The Trust (28 page)

“What kind of name is Biscuit anyway?” he muttered.

In the meeting today, Bong caught the lawyer studying him. The big man said little. But every time Bong looked in his direction, Biscuit was staring at him. Checking him out. It was more than creepy. It was like the attorney sensed something. Maybe he figured things out.

Bong scratched his head. He ran his thumb and forefinger across his clerical collar. He told himself to stop it. He was always touching the damn collar, and it was turning into a nervous tic. Good thing he had purchased two. His one-way sparring session with JoJo that afternoon had left the other one a mess.

Soon, he’d wire $33.5 million to Moreno. That transfer would square things up with the snake. Bong would pay himself the agreed-upon $6.5 million fee and keep the remaining $160 million balance all to himself. He wasn’t splitting that money with anybody. He didn’t care what promises he’d made.

Details. Details. Everything is about details. And fear is always the greatest before the big score.

Bong eyed the blue canvas bag on his passenger seat. His eyes gleamed, and his lips curled into a cruel smile. Payback would be oh so satisfying, hell for O’Rourke. He retrieved the phone from inside his black jacket, checking the rearview mirror as he pulled it out.

Nobody there.

With his left hand, he powered down the passenger window. And then with his right, he backhanded his mobile out the window. It was a monstrous fling. The phone, $19.95 from Walmart, sailed through the cables and over the edge of the bridge. Down, down, down it tumbled, some two hundred feet to the shrimp and blue crabs waiting in the Cooper River below.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

SAVING JOJO

No word from Father Ricardo.

Around 9:15
P.M.
I left Claire’s home on South Battery, hustled through the shadows of Meeting Street, and phoned Annie. She was aghast by my news about JoJo. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

I could hear the fear in her voice. “Don’t worry. The FBI is here.”

“They’re helping you now?”

“They have their own agenda. I just want JoJo back.”

“You’re not some kind of bait, are you? You won’t do anything stupid?”

I’d do anything for Palmer, even if it meant risking my life to save his wife. Now was not the time to argue, though. “No way.”

“Promise?”

“Do me a favor. Get some friends to spend the night.”

“What for?”

Then I said to Annie what had been twisting through my mind ever since the first shot of vodka that night. “I’d feel better knowing you’re not alone.”

“You think I’m in danger?”

“No. But just invite some friends over.”

“You’re scaring me, Grove.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“You never answered my question,” she persisted. “You won’t do anything stupid?”

My BlackBerry picked that moment to run out of juice. And I’m not sure Annie heard me say, “I promise.”

*   *   *

It was nine-thirty when I returned to the hotel at Charleston Place. Biscuit was nowhere in sight, which was no surprise. We weren’t meeting until 10:00, and I assumed he was still doing whatever had prevented him from joining Claire and me for dinner.

A bunch of drunken Shriners boarded the elevator with me. At my floor I raced to the room, stripping off my tie en route. I didn’t bother with lights. Afterward, relieved, I washed my hands and brushed away the cardboard taste of delivery pizza from my mouth. And when I emerged from the bathroom, finally flipping on the overhead lights, five words shattered the silence:

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

I almost leaped out of my skin. Father Ricardo was sitting in the room’s occasional chair, framed by a blaze of upholstery that was a little too Marquis de Sade for my taste. He wore his black shirt and white clerical collar, no jacket this time. His eyes, ringed by anxious dark circles, resembled skull sockets in the gloomy light.

Talk about startled. My heart rate soared from 60 to 150 in three beats. Shivers shot from my legs to my face. And it felt like a million ants were marching up my spine.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

“And you interrupted a perfectly good nap, my friend.” He spoke in a calm voice.

I went ballistic. “How’d you get into my room?”

“It wasn’t hard.”

“What do you mean?”

“The lord works in mysterious ways.”

“Cut the crap.” I was gathering my wits, remembering what Agent Torres had said: Moreno, money laundering, FBI suspicions but nothing concrete.

“That’s no way to speak to a priest.”

Given what Torres had said earlier, I wasn’t sure he was a man of the cloth. So I turned sarcastic. “Fine. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. How the hell did you get into my room?”

