Guardian of Lies: A Paul Madriani Novel

by Steve Martini

  For the moment, Alim was walking a diplomatic tightrope. He could not afford to alienate the FARC, which had formed a trusting and loyal relationship with Nitikin. The Russian had lived with them in the jungle for decades. Still, each passing day saw Nitikin becoming more and more difficult to deal with. He continued in his refusal to assemble the device until his daughter was returned safely, under the protection of the FARC, to her home in Costa Rica. This was now becoming a problem, threatening to interrupt the time line for Alim’s mission. He could wait no longer. Fortunately the Mexican was now free for another assignment.

  “Tell him we have another job, this time in San José, Costa Rica.”

  The translator scribbled with a pencil on a pad.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “One other thing.” It was something that had been bothering Alim for some time now, one of those nagging loose ends. “Tell him that the digital camera he sent us from the agent Pike’s house was the wrong one. Tell him that according to the Russian’s daughter, the real camera may still have the original pictures in it, and the last time she saw it, it was at her house in San José. I want the camera and those pictures. Tell him not to contact us again until he has them. And here, copy this and send it to him.”

  Alim unfolded a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to the interpreter. It was the directions to Maricela Solaz’s house in San José. Alim had gotten this from Nitikin in preparation for sending her home, so that he could arrange to have the FARC make sure that the place was not under surveillance before she got there.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Harry and I hoof it toward the parking lot at the hospital and Harry’s car.

  “Make sure whoever we hire as Katia’s doctor has hospital privileges here,” I tell him. “We want a treating physician who has full access to all the facilities. Somebody who can keep an eye on her. Also, call the nurses’ registry. Set up a private nurse around the clock, three shifts, so somebody is in the room with her at all times. That way, if the feds try to question her at least we’ll know about it.”

  “That’s gonna be expensive,” says Harry.

  “That’s all right. We’ll negotiate the bill with Rhytag when we finish with him.”

  “I’ll see if I can get a female physician. Katia might communicate a little better,” says Harry, “and a nurse who can speak and write Spanish if I can find one. That way she can talk to her on a pad once she’s functioning again.”

  “Good idea. My biggest regret is that we never had time to press her for information concerning her grandfather. I thought I’d have more time,” I tell him.

  “Well, at least she’s not dead,” says Harry.

  “True. But she is unavailable, at least for the moment. If she can’t help us, we can’t help her.”

  “If she comes to tomorrow, she’s going to have one hell of a headache,” says Harry.

  “Be sure and stop by to see her.” I pull the cell phone from the holster on my belt as we walk. I fish the phone’s small, flat battery from my suit-coat pocket.

  “Where are you gonna be?” says Harry.

  “Depending on what time the flight arrives, probably in Costa Rica.”

  “What?”

  “Gimme a second.”

  Harry and I have been forced to pull the batteries from our cell phones. The things you learn from reading cases. We now know that the FBI can use cell phones as a remote bugging device. With a wiretap warrant they can order the service provider to switch on a phone without the owner’s knowledge, even if the power is turned off. They can activate the speaker on the phone and record private conversations, anything within earshot of the cell phone, yours or somebody else’s. They used the technique to take down the mob. What this means is that every one of us is constantly wearing a wire, whether we know it or not. The only protection is to jerk out the phone’s battery. What they say is true: you should always speak as if the world is listening.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Herman. He should be home packing for his flight this evening.”

  “You know you’re going to be broadcasting,” says Harry.

  “I know.” I punch the quick dial for Herman’s cell.

  It rings three times before the voice on the other end says, “Hello.”

  “Herman. It’s Paul.”

  “I know who it is. You need to talk, we should meet,” he says.

  “That’s all right. Are you packed?”

  He hesitates.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yeah, I heard you. I’m almost done,” he says.

  “Good. Listen, I need some help. First call and book me a ticket on the flight with you to Costa Rica this evening. There’ll be two of us going now instead of just you. What time does the flight leave?”

  There is silence on the other end. Harry is looking at me, bug eyed.

  “Herman. Did you hear me?”

  “Yeah, I heard you.” The edge to his voice tells me he’s pissed.

  “What time?”

  “Seven thirty. Is there anything more you need?” he says.

  I make him tell me the airline and flight number over the phone. Then I tell him to meet us at the office as soon as possible and to bring his bags because he won’t be going back to his apartment. We have one quick errand to run before leaving for the airport. I hang up and pluck the battery from my phone.

  “Okay, so what was that all about?” says Harry.

  “I wanted to give Rhytag’s people the airline and the time so they wouldn’t miss the flight,” I tell him.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “They’re going to have to lift the gate so Herman and I can get out of the country, and they’re only going to do that if they think I’m gonna lead them to Nitikin. We’re only going to get one bite at this. After that, none of us is getting out of the country. You can bet on it,” I tell him.

  I am assuming that the FBI already knows that Herman works for us. This would mean that they have a check on his passport number in the airline computers. The minute he shows his passport at the airline counter, the feds would get word as to where he’s going. They would call ahead and put a tail on him at the other end. Herman and I have already talked about this. He has with him an electronic device so he can locate and remove any tracking devices the government installs in his luggage or on his clothing. Knowing Herman, he will lose any tail in a nanosecond in the hurly-burly of a crowded street or market in downtown San José.

