Pascual Guzman cleared his throat in an obvious manner. “Faustino, if he’s a reporter . . .”
“Mr. Rook is more than that. A journalist. Which means he can be trusted. May I trust you not to reveal my secrets if I tell you about them, how is it said, off the record?”
Rook thought it over. “Sure, not for publication.”
“Pascual and his heroic group at Justicia a Garda saved me from certain death. I was the target of a contract killer in prison—that was the man with the blade—and more were being recruited. As you know a rescue like mine was logistically complicated and quite expensive. Se?or Martinez, who is a man of sincere reform, raised funds here in New York to mount human rights legal efforts in Colombia, as well as to gain safe passage for me here to my glorious exile.” He chuckled and gestured to the basement he was living in.
“When did you get here?”
“Three weeks ago. I arrived in New Jersey after departing in a wooden cargo crate on a ship from Buenaventura, you know the place?” Rook nodded and thought of his tip from T-Rex in Colombia about the secret shipment sent to Guzman from there. But the secret shipment wasn’t C4, after all—it was Faustino Velez Arango! “As confining and dismal as my basement life appears, it is a paradise compared to what I left. And I have been much helped by openhearted New Yorkers, especially the pastor and parishioners of one of your churches.”
He reached into his shirt collar and pulled out a large religious medal on a thin metal chain. “This is St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers. Just last Monday a wonderful man, a priest who championed our cause, came here just to give this to me.” The author became drawn, creases appeared on his forehead. “I understand the poor man has since died, but what a kind gesture, don’t you think?”
“Father Graf gave that to you Monday?” Rook knew it had to be soon after the priest met Horst Meuller at his agent’s.
“Sí. The padre, he said to me, ‘It is the perfect medal for hiding.’ ”
Rook didn’t speak. He just repeated those words in his head as he watched the medal swing on its chain. His cell phone buzzed, startling him. It was Heat. “May I take this? It’s my girlfriend and I know it’s important. . . . Look, I won’t say where I am.”
Martinez and Guzman shook no, but Velez Arango overruled them. “All right, but use the speakerphone.”
Rook answered just before she dropped to voice mail. “Hi, you,” he said.
Nikki said, “Took you long enough. Where are you?”
Martinez moved a step closer. “You first,” said Rook, and Martinez backed off a hair.
“Back at Grand Central trying to get a cab. Ossining was big, Rook. Huge.” He was afraid to say the wrong thing in such a pressure situation, and as he thought, she said, “Rook, are you OK?”
“Yeah, just eager to talk to you. But let’s do it in person.”
“Truly, this is going to blow you away. Shall I come to you? Are you still following your money?” There was a rustling sound and she groaned. “Hey, what are you—?” Nikki started to scream.
And then her phone went dead.
EIGHTEEN
Rook bolted to his feet and finger stabbed the face of his phone, desperate to launch a callback. Heat’s cell rang and rang as he took a step toward the stairs. Guzman blocked him. “Don’t,” said Rook, “I have to go.” By then he was getting voice mail, “Nikki, it’s me, call back, OK? Let me know what’s happening. Soon as you can.”
“Nikki . . .” Pascual Guzman sampled the name aloud and turned to Martinez. “I thought I knew her voice. That was the police detective who called me in.”
“Me, too,” Martinez said as he shouldered up to Guzman. Rook tried to slide around the pair, but Martinez pressed the palm of his wide, manicured hand flat on his chest and stopped him.
“Guys, I need to go help her, come on.”