Trader of Secrets: A Paul Madriani Novel (20 page)

“Hotel Saint-Jacques. It’s in the Latin Quarter, Left Bank. It’s Paris,” says Joselyn. “He’s headed for Paris.”

*  *  *

Liquida zoned out in the back of the limo on the way to the airport. For ninety minutes he drifted in and out. His only worry now was whether the Thai authorities at the airport might have a description of him, or worse, a sketch provided by Madriani’s daughter.

If they had the Spanish name from his passport, they probably would have nailed him at the hotel in Pattaya. The hotel had taken a copy of the passport. Liquida had to assume that the passport was still good. He would get a new one the minute he connected with Bruno.

“Oh, shit!” With the name Bruno, it hit him right between the eyes.

“A problem?” said the driver.

“No, no, everything’s fine.” The message Liquida had left for Bruno was still on the tape. With the cops drilling out his locked box it wouldn’t take long before they discovered the message system. That is, if they hadn’t already found it.

Liquida whipped out his cell phone and started dialing. He waited for a moment while the instructions played out, then keyed in the code. He listened to his own message and took solace from the fact that the system was still up and running. The message was still there. If the FBI had found it, Liquida was guessing that after listening to the messages, they would have taken the system down and hauled the hardware back to their lab for analysis.

He waited for the message to Bruno to end. The moment it did Liquida pressed seven. “Message deleted.” He went on to Bruno’s original message left for him and erased that as well. “There are no messages on your system.”

He wondered if the eggheads at the FBI would have any way to retrieve deleted messages. If so, by the time the lab sorted it out, he would be gone. Liquida made a mental note to keep his stay in Paris brief.

Chapter
Twenty-Six

T
he doorbell rang in the D.C. condo. Sarah turned the dead bolt, unhooked the chain, and opened the door without hesitation. She already knew who it was.

“Hello, Ms. Madriani?” The man was in his midforties, with short gray hair cut military style and parted neatly on the left. In a blue worsted suit he could have passed for an Iowa banker, but for the FBI credentials he was holding with the flap on its leather case hanging down.

“You must be Agent Ellison.” Sarah spoke without looking at the agent or his credentials.

“So they tell me.”

Sarah’s gaze was stranded on the Olympic-class eye candy standing behind him. By the time she forced her attention back to Ellison, he was already smiling.

“That’s OK. I’m getting used to it. Being a potted plant, I mean.”

“I’m sorry.” Sarah smiled and felt her face glow red.

“The good-looking one here is Mr. Adin Hirst,” said Ellison. “Don’t feel bad. You should see the secretaries in my office. He leaves in a few days. The place is going to look like a wake when he goes.”

“Yes, well, your office called earlier. They told me you would be coming by.” She tried to change the subject. “Please come in.”

The two men stepped inside. Sarah closed the door behind them. Ellison gave her a business card and told her he was with the Bureau’s International Operations Division, training section.

No matter how hard she tried to fix her attention on Ellison, Sarah couldn’t help but sneak another glance at the younger one. Six two, dark wavy hair, brown eyes, and tawny complexion. She guessed that the James Bond of the FBI couldn’t have been more than mid to late twenties.

She was overjoyed to have company, any company, so this was a pleasant surprise indeed. After four days alone, with only the dog Bugsy for companionship, Sarah was going stir-crazy in the cloistered apartment.

“The handsome one is here for training,” said Ellison.

“Gimme a break.” Adin blanched. “Don’t listen to him. He’s been giving me a hard time since we met.”

“I can imagine.” Sarah looked up at him and smiled coolly.

“Nice to meet you.” He reached out and shook her hand.

Sarah had always wondered if such smoking exterior looks routinely spoiled whatever was on the inside. She had never been close enough to find out.

“They told us you had a dog?” Ellison was looking around. “A Doberman?”

“You mean Bugsy,” said Sarah. “Not to worry. I locked him in the back room. He’s a little skittish around strangers, especially men. I figured you probably didn’t need that. Why don’t we go in the living room.” Sarah led the way. “Go ahead and have a seat. Can I get you some coffee? Something else to drink?”

“I’m fine,” said Ellison.

“How about you?”

“I’m good,” said Hirst.

The two men planted themselves on the couch like bookends.

Sarah took one of the wingback chairs across from them.

“How are you doing here alone?” said Ellison.

“I’m OK,” Sarah lied.

“You know, we have offered to have one of our female agents come and stay with you until your father and your friends get back. It’s not a problem.”

“I know, but it’s not necessary,” said Sarah.

“What about counseling?” said Ellison. “I know they’ve talked to you about having someone from our behavioral science unit come by. We have mental health people on staff. They’re not generally into therapy, but they do have training . . .”

“I know, but I think I’m OK.”

“OK, but if you change your mind, I want you to call me.”

“I will.”

“You’ve got my card,” said Ellison.

She looked at the business card. “What, ah, what exactly is the International Operations Division, training section?”

“Back to business,” said Ellison. “How much did they tell you on the phone?”

“Nothing,” said Sarah.

“IOD has to do with overseas operations. In addition to doing investigations stateside, the FBI also maintains agents in various U.S. embassies around the world. They provide a liaison with law enforcement from other countries. We exchange information, and in that regard we do a fair amount of training. That’s where my office comes in.”

Sarah nodded as if she understood.

“To make a long story short, you’ve become part of today’s training exercise. That is, if you’re willing to do it.”

“Sure, why not? I have nothing else to do,” said Sarah.

