Chapter Four

Cristián surprised Daniel by hugging him hard. When the younger man stepped back, he wore a huge grin. “Danny, I can’t believe it.”

“Daniel, you snot-nosed kid,” Daniel growled, although he wanted to grin like an idiot, too. “Damn, you’ve gotten tall while I wasn’t looking.”

“I was fourteen, last time you looked,” Cristián pointed out. He waved toward the stairs that led up to the main floor of the house. “Mom is in the kitchen. Come and say hello.” He pushed his glasses back up his nose and turned and climbed the stairs three at a time. Cristián had the long legs the whole Peña family were blessed with.

Daniel eased the heavy pack off his shoulders, then shrugged off the flak jacket. He transferred the Glock to his thigh pocket and removed the holster. Isabela Peña didn’t like guns in her kitchen. He wouldn’t leave it anywhere he couldn’t reach it, though.

His smile kept threatening to break out. Just standing in the front hallway of this house brought back vivid memories of living here. Fighting with Duardo. Teasing the girls. Giving Cristián a hard time whenever the opportunity arose, which wasn’t often because Cristián had always been smarter than everyone else, even at ten years old.

Daniel climbed the stairs. When the third one creaked as it always had, his heart squeezed in remembrance.

Isabela waited at the top of the stairs. She wrapped her arms around him, her eyes glittering with tears. “We thought you were dead,” she said brokenly.

“Just one of my nine lives,” Daniel told her. She was as tall and as slender as he remembered, although the gray in her hair was new. Had he contributed to that? He cut the thought off, as Olivia’s voice whispered in his memory. You’re not the terrible person you think you are.

Olivia. His wife. He paused for a fraction of a second to savor the fact. While hiking to Pascuallita from the coast where the boat had dropped him, even while he’d dealt with a pair of Insurrectos he’d come across, the memory of Olivia—her warmth, the scent of her hair and that she had committed to him irrevocably—kept him warm and his inner core bubbling with what he had only in hindsight recognized as pure happiness.

Daniel held Isabela at arm’s length. “It is so good to be here.”

Isabela gave him a tremulous smile and dashed her hand across her eyes. She sniffed. “Say hello to everyone else.” She lifted her chin, indicating something behind him.

Daniel turned and was almost knocked off his feet as Pía Isabela slammed into him. Her arms went around his neck. “Daniel! You’re really here!”

Trini Juanita stood back, although she was smiling and her cheeks were wet. Daniel held his arm out and she stepped into it, just like that, with no hesitation or distaste. He pressed his cheek against the top of her head and his heart hurt.

This was happiness, too, he realized.

He caught Cristián’s gaze over the top of the two girls’ heads. Cristián was smiling, too. Only, as Daniel’s gaze met his, his smile faded.

“Dinner!” Isabela declared from behind him and Daniel’s stomach rumbled.

* * * * *

They sat at the table for many hours, not because the meal lasted that long, but because there was so much to catch up on. When Isabela pulled yet another bottle of mescal from the cupboard and cracked the seal, Daniel realized how late it was. He also realized with a jolt of surprise that he had been doing most of the talking.

He hadn’t realized how cut off from affairs Pascuallita—and most of Vistaria—was. Cristián’s Facebook group gave them nominal information. Even though communication was two-way, using the open code the group provided, Duardo and Téra had been spare in personal news.

Daniel understood that wariness. Every code could be broken, given enough time and information. If the Insurrectos figured out the group’s wrestling fan code, then everything Téra and Duardo shared would lead the Insurrectos directly back to this rambling old house.

Duardo’s marriage was a surprise to them, although it seemed to Daniel it wasn’t the staggering shock for them that it had been to him. He related the meeting between him and Duardo on the beach at Baha Coralina five nights ago, when Duardo had laid him flat on his back.

He laughed when he realized the women in the room were disappointed he couldn’t report on the wedding itself, as he hadn’t been there. Their disappointment evaporated when he told them Minnie was pregnant.

“I suppose you’re still playing the field, Daniel,” Isabela said, pouring him another glassful of mescal.

“Not anymore,” Daniel said.

Everyone looked at him.

“You’ve found someone,” Isabela said quietly. “I’m so pleased.”

“Who is she?” Cristián asked and sipped his tea. He hadn’t touched the mescal at all.

“My wife,” Daniel said and his pride in being able to say that swelled in his chest.

