Trader of Secrets: A Paul Madriani Novel

by Steve Martini

  Raji didn’t waste any time. He quickly saved the notes and ejected the two drives. As soon as he was done, he pulled the flash drive from the USB port in the side of the machine. Then he scratched himself under the lapel one more time. When his hand came out, it was empty.

  He took off his glasses, folded them, slipped them into the case, and put it in the drawer of the nightstand next to the bed. Then he took off his jacket and hung it up.

  Raji kicked himself for not thinking ahead. Instead of bringing the flash drive, he should have tucked away one of the new international wireless broadband devices. They used cell band phone frequencies for connection to the Internet. They were not much bigger than a thumb drive and could easily be hidden in the lapel of his coat. While the connection was slower than high-speed Internet, he could have attached the software along with his notes to an e-mail. The entire package would have been on its way and out of their grasp within a few minutes. Fareed would have been free to throw a chair through the window and if need be, jump for it.

  Instead he was playing for time, hoping for more information and praying that somehow he would find a way to get it out.

  Chapter

  Thirty-One

  Just after three in the afternoon Bill Britain, head of Counterterrorism, knocked on the door to Thorpe’s office.

  “Come in.”

  The second Britain opened the door Thorpe looked up from his desk and said: “Did you get ahold of Madriani?”

  “I did.”

  Thorpe issued a sigh of relief and leaned back in his chair.

  “But he wasn’t easy to find,” said Britain.

  Thorpe was relieved. He was also angry and frustrated with the lawyer and his two companions. “How the hell did they get away from our people?”

  “I don’t know,” said Britain. “I didn’t want to tell them they’d been under surveillance.”

  “Probably just as well.” Thorpe had taken a huge risk by letting them go. If anything happened to them, he would be answering questions for the next several years. They had lied to him about going to San Diego on business, though Thorpe knew from the inception that the story was a ruse. The FBI had used them as bait to try to trap Liquida. This was something absolutely forbidden, using civilians as possible targets. Thorpe had never done it before. He did it now only because of the importance placed on the matter by the White House. Using them as bait was a long shot. It failed. Now Thorpe wanted them back.

  Instead, Madriani had slipped the bonds of the FBI’s operation in Bangkok. He had skipped out of Thailand, sending Thorpe an e-mail as if it were a picture postcard, telling him they were on their way to Paris. Worse yet, they claimed to be hot on Liquida’s trail. Then in all the excitement, they failed to give Thorpe the name of the hotel where they were staying in Paris. Thorpe handed the crisis off to Britain, who had been up half the night trying to run them down.

  “Got ahold of Madriani at his hotel early this morning,” said Britain.

  “I hope you woke him up,” said Thorpe.

  “It was early afternoon their time,” said Britain.

  “Too bad.”

  “The good news is they’re OK.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I talked to all three of them.”

  “I have half a mind to have them picked up. The question is, how? We’d have to cut paper to satisfy the French authorities, and I don’t have any charges. Did you tell them to get their asses back over here now?”

  “I did.”

  “And what did they say?”

  “Madriani wants us to send in the troops,” said Britain. “He claims Liquida is booked into a hotel just down the street from the one they’re staying in. A place called Hotel Saint-Jacques.”

  “That’s what he said in the e-mail,” said Thorpe. “Sit down.”

  Britain took a seat. “I don’t think they’re in any danger.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I think they’re chasing rainbows,” said Britain. “When I pressed Madriani over the phone, asked him whether they’d actually seen Liquida, he said no. Though he probably wouldn’t know what he looks like.”

  “You’re wrong,” said Thorpe. “Madriani has seen him, at least we think so, at least once, in Costa Rica a little over a year ago.”

  “So be it,” said Britain. “He admitted they never saw him in Thailand or in Paris. But he’s sure he’s there.”

  “How does he know?”

  “All the stuff he told us in the e-mail, except none of it pans out,” said Britain. “I had our people in Bangkok go back out and check the office in Pattaya, just in case there was something to the lead Madriani gave us, the thing about Waters of Death.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The embassy wasn’t particularly happy to be doing this. Seems they’re still putting out fires with the Pattaya police, but they did it.”

  “And?”

  “There is nothing anywhere in that office referencing Waters of Death, or anything close to it,” said Britain. “Just a lot of filing cabinets. We also ran a check on the telephone messaging system, the one Madriani told us about. It does exist.”

  “Well, that’s something,” said Thorpe.

  “Yes, but there’s nothing on it. At least not using the code he gave us. I had our people dial in, and according to them, the voice on the tape said there were no messages. There was no reference to anything called WOD or any mention of a hotel in Paris. You want my opinion, I think Madriani and his pals are smoking dope.”

  “Could be somebody erased the message,” said Thorpe.

  “It’s possible,” said Britain. “But if I had to guess, I’d say Madriani is looking in all the wrong places.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This.” Britain slid a file across the desk. “It came in yesterday morning, a report from our legat in Dubai. Take a look at the photocopy of the letter on top.”

  Thorpe opened the file and read. A few seconds later he looked up: “Did anybody check it out?”

