Trader of Secrets: A Paul Madriani Novel (2 page)

In terms of philosophy, she is my opposite number, the positive to my own negative political electrical charge. She is a dreamy-eyed liberal whose self-appointed mission is to get the nuclear genie back in the bottle with the cork on tight. Joselyn is the chief instigator and lobbyist for an organization known as Gideon Quest. We met six months ago in the turmoil following an attack on the naval base in Coronado. She arrived at my front door looking for information. The rest, as they say, is history.

Thorpe and the FBI grilled us into the wee hours, recording our statements and getting all the details, everything we knew about the device that landed in the rail yard just outside Union Station in Washington, D.C., how we got involved, and what we knew.

The twisted tracks and thirty-foot hole in the ground have screwed up the local rail system big-time, though this was not the intended target.

A little after two in the morning they turned us loose, at least long enough to get a few hours’ sleep. By six
A.M.
we were back catching catnaps from chairs near Herman’s bed in the intensive care unit at George Washington University Hospital. The prognosis is not good. But if Herman regains consciousness at all, I don’t want him to wake up in a strange room with no one there.

Herman’s sister is due in from Detroit this afternoon to join the bedside watch.

In the meantime, Joselyn and I are being chaperoned by the FBI. If we are not in custody, it’s as close as you get. After I had a brief phone conversation with my daughter last night, the FBI lifted our cell phones. They don’t want us talking to anybody about the events until they know more. We are now incommunicado, their favorite couple it seems, at least until they finish pumping us dry of any useful information.

Agents check into the ICU every so often to see if Herman is awake and able to talk. No doubt they want to check his story against ours, trusting people that they are. Still, considering all the media parked outside, satellite trucks around the block and 24/7 cable coverage of the big bang in the rail yard, coming and going through the hospital basement in a darkened FBI van is not the worst way to travel.

Joselyn is slouched in the other chair with her eyes closed. Her little snoring sounds punctuate the noise of the ventilator forcing oxygen into Herman’s lungs. I decide to take a walk.

Outside the room I nearly run into a nurse carrying a fresh IV bag and a bottle of clear liquid.

“What are you doing here?” She glances at her watch.

“I’m a friend of the family.”

“Only family are allowed in ICU.”

“He’s all right.” The voice comes from behind me, a uniformed cop planted on the bench a few feet away. “He’s allowed. Check the list. The doctor put their names on it, both him and the woman inside the room.” The cop doesn’t look up at her. Chewing gum, he’s studying a tattered copy of
Field & Stream.

The nurse doesn’t like interference with her authority, which upsets the hospital pecking order. But she suffers it and slips by me into the room.

“How’s he doin’?” The cop is still looking at the magazine.

“Same.”

I see Zeb Thorpe down at the end of the hall talking to one of the agents. What he is doing here at this hour, I’m not sure. Thorpe never seems to sleep. It’s the price you pay for being head of the FBI’s National Security Branch.

Thorpe has become our chief jailer. The man is a brick, an ex-Marine with a flattop straight out of the ’50s. He looks the part of the original Jughead, but he has moments of inspiration. He is dogged once he gets on the scent, though at times he can be slow to pick it up.

Thorpe has posted security all over the hospital and limited press access to the lobby downstairs.

Last night during the interrogation, one of his people let slip with a comment that caused me to think that the rail yard bombing may not be the only iron Liquida has in the fire. There is no telling what other mischief the Mexican may be involved in.

Thorpe is hoping to talk to Herman to find out if he got a good look at Liquida. So far the authorities have a pseudonym, “Muerte Liquida,” with no face. They are streaming the videos from every security camera near the garage where Herman was knifed, hoping to find pictures of the mystery man. So far, from what I am told, they have had no luck.

The killer who cut his teeth working for the Tijuana drug cartel, Liquida, aka “the Mexicutioner,” is a ghost with no record on file, either here or in Mexico. He has now branched out and gone global. By all accounts he has slipped the bonds of narco-terrorism to move on to the wider world of clients with larger weapons and deeper pockets. In doing so he has grabbed the attention of Homeland Security and the FBI.

Thorpe eyes me over the shoulder of the other agent, finishes the conversation, and heads my way.

He sidles up close, looks me in the eye. “How’s he doing?”

I shake my head. “No change.”

“You know, if you’re tired, you and the lady can go back whenever you want. I’ll have one of my guys drive you.”

“Back to the government pad?”

“Where else?”

“That’s OK, you don’t have to wait for us. We can find our way,” I tell him.

He gives me a tight-lipped smile, all dead in the eyes, and switches the subject. “The doctor’s changing out the medication in his IV, lightening up on the sedatives.”

“Do me a favor. Leave him alone,” I tell him. “If he’s gotta die, let him do it in peace.”

“What?” He holds his hands out palms up, looking at me as if to say, What did I do? “Doctor’s just changing out the meds, that’s all.”

“Right.”

“If he does comes around, you will let us know?” he says.

“What good will it do? Herman can’t talk with the tube down his throat.”

“Yeah, but he can point. We got a man with a laptop and Identi-Kit software waiting in the hall outside. If Diggs saw Liquida, we’d like to get a shot at a sketch if we can.”

“Why not? You can just put your man with his computer and the software in Herman’s coffin and see what develops.”

“I don’t like this any more than you do,” he says. “But I’ve got a job to do. It may not be pleasant, but it has to be done.”

“I take it your people ran up a dark hole after Liquida left the garage? No leads?”

“We’re still looking.”

“That means he’s had, what . . . ?” I look at my watch. “Eleven hours’ head start to lose himself.”

“We’ll get him,” says Thorpe.

“When?”