This time, the surprise in the room was unanimous.

Then all three women broke out in cries of protest and delight, demanding details, details!

Daniel told them everything he could about Olivia, except for the areas that must remain covert. Everyone knew about the diplomatic hostages that Serrano had been holding at the White Sands, because Mexican and US TV had been reporting on it since the news broke.

It was becoming easier and easier to share things about himself. No one seemed to be in a hurry to shut him up, either. They were absorbing everything he told them with rapt attention.

“And the wedding?” Trini prompted.

“Yesterday,” Daniel told them.

Isabela looked horrified. “You married her and left her at the altar to come here?”

“There was no altar to leave her at. Besides, Olivia is in Washington by now. Nicolás Escobedo made her Ambassador to the United States five minutes after I kissed her. She is busier than me.”

Isabela patted his hand. “I’m happy that you’re happy, Danny.”

He winced at the nickname, then let it go. “Me, too,” he said and drank.

Cristián sipped his tea with a thoughtful expression.

* * * * *

After the girls yawned mightily and wended their way upstairs and Isabela kissed his cheek and went to bed herself, Daniel pulled the bottle of mescal closer and poured himself another. He tapped the dregs out of one of the girls’ glasses and poured a second shot, which he pushed across to Cristián.

“Drink,” he said shortly. He considered switching to English for the greater privacy it would give them, but Cristián’s English was weak and he was already stressed.

Cristián shook his head. “I need to stay sober.”

“You’re wound up far too tight, little brother. One shot isn’t going to hurt. There are no Insurrectos for miles.”

“They’re parked right here in downtown Pascuallita,” Cristián pointed out.

“And I guarantee they’re drunker than you by now,” Daniel said. “Even the ones on duty. Serrano knows nothing about discipline. Relax. You’ll give yourself an embolism if you don’t let go now and again.”

Cristián curled his fingers around the glass. “I can’t afford to let go.” His tone was harsh. He sounded much older than he was. “There’s only me and because of Duardo, we’re all high on the Insurrecto wanted list.”

Daniel studied him, noting the shadows under his eyes that the frames of his glasses nearly disguised, the thinness in his cheeks and the tension in his shoulders. “How long is it since you got any decent sleep?”

“Sleep?” Cristián laughed hollowly.

Daniel picked up the glass that sat inside Cristián’s curled fingers and put it up against his mouth. “Drink.”

Cristián took the shot and swallowed, then shuddered. Daniel poured him another one and pushed the glass toward him. “Go on, that one, too.”

This time, Cristián didn’t protest. He tossed the shot back and hissed.

Daniel curled his hand around the neck of the bottle. Even though it was the second bottle, he had avoided drinking more than his share of the stuff all night. Despite his airy assurances to Cristián, he also wanted to keep his head clear. A few shots wouldn’t slow him down and he did consider the danger of an Insurrecto raid on this house a minimal one. No one had seen him arrive at the house and he had taken the back route into town, up through the hills and down to the house. The chances that anyone had seen him were negligible.

So he poured himself the final shot for the night and put the bottle in front of Cristián. “You can have the rest.” He raised his hand as Cristián opened his mouth to protest. “I’ll stay on point for the night. You need to get some serious sleep.”

Cristián bit his lip. “I have to check for messages. Secure the house.”

“There won’t be any message on-line,” Daniel told him. “I brought them all with me. And I can secure the house. Go on, drink.”

Cristián poured another shot but didn’t drink it straight away. “What messages?”

Daniel heard the trepidation in his voice. “You’ve been doing a magnificent job, kid,” he assured him. “Only, the Facebook thing is as insecure as the rest of the Internet. It won’t last. Eventually, the Insurrectos will figure out they’re the IWU. Then your security will be gone. It’s time to set up something more secure.”

Cristián frowned. “Unless you’ve got a hard-wired phone line between here and Acapulco, then nothing is secure. Phones can be tapped and traced. Radio is even worse. Anyone with a scanner can pick up the broadcast.”

Daniel shook his head. “Advanced technology isn’t going to do it. In my pack, I have a radio transmitter. It’s small, it’s old, but it works. Do you know Morse Code at all?”

Cristián’s eyes widened. “Morse!” he exclaimed and reached for the glass. He wasn’t aware of the instinctive reach for fortification. “That’s…that’s…”

“It’s a throwback,” Daniel agreed. “I don’t think anyone has seriously used it since the Second World War. It works, though.” He pulled the little code book from his shirt pocket and tossed it so it landed in front of Cristián.