“Saint Benjamin.”

It took me a second to process his meaning. “You slipped somebody a hundred?”

“I heard from the kidnappers.”

“Your guy spoke to them?”

“I did.”

In that second, I forgot my annoyance. I forgot the warnings from Torres. She had been wrong. So had Biscuit for that matter. I forgot Annie’s exhortation: “You won’t do anything stupid.”

I think it was subconscious on my part. But the news, good or otherwise, made me drop my guard. “Is JoJo okay?”

“We’re going to get her.”

“She’s okay?”

“I told you once. I told you before. Nobody pays if these guys develop a reputation for killing hostages.”

I ignored Father Ricardo’s testiness. “Did you talk to JoJo?”

“She sounds awful.”

“But she’s okay, right?”

“For now.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean? I thought you said, ‘We’re going to get her.’”

Ricardo was a human boomerang. Every time I asked him something, he returned a bigger question. He tugged at his shirt collar. He rolled his head in a big circle, as though chafing from what he was about to say. “I need you to answer one thing.”

“For sure. Just tell me.”

“Do you want JoJo back?”

“Stop horsing around. You know I do.”

“Are you willing to pay?”

“Once she’s safe—whatever they want.” I ignored what Torres had outlined. The FBI agent no longer mattered. My instincts were taking over.

“And trade yourself for her?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I told them you’d pay. Otherwise she’d be dead.”

“We’re crazy not to call the police.”

“Shut up.” His words shook me. “Do you want JoJo back, yes or no?”

“Yes, of course.” I nodded my head.

“Then we do things my way. Got it?”

I nodded yes again, even though my instincts were screaming, “No!”

“Where’s your phone?”

“Why do you need it?”

“To save you from yourself.” He stretched out his hand, palm facing up.

I passed him my BlackBerry. Father Ricardo split it open, yanked out the battery, and disappeared into my bathroom. The gurgle of a flushing toilet filled the room. He returned, minus one battery, and tossed the phone carcass onto my bed.

“Was that necessary?”

“You tell me, O’Rourke. Every time I turn around you’re changing the rules of the game. First it was the Catholic Fund’s sixty-five million. Now it’s the authorities.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You spoke with them this afternoon.”

“How’d you know?”

Father Ricardo’s face clouded over. His features grew dark. For a moment, it seemed like he might answer, “I didn’t.” He paused, and the silence lasted to the point of discomfort for both of us. He was bubbling up inside, letting his fury build. “You think these guys are stupid?”

“No.”

“You think they care about anything other than money?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re kind of slow,” he growled. “What was that refrain in the letter again?”

“‘The woman dies.’”

“But you don’t believe them. Is that your problem?”

“I get it.”

“Apparently, you don’t.” He was growing angrier by the moment.

“I just want JoJo back in one piece.”

“Then do as I say,” he ordered, yet again.

“Okay, okay. But I need to call Biscuit. We’re meeting at ten.”

“Not anymore.”

“Just to cancel?”

“We don’t have time.”

“I need to tell Claire.”

Father Ricardo had been walking to the door. He stopped in his tracks and whirled round. “Who’s running the show, you or me?”

“You. But why can’t we tell her?”

He never answered the question. Instead, the reverend gestured to the door with a sweeping wave of his arm. “Let’s go.”

“But I thought you didn’t know where JoJo is.”

“I don’t.”

“Then where are we heading, for chrissakes?”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Sorry.”

“The airport,” he explained. “That’s all I know.”

Five minutes later, Father Ricardo got behind the wheel of his car. I hopped in the passenger side. There was a blue canvas bag on the backseat. After five minutes of driving, not one word between us, I noticed his directions were all wrong. “This isn’t the way.”

“Relax. I know what I’m doing.”

“North Charleston’s the other way.” I felt naked and defenseless without my cell phone.

“Wrong airport. We’re flying private out of Johns Island.” He cranked the radio, apparently annoyed by my questions.

Make no mistake. The destination scared me. Johns Island is a hard thirty minutes from downtown Charleston, a remote place where Spanish moss is the only excitement for miles around. It’s home to tomato farms and the 1,400-year-old Angel Oak, not to mention the tidal marshlands filled with alligators and crabs, and other bottom scavengers that eat everything but bones. The authorities might not find your remains for days, maybe even years.

