Guardian of Lies

by Steve Martini

  Herman is right. In the bright morning sunshine, leaning against the gate and picking the lock, we may as well take our clothes off and do it naked. Anyone who sees us is going to call the cops. We aren’t even up the block to Katia’s house yet and I am beginning to sweat.

  “Jeez, I don’t know,” says Herman. “I don’t like it. We’re just begging to get nailed.”

  This morning there are a lot more cars parked out on the street. What is worse is that the building directly across the street from the house appears to be a business and this morning it’s busy.

  “I didn’t see that last night,” says Herman. We are walking slowly up the sidewalk on the same side as Katia’s house. We are now just one house away.

  “That’s because it was closed last night.”

  “Looks like a beauty salon,” says Herman. “We’re gonna have to make a decision pretty quick whether we keep walking or stop.”

  We are thirty feet from the gate at the front of the house when two young women come out of the building across the street. They are wearing blue smocks, talking and laughing as they walk across the street toward Katia’s house. They stop in the middle of the street for a second. One of them lights a cigarette, then offers the flame to her friend, who lights up. Before they can take a second puff, three more women come out of the building and join them. They are all dressed in the same blue smocks.

  “It’s a beauty school.” Herman says it under his breath. He is right. They’re on a break. Before we reach the gate, three of the women plant themselves on the curb directly in front of Katia’s house and sit. They are laughing and talking a mile a minute in Spanish.

  “Any ideas?” I say.

  “Yeah, ask ’em if we can borrow a bobby pin to pick the lock,” says Herman.

  Without saying another word, we keep walking until we are opposite the gate to Katia’s house; suddenly Herman slows down. “What the hell is that?” He lifts his nose and sniffs the air a little. This takes him in the direction of the gate.

  “I don’t smell anything.”

  “Put your nose over here,” he says.

  I do. The second I get near the wrought-iron bars I pick up the odor.

  “It’s stronger down here,” says Herman.

  He is right. Down near the tile floor in the entry behind the gate the heavy vapor is actually visible.

  “It’s propane,” says Herman.

  By now several of the women on the sidewalk are looking at us, wondering what’s happening.

  Herman turns to them. “żApaguen sus cigarrillos! Hay gas. Es peligroso.”

  They stand there looking at him.

  “Peligroso. It’s dangerous. Put out your cigarettes. Go! Ir. żCorren—Escapen!” Herman starts waving his arms at them. They begin backing away, more frightened by Herman than what he is saying.

  Herman is trying to dig his pick set out of his pocket.

  I reach through the bars and try the little lever on the inside knowing it will be locked. Instead the lever snaps down and the gate swings open.

  “It wasn’t locked,” I say.

  I charge through the open gate and try the front door. The same result. Whoever left last didn’t lock up.

  As the door swings open, we get the full effect as vapors of propane wash out through the open portal like a wave. I wade into the house trying to hold my breath, Herman right behind me. I trip over something, knock it over, and then kick it against the wall in trying to keep my balance. It’s a suitcase.

  With my hand over my mouth and nose, eyes watering, I feel my way past the entry to the living room. I glance to my right. I see the dining room and the kitchen beyond. There is a set of stairs going up just inside the dining room.

  “You check down. I’ll go up,” says Herman. He is coughing as he bounds up the steps two at a time.

  Just inside the kitchen door I see the body on the floor, something over her face. I reach the stove. I can tell that this is the point of the emission. The vapors here are overpowering.

  As if in a dream state I hear the pounding of heavy footfalls on the wooden floor overhead. Herman is either wrestling with someone or checking the rooms. I can’t tell.

  I try turning the knobs on the stove, thinking she must have left one of them open. But even with my eyes watering I can see that they are all turned off.

  I reach down and pull the cloth from her face, grip her under the arms, and lift her until she is vertical, like a limp rag held out in front of me. I get a glimpse of her face. I don’t have to ask to know who she is. The resemblance to Katia is uncanny. Holding her steady, I sweep one arm under her legs at the knees and lift her into my arms.

  She is not heavy. Still, I am staggering, unable to stand, fighting for breath. It is all I can do to hold her up. Putting one foot in front of the other, retracing my steps toward the door is impossible.

  I take one step, then another. Like a dark night it envelops me. I have only the slightest sensation, the feeling that I am weightless as my head hits the edge of the countertop on the way down, and then nothing.

  “So how the hell did they get out without being seen?” The lead agent, the one packing the papers is angry.

  “I don’t know,” said the other agent.

  Madriani’s room was empty. No clothes in the closet, no luggage, and nothing in the bathroom. Now they find the same thing in his friend’s room.

  “These are the right rooms?”

  “Sí, seńor.” One of the hotel employees is still holding the passkey in his hand after letting them in.

  The beds had been slept in, but it was as if they had checked out. However, the girl at the front desk told the Costa Rican police that the two men were still registered.

  “So who tipped them off?” said the lead agent.

  “You got me,” said the other one.

