“Of course, I don’t know the man,” said Liquida, “and all of his body parts might not be working so well anymore, but I’m pretty sure I could persuade him to cooperate before he takes his last breath.”
“In which case he may give us something worthless,” said Bruno. “With these clients you don’t want to jam a piece of software in their machine and find out you have the original version of Pac-Man.”
“The other one, this Leffort. He wouldn’t be able to look at it and tell us?” asked Liquida.
“No. He says he won’t know if the final software is good until he is able to test it at the facility in Mexico.”
Liquida liked to work alone. It was how he had stayed alive this long. Strip Bruno’s chitchat to the essentials and the message was clear; the two guys from NASA were the walking dead. The minute their jobs were finished, so were they. Liquida didn’t want to be standing around them when it happened. It could be contagious. A call to do the wet work on them wouldn’t have twitched a brow on his forehead. But not this. To Liquida this sounded like an invitation to a funeral—his own. Although he didn’t like it, at the moment he didn’t have much choice. “One thing I don’t care for here is the location. You have them set up in the hotel across the street, right?”
“What’s wrong with it?” said Bruno.
“It’s just that the Latin Quarter is a tourist area. The Iranian gets away from you here, you’re going to have your hands full. There are too many prying eyes and nosy sightseers,” said Liquida. “Let me take them out to the suburbs.” Liquida wrinkled an eyebrow at Bruno. He was talking about neighborhoods to the northeast where angry Arab immigrants burned hundreds of cars each night, whenever they felt a grievance coming on. “Let the Iranian see what’s going on out there. It may loosen his tongue.”
“No time for that,” said Bruno. “Besides, there are too many police and French intelligence out that way. My people are already set up in the hotel. Just keep your knife in its sheath and use your head. A little finesse. That is what is called for here. I am sure you can do it. I have confidence in you.”
“Whatever you say.” The reason Liquida wanted out of the hotel was not because it was a tourist site. He had left the name “Hotel Saint-Jacques” on the message machine in Thailand. Liquida began to sweat, wondering if the FBI might already have the place under surveillance. With a fresh passport and another hotel, Liquida would have had a new lease on life. Time to figure out what to do. Now he would have to cross the street and walk into the hotel with his luggage and hold his breath as he did so.
On the way in from the airport, after talking to Bruno on the phone, Liquida had made one more call. This one was to the private courier in Dubai, the dispatch service that was holding his anonymous letter. He told them to deliver it and gave the address of the U.S. Embassy in Dubai, Office of the Legal Attaché.
Liquida had checked on the hotel computer in Dubai just before leaving. His FBI poster on their website was now updated with a sketch. This had to be courtesy of Madriani’s daughter. It wasn’t a very good likeness. He felt it failed to properly display the strength of character in his face. It looked like a picture made by a machine. Still, it was one more fly in the ointment, something to contend with whenever he flew commercial.
Liquida’s anonymous letter was in reference to the FBI’s most wanted website, not the old one used for gangsters, but the new one on terrorism. In the letter Liquida claimed to be a physician in Dubai. Liquida had postdated the letter by two days, knowing that he would be out of the country by then. He withheld his name, explaining that he could not take the chance of publicly assisting the American FBI since he resided and worked in such a dangerous region of the world. He explained that a foreigner had come into his office requesting medical attention. The man claimed to be a guest staying at the Dubai Beach Resort. He wanted the doctor to remove some surgical staples from what he claimed was a wound under his arm. While the doctor was happy to assist, he recognized the injury as a knife wound and immediately became suspicious. Later after the man left, he checked the few sources available to him online and discovered a wanted poster on the FBI website showing a sketch that looked very much like his patient. One of the aliases posted under the sketch was the name “Liquida.”
