Trader of secrets pm-12

by Steve Martini

  He scooped the money back into the bag and stepped toward the window again. He could see no indication that the cancer of lights and uniforms had spread to this side of the street. If the cops had a lead on him, it was possible they were just starting with their search. If he moved fast, he still had time.

  Liquida threw on his clothes, keeping an eye on the spectacle across the street as he buttoned his shirt and buckled his belt. He slipped his feet into the loafers, not bothering with socks. His mind was working all the angles as he did it.

  He picked up the phone next to the bed, checked the number, and called the driver who was scheduled to pick him up in the morning. When the man answered, Liquida identified himself by the name on his Spanish passport. He asked how much it would cost to take him to the airport in Bangkok immediately, tonight.

  When the man quibbled and said he was already off work, Liquida offered to pay him an additional five thousand baht if the man picked him up in fifteen minutes. The driver told him he could be there in ten.

  “Just one change,” said Liquida. “Pick me up at Beach Road, the intersection of Soi 13. You will see me. I will be at the corner on the sidewalk with my luggage. Good. See you there. Ten minutes.”

  Liquida grabbed the white beach bag with the cash inside and stuffed it into the large suitcase. He was taking a chance. Customs generally limited the amount of cash transported across international boundaries to ten thousand dollars unless the funds were declared. Liquida couldn’t declare the money without explaining where it came from. He had no choice. He would have to run the gauntlet and hope they didn’t look in the bag when he arrived in Paris.

  Once there he could use several bank accounts that he maintained in Europe and make deposits through ATM machines. If he spread the funds among several accounts, it would draw less attention. By the time he flew out of Paris, he would no longer be carrying large sums of cash.

  He checked his watch, then grabbed the binoculars from the suitcase and took one last look out the window. Liquida couldn’t figure how the cops might have gotten onto him. It was possible that they simply stumbled on the drop box. If so, Liquida’s timing was impeccable. But he didn’t believe in either religion or chance.

  He looked to see if either the woman from the bar or the taxi bike driver were among the throng of cops across the street. It was possible either one or the other might have taken his money and then called the police if they were suspicious. If they were being questioned, that would explain it.

  He scanned the crowd, looking for the woman’s bright-colored dress. He didn’t see it. What he did see were two tall Westerners, what the Thais refer to as farangs. As he surveyed the crowd, the swirl of commotion, the two Caucasians seemed to be in the eye of the storm. One of them was talking to a Thai cop who looked to be in charge. Liquida didn’t have to wait long for confirmation. The cops handed documents back to the two men, what looked like passports and two blue credential cases, the kind used by Interpol, the police, and the FBI. Liquida had seen enough.

  He pulled the cord on the blinds and stepped quickly across the room. He repacked the binoculars, grabbed his shaving kit from the bathroom, stashed it in his luggage, and dropped the room key on top of the nightstand. He zipped up the suitcase, grabbed the overnight bag, and stepped out the door, headed for the back stairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  What does that give us?” says Harry. “We have ‘T’ for Trident; ‘S’ is storage. Presumably those are the locked drawers themselves, unless there’s another storage location we don’t know about. The first ‘C’ stands for courier and the last is communications. The courier I think we know. So what kind of communications you think they’re offering?”

  “I’m guessing it’s probably the client messaging service, the other phone number on the label,” says Joselyn.

  “I’m for calling it,” I tell her.

  “Let’s do it,” says Harry.

  I pick up the phone and dial. Joselyn is over my shoulder listening with her ear next to mine. She picks up a notepad and pencil from the nightstand. Two rings and a digital voice answers. “To collect or leave a message, enter the extension number followed by the pound sign. To delete or change messages left on any of your assigned extensions, enter your code.” I wait for a second and there is a beep.

  I hang up.

  “We need to know the extension number to leave or collect messages,” I say.

  “Back where we started,” says Harry.

  “Not necessarily.” I dial again. This time I wait for the beep and enter the five numbers printed on the back of the WOD label: 00088. Then I punch the pound sign. I wait a few seconds and the system hangs up on me. I try again, only this time I drop the three zeros. I get the same result. The system disconnects. I get a dial tone. I try a three-digit extension and a four-digit extension, dropping one of the zeros on the first call and two on the second. I strike out each time. “Now we’re back where we started,” I tell them.

  “Let’s think about this. The instructions on the phone indicate more than one extension per client,” says Joselyn. “And Liquida would want more than one.”

  “Why?” says Harry.

  “Because he would need a separate extension for each of his clients. He’s not going to want client A listening to the messages he leaves for client B, or for that matter the messages they leave for him, not in his line of work.”

  Joselyn is right. Liquida would want to keep it all straight. He would want to limit each message to as few ears as possible.

  “The instructions on the phone mentioned something else, called a code.” She is looking at notes she made on the small writing pad.

  “Yeah, I know. I already thought about it,” I tell her. “But the only numbers we have are the five digits on the back of the label. I’ve dialed them in every combination I can think of. If that’s Liquida’s code, it should have connected, and it didn’t.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t dial the right way.” She’s looking at her notes. “You entered the pound sign. The instructions didn’t say anything about a pound sign for the code, only for the extensions.”