Cristián flipped through it curiously, a fine line between his brows. The code book had been written by the geeky Rubén Rey, who had run off copies of it on the printer in Calli’s office, behind a locked door with an armed guard standing with his back to it. It was held together with staples and had a blank cover made from a manila folder, which had been laminated to make it stiff and waterproof. The whole booklet was two-and-a-half inches across, three inches tall and a quarter inch thick. It would tuck away anywhere.

“I guess I’d better learn Morse,” Cristián said, peering at the pages.

“You’ll pick it up,” Daniel assured him. “You choose a code set. It doesn’t matter which one, as long as you don’t use the same one each time. Pick them as randomly as you can. The first thing you transmit, once you’ve received acknowledgement, is the code’s page. Then you send the coded message. Also, translate the basic message to English before you encode it.”

“My English is not so hot,” Cristián pointed out.

“Trini’s is pretty good. She can help you. It doesn’t have to be perfect. Using English is an added layer of protection. The Insurrectos will blow all their energy trying to spot patterns in Spanish, not English, and that will slow them down a lot.”

“You talk like the Insurrectos will figure out the code.”

“They will. Anyone can figure out codes, given time, computing power and enough coded messages to work with,” Daniel told him. “All you can do is make it complex enough and random enough to get some use out of the code.” He pointed to the book. “Before that is too old and too used, you’ll get a fresh set of codes. Don’t ask me how, because no one is planning that far ahead. We’ll figure that out when the time comes.”

“You could always bring it yourself,” Cristián pointed out. “Mom would love that.”

Daniel ignored the warm feeling Cristián’s observation generated. “Anyway,” he said, “that code book is of the highest security. You find somewhere in the house to hide it. Somewhere no one will ever stumble over it.”

“What if the Insurrectos raid?” Cristián asked. “What if they find it, anyway?”

“If they don’t throw you into the Pascuallita holding cells straight away, then you send a clear, uncoded message that says ‘Four eyes out.’”

Cristián winced at the nickname. “Then you change codebooks?”

Daniel nodded. “Only, that’s the optimistic version. You realize that, don’t you?”

Cristián swallowed. “What’s the realistic version?”

“If the Insurrectos raid and find the code book, they’ll shoot you on the spot as a Loyalist spy.” He gave him a moment to absorb that. “This is the big leagues, Cristián. If you don’t want to play, now is the time to say so.”

Christian stared at the blank cover of the book. Then he looked up at him. His jaw was set. “No, I’ll do it.”

Daniel gave him a small smile. “I knew you would.” He picked up the bottle and filled Cristián’s glass. “A toast. Then you get to sleep.” He picked up his own glass and held it out.

Cristián tapped his glass then tossed back the mescal with another grimace. “You expect me to sleep after talking about summary executions?”

“We’re all under a death threat,” Daniel said gently. “While the Insurrectos control Vistaria and for as long as they think the Loyalists are a real threat, they will shoot and kill anyone they think is against them.”

“That’s a long list,” Cristián said. “I’ve heard the talk in town. No one is a genuine Insurrecto supporter.” He hesitated. “How much longer do you think this war will last? When will Nicolás Escobedo make his move?”

The standard ‘none of your business’ response rose to his lips. Daniel repressed it. Cristián was family. He spoke candidly. “Nick is a smart man. He knows that after the White Sands thing, the Loyalists have momentum and the good will of the rest of the world on their side. He won’t let that evaporate by sitting on his ass. As for when and how, I don’t know and wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

Cristián nodded. “I suppose that’s fair.”

“It’s safer,” Daniel amended. “The Insurrectos are on their back foot for the first time since the revolution broke out. They’re frustrated and probably scared, too. Fear makes cornered men dangerous. Things will get rocky now.”

Cristián got to his feet. “It’s good to have you home, Daniel. Even if you do arrive with bad news.” He stretched. “I’ll check my mail, then go to bed.”

Daniel cocked his head, studying him. “You’re falling asleep on your feet, but you’re going to check your email, anyway? Who is she?”

Faint pink tinged Cristián’s cheeks. “I don’t know her real name. We use phony IDs and IP masks.”

“Someone on Vistaria?” Daniel asked, concerned. It wouldn’t be the first time a spy had been brought out into the open because he couldn’t keep it in his pants. Email was a new wrinkle, but that was just the medium.