“I don’t know. He’s probably gone to ground until he can recover. We’ll get him.”

“Always the optimist.”

“According to forensics, your investigator must have done a pretty good job on him. He left a small river of blood getting out of the garage.”

“Not enough to satisfy me,” I tell him.

“They tracked the trail through a back entrance and half a block before it disappeared. Either somebody picked him up out on the street or he had a car stashed. We’re checking all the hospitals and clinics.”

“Call me when you catch him. I have a daughter and law partner who would like to go home, and a life I would like to resume.”

“Tell that to your investigator,” says Thorpe.

Touché!

“You’re sure there’s nothing else you can remember?” he asks.

“We told you everything we know. I’ve gotta get back inside.” I turn to walk.

“Thanks for your help. I mean it. You will call the minute he wakes up?”

“Yeah. Maybe. We’ll see how he’s doing.” I leave him standing there as I disappear back into the room with Herman.

The nurse has already changed out the IV. She leaves and I settle into my chair.

“What’s going on?” Joselyn is half asleep, roused by my entry into the room.

“Thorpe appreciates everything we’ve done for him.”

“That’s grand. Tell him I can die a happy woman,” she says.

“Go back to sleep.” I settle back into the chair and close my eyes.

*  *  *

How long I slept I am not sure, but it must have been deep REM because a rasping noise invades my subconscious for some time before it becomes clear that it is the sound of someone choking.

I open my eyes and Joselyn is gone. Her chair is empty.

I turn and see Herman’s eyes wide open, his hands clawing at the tape around the tube at his mouth and nose.

I am out of the chair in a flash, grabbing his wrists to keep him from yanking on the tube.

“Herman! Herman, relax. It’s me. It’s Paul. You’re all right. They’ve got you on a ventilator. Leave it alone.”

His arms pull against me, struggling to reach the tube in his mouth. The trauma of the last day is etched across his broad face like a death mask. His eyes are staring at me in stark terror. Herman is in a state of panic, fighting the device that now controls his breathing.

He tries to move his mouth as if he wants to say something.

“Don’t try to talk. They got a tube down your throat. There was some lung damage. You’re gonna be OK,” I lie to him. “Doctor says you’re gonna be fine. Just rest.” I want to reach for the call button to get the nurse but can’t let go of Herman’s hands without running the risk that he’ll pull the tube.

He eases up a little with his powerful forearms. Herman forces a pained smile, as much as the tube down his throat and the mass of tape around his mouth will allow. He swallows hard. His eyes open wide as he chokes a little.

“That’s better. Don’t fight it. That’s it. Just relax and let the machine breathe for you. I know it’s hard.”

He nods gently. His head settles back into the hollow of the pillow once more.

I don’t tell him that, according to the surgeon, he flatlined twice during the four-hour operation. For much of the time he was on a heart-lung machine as they struggled to repair the damage to his right lung. Liquida had nicked a main artery. An inch more and he would have severed it. Herman would have bled out within seconds at the scene.

I hold each of his arms near the wrist, trying to avoid any contact with the IV needle going into the vein at the back of his hand. If he continues to struggle, they will have to tie his hands off to the railings on the bed. Knowing Herman, I’m sure he would tear the bed apart.

He lifts his head off the pillow once more and calls up a moaning sound from somewhere deep inside. His chest rises suddenly as if a million volts have been run through his body.

“Herman! Herman! Stay with me,” I tell him. “Joselyn!!” I yell at the top of my voice. I look over my shoulder, hoping either the nurse or Joselyn will come into the room.

When I turn back, Herman is trying to sit up. “No, no. Just stay still. Lie back.” He looks at me sternly in the eye as if maybe this is the last image his brain will ever register. He wants to say something, but he can’t. Herman’s most serious expression. Whatever it is, it’s important; at least it is to Herman.

I could kill Thorpe for having the doctor reduce the sedatives.

“Are you in pain? Lie back and I’ll get the nurse.” I can’t tell how much of what I am saying he understands.

He shakes me off. That’s not it.

“Relax. Let me get the nurse.”

He shakes his head again, this time more violently.

The cop steps into the room.

“Get the doc,” I tell him.

He leaves on the run.

Herman grabs the sleeve of my coat to keep me from leaving. Then he reaches up with both hands, wincing in pain as he motions in pantomime, his right hand scribbling on the palm of his left. He wants something to write with.

Frantically I look around, but there is no pencil or paper in the room. The best way to quiet him is to give him what he wants.

“I have a pen in my pocket. If I let go, you won’t pull on the tube? You promise?”

He gives me a quick sharp nod, anger in his eyes.

I release his wrists and fish the pen from my inside coat pocket. I find a couple of loose business cards in the side pocket. “Sorry. Best I can do,” I tell him.

He turns one of the business cards over and scribbles quickly on the back. With the needle inserted and taped to the back of his hand, the scrawl is barely legible. “Liquida?” He points at it with the tip of the pen.

“You got him good,” I tell him. I am hoping this news may calm him. “The cops found blood all the way out of the garage and onto the street. He won’t get far. You may have killed him. He may be dead for all we know.”

Herman shakes his head violently. He glares at me from under furrowed brows. He’s trying to tell me something, and I’m not getting it. He grabs the business card from my hand and starts to work the point of the pen over it again.

I move up a little toward the head of the bed to watch as he writes. The word
Sarah
and then
farm.
He stabs the last word with the point of the pen.

“Yes, Sarah is still there. She’s OK. I talked to her last night.”

Herman shakes his entire body this time, bellowing through the tube so violently that I’m afraid he is going to rip it from his throat. Suddenly the sensor on the monitor over the bed goes off, a screaming tone that fills the room.