  “Have your men search every room. They’ve got to be in the hotel somewhere. They couldn’t have gotten out.” The lead agent was now giving orders to the police. The lieutenant in charge wasn’t sure about this.

  “Un momento.” He stopped one of his subordinates before the man could get out of the room. “I am not sure that we have the authority to disturb the other guests. I am going to have to check with my superiors. You are certain that they were here in the hotel this morning, and that they stayed here last night?”

  “Yes, I’m sure!” The agent was now turning his venom on the Costa Rican cop. Unless Madriani and his man were hiding out in a supply closet in the hotel, he was going to have to explain to Thorpe in Washington how the two men, one of them the size of a small mountain, had slipped through the net unseen.

  “Lieutenant, can you call the airport? Make sure that he doesn’t catch a flight out of the country?”

  “If you can supply me with his passport number, I will see what I can do.”

  “It’s in the file, in the car,” said the other agent.

  “Why don’t you go get it?” said the lead agent.

  “What’s this?” said the other agent. He was holding a small brass grid in his hand, a metal cover for a heat or air-conditioning register.

  “Where did you get that?” said the lead agent.

  “It was under the sheet on top of the bed.”

  The FBI agent started searching the floor with his eyes, looking for an open heat register.

  “Seńor.” The lieutenant gestured toward an area high on the wall above the polished hardwood headboard and the pillows. There was an open rectangular air duct about six feet above the bed.

  The lieutenant reached over and drew his fingers across the polished dark wood of the headboard, leaving a clear track in the dusting of white plaster left from the screw holes drilled by whoever had removed the grill from the register. “It looks as if they were hiding something. Perhaps they knew you were here.”

  As he said it there was just the slightest motion, as if someone gently rocked the room. It was almost imperceptible. You might not have noticed except that when it stopped, the
small chandelier overhead was swaying. A second later the shock wave jingled the dangling glass crystals of the fixture.

  FORTY-FIVE

  They had it all wrong. Colombian coffee was all right, but the best-flavored coffee in the world came from Costa Rica. For Liquida’s money, compared with fresh-roasted Costa Rican consumed on the spot, the stuff at Starbucks sucked.

  He was savoring a cup and nibbling on a pastry, what the girl behind the counter of the little coffee shop called “Fruitas,” when the mushrooming fireball reflected off the windows of the Hospital Calderon Guardia across the street.

  Even three blocks away the shock wave of the blast rattled the glass all around him. It sent everyone from the open-air café out onto the street to look. The only one who didn’t have to was Liquida. He knew that no one could possibly survive that.

  “What do you mean, you lost them?” Thorpe almost crawled through the phone line, all the way to Costa Rica. “How the hell could they get away? You had the entire building surrounded. That’s what you told me.

  “Give me a minute.” Thorpe took the phone away from his ear and thought for a moment, then quickly brought it back up. “Do you have the airports covered?

  “Well, at least that’s something. I’ll call Justice and see if they can get hold of somebody at State to turn the screws on the Costa Rican government so they pull out all the stops. Without their help we can’t possibly cover all the exits. In the meantime, get off your ass and look for them.” Thorpe slammed down the receiver.

  Getting international assistance was not going to be easy. The Costa Rican government was already asking questions; why should they be expected to expend so many resources chasing a single American fugitive? True, it was a capital crime, but there was a limit to how many police officers they could spare. After all, it was not their fault that the Americans had allowed the man to leave the U.S.

  Thorpe knew that the administration was still unwilling to share information concerning the other half of the story, the possibility of a nuclear device loose in Latin America. While some in the White House believed the information to be credible, skeptics were demanding hard evidence.

  The bigger problem was the politics of Guantanamo. Powerful people were covering their asses because of wild-eyed intelligence rumors that escaped prisoners from Guantanamo had somehow become attached to the device. As with every paranoid delusion, there was just enough truth to this one that it caused policy makers to throw a blanket over the entire Nitikin affair. While there was no evidence that Middle East radicals had become involved, it was known in high government circles that seven prisoners had escaped from Guantanamo some months earlier. Whether they were still in Cuba or had been shuttled back to their homeland was unknown. Either way, the administration wasn’t anxious to have the story on CNN.

  Thorpe thought about it for a couple of minutes and then picked up the phone again. He dialed a number for one of the offices in the intelligence directorate downstairs and then waited while it rang.

  “Bob, Zeb Thorpe here. You know, I was trying to recall last week when we had that briefing on the Madriani surveillance. You guys had run up a dead end on the encrypted phone they were using.

  “Yeah, that’s what I remember you saying. I don’t imagine you’ve had any luck since?

  “I didn’t think so. Let me ask you a question; forget for the moment cracking the encryption code. I assume the phone puts out and receives a signal to and from the nearest cell tower, just like any other cell phone.

  “It does.

  “So is there any way we can identify the signal that these phones are putting out when they’re being used?”