  Britain nodded. “We got a copy of the sealed indictment on Liquida and wired it over to our embassy in Dubai late yesterday. Our agents got the local authorities—including some armed military, they weren’t taking any chances—to visit the Dubai Beach Resort. The Spaniard under the passport checked out four days ago.”

  “Was it him?”

  “Take a look underneath the letter,” said Britain. “There’s a copy of the passport photo from the front desk at the hotel. The quality of the copy is not great, but you can judge for yourself.”

  Many hotels overseas are required by law to copy the passports, the entry stamp, and the photo page of all foreign registered guests.

  Thorpe looked at the photograph and compared it to the sketch of Liquida from the FBI’s wanted poster, a copy of which was also inside the file. He took out a magnifying glass from the center drawer of his desk and looked at the photo more closely and back to the sketch. “I’d say it’s a pretty fair likeness. Have we checked with Spanish immigration?”

  “The embassy in Madrid checked overnight. We’re waiting for an answer back.”

  “Probably stolen or lost.”

  “And of course he wasn’t about to leave any forwarding address at the hotel in Dubai,” said Britain.

  “So he’s either still in the Emirates or he’s left the country.”

  “Our people from the embassy are checking with their immigration department as we speak.”

  “Knowing Liquida, he probably has another passport, in which case he could be long gone and we wouldn’t know it,” said Thorpe.

  “No way to know until we hear back from immigration. In the meantime, what do you want me to do about Madriani? You want me to have somebody from the Paris embassy go babysit?” said Britain.

  Thorpe thought about it for a moment. “If Liquida was in Dubai four days ago, I suppose it’s possible he could have flown on to Paris or . . . via Thailand to Paris. But you say none of the information Madria
ni gave us regarding Liquida’s connections to Thailand panned out?”

  “Correct. After I hung up from him this morning, I got the report back from Bangkok,” said Britain. “None of the information in Madriani’s original e-mail to you checked out.”

  “Did you call him back?”

  “I tried. There was no answer in either of the rooms. They must be out.”

  “And yet Madriani claims to be tracking Liquida from Thailand to Paris.” Thorpe looked across the desk at Britain.

  “That’s what he says, but he admits he has absolutely no visual ID on Liquida, nothing in Thailand or in Paris. That much is clear.”

  “So it sounds like he’s working on faith,” said Thorpe.

  “Liquida could be on the other side of the moon based on what we know from Madriani,” said Britain.

  “We can’t afford to waste any more time,” said Thorpe. “Listen, have my secretary prepare an e-mail. Tell her to send it out over my name. Send it to Madriani. Use the e-mail address he used to send his last message to me. Tell him that if he and his two friends are not back here in D.C. within forty-eight hours, I’m going to put their names and passport numbers on the international no-fly list. Tell him that the only way home after that will be on a MATS flight, military air transport, direct to Andrews Air Force Base. They can come back bundled up like freight. Let’s see if that puts a kink in their chain.”

  Chapter

  Thirty-Two

  I assume that’s not him,” says Joselyn.

  I open my eyes. A fat guy with a bald head has just come out of the front door to the Hotel Saint-Jacques.

  “No.” I start to close my eyes again.

  “You’re going to have to stay awake if we’re going to do this,” she tells me.

  “Give me a break. I got almost no sleep last night.” With thoughts of Liquida running through my head, I kept wondering why the FBI hadn’t sent someone to meet us.

  “That’s not my fault,” says Joselyn. “I don’t know what he looks like. You do.”

  It’s late afternoon. Joselyn and I are camped in the front seat of a small black Renault. We rented it through the front desk at our hotel this morning. She is behind the wheel. I’m in the passenger seat. We are parked across the street and about a half block down from the front entrance to the Hotel Saint-Jacques.

  It is a European-style boutique inn with a single entrance on the main street shaded by a maroon canvas awning. There is not a lot of foot traffic in or out. On the corner it looks as if there is an attached restaurant or bar.

  We are at a loss to figure out how to confirm whether Liquida has checked into the hotel or not. It would be senseless to call the front desk, since it is certain he would never register under the name Liquida. Joselyn called looking for the other name left on the Thailand message system—the name “Bruno.” The desk told her there was no one there, either under the Christian name or surname of Bruno. We’re batting zero for two.

  “Tell me what he looks like.” Joselyn is talking about Liquida.

  “He’s got black hair.” My eyes are closed again, but I can see him. “You have to remember it was more than a year ago. His hair looked like it might have been slicked down. His face is pockmarked. Childhood acne would be my guess.” The minute I say it the mental image is blocked. The concept of Liquida as a child is a non sequitur, like describing Satan when he was a kid.

  “How tall is he?”

  “I’m guessing average build, but I don’t really know. He was seated behind the wheel of a car when I saw him. It was quick, nighttime, and I only got a glimpse. But I won’t forget the face.”

  “Why not?”

  “He was dead in the eyes, if you know what I mean.”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “How do I explain it? Ever seen any mug shots?”

  “A few.”

  “Luciano and Dillinger, you look at their eyes?”

  “Yes.”

