Trader of Secrets: A Paul Madriani Novel (17 page)

He steps out of the men’s room. “Let’s get out of here.”

I put a finger to my lips.

“What’s up?” he whispers.

I motion for him to join me at the stairwell. We wait until I hear the wooden door downstairs open and then close again.

“Come on!” We head for the stairs.

“What the hell’s goin’ on?”

“The gal with the bag . . .”

“Yeah.”

“She may be delivering to Liquida,” I tell him.

We hustle down the stairs into the hallway on the ground floor. We stop just inside the door that leads out to the street. I open it six inches or so, just enough to see out.

“There she is.”

She is off to the right, walking up the sidewalk away from us. The loud flower print of her dress and the oversize bag over her shoulder make her easy to track even with the glut of pedestrians at rush hour.

“Let’s go.” Harry tries to push by me.

“No, no. I can see her fine from here. Give her a second. See where she goes. She’s starting to cross the street.”

“What, you’re gonna let her get away?” says Harry.

“No, but if Liquida is out there somewhere watching her, he’s gonna bolt the minute he sees us. We may not get another chance.”

I watch her as she crosses over. I am getting a little nervous. If she jumps into the back of one of the little blue trucks, the ones they use as buses, and heads down a side street, we could lose her.

“What’s she doing now?” says Harry.

“She’s over on the other sidewalk. Let’s go. . . . No, hold on! She stopped. She’s talking to somebody.”

“You think it’s Liquida?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. . . . Oh shit!” I am out the door before Harry can move, running for the street. I hurdle a vendor out on the sidewalk and weave between the cars stopped on the road. I cross three lanes when I run smack into the side of a large white tourist bus that pulls up. His air brake hisses as he stops. I hear the high whine of the motorcycle engine over the heavy rumbling diesel as I race toward the front of the bus.

Out under the bus’s massive windshield, I look to the right searching for the woman and the man on the motorbike, praying that she is still there and has the bag.

As I run out from in front of the bus I get only a flashing glimpse of the oncoming rocket through the periphery of my left eye. Throwing my body back, I feel the end of the handlebar as it carves a path across my lower stomach, followed by scorching heat on my left shin. I land on my ass in front of the wheel of the bus, stunned and praying that the driver sees me and doesn’t lurch forward.

*  *  *

Up on the third floor, Charlie One wasn’t even looking through the spotting scope. He had his hands full fielding orders from the U.S. Embassy in Bangkok. They instructed him to notify the Pattaya police as to their location and to wait there until the police arrived. The embassy was busy making apologies to a higher authority.

“What should we do about the three U.S. citizens?” He listened over the cell phone as they gave him instructions. Then he ended the call.

“What do they want us to do?” said his partner.

“Punt.”

*  *  *

Up ahead, two parked baht buses had the shoulder blocked. Liquida found an opening, moved to the right, and started streaming through the groove between the stalled vehicles. He rode the line, easing off whenever he approached a blind spot. He stopped at a red light and glanced skyward to see if there was anything moving overhead. It looked clear.

He was certain that nobody could have followed the kid on the ground. It would have been impossible on anything but a bike. And if motorcycle cops had gone after him, Liquida would have seen them.

The light turned green. Within seconds the twenty or so bikers at the head of the line took off down Second Road headed for the Dolphin Circle and the roundabout a mile away.

Liquida hung back and allowed some of the traffic to pass him. A minute and a half later he approached Big C, a large shopping center off to the right. He drove in front of it and stopped at the curb directly across from the intersection of Soi 2. He sat there for a few seconds looking down the narrow side street as traffic moved past him.

About a quarter of the way down there was an empty parking lot on the left side of Soi 2. It was in front of a nightclub that Liquida knew did not open until at least nine at night. Sitting in the parking lot on his bike wearing his grimy green vest was the taxi kid. Liquida could see the white beach bag hanging from the handlebars of the kid’s bike like a trophy.

He looked to make sure there were no other vehicles in the lot. There was nothing moving on Soi 2. Liquida waited for a break in traffic on Second Road, then swung across the lanes and onto the narrow side street. He went straight to the parking lot next to the taxi bike, peeled off a thousand-baht note, gave it to the kid, and took the bag.

The kid pocketed the money and took off, heading down Soi 2 for Beach Road and back to the taxi stand.

Liquida didn’t waste any time. He scooted over near a trash can in front of the nightclub and quickly went through the contents of the bag. He opened the envelopes and examined it all. Anything not important he tore up into little pieces and tossed into the trash can.

He ripped open the large insulated brown envelope and found four packets of wrapped five-hundred-euro banknotes, each bound with a brown paper wrapper. He also found a printed note from Bruno Croleva giving him the initial details of the new job, the where and when of Liquida’s next travels. He looked closely at the mark on the bottom of the page. Bruno never signed anything. Instead he used a signet ring like the ancient Roman consuls. He would use an ink pad and punch his seal on the bottom of the page. A signature on incriminating documents was hard to deny. A signet ring could always be melted, and yet to those who knew it, the mark was unique—an arrow with crossed serpents.

Liquida didn’t bother to count the money. Instead he tore off the wrappers, tossed them in the trash, and then flexed the bills carefully in small groups, bending them to see if any of them were unduly stiff. He looked for any notes that might be glued together. The cops now had tiny radio-emitting wafers thinner than a credit card and not much bigger than a postage stamp. These were tracking devices that, if you didn’t find them, could lead authorities right to your front door. When he was finished, he tossed the insulated envelope into the trash, keeping only the money and Bruno’s note.