From Cristián’s sudden awkwardness, Daniel guessed he had skin in the game.

“I don’t know where she is, although I suspect it’s the States,” Cristián said. “Her Spanish slips. A lot.”

“So…” Daniel said. “Not only do you not know her real name or where she is, but you don’t know she’s female, either.”

Cristián’s whole face turned red. “She’s a she,” he said hastily.

“You’re in that deep, huh?” Daniel sat up straighter. “You have to pull the plug on it.”

Cristián swallowed. “But…”

“No, I know you think you know her inside and out, only you don’t. You can’t afford the risk, Cristián. Stop talking to her.”

“Okay. I’ll send her an email. Tell her we have to stop for a while.”

“No,” Daniel said flatly. “No final farewell. No notice. No more contact at all. The Internet is a wide open platform that anyone can access and that includes the Insurrectos. Promise me, Cristián, or I’ll dig up the cable line to the house and cut it myself. No Internet. No email.”

Cristián hung his head.

“If she’s the real thing,” Daniel added, “then you can catch up with her once the war is done. I’ll be the first to throw rice for you. Only, you have to make the cut now.” He added the kicker. “You’re putting her at risk by talking to her.”

Cristián lifted his chin and stared at him. “I’m nobody,” he said. “The Insurrectos don’t care who I’m chatting with.”

“You’re the primary communications hub for the Loyalist war effort. If you think the Insurrectos don’t care who you are, you’re delusional. If they thought grabbing your girl and threatening to shoot her through the temple or rape her into unconsciousness would bring you out into the open where they can identify you, they’d do it without a quiver.”

Cristián swallowed. “No more Internet, then.” His voice was weak.

“Sorry, kid.”

Cristián shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve thought it through until now, with you here and code books and…and…”

“You’re a spy,” Daniel said. “You get all the high risks, the sleepless nights, the sick feeling that never goes away. You get none of the girls, the fast cars, or the glamor. That’s just in the movies.”

Cristián grimaced. “Only, you did. You got the girl.”

Daniel sighed. “For about five minutes, yes.” He picked up the bottle and poured himself one last shot. “I have no idea when I’ll see Olivia again.” If I do at all, he added mentally. He didn’t say it aloud. Cristián was already completely unnerved.

* * * * *

The Secret Service agents took Nick and Olivia to the Willard Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue, which wasn’t the hotel Minnie had booked for them. The suite they were escorted into had two bedrooms and an elegant sitting room between. Their luggage, as promised, sat neatly next to each of the bedroom doors.

A man with iron-gray hair and an upright, square bearing sat on the sofa. He wore a handmade suit and his Italian loafers were planted on the carpet. He didn’t get up when they walked in. The two guards on either side of him walked to the door, stepped out and shut it behind them.

“Hello, Dad,” Olivia said. “I might have known you’d arrange everything to suit yourself. You’ve been doing it all your life.”

Nick walked over to the man. “Colonel Davenport. Was the hotel switch for your convenience?”

“I’m afraid so,” Davenport said, getting to his feet. He thrust out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Señor Escobedo.”

Nick shook his hand while Olivia settled herself on the club chair in front of the sofa, kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet up under her. “The Willard is used to hustling high-profile politicians through the service corridors,” she said dryly.

“Olivia, honey,” her father chided her. He leaned over and kissed her temple. “I’m so pleased to see you.” He picked up her arm and examined the bandaged fingers. “How bad is it?”

“They tell me I’ll lose the nails on two fingers. They don’t know if they’ll grow back.”

He winced and straightened up, letting her wrist go. “I’d say something about barbarians, only this is the world we live in.” He turned back to Nick. “Please sit down.”

Olivia could feel the old, familiar ache in the chest she got whenever she had to deal with her father. “We can’t visit the White House officially,” she said. “Are you here in your capacity as Chief of Staff?”

“What do you mean, ‘we’?” her father asked and settled back on the sofa. Nick took the other club chair. “Your privileges haven’t been revoked. You can visit me any time you want.”

“I seriously doubt that,” Olivia told him. “Or has White House security relaxed their tolerance for foreign nationals wandering the halls?”

She could see he understood what she was implying by the way his eyes narrowed. “You’ve given up your United States citizenship?”

“And your name, too.”

Nick took in a breath. “Perhaps I should leave you two alone for a while and let you catch up.”

