Trader of Secrets: A Paul Madriani Novel

by Steve Martini

“I’ll try to get as much detail as I can,” said Thorpe.

  “Get it,” said Llewellyn, “and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Beyond that, we do have one lead. What’s the latest information we have on Bruno Croleva?” Thorpe looked to Britain for a response.

  “Last time I looked he was still near the top of our hit parade. We don’t know where he is, if that’s what you mean. Probably in the Middle East somewhere,” said Britain.

  “Who’s Bruno Croleva?” said Llewellyn.

  “International arms merchant,” said Britain. “Supplier of merchandise to needy warlords and aspiring terrorists.”

  “Bruno Croleva is an upwardly mobile jack-of-all-trades” said Thorpe. “If you check his jacket in the file, you’ll find that at one time, in another life, Bruno trafficked in drugs. He had extensive connections in Colombia and North Africa as well as in Marseilles in the south of France. Narcotics is where he got his start. It was from his connections there that he moved into arms sales. A lot of his early deals were to the cartels in Colombia.”

  Thorpe had a file on his desk containing two intelligence reports from the CIA. Together with the sparse information given to him over the phone from the White House, he was beginning to connect the dots.

  “Bruno is becoming a regular rainmaker of violence,” said Thorpe. “He’s been slipping into the middle of some really big international transactions and making himself indispensable.”

  “In what way?” said Britain.

  “He’s no longer just selling guns, bullets, and explosives. He’s now peddling some major ordnance. Just before you came over here today I pulled a couple of intelligence reports. It seems Bruno was partnered up with Victor Soyev.”

  “Soyev peddled the thermobaric device that landed in the rail yard at Union Station,” said Britain.

  “Right. When we took Soyev down, Bruno inherited the entire business,” said Thorpe.

  “Now, do you remember the Mexican assassin, the one the cartels called Liquida?”

  Britain had to change gears for a second to think. “Yeah, I remember. We kept wondering why his name was popping up around the fringes in the two terrorist attacks. The one in Coronado, at the naval base, and the aerial bomb that hit the rail yard here.”

  “Liquida is always around the edges,” said Thorpe. “Never in the middle. We were wondering what a contract killer for the cartels was doing involved in the two terror attacks. The answer is Bruno Croleva,” said Thorpe.

  “According to the intelligence reports, Croleva has done business with the FARC in Colombia,” Thorpe went on. “He has connections in Cuba where he has sold weapons as well as in the Middle East, in Iran . . .”

  “And we know he had a connection in North Korea because that’s where Soyev got the thermobaric device,” said Britain.

  “Correct,” said Llewellyn.

  “All the places where weapons were used in the last two terrorist attacks were either obtained or transited during their shipment to the United States,” said Thorpe. “And it seems that in addition to peddling blockbuster ordnance, Bruno has become a major talent agent. He doesn’t just sell the weapons. If you require it, in a pinch, he can rent you the services of specialists who can wield them and do so with great discretion. According to the CIA, one of his principal artists in this field is a professional assassin known only by the alias ‘Liquida,’ which in Spanish means ‘water.’ In other words, if you’ve got a deal going down and suddenly somebody’s getting ready to drop sand in the works, Bruno can commission Liquida to lubricate the gears with blood.”

  “OK, I understand all that,” said Llewellyn, “but how does that give us a leg up on whatever it is that has the White House in such a shit storm?”

  “That’s the thing about information,” said Thorpe. “Whoever has it possesses power. In this case, the power to know more. During the telephone conversation, the White House let it drop that apparently the National Security Agency has no file on Bruno.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Britain.

  “The NSA managed to track some Skype traffic, Internet telephone communications, and apparently a chat line message left by one of the missing researchers from NASA to someone named Bruno Croleva. They wanted to know if the bureau had anything in its files on a man by that name. I’d suggest that gives us two leads, not one, Croleva and Liquida. And we’d better find them fast,” said Thorpe.

  Chapter

  Thirteen

  Five hours out over the Pacific and my body is beginning to cramp up in the tight coach seat. We are thirty-two rows back in the big 767, and not even halfway to Taipei. There we have a two-hour holdover before we fly on to Bangkok, another three and a half hours in the air.

  Harry, Joselyn, and I flew directly from Washington to L.A., not even going near San Diego. We booked a midnight flight on EVA Air, the national airline of Taiwan. I can’t begin to calculate the number of time zones we will cross, let alone the international date line.

  By the time we arrive, we will be the walking dead, talking in our sleep, terminally jet-lagged with no chance to get over it before our scheduled return flight in three days.

  The lights are out in the cabin, and the shades are all pulled. Most of the passengers are in various states of disarray. Some of the pros brought bedclothes, loose sweats or shorts to sleep in. There are bodies under rumpled blankets, some of them hugging pillows. The guy behind me is slouched in his seat snoring like a foghorn with his knees buried in the back of my seat. The interior of the plane has the mood of an opium den but without the benefit of the drugs.

  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 s
he 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 Juárez 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 hi
m 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&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.