Trader of secrets pm-12

by Steve Martini

  Joselyn’s head is tilted on my shoulder. She is snoring gently in my ear, making harmonics with the foghorn behind me. Harry is just across the aisle. He is snoozing when he can, but like me he is having trouble finding the sandman.

  He looks at me and sees my eyes open. “Who was the Sherlock who thought this one up?”

  “You wanted to come,” I whisper to him.

  “What’s the time difference in Thailand?” says Harry.

  “I think it’s fourteen hours ahead of the clock on the West Coast,” I tell him.

  Joselyn begins to stir. She lifts her head from my shoulder and stretches. “You still awake?”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Take a pill,” she says. “Want an Ambien? I’ve got some up in my bag in the overhead.”

  “No. I want to try and keep my head clear.”

  “For that you need sleep,” she says.

  “I keep thinking about Thorpe,” I tell her.

  “What about him?”

  “He let us go way too easily.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” says Joselyn. “Could be he just realized he couldn’t hold us any longer.”

  “No. He didn’t even try and argue when I told him we were going. Instead he tells me to be careful and gives me the name and number of the agent in charge of the FBI field office in San Diego. Told me to call him if we had any problems. That’s not the Thorpe I know. The question is, what’s he up to?”

  Thorpe showed us the composite computer sketch of Liquida, the one they had been working on with Sarah before we left. He gave us a copy in case we needed to study it more. I didn’t say anything to him, but my daughter is not the only one who has seen the man. The sketch was a good likeness of the face I saw that night in Costa Rica, now nearly two years ago. It is not a face I am likely to forget.

  I turn around in my seat and glance down the aisle behind me, stretch my upper body, and check to see who’s sleeping and who’s awake. I turn back to the front. “I’m betting he put a tail on us.”

  “Who?” says Joselyn.

  “Thorpe.”

  “For our sake, I hope you’re right. Do me a favor. If you’re able to identify him, ask him to come up and sit here so I can sit in his lap.”

  “You don’t think I can protect you?”

  “In a word…” She sticks her fingernails under my rib cage, causing me to jump. Then she giggles.

  “Cut it out.”

  “Don’t be so uptight.”

  “You’re right, I shouldn’t complain. Thorpe allowed Sarah to remain in the condo.”

  “After what happened in Ohio, I’m sure he’ll have his people keep a close eye on her,” says Joselyn.

  “Unless she pulls a slip on them the way she did with Harry,” I say.

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Sarah wasn’t happy about being left behind. You don’t know my daughter.”

  “She can be that willful?”

  “Willful isn’t the word for it. Having the dog was the only thing that kept her from forcefully boarding the plane with us.”

  “She perked up when you told her Herman was getting out of the hospital tomorrow.”

  Joselyn was right. The thought that she could play nurse to Herman, someone she likes, made Sarah feel more useful. Herman will be bunking in the condo for a period of convalescence. Still, I am itching to get back as quickly as possible before Sarah’s mind turns to thoughts of home.

  “I contacted the embassy and gave them the airline and the flight number. I told them that the plane should be on the ground shortly before noon their time.” Bill Britain was looking tired, jowls down to his ankles. Thorpe looked almost as bad. It was nearly three in the morning, Washington time. The two of them had been at it for nearly twenty hours. Thorpe didn’t plan to go home until Madriani and his party were safely under surveillance.

  “I’m wondering if I gave in a little too easily,” said Thorpe. “I mean, just letting them go like that. They’re not stupid.”

  “Not to worry,” said Britain. “Two agents will meet the plane at the gate. We sent copies of their passport photographs so our people will recognize them. We’ve got three cars, and we’ve brought in backup from the embassy in Jakarta.”

  “Good. You’re sure they got on the flight?” said Thorpe.

  “Checked it and double-checked it,” said Britain. “L.A. field office saw them get on and watched the plane until it took off.”

