Irene made a shooing motion. “I don’t think it was about the ransom. I think it was about killing Digger and his team. I think Munro threw him under the bus.”
“Then why go through the whole charade of the kidnapping and Mexico? Why not just kill them on the street?”
She smiled. She’d been waiting for this question. “Again, I have to conjecture, but my guess is that Munro doesn’t know who he’s looking for. That’s why the Interpol alert is for Leon Harris and Richard Lerner. Dig and Boxers have used those handles for a long time, but because the covers are buried so deep, the names have never meant anything. Are those the names they used on their Colombia op?”
Dom had no idea.
“Let’s assume that they were,” Irene continued. “To get them, Munro had to stage a kidnapping and get the Crystal Palace to hire Security Solutions-again, not by name, but by the operators’ aliases.”
Dom sorted it in his head. The dots all seemed to connect. That it made sense disgusted him. “So the church gets a six-million-dollar donation, and all they have to do is agree to give away three million in ransom.”
“It’s not a pretty world, is it, Father? For all I know, the three million in ransom might have been earmarked to be returned to the church.”
Dom’s mood darkened even more. “
“From the church’s point of view, I don’t have an answer for you. On Hernandez’s side of the equation, his business is defined by murder. After you’ve killed dozens, what’s a few more?”
Dom put a hand on his forehead, as if taking his own temperature. “I’m trying to figure out how this can help Dig. It’s one thing to understand why all of it is happening, but we still have to find a way to bring them back into the country.”
Irene’s eyes flashed. “I think I might have something for you there. I want to nail Trevor Munro-not just for this kidnapping and murder business, but for selling out his country. To do that, I’m going to need the testimony of our mole in Hernandez’s cartel. Her name is Maria Elizondo, and it’s time to bring her in. She’s earned her asylum-or
Dom gaped again. “How is an informant going to do something that the FBI to whom she reports cannot?”
“Maria’s been playing a few games with us,” Irene said. “She’s been baiting us with knowledge she claims to have about a network of smuggling tunnels into Texas, Arizona, and California that we don’t know about. She’s been telling us that if we give her asylum, she’ll reveal the tunnels.”
“I’ve heard about these,” Dom said. “I’ve seen it on the news.”
“You haven’t seen these,” Irene corrected. “Every time we hear about one, we blow it up or fill it in. These are new. And they’re the team’s route back into the country without being caught.”
“How sure are you that she’s telling the truth?”
“I’m rolling the dice. Given the stakes, she’s got every reason to be honest. She knows that if we took her bait and it turned out to be a lie, we’d throw her back like an undersized fish.”
Dom cocked his head. “Would you?” he asked. “Throw her back, I mean?”
“Right into Hernandez’s arms,” Irene said. “Betrayal is a tough business, Father, even when you do it for the right reasons.” She looked away. “I fear that I am about to become a living example of that.”
Dom sensed his cue and he scowled. “Are you telling me that you think our conversation here is a betrayal?”
“I took an oath, Father, and here I sit violating that oath. I can’t think of a finer definition of betrayal, can you?”
Dom felt his face flush. “Forgive me, Irene, but that’s bullshit.”
Irene recoiled, shocked.
“And I say that in the presence of the Blessed Virgin. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that your oath was to the Constitution. I don’t care what’s classified and what’s sensitive information, and I have no idea what the laws are about such things, but I have dedicated my life to God’s law. Legal technicalities and career considerations aside, when we’re put in a position to choose between right and wrong, our obligations are clear.”
Irene gave him a patronizing smirk. “I wish my world could be as simple as yours,” she said.
Dom inhaled sharply through his nose and held it for a second as he considered how far to take this. He put his hand on hers.
“Irene, I have to tell you that I could not care less that you’re the director of the FBI. I take no pride in that. I take pride in knowing a fine human being named Irene Rivers. In the years that we’ve known each other, you’ve always impressed me with your ability to put what is right ahead of everything else. Principle above practicality. At the end of the day, I believe that that is why you happen to have been promoted to an extraordinarily stressful job.
“You and Digger are cut from the same cloth. He likes to tell people that he’s on the side of the angels, and when he does, he always injects a note of sarcasm so that people will know that he’s half joking. The fact of it is that he’s right. He
Irene’s eyes had turned red and moist, something that Dom had never seen before. “Side of the angels, huh?” She tasted the words. “I like that, Father. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. And you can call me Dom.”
Another tired smile. “You know, I don’t think I’d like that at all, Father. Have you ever just wished that you could unlearn things?” she asked. “Un-see things?”
“I’m a priest, Irene. And a psychologist. I think that every day.”
Irene stood, and Dom stood with her. Her security team became suddenly attentive.
“Please be careful, Irene.”
Before letting go of his hand, Irene bent and kissed it. “You’re very good at what you do,” she said. “I still don’t know if I can put the pin back in the grenade to get the murder charges turned back. I’ll keep trying, but do what you can with what I’ve given you. If the guys can hook up with Maria Elizondo, and just a few things go right, we should be able to get them home. And then we can mete out some serious justice for Trevor Munro.”
CHAPTER TEN
Father Peron led the way to a bench in a garden on the southern side of the church. They sat in the shade of an exotic-looking tree, on a bench that was more appropriate to a picnic table than a place of reflection. Overhead, an arbor boasted dozens of sweet-smelling red blooms.
Jonathan filled the priest in on what had transpired today. As he got to the end of the story, the sounds from the soccer game out front came to a crescendo.
“The bottom line is this,” Jonathan concluded. They’d fallen back into Spanish. “I need to seek sanctuary for this young man until I can figure out what is going on.”
Peron’s eyes narrowed. The sun was a half hour away from being gone now, and in this light, the priest looked somehow even younger than before. “You are all wanted by the police,” he said, as if thinking aloud. “Because you claim you are innocent, I am to believe you, and I am to endanger everyone in this village to help you. Is that correct?”
The soccer field erupted in cheers.
“Yes,” Jonathan said. “But it’s more complicated-”
Father Peron silenced him by raising his hand. “The Catholic Church did away with the notion of sanctuary as canon law nearly thirty years ago.”
“That may well be,” Jonathan countered, “but given all the help American churches have lent to Mexican refugees-Latin American refugees in general-granting them safe harbor from immigration enforcement, I thought you might take a chance with us.” He hoped he was playing a strong hand. While U.S. law had never embraced the tenth-century notion of churches as safe harbors, there was a growing movement among American churches to fight against draconian immigration law.
