NORTH OF ENSENADA

MONDAY, 8:30 A.M.

THE HELICOPTER DARTED STRAIGHT into a green-brown hillside bowl, then banked sharply and flared over a flat landing spot just outside a rectangle of crumbled walls. Sun-bleached grass inside the ruins flattened in the prop wash as the pilot skidded the machine to a hovering halt twenty-five feet above the ground, then began to settle stiffly to the ground.

Faroe let out a breath. He was glad that Steele had talked Grace into staying in San Ysidro in case Franklin or even Lane called again. The whole flight had been fast and furious.

And low.

Really low.

They’d been flying nap of the land to avoid Mexico’s air-control radar.

So far, so good.

A black Toyota Forerunner was parked in the shade of a scrubby oak tree near what once had been the front door of the mission church. Dressed in jeans, a guayabera, and a broad-brimmed Panama hat, Father Magon leaned against the front fender of the truck. Holding on to his hat with one hand, he turned his shoulder to the prop wash.

“He looks more like a campesino than a priest,” the pilot said.

“I should have told him to wear his cassock. But he knows what I want, and he knows the Pai-Pai. He must have thought civilian clothes would get the job done quicker.”

The pilot eased down on the power. The heavy blade spinning overhead slowed, but it still was going fast enough to cut through a man’s skull.

Faroe undid straps, set aside the noise-canceling earphones that allowed pilot and passengers to communicate, and popped open the door. A moment later he was on the dry, dusty ground, running out from under the chopper’s deadly, whirling umbrella.

“Glad you showed up,” Faroe said, shaking Magon’s hand. “Let’s go. We’re on a short clock.”

As soon as both men were strapped in, the chopper leaped for the sky.

Faroe tapped his headset, signaling Magon to put his own on.

“One of Beltran’s men, a cousin of a cousin of a cousin,” Faroe said, “will meet us. He knows the local dialect.”

“So do I,” Magon said. “As you guessed, I was born in the village. But Hector doesn’t know that. He thinks I’m a chilango who pissed off a cardinal.”

Faroe smiled.

“You really think this miner will risk his life to help you?” Magon asked. “Because if Hector finds out about this, we’re all dead.”

“True fact,” Faroe said dryly.

He dug into the hip pocket of his jeans and pulled out a chamois drawstring bag the size of his palm. Gently, shielding the contents as best he could from the helicopter’s rough ride, he opened the drawstrings.

Then he spilled a thin stream of white fire into his palm. The gems caught the late-afternoon sunlight before Faroe made a fist over them. He held his fist out to the priest, who automatically opened his own hand.

Faroe dribbled twelve diamonds one by one into the priest’s palm. Most of the stones were pea- or bean-sized. One was as big as a man’s thumbnail.

“They are real?” Magon asked.

“As real as death. Five hundred thousand Yankee dollars in very portable form. Here, take the bag. You’ll need it to keep the stones corralled.”

“But why are you giving the diamonds to me?”

“They’d frighten a poor miner even more than the prospect of death. You’re not intimidated by wealth. Take those, convert them into cash, and help the families of the seventeen men who were killed, and the one who survived.”

“And in return?”

“The tunnel.”

Narrow-eyed, Magon glanced from the stones to Faroe.

“Don’t worry, padre. I didn’t kill anybody for them.”

“The thought had occurred.”

“No blood on these so far.” Faroe’s smile was thin. “Not that church jewels have always been clean.”

Magon shook his head sadly. “You are indeed a cynic.”

“A realist. So how about it? Will you persuade the miner to help?”

Magon looked at the diamonds for a long time. “El Alamo has no well. That would be a good place to start.” He looked at Faroe. “You are very generous. I’m sure the miner could be persuaded for much less. Perhaps you are not as much of a realist as you think.”

Faroe didn’t answer.

The priest tilted his hand so that the morning sun fell on the stones, turning them into fire. Then, slowly, he poured the stones back into the chamois bag, tied it securely, and pushed it deep into a pocket of his jeans.

“I will do what I can,” Magon said.

“That’s all anyone can ask. Even God. Did you bring a dog collar? It might comfort the poor bastard we’re asking to risk his life.”

“No collar. Just this.”

Magon reached inside the neck of his cotton shirt and pulled up the heavy gold chain he wore around his neck. A splendidly baroque gold crucifix hung from the chain. The cross was almost as big as his hand.

“The gold in this cross was mined in El Carrizo a century ago. It is well known among the Pai-Pai. One of their martyred leaders wore it. He was my great-grandfather.”

Faroe looked at the antique crucifix and hoped it would be enough.

EL ALAMO

MONDAY, 8:58 A.M.

BELTRAN’S COUSIN OF A cousin of a cousin was a thin man named Refugio. He met them at the dirt runway in a black Dodge crew-cab pickup that gleamed despite a coating of back-road dust.

Faroe recognized the smuggling type, if not the individual. Refugio had the blunt, hard features of an Indian. The two halves of his mustache didn’t meet on his upper lip. Wispy hair curled down to both corners of his mouth. He was dressed jalisqueno style-cowboy boots, jeans, a wrangler’s shirt, and a sweat-stained Stetson with a single tassel on the back brim.

He carried a Colt semiautomatic pistol, cocked and locked.

The slab-sided barrel was thrust through his ornately tooled leather belt, but outside the waistband of his jeans. The pistol was as much a part of Refugio as his hat, and worn just as casually.

Faroe shook hands in the gentle style of Mexico rather than the firm, you-can-trust-me gringo style. But when he spoke in Spanish, he was as direct as any Yankee.

“We have very little time to save a boy’s life,” Faroe said, urging everyone toward the truck. “What can you tell me about this miner?”

“His name is Paulino Galindo,” Refugio said. “He is a very frightened man. He lived most of the last year in an old mine shaft. I brought him food but only recently convinced him it was safe to move to the house where I am taking you.”

“So you and Beltran have been holding this trump card for some time,” Faroe said.

Refugio smiled. “But of course. Paulino is a symbol to the people here. They know what he has endured. We find it useful to have the support of the village because many of them grow fine sinsemilla marijuana.”

“Yeah,” Faroe said. “I can see how Beltran would want to keep his sources happy.”

Refugio looked sideways at Magon. “Are you truly Father Magon? Should I talk of these things outside a confessional?”

“Yes, I’m Father Magon,” the priest said. “And I do not judge any of these people harshly. They are simply trying to survive in the leftover places of a world owned by the wealthy and the powerful. For the poor, it has always been that way.”

“I am happy you have come,” Refugio said. “Paulino trusts nothing but the church, not even me. You will be the key in his lock.”

Faroe sure hoped so.

As Magon settled into the truck, he fingered the gold cross around his neck. It had been worn by others before him and had taken on the patina of their sweat. And his.

The ride was short and bumpy. Galindo’s house was hidden a hundred yards off the road in a grove of dusty green oaks. The house looked like a fortress built of round cobbles from a nearby stream bed. The stones had been cemented together into thick walls with very few windows. More like rifle slits than real windows.