  “I should have detailed two agents to stay with them all the way across,” said Thorpe. He was looking a little worried.

  “Why? What could happen to them on the plane?” said Britain.

  “We don’t know where Liquida is,” said Thorpe. “He could be anywhere. For all we know, he could be on the fucking airplane with them.”

  Britain had no comeback for this.

  “Liquida now knows we have a witness, somebody who can identify him. He’s gotta figure we’ll have a pretty good description. He’s wounded and on the run. If you were in that situation, what would you do?” said Thorpe.

  “I’d go to ground,” said Britain.

  “Right, but where?”

  “Someplace where I’d feel safe, probably outside the country. Someplace where our reach does not extend.”

  “He has to know the longer he waits, the harder it’s going to be to get out,” said Thorpe. “His face, or a pretty good likeness, is going to start circulating with TSA at the airports, security at the train stations, and bus depots. He’s going to be feeling antsy about renting a car, figuring we’ll be sending any sketches to rental car agencies along the main routes between Ohio and the Mexican border.”

  “He’ll run for Mexico,” said Britain. “It’s obvious.”

  “Yeah, well, he has a habit of doing things that are not obvious, not until after they’re discovered. And by then it’s usually too late,” said Thorpe.

  “Mexico is Liquida’s home turf. It’s where he’s going to feel most comfortable, at least until the heat’s off. If I was gonna hide, that’s where I’d go to do it,” said Britain. “Especially given the current situation.”

  He was referring to the veritable civil war currently going on between the cartels and the Mexican government. During the last year, more people were killed by violence in Ciudad Juarez and Tijuana along the U.S. border than in Iraq and the Afghan war combined. Not only was this familiar ground for Liquida, but the chaos in Mexico made it highly unlikely that local or federal Mexican authorities would have the time or the inclination to look for him. They were too busy trying to stay alive.

  “So tell me,” said Thorpe. “If we’re so right and Liquida is headed for Mexico, why are Madriani and his friends jetting off to Thailand?”

  “Because they’re crazy,” said Britain.

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “You told him the address in Pattaya was a dead end. Our people checked it out. There’s nothing there.”

  “Madriani asked me whether our agents actually went inside the office at the address in Pattaya, whether they looked around. Did they?”

  Britain glanced at him with a dubious expression. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

  “Why don’t we find out?”

  “You want to know what I think? I think Madriani’s off his nut. He’s finally cracked. Let’s assume for purposes of discussion that there’s something in Thailand that shows the way to Liquida. Or maybe the man himself, perhaps he’s there, though why the hell he would go there instead of Mexico, which is much closer and which he knows like the back of his hand, is a mystery, you have to admit. But let’s assume that he’s there. Why would two lawyers and a girlfriend…”

  “Three lawyers,” said Thorpe. “Joselyn Cole is also a lawyer, though she doesn’t practice anymore.”

  “Fine, three lawyers,” said Britain. “Why would three lawyers in their right minds want to go off searching for Liquida, especially after they saw what he did to their investigator? I mean, this
is a guy who looks like he could coldcock a charging bull in rutting season, and Liquida carved him up like a turkey.”

  Thorpe took a deep breath. “They’re desperate, that’s why.”

  “There’s a difference between being desperate and having a death wish,” said Britain.

  “From where they’re standing, they’re running out of time,” said Thorpe.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’re not walking in their shoes. Spit out the government teat for a second and think. Twice now, over a span of more than a year, Liquida has forced Madriani and company to take up residence under a rock. Both times they had to stay there for extended periods. Their law practice has to be drying up. They’re probably on the verge of losing everything they own. Liquida has tried to kill Madriani’s daughter, and he managed to kill one of her friends. He took down their investigator, the man you say could slay a bull. So unless somebody gets a collar on the Mexican and does it soon, as far as they’re concerned their lives are over. They may be breathing, but it’s the economic and social equivalent of death. What do you do when you’re desperate? You chase the only lead you have. The Thailand note, as thin as it is, is probably the only thread they have left that, in their minds at least, would seem to lead to Liquida.”

