“Reed and I figured out the Siberian’s smuggling network, his cutouts, who took his bribes. We wrote down the tail numbers on all his planes, documented the arms he was delivering. But none of that was quite enough. We needed solid, undeniable proof to nail the Siberian’s ass. Reed got wind of a planeload of arms coming in. We went to the dirt strip, built a blind, and waited.”

“Did the plane come?”

“Yeah. The pilot was either certifiable or clanged when he walked. I got it all-the plane, the waiting rebels, the cargo offloaded, the coltan loaded in return. Even the bag of diamonds passed directly to the Siberian. Then it all went from sugar to shit.”

Kayla waited, not sure she wanted to know, but certain she should.

“The sun moves real fast in that part of the world. Either my lens caught it, or Reed’s binoculars. The Siberian picked up a sniper’s rifle and drilled Reed. I grabbed Reed and an assault rifle and took off for the Rover. I drove us to the helicopter that was waiting. Before we could take off, a rebel helicopter strafed us. I brought it down, but it was too late. Too fucking late. I buried Reed in the savanna he loved.” Rand met Kayla’s eyes and said, “I’ll bury Bertone, too.”

“What if you bury yourself?”

“Then Reed won’t be alone anymore. Win-win.” At least, it had been until last night.

“Well, you’re honest,” Kayla said, shoving the covers aside. “One-night stand it is.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You love Reed more than you love your own life.” She began dressing with short, sharp motions. “Sorry if I diverted you from your hair-shirt shrine.”

“I told you I wouldn’t lie to you. Bertone needs killing.”

“You aren’t a murderer.”

“You don’t know me very well.”

“You don’t know yourself very well,” she retorted, pulling on a T-shirt. “You don’t understand what it will cost you to drop Bertone in cold blood.”

“Obviously it will cost me you,” Rand said.

“It will cost you yourself. But then you don’t care about that, do you? You hate yourself for living when Reed didn’t.”

“Kayla-”

A shadow showed against the bedroom curtains. Rand shot to his feet and lifted the curtain aside just enough to look out.

Three men with drawn pistols were charging the St. Kilda compound from the direction of the golf course. Brakes shrieked as two cars and a pale green van blocked the driveway and parking areas.

“Shit! We’ve got to-” Rand said.

The blare of loudspeakers shut out the rest of his words. “EVERYONE STAY PUT! THIS IS A FEDERAL RAID!”

Rand went through the bungalow at a run, checking that locks and bolts were in place.

“What should we do?” Kayla asked.

“Stay out of sight until we’re told otherwise.”

39

Royal Palms

Sunday

Get that camera crew awake and shooting now,” Faroe snarled into the telephone.

“Okay, I’m on it,” Martin said. “You want us in the open?” “Whatever it takes to get sound and action.”

Faroe hung up and went out the front door, shutting it behind him. He met the raiding party on the front stoop of the bungalow. The lead agent, a heavyset man in a dark green Border Patrol uniform shirt, carried a pistol at high port arms.

“What the hell is this?” Faroe demanded.

The next bungalow’s door opened silently. A camera lens poked out the partly open door, as did a directional mike.

The agent saw only the tall, hard-looking man blocking the door of the bungalow he’d been ordered to search.

“Out of the way, sir,” the agent said. “We’re conducting an immigration employment verification action of this establishment.”

Faroe pointed toward the resort’s main building. “Well, shit howdy, cowboy, the kitchen is over there and the groundskeeper headquarters are about a quarter mile back the way you came from.”

“Stand aside, sir.”

“This is a private room,” Faroe said distinctly. “Nobody here is undocumented.”

“Get out of the way, sir,” the agent barked, “or you will be subject to arrest.”

Behind Faroe the door opened. Grace stood there, tying a red silk robe over the mound of her pregnancy.

“No, he won’t step aside, Officer.” Her voice had the snap of a judge used to ruling a courtroom-and the cops in it. Her dark eyes went to the officer’s name tag. “Agent Morehouse, you’re very close to overstepping whatever authority you believe you have.”

“Pardon me, ma’am, but who the hell are you to question my authority?”

“My name is Grace Silva Faroe,” she said. “I retired six months ago as a federal judge in the Southern District of California. That district includes San Diego, a place where the Border Patrol was and is very active.”

“I know what the Southern District is,” Morehouse said curtly. “Step aside, both of you. Now.”

“Not yet,” Grace said, each word distinct. “You need a specific warrant to enter private residences. Under the law, rented hotel rooms have the same privileges and protections as private residences.” She held out her hand. “I’ll see the warrant, please.”

“We have information that a specific individual may be in this bungalow and that said individual is in the country illegally,” Morehouse said.

Faroe hadn’t budged from his place at the top of the three steps leading to the bungalow. Morehouse couldn’t go forward unless he went through Faroe and the pregnant lady.

Agents piled up behind Morehouse.

“Ma’am-” Morehouse began.

“If you had specific information,” Grace cut across him calmly, “you should have applied for a warrant. Who is this specific individual, anyway? He must be important.” She flicked a glance at the men behind Morehouse. “And dangerous.”

With a muttered word, Morehouse pulled a notebook from his hip pocket. Command presence sure wasn’t making a dent in the couple in front of him. Maybe a show of cooperation would get the job done.

“The name is John Neto,” Morehouse said. “He’s a Camgerian alien who, according to our information, entered the country illegally from Victoria, Canada, on a tourist visa.”

Faroe and Grace traded looks.

“That’s specific information, all right,” Grace said. She shut the door and walked two steps to the porch railing, where she looked down at the milling of agents. “And obviously this Neto is an extremely dangerous man. Otherwise the immigration service wouldn’t have sent all these men.” She looked out at the grounds. “I count eight men in five vehicles. That’s a tremendous show of force,” she said, turning back to pin Morehouse with cold black eyes, “particularly here in Phoenix, where I’d guess one person in six entered from Mexico without papers.”

Morehouse sighed. He’d known the minute he picked up his orders-and enough men for a baseball team-that this assignment stank. Now he had a hard-case male and a pregnant woman in his face before he’d even had two cups of coffee.

“Ma’am, I have my orders. Just stand aside and we’ll be in and out real quick.”

“Where did these orders come from?” Grace asked.

“The district director,” Morehouse said. “Ma’am-”

“At seven o’clock on a Sunday morning?” Grace interrupted.

“He said it was a top Homeland Security priority. Now, if you’d just-”

“Orders? From Washington?” she asked, pitching her voice to carry to the mike next door.

“I don’t know,” Morehouse said impatiently. “I just take orders.”

Faroe made certain that none of his amusement showed. He’d worked with men like Morehouse-decent, steady, unimaginative.

Grace would make pâté out of him.

“I understand, Officer,” she said sympathetically. “And we certainly don’t want to impede a legitimate federal investigation. If you’d give me a telephone number for the district director, I’ll discuss paperwork with him.”