“Adin says that someone from his agency overseas sent him an inquiry last night about getting whatever information he could on witness protection as well as the bureau’s safe-house operations. Did I state that correctly?” He looked at Hirst.

“Dead-on.”

“So we thought we would start with a tour of the facility. Your name came up, so we thought we’d start here.”

“How did my name come up?”

“That was my fault,” said Adin. “Someone told me that your father and his partner and someone else had left . . .”

“That would be Joselyn Cole,” said Sarah.

“I figured it would be easier if we were disturbing fewer people. Since you were here alone, you became the guinea pig.”

“I see. Well, I’m delighted. So where’s home?” she asked Adin.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. If I did, I’d have to kill you.” The instant he said it, Adin made a face. “Forget I said that.”

“That’s OK.” Sarah smiled.

“Good move, Adin. You get twenty points deducted for lack of tact,” said Ellison. “Want to try for more?”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, really.”

“Adin sometimes works undercover. Though how he manages it with moves like that, I’m not sure,” said Ellison.

“Undercover I leave the levity at home,” said Adin. “The only time I screw up is when I’m myself, in a bar with a girl.”

“Foot-in-mouth syndrome?” said Sarah.

“You’ve seen this with other stupid guys, I take it,” said Adin.

“A few times.” She laughed. “So is Adin Hirst your real name?”

He made a face, like maybe yes, maybe no.

“I don’t want to be killed. So I won’t ask any more questions,” said Sarah. “What is it you need from me?”

“I have a short questionnaire. A couple of pages,” said Hirst. “If you can fill it out at your leisure and send it back through Agent Ellison’s office, that would be a big help.”

“Sure.”

“When, ah, when are your father and his friends going to be back?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Where did they go?”

“I can’t tell you that. If I did, I’d have to kill you.” Sarah smiled at him.

Hirst laughed. “Touché.”

“You speak French, you must be from France.”

“Funny you should say that. All the girls I kiss tell me the same thing.”

“Oh, you’re bad,” she said. “I’ll bet that’s not on your résumé.” She looked at Ellison, who was red to the tips of his ears. “Did you know you had a professional tonsil hockey player on your team?”

“Now you see, you’re wrong,” said Hirst. “With me it’s only a hobby.”

“I think maybe . . . I think we should, ah . . .” He looked at Sarah. “You’re not on sound surveillance here, are you?”

“God, I hope not.”

“I think we should look around a little. The unit itself, the apartment,” said Ellison. “And maybe talk to you a little about your experiences here.”

“This is about the best one I’ve had since I got here,” said Sarah.

All three of them cracked up. Sarah thought Ellison might have a heart attack. He was laughing that hard. When he finally regained his composure, he opened his notebook as he wiped a tear from his eye. “Let’s try to get serious here for a moment. Let’s start with a critique of security, starting with the front door,” said Ellison. He looked at Hirst.

“Good point,” said Adin. “Let’s see. Why did you open the door?” He looked at Sarah.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a simple question. Why did you open the door?”

“Because you rang the bell.”

“How did you know who it was?” said Hirst.

“Because your office called. I told you.”

“I have no doubt somebody called,” said Adin. “But how did you know it was the FBI?”

“Because that’s what they told me. Who else would have the number to this condo? It’s unlisted. The place is run by the FBI,” said Sarah.

“All of that is true,” said Ellison. “Still, what Adin is saying is correct. It’s possible that an unlisted number, even one issued to the bureau, can be discovered by an outside party. If so, they can call the number and identify themselves as anyone.”

“I assume that perhaps you’ve given the number out to relatives?” said Hirst.

Sarah nodded a little sheepishly. “Just my aunt and uncle back in Ohio. No one told me I couldn’t.”

“That’s why the FBI has to keep changing the numbers,” said Adin.

“So when your office called . . . I assume it was your office?”

“It was,” said Ellison.

“So what was I supposed to do?”

“As soon as they identified themselves,” said Adin, “you should have taken the name of the person calling, and the division or office they were calling from. Get all the information and details you can, write it all down. If they want to give you a phone number, fine, but don’t call that number. As soon as they hang up you call downstairs to the duty desk and give the agent all the information. He or she will call the division, check it out, and get back to you.”

“And until they do, you don’t open the door when someone shows up,” said Ellison.

“I see. I thought the place was safe,” said Sarah.

“It is, but because of the people we house here, it’s also a target. Precautions are in order,” said Ellison.

“I screwed up,” said Sarah.

“How could you know? You came in late, and you’re here alone. I’m sure your father and the others were given an orientation, brief as it might have been. They no doubt assumed whoever was on the duty desk would do the same with you. They didn’t.” Ellison took out a small pad and made a note. “What else did you see?”

“Me?” said Sarah.

“No. The hockey player here. He’s the one being graded,” said Ellison.

“When she opened the door, the chain was off,” said Hirst.

“Right. That door is steel, and it’s imbedded in a steel frame,” said Ellison. “The bolts fastening the safety chain are three inches long. They are threaded all the way through the steel frame and into the masonry wall. Same with the hinges. The chain itself is titanium, three-eighths-inch links. Somebody tries to kick that door open, they’re going to break their foot. The same with their shoulder. Of course, none of that works if you open the door without the chain on. That’s what it’s for. What else?” said Ellison.

“The credentials,” said Hirst.

“What about them?”

“She didn’t look at them, and even if she did, it wouldn’t have mattered,” said Adin.

“How do you know she didn’t look at them?”