“No, please stay, Nick,” Olivia told him. “You’re family now. You should get to know my father properly.” She looked back at her father, who had shown no surprise at her reference to Nick as family. How much did he already know? “I am Señora Castellano now. I am also the Vistarian Ambassador to the United States.”

“For a faction that has no control over the country they call theirs,” her father shot back. “Really, Olivia, can we at least be civilized? You said…” He glanced at Nick. “When you made that call from Vistaria, you said you would work to find a way for us to at least speak to each other once more. I have met you more than halfway. This…” he waved his hand at the room in general, “is more than any non-recognized nation would receive from the United States.”

“We appreciate your gesture of good will,” Nick said smoothly. “And I appreciate the opportunity to speak with you, even if it is not in an official capacity.”

Olivia could almost see her father switch mental gears. The politician was piloting, now. “The United States and I are grateful for everything the Loyalists have done to protect our citizens,” he told Nick. “Although there is the matter of three Blackhawk helicopters that we would like back.”

“You should take that up with my civilian and military quarter-masters, through normal channels,” Nick replied just as blandly. “I am not aware of what happened to the Blackhawks after the raid on the White Sands. I was busy arranging transport to take your daughter to Acapulco for medical treatment.”

Nick was in effect saying, “I made your daughter a priority and you should, too.”

Her father sighed. “I don’t care about the choppers either. As this is the most official meeting you’ll get from anyone in the White House, it is my duty to speak of them. Nicolás…may I call you Nicolás?”

“Nick, preferably,” Nick said easily, although Olivia could tell he hadn’t dropped his mental guard.

“Nick, then. Thank you. Your arrival in Washington puts the White House in an awkward position. You are not in control of Vistaria.”

“Yet,” Nick said flatly. “That will change. Soon.”

“You sound sure of yourself.”

“I know the quality of the men in my army. I know the Insurrectos are recalculating their position and double-guessing ours, after the raid. Serrano is wondering if we have the silent support of the United States, a possibility that will keep him awake at nights. His spies would have told him by now I am in the States. Depending on how entrenched his intelligence system is, in the next few hours he will learn that you and I met, too. That will give Serrano nightmares.” Nick’s smile was predatory.

Her father gave a small smile back. “It is because of your assistance with the White Sands exercise that I am here at all. That, and my daughter, of course,” he tacked on.

Olivia shook her head in wonder. He hadn’t changed at all.

“However,” Davenport continued, “you should not consider the goodwill you have generated to be in endless supply. There is only so much we can do unofficially.” He hesitated. “Unless the situation changes, of course.”

Nick didn’t twitch in reaction. “Isn’t it unusual for the United States to be hanging back and waiting for a cue from another country? Mexico is not considered to be a world leader.”

“Mexico understands your nation’s strengths and weaknesses far better than we do,” her father replied. “If they feel it prudent to acknowledge your Loyalists and open diplomatic dialogue, that would be the best indication to us that your efforts will bear fruit.”

It was diplomatic double-speak, full of passive verbs and indirect references. Olivia sighed mentally.

Nick shook his head. “Mexico is waiting for you to acknowledge us officially. They won’t move until you do.”

Callan Davenport smiled. It was a dry expression. “A genuine Mexican standoff,” he mused. “You do have a problem, don’t you?”

“Not necessarily,” Nick said, his tone as stiff as her father’s smile. “We’re not shooting at either Mexico or the United States. Your real standoff is with the Insurrectos. If you’re looking for a sign of weakness, Colonel, then consider this—the first person to shoot in a genuine Mexican standoff is the loser, because the third person can fire at leisure.”

“An interesting analogy,” her father replied and for the first time, Olivia saw something other than diplomatic indifference in his eyes. His attention had been pricked. “Are you saying the Insurrectos shot first?”

“They haven’t shot their bolt yet,” Nick said. “However, we know Serrano much better than the Mexicans do. Serrano will shoot first. He won’t be able to help himself. He has sloppy impulse control. He’ll go off half-cocked and he’ll do it soon.”

“That’s what you’re waiting for, isn’t it?” her father asked sharply.

Nick inclined his head in an almost regal nod. “That is what I am waiting for,” he confirmed. “Then I’ll drive a stake through the weakness he reveals. I’ll drive it right through the weakness and into his heart.”

Olivia detected a faint air of admiration from her father. She didn’t blame him. She was impressed, too.