“We have a long night ahead of us,” he finally said.

“What do you mean?”

“JoJo’s captors are running us from one place to the next.”

“How do you know?”

“My guy, the mercenary,” he started.

“What about him?”

“He said this is how they do it.”

“You must have some idea where we’ll end up, Father.”

“Bermuda. Moscow. Taiwan for all I know.”

“Not tonight?” My words were half question, half objection.

“Are you backing out?”

“I don’t have my passport.”

That’s when Father Ricardo began to laugh. It was the strangest thing. He chuckled at first. But his mirth gained momentum and built into a big, roaring belly laugh. The kind that brings tears to your eyes. He almost ran a red light. I was ready to grab the wheel.

“What’s so funny?”

“You don’t have a clue?” He rubbed the tears from his eyes.

“Guess not.” What was I to say?

“We’re going off the grid.”

“Meaning what?”

“We’re about to disappear.”

*   *   *

“Hey, it’s Grove. This phone is surgically attached to my hip.”

Click. Dial tone.

Biscuit finished the greeting. “So leave a message, and I’ll call you right back.”

The big man was sitting in the hotel lobby. He had left his first message at 10:15
P.M.
, the second at 10:30. Now it was 10:45, and he knew O’Rourke’s voice mail by heart. The stockbroker’s absence was troubling. Grove was not the kind of guy to be late or, even worse, to blow somebody off.

Biscuit dialed Claire. “Sorry to call so late.”

Half asleep, half surprised, she took a moment to identify his voice. “Did you hear something?”

“No, nothing like that. Is Grove there?”

Claire said nothing for a moment. She was processing the lawyer’s words. And Biscuit, suffering through the silence, began to regret what he’d said. You don’t phone a single woman, late into the night, and ask whether some guy’s with her. Not in the South.

“I thought you were meeting for drinks.” Her tone turned cold, miffed from being woken up.

“He’s not here. Sorry to bother you.”

Biscuit called Agent Torres next. She answered without Claire’s cobwebs. She was awake, all business, her wits sharp. “What’s up?”

“Have you spoken with Grove?”

“No. Is there a problem?”

“I’m not sure. We were supposed to meet at ten.”

“He’s not there?”

“I’ve tried him three times on his cell phone.”

Torres put down her book, dog-earing the page where she left off. The agent didn’t know what to think. Fieldwork was always the same—lots of waiting for nothing to happen. Waiting in vans, loaded to the gunwales with surveillance equipment. Waiting for a phone call, not just any call, but one that would betray an adversary’s location. Waiting in cheap hotel rooms, like the “Bedbug Express” she was in now. Torres missed her kids and husband.

“Might be nothing,” she said.

“Or a real train wreck.”

Something about Biscuit’s voice, the tone, the tension, made her hesitate. “Did something happen?”

“No. But how much do you know about the Kincaids?”

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

AIRBORNE

First things first.

Flying is not my thing. I have zero interest in getting a pilot’s license, which is odd because my father flew bombers. I do, however, know a little something about planes. You can’t help it growing up on an Air Force base. Or when you’re a stockbroker and your clients own seven-figure toys.

The Piaggio P180 Avanti is a twin-engine turbo prop. Some call it the “Ferrari of the sky” because the plane is fast, damn fast. It cruises close to 400 mph. And the Ferrari family, in fact, controls the manufacturer. They bought the company back in 1998 with a consortium of other shareholders.

The aircraft is sleek, the styling Italian if somewhat unusual. It has a canard wing, the two horizontal fins mounted just behind the nose. Its engine props face backward, which makes the P180 Avanti a statement. You can’t miss it on the runways. It’s the last aircraft on earth I would choose for a vanishing act.

But for all intents and purposes, I had disappeared on one.

We boarded a Piaggio P180 Avanti back on Johns Islands and climbed who knows how many feet. Father Ricardo was no ordinary priest in my opinion, if even a priest at all. You don’t charter a $5-million-plus plane on a Maryknoll salary. No wonder Torres suspected him of money laundering.