If the FBI found anything in Thailand, Liquida was hoping to send them in another direction, back to Dubai. By the time they checked out the lead in the Arab Emirates and discovered that the Spanish passport had moved from there in the other direction, to Thailand and then on to Paris, Liquida planned to be long gone, under a different name and on a different continent. He hoped that by then the Americans would be hooked on the Spanish passport. Liquida had plans for that as well.
He didn’t dare tell Bruno that the FBI was breathing up his ass and that the Paris hotel might be compromised. Bruno would pull out of the Latin Quarter all right, but only after one of his henchmen pumped a bullet into Liquida’s brain and dumped his body in the Seine. The only way out now was to work and work fast, to get out of Paris and back to Mexico where he knew the lay of the land. Perhaps it was all a matter of perspective, but for Liquida, suddenly the old cartels were not looking nearly so bad.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
Waiting for our flight from Bangkok to Paris, I borrow Joselyn’s laptop. She is an Apple user. I am not. She sets up the e-mail for me, and I send two quick e-mail messages.
The first message goes to Thorpe telling him about the Hotel Saint-Jacques and Liquida’s message on the tape along with the number code to get into it. I tell him that we are on our way to Paris, hoping that maybe he will have someone there to meet us. The second e-mail I also send to Thorpe but with a request that it be delivered to Sarah. I tell her we are headed to Paris, but I give her none of the details. I tell her not to worry, that we hope to be back in just a few more days.
I would have called Thorpe’s office, but since it is the weekend, and with a twelve-hour time difference between Bangkok and Washington, all I would get was his voice mail.
When I finish with the laptop, Joselyn takes it back and treats us to the mysteries of Earth Google and Google Maps. Within less than a minute she shows us the street view of the Hotel Saint-Jacques in Paris using Google Maps. Moving the camera’s perspective she is able to glide in front of the place, adjust the angle of view to look at the hotel from the ground level to the roof, and move down the side streets as if we were there. Cars on the road and pedestrians on the sidewalk are all stopped in freeze-frames as if frozen in time.
“How did you do that?” Harry is mesmerized.
“I’m sure you’ve seen this before,” she tells him.
“I’ve seen maps,” says Harry. “But not like that.”
“Watch.” She does it again, zooms in from the satellite view to the bubble that appears on the street and from there to the sidewalk view. “It’s easy,” she says.
“Maybe for you.” Harry is leaning over her shoulder looking at the screen. “How often do they update the pictures?”
“I’m not sure,” she says.
“Maybe if we watch long enough, we can catch Liquida coming out of the building,” says Harry.
Joselyn stops moving her finger over the tracker and looks back at him with big round eyes. The smile spreads across her face as she laughs. “You have a good poker face.” She turns back toward the screen. “For a second I thought you were serious.”
Harry shoots me a dense look.
“Even the village idiot knows the satellite overhead and ground photos are not in real time,” says Joselyn. “And, in answer to your question, they probably upgrade the photos every few years.”
“Wouldn’t want you to think I’m some techno-bozo with a bone through my nose,” says Harry. “But are there any programs out there that give you pictures in real time?”
“Not unless you have an office at Langley with the CIA,” she tells him. “I wanted to take a look at the area around the Hotel Saint-Jacques so we can
see the lay of the land. Maybe we can scout out a place to stay. Somewhere safe.”
She has a point.
Joselyn moves back to the map page and starts typing in a search for other hotels in the area.
* * *
There is no one from the FBI to meet us at the airport in Paris when we arrive. I suspect Thorpe may not have received the message.
By the time we approach the Hotel Claude Bernard, it is dark. The street outside looks nothing like the daytime pictures we saw on Joselyn’s computer nearly twelve hours earlier.
The incandescent lights in the restaurants and bistros combine with the eerie glow from the brighter lights of central Paris to give the neighborhood a fairy-tale-like appearance. Based on the map, the Bernard is about three hundred yards west of the Hotel Saint-Jacques and on the same side of the street, the rue des Écoles.