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t,” said Britain. “They’re chasing a rainbow.”

  “Well, fine, then at least they won’t get hurt,” said Thorpe. “You have to remember they don’t have access to our intelligence reports.”

  “Thank God for little favors,” said Britain. “I understand everything you’re saying. I feel sorry for them. But they’re better off staying here where they’re safe. I wish they would just let us do our job. Let us find Liquida. It’s what we do.”

  “They probably would,” said Thorpe, “if they had some idea how long it was going to take. But they don’t, and we can’t tell them because we don’t know. Do me a favor; check and see if our agents in Bangkok got a look inside that office.”

  “Will do,” said Britain. “In the meantime, let’s hope to hell nothing happens to Madriani or his friends. We may have a lot of explaining to do if Liquida kills one of them.”

  Britain was right. With the high profile that Liquida had assumed since the meeting at the White House, the theory that he might be involved, it would look very bad if the bureau were seen as trying to lure him out using three American civilians as bait.

  “Make sure your agents stay on top of them when on the ground in Bangkok,” said Thorpe. “Whatever you do, DON’T lose them!”

  “Understood.” Britain left the office, closing the door behind him.

  Thorpe sat at his desk, the fingers of both hands teepeed under his chin as he considered the consequences of what he had done. That Liquida was stalking Madriani and his clan out of some psychotic soul-searing thirst for vengeance was clear. What was problematic for Thorpe was the fact that he had let Madriani and the others go, knowing that they were headed for Pattaya in Thailand.

  What Britain saw as a long shot, Thorpe saw as a fertile fishing ground. Pattaya was a city with a reputation as a fugitive’s Mecca. Like Port Royal during the age of piracy, it was one of those places that offered instant camaraderie, often without any questions. Split-second friendships were formed over a bottle of local Thai-brewed beer and the assumption that if you were bold enough to be there, then you belonged.

  The unnumbered constellation of outdoor bars and the neon confusion of Pattaya’s nightlife presented a kind of analgesic refuge for anyone on the run, whether it be from the law, life, or a nagging wife. All poisons were treated with the same remedy, and it almost always came out of the long neck of a bottle. It was precisely the kind of place where Liquida could go and feel completely at ease. The kind of community where you could relax on the beach and recover from a wicked and obvious knife wound, and no one would notice, and if they did they would never ask questions. Old bullet wounds and knife scars were so plentiful in the shirtless atmosphere of Pattaya that most people never even bothered to look.

  Thorpe visited Pattaya for the first time as a young man, during Vietnam when he was in the Marine Corps. Then it was an R amp;R center, rest and recuperation from the stresses of combat. Since then the city had grown up, with high-rise thirty-story condos, glitzy restaurants, and a shopping mall that was first world. But still the city had a reputation to defend, and “wild” was its name.

  If things went wrong, anyone examining Thorpe’s conduct later might easily conclude that he had been trolling for Liquida in the waters of Pattaya, and that he had used Madriani and his friends as bait.

  But Thorpe had begun to realize that there was another dimension to this equation. He had observed Madriani and his movements now for more than a year, particularly as they pertained to Liquida. Madriani and Liquida seemed to be caught in a death spiral. Ever since the murder of Jenny, Sarah Madriani’s friend, the lawyer seemed to operate under the influence of some invisible force, at least as far as Liquida was concerned. Not unlike gravity, it seemed always to place Madriani in the orbit of the psychotic Mexican. This was true even at times when Liquida wasn’t stalking him. In fact, a casual observer might have viewed it as the other way around. At times it seemed as if Madriani could pick up Liquida’s scent half a world away, and home in.

  If Madriani thought Liquida was in Thailand or that there might be information there that could lead to finding him, who was Thorpe to question one of the invisible forces of nature? The problem was that the lawyer and his friends were becoming increasingly careless. And with Liquida that was a quick path to the grave.

