The families!”

“Are you friggin’ kidding me? Now you’re worried about the families? Holy shit, Madre, you really are a piece of work.” Another long laugh.

Jackie Mitchell hated this man. Hated everything he stood for, and hated herself for ever being persuaded to go along. She was tempted to remind him of his promises that no one would be harmed, but she knew that her words would be met with more laughter. She was tired of the laughter. And the thought of those young men and women’s bodies being burned, no doubt without even rudimentary Christian services, made her stomach churn. It just got worse and worse.