Damage Control

CHAPTER TEN

Father Perón 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.”

Perón’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 Perón 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.

“And because a few churches in Illinois and Indiana have shown sympathy to men and women whose only crime is to find a job, I should feel obligated to shelter murderers?”

Jonathan sighed as another cheer rose from the soccer field. “We’re not murderers, Father.”

From the far side of the church-the north side-an adolescent voice yelled a triumphant “Yes!” in English, instantly drawing Jonathan’s attention.

Damn kid can’t follow even a simple order, he thought.

Jonathan stood. “Come with me, Father,” he said. Knowing exactly what he was going to find, he led the priest to the front corner of the church. From there, he could see Tristan mixing it up with the kids on the field. He was shirtless now, and barefoot, playing soccer in a pair of boxer shorts.

Jonathan shot a look to Boxers and got a shrug in return. “What did you want me to do?” the Big Guy asked.

“Where are his clothes?”

“Better half-naked than thoroughly blood-soaked, I suppose. Less of a buzzkill for the other kids.”

Jonathan turned back to Father Perón. “Forget about me,” he said. “Does that boy look like a murderer to you?”

Perón watched the children play for a few seconds, and then he looked at Jonathan. “You are welcome inside my church,” he said. “Your guns are not. You decide.”

With that, the young priest turned to his left and walked back through the sanctuary doors into the dark coolness of the church.

Jackie Mitchell’s gut seized when her phone rang. This was what her life had become. Her office, once so beautiful with its soothing blues and modern leather and glass furniture, had become her prison-the place she dared not leave. The caller ID read, BLOCKED.

She lifted the receiver. “God bless you.”

“Um, Reverend Mitchell?” The male voice on the other end sounded impossibly young.

“This is she.” Jackie’s sprits rose as she considered the prospect of dealing with something other than the violence she had wrought. “Who’s this?”

“My name is David,” the young man said. “David Border. I’m your IT manager here at the Crystal Palace.”

It took her a second to process “IT” as meaning information technology. “Of course, David,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

He cleared his throat. “Well, ma’am, I don’t know if this is a problem or not, but Pam Vargas in the Security Department called me a few minutes ago to tell me that someone’s been trying to hack into our system.”

Jackie closed her eyes. This couldn’t possibly be anything but bad news. “What does that mean, exactly?” She was pretty sure she knew, but she’d long ago learned that in times of crisis, it was important to make sure you defined all terms.

David cleared his throat again. “Um, well, it means that someone was trying to get information off our system that they’re not entitled to have.”

“What kind of information?”

“Well, ma’am, that’s the thing. That’s the reason why Pam called me. Apparently, since the time of the, you know, incident, we’ve gotten a lot of attacks on our website and on our Good Works Pages, but this one was different. This one targeted contributors.”

Jackie’s sense of dread blossomed to the size of a malignant basketball. “Any contributors in particular?” she asked, even though she felt certain that she knew the answer.

Again, he cleared his throat. “Well, yes, ma’am. He seems to be focusing on our most recent contributors.”

Exactly as she had feared. Just to be certain: “How recent?”

“Call it the past six weeks,” David said.

Jackie fought the urge to cry. She concentrated on keeping her voice firm and businesslike. “Can you give me names?”

Another throat thing. She realized now that it was a nervous tic for him. “Yes, ma’am. The biggest push seems to be on All American Industries and Global Transformations. Most of the others, too, but those are the ones under the greatest scrutiny.”

“Do we know what they were able to glean from these attacks?”

Now he fell silent.

“David?”

“Well, ma’am, they pretty much got everything we have. I frankly can’t imagine how the information could hurt the companies involved, but I thought you needed to know. In fact, the absolute value of the information wouldn’t even have prompted me to call you. My concern is the ferocity of the attacks. In fact, there were at least two attacks. Almost simultaneously.”

Her heart hammering, Jackie kept it together. “Where are they originating?”

“We can’t trace that,” David said. “And that fact alone means that the hackers are very good at what they do.”

Jackie didn’t know exactly what it all meant, but it felt distressingly like the end of everything. “As we speak, have the attacks stopped?”

Ahem. “Yes, ma’am, they have.”

“Does that mean they gave up?”

He hesitated. “I suppose it could mean that,” David said. “But they really hit us hard. The smarter bet is that they got what they were looking for and they left.”

It was exactly as Jackie had feared, her worst nightmare. “All right then,” she said. “Thank you, David. Is there anything we can do to stop this sort of invasion in the future?”

“I’m not even sure how they broke through the firewall,” he said. “When I figure that out, maybe we’ll be able to stop it. But I’m telling you, Reverend Mitchell, that these were very sophisticated attacks.”

“God bless you for your efforts,” Jackie said. “Please keep me informed of your progress.”

She laid the receiver back on its cradle, but she kept her hand in place. She had to make another phone call, and it was the last number in the world she wanted to dial. How could things have spun so desperately out of control?

Tears pressed against her eyes, but she willed them away. She’d broken her vows to God, and now this was His will. She would suffer in Hell for all that she’d done, but there were others to think about right now, and they needed to be her concern. She needed to make the call to protect them.

Steeling herself with a giant breath, she picked up the receiver and pressed in the number from memory.

In the end, Jonathan had no choice. He left his arsenal in a pile outside the door, under Boxers’ watchful eye. All but his backup piece, a.38 revolver that he kept in a patch pocket on his right calf. Call it his little poker bluff with God.

“I’m back here,” the priest called from the darkness as Jonathan reentered. The sound came from a room off to the right-hand side of the altar. Jonathan strolled down the center aisle, between the two rows of chairs, and when he arrived at the foot of the altar, he cast a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure no one was looking, then crossed himself and offered a shallow genuflect.

“You are Catholic,” Father Perón said from the shadows. He held a cup and saucer in his hand, stirring it slowly.

Jonathan could smell the coffee from thirty feet away. “More so than I usually behave,” he said.

“True of most Catholics from your country. May I offer you some coffee?”

The room off to the side wasn’t exactly a vestry, but it appeared to serve in that capacity. Call it a cross between vestry and bar. Built cheaply yet sturdily of what appeared to be local hardwoods, the room had a utilitarian yet homey feel about it. Jonathan just wished that he could turn up the light a little. Tall shelves lined two of the four walls, and when Jonathan noted the contents, he smiled.

Father Perón was not a teetotaler, and his tastes apparently ran toward single malt scotches, forming an instant bond with his parish’s latest visitor. Sixteen-year-old Lagavulin was a religious experience unto itself, and there it was on the top shelf of the racked and stacked liquor, just at eye level.

Jonathan settled for the proffered coffee.

“Please have a seat,” said Father Perón, gesturing with an open palm to a wooden chair that might have been part of a dining room set in a different world. “Make yourself comfortable, and then tell me the rest.”

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. Everyone 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.”