  Ever since the Tuesday morning meeting at the White House, Thorpe was himself becoming increasingly anxious. He needed Madriani to sniff out Liquida or the other way around. It didn’t matter to Thorpe, as long as he had enough agents in place to prevent any harm. The critical point was he couldn’t afford to wait. From the little bit they told him, time was of the essence. He had to find Liquida, and he had to find him soon.

  Chapter Fourteen

  From the air, the international airport in Bangkok looks like a huge copper dragon with hackles of white scales erupting from its back. Up close it is a soaring modern complex of buildings, the fifth largest air terminal in Asia.

  The concourses are long, encased in curving walls and arched ceilings. Looking down from the confines of the international arrival gallery, we can see the public areas below. The cavernous halls are festooned with shops and restaurants, and dotted with stunning artwork. There are statues of Vishnu and an entire array of giant-size figures cast in what appears to be porcelain; the entire work is half a football field in length, all painted in striking colors. It seems even more surreal because I am half asleep.

  Harry, Joselyn, and I are dying on our feet, exhausted from jet lag. We do the quarter mile to immigration trudging along the hall like zombies auditioning for parts in Night of the Living Dead.

  It takes a half hour to clear immigration, gather our bags at customs, and make our way out to the main terminal. There we agree on a division of labor. Harry and Joselyn head off to the window that says “Currency Exchange” to get some local cash while I make arrangements for ground transport.

  It takes only a few minutes to hire a car and driver. We follow our bags as they are rolled out of the terminal and into the garage, where the pungent odor of petrol fumes mixes with hot humid air.

  Harry and I take off our jackets as the luggage is loaded into the trunk of a low-slung sedan.

  “I don’t think we dressed for this.” Harry wipes the perspiration from his brow using the long sleeve of his shirt. “I didn’t even bring any shorts.”

  “We’re not going be here that long,” I tell him. “Hopefully we’ll be back in the States before we can adjust to the difference in time.”

  “Right now I just want to be here long enough to sleep for a day or two.” Joselyn is looking as if she’s about to drop.

  Outside the light is bright. Heat waves rip
ple the air beyond the confines of the garage. Our driver, a slight, small-boned Asian man wearing a coat and tie, is looking sufficiently cool to make me wonder if this is winter in Thailand. He looks at the paperwork given to him by the girl at the counter inside. He glances up at Harry and me, then says: “We go Pattaya?”

  “Right, we go Pattaya,” says Harry. “How long?”

  The guy looks at him, scrunches up his mouth a little. “Ninety minute, maybe. You sleep.” He gestures toward the car.

  “Do I look that bad?”

  “Naw, you’re beautiful,” says Joselyn. “Take the bamboo shoots from under your eyelids and get a few years of sleep and you’ll be fine.”

  She and I collapse into the backseat while Harry sprawls in the left-hand passenger seat up front. You might swear the car was filled with laughing gas. As soon as the driver starts the engine and begins to roll, the three of us are asleep. The driver could have dragged me behind the car and I would have slept right through it. The only sensation is some vague awareness of sweeping curves and the rumble of the tires on the road at high speed. At some point I feel a series of rolling rhythmic bumps that jar my body. It feels as if the car is porpoising along the highway. But I’m too tired to wake up and complain about it.

  Some time later, I don’t know how long, I become aware of voices. When I open the slits that are my eyes, Harry is talking to the driver.

  “What’s the problem?” My speech is slurred.

  “He wants to know what hotel we’re going to. I told him the Marriott, right?”

  “Right.”

  Harry reconfirms it with the driver as the car moves to the left onto what appears to be an off-ramp. I’m in that middle place where the brain is debating whether to sample another slice of death or wake up. The car takes a broad sweeping turn to the right. We cross over the top of the main highway and onto another road. It is lined with palm groves and low brush. There are several large buildings that look like factories off in the distance to the right.