According to the computerized map, there are two other hotels that are closer, but the Bernard appears, to us at least, to be safer because of the distance. There is not much chance of running into Liquida by accident unless we get careless; that is, assuming he is booked at the Saint-Jacques. It is at times like this I miss Herman and his streetwise instincts for knowing how heavily, and where, to tread. The fact that Herman, who lives in the dark crevices of tracking and surveillance, was ambushed by Liquida in a dim garage in Washington is not lost on any of us.
Businesses crowd the sidewalks on both sides down the rue des Écoles, mostly small shops, restaurants, and other boutique hotels. Our taxi pulls up and stops at the sidewalk in front of the hotel. Harry, who is up front with the driver, speaks pidgin English and does sign language gesturing for him to get our bags. The guy sits there with a cigarette dangling from his lip. He seems not to understand a word of English other than the name of our hotel.
The Claude Bernard has a redbrick façade on the ground level with five stories above, including the penthouse. Wrought-iron-railed balconies reminiscent of those in New Orleans wrap the building on three of the upper floors.
Harry spies a boulangerie behind us and just across the street, kitty-corner to the hotel. He has his taste buds set for coffee and a pastry. It has been a while since our last meal on the plane. Riding in coach, we didn’t get much.
“Later,” I tell him. “We need to get off the street and up into the rooms.” Though we are a good block away from the Saint-Jacques, it wouldn’t do to have Liquida cruise by and see us.
The driver is out, getting the bags from the trunk. Joselyn and I collect our belongings from the backseat of the taxi. “Seeing as none of us speak French, how do we pay the guy?” says Harry.
“Hold out money,” says Joselyn.
“What, and let him take what he wants?” says Harry.
“The price of cultural ignorance,” she tells him.
“So we shouldn’t come to France unless we speak French, is that it?” he says.
“In a word, yes.”
“It’s that kind of attitude that’s gotten American tourists speaking English in Paris turned into spittoons,” says Harry. “Why don’t you and I get the luggage?” He looks at me. “I’ll deal with the driver. Qué quantos euros?” says Harry.
“Your Spanish is as bad as your French,” says Joselyn.
“Tell you what, why don’t you get the rooms?” he tells her. “The desk clerk will be less likely to spit on a woman.” Harry hands Joselyn his credit card and smiles at her. “You might want to wear a raincoat.”
“Fine.” She grabs the credit card from his hand. “No problem. Should we put both rooms on this one or do you have a card you’d like to give me as well?” She looks at me, all pissed off.
“What did I say?”
“Do you have a credit card or not?”
“It all comes out of the same pot,” I tell her. Harry and I are using business credit cards, and the business is very nearly drained.
Joselyn gets out of the car and slams the door like she is trying to break the window.
“Here,” Harry hands me some euros. “You deal with the driver. I’ll get the bellman to get the bags.”
Before I can say anything, Harry is out of the car, following Joselyn toward the entrance.
I get out on the driver’s side and stand pressed against the side of the car as traffic passes by.
The driver tosses the last bag onto the sidewalk. It’s a good thing we aren’t carrying glass. He closes the trunk and comes around to the driver’s side.
“How much?” I hold up the euros.
He gives me a face. I get the sense that he understands every word, but he’s not going to say it, not in English anyway. He flashes five fingers with his right hand and one more with his left, cigarette ash dripping down the front of his tweed coat. He wants sixty euros. I don’t know if this is correct or not, but I pay him. When the last ten-euro note hits his hand, he takes it with the other and stands there with his hand still out waiting for more. He wants a tip. I give him five euros. He looks at it as if it’s shriveling in his palm and turns his nose up. For a moment I think perhaps he is going to give it back to me. Instead he pockets it, looks at me with disgust, and flips what is left of his cigarette. It hits my shoe. He does this with such accuracy that I suspect it is well practiced. He gets into the taxi, slams the door, and pulls away. He nearly runs over my toes as I stand in the street.