  I dial again, all five digits-00088. This time I omit the pound sign. We wait. A second later, we hear the digitized voice once more.

  “Press one for extension 13. Press two for extension 47. Press three for extension 76. Press four for extension 128. Press five for extension 343.”

  I press one. “There are no messages.” I do the same with the second and third extensions. There is nothing on either of them. When I press number 4, the mechanical voice says: “There are two messages. Press one to hear the first message.” I do it. We hear a voice.

  “This is WOD.”

  The small hairs on the back of my neck rise with the sound of his voice. I am holding the phone out so that we can all hear it. Joselyn pens a note as quickly as she can, just the essentials: “payment,” “job accepted,” “Saint-Jacques,” “Monday A.M. ” Then the voice says: “If you wish to delete this message, press seven.” The call ends. “Press one to hear the next message.” I hit one.

  It’s another male voice, somebody by the name of Bruno. “The payment for the last job was sent three days ago. Sorry for the delay. I have another commission for you if you are interested. It’s a big one. Six-figure fee. Details are with the money. Advise as to availability.” And then a click as the man hangs up. “There are no other messages. If you wish to delete this message, press seven.” I hang up.

  Joselyn heads to her laptop already set up on the desk near the television.

  “Where the hell is the Hotel Saint-Jacques?” I ask.

  “Gimme a minute,” she says.

  “There is no clue as to where Liquida is calling from,” says Harry. “He could be anywhere.”

  “My guess is he’s here,” I tell him.

  “Why, because of the girl with the bag? I wouldn’t count on it. The contents of that bag could be anywhere by now. They could be shipped overnight halfway arou
nd the world by morning.”

  I look at my watch. “Friday. We have three days. One thing we do know is where he will be come Monday morning. We need to get ahold of Thorpe. Call it in to him.”

  “Your watch is wrong,” says Harry. “When you changed the time, you forgot to change the calendar. We lost a day. We crossed the international date line, remember?”

  “You’re right.”

  “It’s Saturday night,” says Harry. “Twelve hours’ difference between here and the East Coast. Opposite ends of the earth. That means it’s Saturday morning in Washington.”

  “Oh, hell,” I tell him.

  “Thorpe’s office is closed,” he says. “We could leave a message.”

  “He’ll get it Monday morning,” I tell him. “It’ll be too late.”

  “So we call the FBI, one of their field offices,” says Harry. “They gotta be open on weekends.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know,” says Harry. “Not here. In the States.”

  “They won’t know us from Adam,” I tell him. “By the time they check us out and get on top of it, Liquida will be gone.”

  “Hotel Saint-Jacques. It’s in the Latin Quarter, Left Bank. It’s Paris,” says Joselyn. “He’s headed for Paris.”

  Liquida zoned out in the back of the limo on the way to the airport. For ninety minutes he drifted in and out. His only worry now was whether the Thai authorities at the airport might have a description of him, or worse, a sketch provided by Madriani’s daughter.

  If they had the Spanish name from his passport, they probably would have nailed him at the hotel in Pattaya. The hotel had taken a copy of the passport. Liquida had to assume that the passport was still good. He would get a new one the minute he connected with Bruno.

  “Oh, shit!” With the name Bruno, it hit him right between the eyes.

  “A problem?” said the driver.

  “No, no, everything’s fine.” The message Liquida had left for Bruno was still on the tape. With the cops drilling out his locked box it wouldn’t take long before they discovered the message system. That is, if they hadn’t already found it.

  Liquida whipped out his cell phone and started dialing. He waited for a moment while the instructions played out, then keyed in the code. He listened to his own message and took solace from the fact that the system was still up and running. The message was still there. If the FBI had found it, Liquida was guessing that after listening to the messages, they would have taken the system down and hauled the hardware back to their lab for analysis.

  He waited for the message to Bruno to end. The moment it did Liquida pressed seven. “Message deleted.” He went on to Bruno’s original message left for him and erased that as well. “There are no messages on your system.”

  He wondered if the eggheads at the FBI would have any way to retrieve deleted messages. If so, by the time the lab sorted it out, he would be gone. Liquida made a mental note to keep his stay in Paris brief.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The doorbell rang in the D.C. condo. Sarah turned the dead bolt, unhooked the chain, and opened the door without hesitation. She already knew who it was.

  “Hello, Ms. Madriani?” The man was in his midforties, with short gray hair cut military style and parted neatly on the left. In a blue worsted suit he could have passed for an Iowa banker, but for the FBI credentials he was holding with the flap on its leather case hanging down.

  “You must be Agent Ellison.” Sarah spoke without looking at the agent or his credentials.

  “So they tell me.”

  Sarah’s gaze was stranded on the Olympic-class eye candy standing behind him. By the time she forced her attention back to Ellison, he was already smiling.

  “That’s OK. I’m getting used to it. Being a potted plant, I mean.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sarah smiled and felt her face glow red.