  “You think they have a hold on your passport?”

  “That’s my guess, either the feds, Templeton, or both. For the moment I’m not worried about Templeton. The last time I looked, Homeland Security and passport control belonged to the federal government.”

  “If Templeton has a hold and finds out you’re gone, the Dwarf is gonna go supernova,” says Harry.

  “Kiss him good-bye for me. You’re going to have to stay here and keep an eye on Katia. Make sure the feds don’t get to her. Until we know what’s going on and what her involvement may be, we’ve got to hold them at bay.”

  “What do you mean ‘we’?” says Harry. “You’re gonna be gone.”

  “You heard the doctor. There’s no sense in both of us sitting here holding her hand while Templeton hones all the rough edges off his case to kill her.”

  At this point we are invested heavily in Katia’s case, both emotionally and financially. We are past the point of no return.

  “The answers we need are in Costa Rica, on those photographs and somewhere in Colombia with her mother. One of us needs to go. The other needs to stay here and hold down the fort,” I tell him.

  “Fine. You stay. I’ll go,” says Harry.

  “You can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if you leave, and Templeton for some stupid reason decides to arrest me, who’s going to keep the feds away from Katia?”

  I can tell by the look on Harry’s face that while he may not like my answer, he has nothing to counter it. “Right!” He fumes.

  “Listen, I’ll be back in a week, a quick stop in Costa Rica to get the photographs. We’ll ditch Rhytag
’s federal bodyguard and on to Colombia. Depending on what we find out and what I see on those photos, I may be able to leave Herman to finish up alone, in which case I’ll be back sooner.”

  “In the meantime, I’ll be dodging pygmy darts from Templeton’s blowgun,” says Harry. “And I won’t even be able to complain to you because you’ll be in another hemisphere without a phone.”

  “Not necessarily. I may have a solution for that.”

  “What, tin cans and a string?” says Harry.

  “Something Herman told me about. It’s the errand I mentioned on the phone.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  It is a sinking feeling leaving Katia like this, alone and in trouble, thousands of miles from her home and family. But there seems to be no other choice. That the federal government now believes Katia to have been the target on the bus and the reason for the assault confirms what Harry and I already suspected. Whatever is playing in the background, the unanswered questions surrounding the Colombian photographs are central to Emerson Pike’s murder. Until we know what that is, it is impossible to adequately defend Katia on multiple charges of first-degree murder.

  Before leaving San Diego I placed a call to my daughter, Sarah, who is away at college, to tell her I would be gone but without mentioning where, that I might be unreachable for several days, and to stay in touch with Harry. She was filled with questions, but I couldn’t answer many of them over the phone. She reminds me so much of Katia, the compelling reason for my involvement in the case. I make a mental note to visit with Sarah when I get back.

  Herman snoozes in the seat next to me to the sound of the jet engines as we wing our way south. We are somewhere over the Gulf, two hours south of Houston, where we spent last night in a hotel before catching the early bird flight to Costa Rica.

  If there was a hold on my passport, there was no sign of it either from TSA or the airline at the gate prior to boarding. Herman and I waited for the usual announcement to line up and show passports before they opened the Jetway. Two airline clerks checked the names on our passports against the names on the boarding passes and initialed each boarding pass with a colored felt marker. Herman and I boarded without incident.

  We both saw what we believe to be two FBI agents just after getting on at Houston. The flight was full, not a seat to spare. They were closing the door when, at the last minute, two airline employees dressed in civilian clothes and packing scuffed-up black leather flight bags used their credentials to deadhead up front with the flight crew.

  Herman nudged me with his elbow as one of them asked the flight attendant for the passenger list. The man took a gander at the list, and then glanced down the aisle. He made eye contact with me just for an instant before he looked away and then handed the passenger list back to the attendant. The two agents waited for the airplane door to be closed and locked before they entered the compartment up front and sealed themselves in with the pilots.

  By now their colleagues back at the FBI’s San Diego field office should be going crazy. It was the errand we had to run before we left town, the one I mentioned to Herman on the phone. No doubt they followed us, Harry, Herman, and me, to the small electronics shop downtown, a place that Herman had originally told me about.

  Inside the shop, Harry and I purchased two new cell phones. These particular phones have a long name. They are called encrypted, unlocked, quad-band GSM cell phones. Along with the phones, I had one of our secretaries purchase two AT&T GSM chips, each programmed for international call coverage. We had the chips installed at the shop.

  The phones use encryption algorithms and code keys that are randomly generated. The keys are longer than the human genome and change with each phone call, making them impossible to decode even with the most massive supercomputers. There is no proprietary source key for the government to obtain and no back door that would allow a third party to unscramble a message. We are told that even the National Security Agency has been unable to decode them. It is for this reason that these particular phones are used by the Israeli military.

  You do have to wonder what the world is coming to when your own government can’t stick a pipe in your brain to suck out your thoughts.