Harry is out on the sidewalk with the bellman. They have the bags stacked on a cart. I follow them into the hotel. By the time we get there, Joselyn is engaged in animated conversation with the desk clerk, a young man she seems to have charmed.
“What did I tell you?” says Harry. “Send a pretty woman to deal with a Frenchman, you get smiles and French bullshit. You and me, we just get the bullshit.”
As we approach, Joselyn turns and says: “Hi, guys. I’d like you to meet Michel.”
“Bonjour!” says the guy behind the desk. “Comment vous appelez-vous?” He looks at me, waiting for a reply.
I stand there like a potted plant.
He looks at Joselyn, then back at me. “Parlez-vous français?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“No parlez-vous?”
“No.”
The clerk rips up the registration card he had already started and throws it at me.
“Now you’ve done it,” says Joselyn.
The clerk sprays us with a stream of French I suspect is laced with profanities. Then he points toward the door. “Sortez! Get out!” He motions for us to take our bags and leave.
I stand there like a jackass, foot in my mouth.
“All he wanted was your name,” says Joselyn. “Tell him your name, stupid!” Joselyn is staring at me, hands on her hips.
“Enough of this shit,” says Harry. “Let’s get out of here.”
“PAUL, my name is Paul. Paul Madriani.” I’m ready to genuflect, crawl on my hands and knees. All I want is a room.
The clerk looks me up and down, weighing whether to toss us into the street or try again. Slowly he pulls another card as he looks at me with contempt. He writes something on it. I’m guessing it’s my name.
“You better answer the next question correctly or we’re going to have to start all over again looking for another hotel,” says Joselyn. “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired.”
“You didn’t tell me you spoke French.”
“I don’t. Mike here is from Colorado. He attends the university in Boulder.”
I look at her.
She starts to laugh.
The clerk starts to break up.
A few seconds later the two of them are belly laughing all over the counter.
“Very funny!” I tell them.
“You catch the look on his face?” She is pointing at me, talking to the clerk, tears running down her cheeks, she is laughing so hard. “I thought he was going to pee in his pants.”
The clerk nods. “Sorry, mister, she made me do it.” He speaks in perfect American English. He is still laughing.
“
OK, so I’ve been had.” I start to join them.
“Mike is touring Europe, working for a stint to earn money.” Joselyn is wiping her eyes; looking at me, she starts to crack up again. “Consider yourself spit on,” she says.
“I was ready to walk out,” says Harry.
“You can if you want, but I’m staying the night,” says Joselyn.
“Sorry,” says the kid. “She put me up to it. I couldn’t resist.” He laughs.
“She would.” I smile at him and shake his hand. “How long have you been working here?”
“Two months. I took a year off school to travel. Studied French in high school and college. Actually my French is not that good.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“He did,” says Joselyn. She looks at Harry and slaps him on the shoulder. “See, not everybody in Paris spits on you.”
“Easy for you to say. You still have your toes,” I tell her.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ll tell you later. What do we have for rooms, Mike?”
“He’s upgrading us, third floor, street view with balconies,” says Joselyn.
“Excellent!”
“Let him piss on us again, maybe we can get the penthouse,” says Harry.
“Sorry, but it’s already booked,” says the kid.
“Is it possible to get two adjoining rooms?” I ask.
“Let me see. I think I can do that.” He checks the computer. “Yes.”
“Good. You get a bigger tip than the taxi driver,” I tell him. “Even so, I doubt if it will probably take you far in this town.”
“If you mean it’s expensive, you’re right. But then I don’t live in the Latin Quarter.”
“Where do you live?” I ask.
“I’ve got a small flat out in the suburbs. Place called Rosny-sous-Bois. And a roommate to share the cost.”
“Another American?” says Joselyn.
He nods. “A friend from Colorado.”
“How long you gonna be here?”
“Another few weeks, then we’re off to Italy. How about you guys, on holiday? Vacation?”
Trader of Secrets: A Paul Madriani Novel Page 16