  According to the techno wizard on the other end, the answer was yes. Every cell phone, as long as the phone was powered up, must maintain contact with the nearest satellite tower. It does this by emitting a roaming signal, a periodic electronic handshake so that the cell system can determine which is the best tower for the phone to use in the event of an incoming or outgoing call. The roaming signal is traceable and its signal strength will identify the general location of the person carrying the phone. Using equipment that can zero in and triangulate on the signal, the precise location can be fixed. It is the reason world leaders are usually not allowed to carry cell phones on their persons, and their protection details use only secure radio frequencies for communications.

  “So you can track him if the phone is powered up. You’re sure about that?

  “Okay, good. One last question. After you find the location, can you jam the frequency so they won’t be able to communicate? You can? If I asked you to set that up in San José, Costa Rica, how long would it take?

  “Do it,” said Thorpe, “and call me the minute your people pinpoint the signal. Tell them to jam the line so they can’t talk, and call me immediately.” He hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair, and smiled.

  All I can feel is the hard concrete under my behind as some great weight pushes on my back, pressing my head between my knees. I begin sucking in large quantities of air as the weight is suddenly removed from my shoulders and back.

  “Stay there.” The sound of Herman’s voice, and the feeling that it is snowing, light flakes dusting my forearms and the ground all around my feet.

  As I lift my head I realize that what is falling is not snow. It is ash. There are pieces of burning wood, broken glass, and bits of plaster all over the street.

  I am sitting on the curb at the other side, fifty yards down the block from Katia’s house. As I look up I see flames and black smoke billowing from a gaping hole where the roof and the front of the house used to be. The white exterior, what is left of it, is scorched, turned black in places by flames and soot. The front door is blown off its hinges and still burning as it leans up against the iron gate at the entry.

  I sense motion on the sidewalk behind me. I am still dazed. I look, and Herman is working on Katia’s mother. She is stretched out on the cement sidewalk next to her purse. Herman is giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, punctuated by compressions to her chest with his powerful hands. He is pushing hard enough to break ribs.

  I start to struggle to my feet.

  “Stay down before you fall! I got my hands full right now.” Herman struggles between bellows of breath and pressure on her chest to tell me what to do.

  “I’m all right,” I tell him.

  “Right.”

  Neighbors from the other houses are milling around on the street, some of them looking at the burning house. A small group gathers around us, watching Herman as he works on the woman.

  “żElla está muerta?” Some woman asks if she is dead.

  “No sé,” whispers another voice. He doesn’t know.

  One lady, a neighbor, wants to help, but isn’t sure what to do. Herman doesn’t have time to show her.

  “I’ll do it,” I say. I give up on the idea of getting to my feet and instead I roll to my side and crawl on my hands and knees. I kneel over her torso and start doing the compressions on her chest so that Herman can concentrate on filling her lungs with air. Within a few seconds we get a rhythm going. A minute or so later her legs kick, she coughs up fluids, turns her head to the side, and vomits.

  Several of the women clap and smile.

  Herman holds her on her side with her head down as she retches several times. He gently pats her on the back. “ĄBueno!” Then he says something else in Spanish up close to her ear that I cannot hear.

  “Here, hold her on her side,” he tells me. “Don’t want her breathing fluid into her lungs.”

  I hold her while he heads across the street. I watch as he kicks the flaming front door away from the iron gate, then uses the bottom of his shirt to grab the metal gate and opens it. He disappears into the house.

  The woman takes a couple of deep breaths. Finally, she turns her head, looks at me, and says, “Who are you?” in perfect English.

  “You are Katia’s mother?” I say.

  “Yes. Who are you?”


  “We are friends of Katia from the United States. She is in a great deal of trouble. We need your help.”

  She is breathing heavily now, making up for the deficit of oxygen. “What kind of trouble?”

  “We must find a place where we can talk,” I tell her. “Not here.”

  When I look back, Herman is out of the house, coming this way.

  Katia’s mother has now boosted herself up so that she is sitting on the sidewalk. She is talking to one of the other women in Spanish, then turns to me. “She is a friend. She lives down the street. We can go to her house.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Herman overhears the conversation as he approaches. He gestures with his head to the left, up the street.

  When I turn and look, I see people in white hospital smocks. Apparently they have wandered down from the hospital up the hill. Next to one of them is a motorcycle cop. He has parked his bike and is propping his helmet on the seat. Then we hear the sound of sirens in the distance.

  “We need to talk somewhere else,” I tell her. “Do you have any friends outside the neighborhood?”

  She thinks for a moment. “Yes. There is someone else.”

  “How are you feeling?” says Herman.

  “My head hurts,” she says.

  “That’s the fumes from the gas,” he tells her. “You’re going to have a headache.”

  “What about you?” He looks at me.

  “I’m fine.”

  He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. “Here.”

  “What’s that for?”

  “Your head’s bleeding.”

  I reach up and sure enough there is blood on the side of my face, dripping onto the shoulder of my shirt. I remember hitting the countertop just before I blacked out in the kitchen.

  I press the handkerchief to my head and hold it there.

  “Why did you go back in the house?”

  “Wanted to see if I could grab her luggage,” says Herman. “But it’s flamed. I snagged her purse on the way out, but that was all because I had my hands full with the two of you.”