  Harry has his phone tied to a shoelace hung around his neck. He says that if he has to, he will shower with it to keep it out of their hands.

  For the time being, mine is in my briefcase.

  Three hours into the flight, I am just beginning to doze when I notice the door to the flight deck open. A couple of seconds later, both of the deadheading airline employees step out to use the lavatory and close the flight-deck door behind them. One of them uses the restroom up in first class. The other takes the long walk down the aisle.

  As he approaches and then passes my seat, he gives me a good once-over, checking my computer, which is still open on the tray table in front of me. As I look up, he’s checking things out, looking back over his shoulder at me. I give him a few seconds to get down the aisle, then turn and look as he disappears into one of the vacant restrooms at the rear of the plane.

  I waste no time, turn off my computer, release my seat belt, and grab my briefcase from the overhead compartment.

  Herman stirs and then wakes to the motion. “Where are we?” he yawns.

  “About an hour out,” I tell him. I pack my computer back into the briefcase and take out the encrypted cell phone. I slip back into my seat, fasten the seat belt, drop the tray table, and put the phone right in the center of it. It is a little larger than your normal clamshell phone, though it might not catch your attention unless you were looking for it.

  By the time the agent makes his way up the aisle, I am dozing again with only half an eye on the phone in front of me. I sense his motion as he stops behind me in the aisle. I stir in my chair and he moves on. A few seconds later he raps on the flight-deck door. It opens and he disappears inside.

  I nudge Herman.

  “Saw him,” he says. Herman can see with his eyes closed.

  I hand him the phone. “Make it scarce.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Put it in the bottom of your bag.”

  The phone disappears into Herman’s carry-on, under the seat in front of him.

  “When we get off the plane, we split up, you grab your bags and get through customs and on through immigration. If they ask you, the rea son for the trip is tourism. We’ll meet up out in front of the airport. If you get there ahead of me, grab a taxi and wait. And keep an eye out for me.”

  “You think they’re gonna try and stop you here?”

  “I doubt it. I just want to be on the safe side.”

  Fifty minutes later, Herman is jarred awake as the wheels touch down at Juan Santamaria International Airport in San José, Costa Rica. The instant the plane stops at the Jetway and the pilot turns off the seat belt sign, I’m up out of my seat to allow Herman to get into the aisle ahead of me. As the plane starts to empty, I take my time getting my luggage from the overhead compartment as several passengers get between Herman and me.

  As we pass the open flight-deck door, there is no sign of the two deadheading airline employees. I continue to hang back so that by the time we get to customs, Herman and I are no longer together. We clear immigration and then spend almost ten minutes standing on opposite sides of the luggage carousel before the bags finally roll in. Herman grabs his and follows the crowd toward the conveyor belt and the two large X-ray machines near the exit.

  I let my bag go around three more times as I wait.

  I watch the line at the X-ray machine. None of the bags is being opened, and the speed with which they rocket through the machine makes me wonder if the woman operating it is watching cartoons on the screen.

  By now, Herman is long gone, out through the door leading outside.

  I let my bag go around one more time before I grab it and head toward the machine. I lug both the bag and the briefcase onto the conveyor belt and watch as they roll up the ramp into the machine.

  Before I can move, somebody taps me on the shoulder. I turn to a uniforme
d officer packing a semiautomatic sidearm with a well-worn handle.

  “Seńor, please get your bags and come this way.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This way.” He points toward a door a few feet away. “With your bags, por favor.”

  I gather my large roll-on and the briefcase and follow him.

  Once inside, they close the door behind me and tell me to place the bags on the table in the middle of the room. One of them proceeds to go through my luggage as the other takes my jacket and checks the pockets. Then he has me empty the pockets in my pants and tells me to place everything on the table. I drop a few coins, keys, my billfold, and a money clip.

  One of the cops feels around my waist and notices the money belt under my shirt. He tells me to unstrap it and lay it on the table. I lay it down and the other one goes through each pocket on the belt removing the U.S. currency and counting it, nine thousand five hundred dollars exactly.

  “Mucho dinero,” he says.

  “Vacation money,” I tell him. It is under the ten-thousand-dollar limit requiring disclosure of cash brought into the country. He folds the currency and carefully places every bill back into the pockets of the belt and leaves it on the table.

  By now the two of them are looking at each other with quizzical glances. What they’re looking for isn’t here.

  “Seńor, you have a cell phone perhaps?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Is it illegal to have a cell phone in Costa Rica?”

  He doesn’t answer me.

  “Un momento.” One of them disappears outside. The other one waits with me. A minute or so later the other cop comes back. “Seńor, you may put your things back in your bags,” he says. “You are free to go.”

  “Gracias.” I pack it all up, strap the money belt around my waist under my shirt and tuck it in, don my jacket, and head out the door. As I leave I glance toward the mirrored wall behind me knowing that Rhytag’s men are back there wondering what happened to the cell phone.

  Outside in front of the airport, taxi drivers descend on me like a pack, trying to hustle me to the dispatch ticket booth and from there to their taxi. I have to fight several of them off just to maintain a hold on my bags.