  “The good-looking one here is Mr. Adin Hirst,” said Ellison. “Don’t feel bad. You should see the secretaries in my office. He leaves in a few days. The place is going to look like a wake when he goes.”

  “Yes, well, your office called earlier. They told me you would be coming by.” She tried to change the subject. “Please come in.”

  The two men stepped inside. Sarah closed the door behind them. Ellison gave her a business card and told her he was with the Bureau’s International Operations Division, training section.

  No matter how hard she tried to fix her attention on Ellison, Sarah couldn’t help but sneak another glance at the younger one. Six two, dark wavy hair, brown eyes, and tawny complexion. She guessed that the James Bond of the FBI couldn’t have been more than mid to late twenties.

  She was overjoyed to have company, any company, so this was a pleasant surprise indeed. After four days alone, with only the dog Bugsy for companionship, Sarah was going stir-crazy in the cloistered apartment.

  “The handsome one is here for training,” said Ellison.

  “Gimme a break.” Adin blanched. “Don’t listen to him. He’s been giving me a hard time since we met.”

  “I can imagine.” Sarah looked up at him and smiled coolly.

  “Nice to meet you.” He reached out and shook her hand.

  Sarah had always wondered if such smoking exterior looks routinely spoiled whatever was on the inside. She had never been close enough to find out.

  “They told us you had a dog?” Ellison was looking around. “A Doberman?”

  “You mean Bugsy,” said Sarah. “Not to worry. I locked him in the back room. He’s a little skittish around strangers, especially men. I figured you probably didn’t need that. Why don’t we go in the living room.” Sarah led the way. “Go ahead and have a seat. Can I get you some coffee? Something else to drink?”

  “I’m fine,” said Ellison.

  “How about you?”

  “I’m good,” said Hirst.

  The two men planted themselves on the couch like bookends.

  Sarah took one of the wingback chairs across from them.

  “How are you doing here alone?” said Ellison.

  “I’m OK,” Sarah lied.

  “You know, we have offered to have one of our female agents come and stay with you until your father and your friends get back. It’s not a problem.”

  “I know, but it’s not necessary,” said Sarah.

  “What about counseling?” said Ellison. “I know they’ve talked to you about having someone from our behavioral science unit come by. We have mental health people on staff. They’re not generally into therapy, but they do have training…”

  “I know, but I think I’m OK.”

  “OK, but if you change your mind, I want you to call me.”

  “I will.”

  “You’ve got my card,” said Ellison.

  She looked at the business card. “What, ah, what exactly is the International Operations Division, training section?”

  “Back to business,” said Ellison. “How much did they tell you on the phone?”

  “Nothing,” said Sarah.

  “IOD has to do with overseas operations. In addition to doing investigations stateside, the FBI also maintains agents in various U.S. embassies around the world. They provide a liaison with law enforcement from other countries. We exchange information, and in that regard we do a fair amount of training. That’s where my office comes in.”

  Sarah nodded as if she understood.

  “To make a long story short, you’ve become part of today’s training exercise. That is, if you’re willing to do it.”

  “Sure, why not? I have nothing else to do,” said Sarah.

  “Adin says that someone from his agency overseas sent him an inquiry last night about getting whatever information he could on witness protection as well as the bureau’s safe-house operations. Did I state that correctly?” He looked at Hirst.

  “Dead-on.”

  “So we thought we would start with a tour of the facility. Your name came up, so we thought we’d start here.”
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  “How did my name come up?”

  “That was my fault,” said Adin. “Someone told me that your father and his partner and someone else had left…”

  “That would be Joselyn Cole,” said Sarah.

  “I figured it would be easier if we were disturbing fewer people. Since you were here alone, you became the guinea pig.”

  “I see. Well, I’m delighted. So where’s home?” she asked Adin.

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. If I did, I’d have to kill you.” The instant he said it, Adin made a face. “Forget I said that.”

  “That’s OK.” Sarah smiled.

  “Good move, Adin. You get twenty points deducted for lack of tact,” said Ellison. “Want to try for more?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right, really.”

  “Adin sometimes works undercover. Though how he manages it with moves like that, I’m not sure,” said Ellison.

  “Undercover I leave the levity at home,” said Adin. “The only time I screw up is when I’m myself, in a bar with a girl.”

  “Foot-in-mouth syndrome?” said Sarah.

  “You’ve seen this with other stupid guys, I take it,” said Adin.

  “A few times.” She laughed. “So is Adin Hirst your real name?”

  He made a face, like maybe yes, maybe no.

  “I don’t want to be killed. So I won’t ask any more questions,” said Sarah. “What is it you need from me?”

  “I have a short questionnaire. A couple of pages,” said Hirst. “If you can fill it out at your leisure and send it back through Agent Ellison’s office, that would be a big help.”

  “Sure.”

  “When, ah, when are your father and his friends going to be back?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “I can’t tell you that. If I did, I’d have to kill you.” Sarah smiled at him.

  Hirst laughed. “Touche.”

  “You speak French, you must be from France.”