  “That doesn’t cut it, not with Liquida. I’ve thought about it. The only picture I can ever recall seeing that comes close is Dillinger’s postmortem shot, the one they took after the feds shot him. The lids half open but no spark of life whatever. That’s Liquida.”

  “Now you’re freaking me out,” she says. “Could it be that’s why you couldn’t sleep last night?”

  “You asked.”

  “OK. So tell me more.”

  “That’s it.”

  “No, you said his eyes were dead—why, what’s your theory?”

  “It’s no theory. Go to San Quentin, take a look through the yearbook. You can always tell the ones who like to kill from the rest. You don’t need any training. You can see it in their eyes. Like a vampire looking in a mirror. There’s nothing there. I’m not just talking about the nutcases in the adjustment center. I mean the ones who crave killing. The ones who, if you let them out, will kill again before sundown, not because conditions force them, but because they’re addicted. It’s their narcotic of choice.”

  “You really think there are people like that?” Joselyn is a romantic. She likes to believe that wherever there is life, there is some goodness.

  “I know there are. And Liquida is hooked. He may not be a bloodsucker, but he mainlines on death. Look in his eyes and you’ll get a glassy, dead stare, as if whoever made him forgot to light the candles. If his pupils are moving, it’s only because he’s measuring you for a box, or a fifty-gallon drum if he can fold you up neatly enough to fit.”

  “Now I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight.”

  “If you see him, you’ll recognize him. Trust me. So maybe I can catch a few winks now.”

  She waits about ten seconds. “I don’t get it,” says Joselyn. “We send a message to Thorpe, tell the FBI what we found, and we get nothing. You would think they have connections in Paris. The law enforcement fraternity. Why don’t they call somebody with the Paris police and have them come out?”

  “Probably for the same reason we don’t.”

  “Why is that?” she asks.

  “There’s no hard evidence that Liquida’s inside. Britain, Thorpe’s man on the phone—the only thing he seemed to key on when we spoke was the fact that none of us—you, Harry, or I—have seen Liquida in the flesh. Not here and not in Thailand. The minute I told him we had no visual confirmation, he told me to drop it and get back to D.C.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us that back in the room?” says Joselyn.

  “Because I didn’t want you to lose hope.” I open my eyes long enough to wink at her. “If I tell Harry that, he’s gonna want to go back. And once we go back, that’s it. Thorpe’s not going to let me out of his sight again. And if you recall, Harry was not in favor of this trek to begin with. And don’t you go telling him what Britain said. There’s enough to deal with right now without having to do a pitched battle with Harry.”

  “Maybe he’s right,” says Joselyn.

  “You heard the voice on the tape. Tell me you don’t think Liquida’s inside that building.” I nod toward the hotel across the street. “He said he’d be in Paris Monday. That was yesterday.”

  “If in fact it was his voice,” says Joselyn.

  I look at her.

  “OK, so perhaps he’s there. We can’t prove it unless we see him.”

  “That’s why we’re sitting here.”

  “It is possible the FBI might know something we don’t.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” she says.

  “You’re starting to sound like Harry. Give them time. I am confident that Thorpe will come around the minute he hears Liquida’s voice on that tape.”

  “If you say so.”

  “What time does Harry spell us?” I ask.

  “Six o’clock, why?”

  “I need to call Sarah at the condo as soon as we get back to the room. I told her we’d be back in four days. Knowing my daughter, she’s going to be mad as hell.”

  Chapter

  Thirty-Three

  K
nock, don’t ring the bell,” she told him. “Herman’s trying to sleep.” Sarah hung up the phone and went to stand by the door. She waited until she heard the slight rap and then opened up.

  Adin was standing there.

  “Come on in.”

  “You’re sure it’s a good time? I mean if you’re busy . . .”

  “No, not at all. Herman is resting.”

  All of a sudden the dog started to bark.

  “Damn it! Or at least he was,” said Sarah.

  “Who is it?” Herman’s deep voice bellowed from somewhere down the hall.

  “It’s OK, Herman. It’s just a friend.”

  Bugsy started to bark again.

  “I’m gonna kill that dog,” she said.

  “Why don’t you bring him out?” said Adin.

  “Are you sure? He’s not terribly friendly around men. He tolerates Herman only because he’s in bed. He drove the visiting nurse, this young guy, right up against the wall in Herman’s room this morning. I had to go pull him off. That’s why he’s locked up.”

  “Go let him out,” said Hirst.

  “I’ll put him on a leash if you want to meet him.” Sarah headed down the hall. A few seconds later she came back with the Doberman on a heavy leash. There was a choke chain that looped around Bugsy’s neck. It tightened every time he pulled. Even with this the dog dragged her from the hallway out into the living room.

  “Put water wings on him and you could ski behind him,” said Adin. “He’s beautiful.”

  “He thinks so,” said Sarah.

  “Let him go.”

  “I don’t dare.”

  “Sooner or later we’re gonna have to meet,” said Adin.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Adin got down on one knee. “You can mop up the blood if I’m wrong, but I don’t think he’s going to attack me.”

  “It’s your funeral,” said Sarah. Gently she released the strain on the leash.