In less than two minutes, Liquida buzzed out of the parking lot headed for Beach Road. He was feeling relieved and rather pleased with himself. There was no reason to worry after all. The drop box in the office was perfectly safe. He would change it soon, but for now it was good. It was also the only way to contact Bruno, the lockbox in conjunction with TSCC’s messaging system. Liquida would have to notify him that the job was accepted. And he would have to do it soon; otherwise Bruno would hire someone else.

Liquida glanced at his watch, checking the date. Almost a week had passed since Bruno’s original offer. If Bruno didn’t hear from him soon, Liquida would lose the job, and with it any gold-plated passports and new identities.

He stopped the motorbike before he reached the end of Soi 2. He pulled off to the side and grabbed Bruno’s note from the bag. Liquida reached for his cell phone, flipped it open, and dialed a local number using the Thai SIM card he had purchased the day before.

He keyed in Bruno’s extension on the Thai messaging system and, when prompted, left a message: “This is WOD.” Liquida liked the acronym. It even sounded like a Thai name. “Payment retrieved. Job offer accepted. Confirmed. Will arrive Hotel Saint-Jacques Monday
A.M.
Will require usual documents, at least three sets.” The last was code for passports and identity papers. Bruno’s operation excelled at this.

Liquida pushed the end button on the phone and flipped it closed, another chore done. He fired up the bike and headed back to the hotel to pack.

Chapter
Twenty-Two

B
y the time I scrape myself off the pavement in front of the bus and get to my feet, the girl in the flowered dress and the man she was talking to on the motorbike are nowhere to be seen. There is a growing cluster of people around me. One old lady touches my torn left pant leg below the knee. I glance down. The frayed threads look as if they are singed.

The bus driver has set the air brake, turned off the engine, and come down out of his seat through the open bus door to see what has happened. Harry is right behind him.

“You OK?” Harry pushes his way around the driver.

“I think so.” I am leaning over, feeling around to make sure my leg is still there. “Did you see him?”

“See who?” says Harry.

“The guy on the bike.”

“I saw him,” says the driver. “Guy’s crazy. Run right over you.”

I ignore the driver, talking instead to Harry. “No, I don’t mean the guy who hit me. I mean the other one. The guy on the bike, the one she was talking to.”

“I couldn’t see a thing. I was on the other side of the bus,” says Harry.

“You didn’t see him before the bus pulled up? When she was standing there talking to him.”

“Oh, you mean when we were back there in the doorway?”

“Yes.”

“All I could see was the back of your head,” says Harry. “How the hell am I supposed to see anything when you’re in the way? Next time get a glass head,” he tells me.

“Damn it!”

“What difference does it make? They’re gone now.”

“Right, and one of them has the bag, the stuff from the drawer.” I am looking over the crowd to see if the girl is gone. “I couldn’t tell if she got on the bike or if she just gave him the bag.”

“What drawer?” says Harry.

“Never mind. I’ll fill you in later.” I hear sirens in the distance. “Let’s get Joselyn and get the hell out of here.”

Harry and I slip back inside the building. We climb the stairs and I tap on the dark glass. “Open up!”

A few seconds later Joselyn opens the door.

“Let’s go.” I tell her.

“What happened?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Just then we hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Joselyn, Harry, and I head toward the back of the building. We leave the way we came, out the back and down the steps next to the loading dock. We cross the parking lot and escape through the narrow gap between the two buildings.

*  *  *

Charlie Three got to the Marriott and called Madriani’s room using one of the house phones. He was prepared to hang up if anybody answered. No one did. He tried the partner’s room and got the same result.

He stood in the lobby debating whether he should call the bad news in to Charlie One using the radio, or if it might be wiser to switch to the cell phone. Just as he reached for the phone on his belt, a silver lining appeared over the hotel’s main entrance.

He pulled out his phone and turned his back so they wouldn’t get a good look at his face as he pushed a single button and did a quick dial to Charlie One. The phone rang three times before it was answered.

“Yeah!” He didn’t sound happy. Charlie One was yelling into the phone over the din of background noise. He was obviously under some stress.

“Thought I’d let you know the three of them just walked into the hotel,” said Charlie Three.

“You just made my day. Are they all right?”

The agent looked over his shoulder and took a peek at the three Americans as they walked by him toward the elevator. “They look fine to me.” There was music and crowd noise on the other end of the phone, then a quick siren punctuated by a buzzer. “What the hell’s goin’ on over there?”

“You don’t want to know,” said Charlie One.

“You want I should call Charlie Four and we can pick up the three of them over here and put ’em on a plane in the morning? I don’t want to have to go through this again,” said Charlie Three.

The agent in charge thought about it for a second and then said: “No. All we were asked to do is to follow them and provide protection. If they’re OK, leave ’em alone. Just stay there and make sure they don’t leave the hotel again unless you’re on them like second skin. Understood?”

“Got it.”

“Call Charlie Four and tell him to get over there and provide some backup. And stay off the radio. Whatever you do, don’t come back over here.”

“Why not?”

“I’m afraid we’re gonna be here for a while.”

“Got it.”

Charlie One ended the call and was about to slip the phone into his pocket when a hand reached around from behind and took it away from him.

“I will keep this for now.”

When the agent turned around, he saw the uniformed Thai policeman standing there in front of him. He could tell this was no ordinary cop. The man was maybe five foot eight, tall for a Thai, and very fit. He was wearing a military-style five-point hat with a shiny visor. The starched uniform bore captain’s bars and looked as if it was molded to his body. “We will have that as well.” He took the handheld radio and handed both the cell phone and the radio to the officers standing behind him.