Trader of Secrets: A Paul Madriani Novel (24 page)

Raji wondered if at some point they planned to kill Leffort as well. He told Bruno it all sounded good, except that he needed more specifics as to how he would be paid and what assurances could be made for his safety once the software was delivered. They were back to square one.

Bruno was reaching the point of frustration. Thus far, he had taken pains to avoid direct threats of violence, though it didn’t take much to decipher fury from the beads of sweat flowing over the wrinkles on the fat man’s forehead. He said good night, turned, and walked out of the room.

Time was running out for Raji, and he knew it. As long as they believed that ultimately he would deliver, they would keep him alive. The minute they realized there was no hope, Bruno would turn to the dark side. When torture failed, they would kill him. Fareed took consolation in the fact that at least he had a means at hand to avoid the pain of torture. When the end came, it would be quick, though probably not a bullet, not in the hotel anyway. For now he was looking for an opening, some way to transmit the data. All he needed was a few minutes alone with access to a high-speed Internet connection, and it would be done.

Since being confined to the room Raji had wondered if they were watching him through hidden cameras. Minilenses and microphones could be concealed anywhere. He had searched the room with care, but the little devils that were on the market now were so tiny they could be easily missed—a flyspeck on the wall, a crack in the paint. He couldn’t be sure.

As a precaution, each time he loaded something new into his notes, Raji went through the same involved procedure. He donned his sport coat and took out his glasses. They were an oversize pair of spectacles with heavy tortoiseshell frames attached to a woven lanyard so he could hang them from his neck when not in use. He put them on, sat down in front of the computer, lifted the screen, and waited for it to light up. He checked to see if perhaps there might be an Internet connection.

There was none.

He assembled some papers off to the right side of the laptop, a couple of pieces of hotel literature that he propped up to cover the USB port on the side of the machine. This was his cover, thin as it might be.

Raji reached under the left lapel of his jacket and felt for the small rip in the seam. As soon as his finger found it he opened it up a bit, and then pinched the other end of the small flash drive, squeezing it out through the opening in the seam. He grabbed the tiny thumb drive, concealing it in his hand. The entire gesture looked as if perhaps he had merely reached under the jacket’s lapel to scratch himself.

He placed his closed fist under the papers along the right side of the computer and carefully slipped the flash drive into the USB port. A few seconds later it registered on the screen along the left-hand margin, popping open under the title “No Name.” It appeared just below the one that read “Specs.”

“No Name” was Fareed’s insurance policy against pain. If forced to do so by torture, he would deliver it to them.

Raji hit the drive entitled “Specs,” then selected the file called “Intel Notes” and opened it. He went right to the top of the document. It already contained several pages. He hit the Caps Lock key and moved the cursor to make the letters bold, then typed the words: “
IMPORTANT – VITAL.”

Quickly he typed in the information given to him by Bruno concerning the facility in the jungle. He described the pictures showing the antenna array, giving the number and estimating the size of the satellite antennas. He also described the large metal building and then typed the following: “Assuming the information to be true and accurate, mission appears much further advanced than current estimates. Project may be nearing completion. From photographs observed, based on vegetation and foliage, estimate facility to be within tropic zone, fifteen degrees north or south of the equator.”

Raji didn’t waste any time. He quickly saved the notes and ejected the two drives. As soon as he was done, he pulled the flash drive from the USB port in the side of the machine. Then he scratched himself under the lapel one more time. When his hand came out, it was empty.

He took off his glasses, folded them, slipped them into the case, and put it in the drawer of the nightstand next to the bed. Then he took off his jacket and hung it up.

Raji kicked himself for not thinking ahead. Instead of bringing the flash drive, he should have tucked away one of the new international wireless broadband devices. They used cell band phone frequencies for connection to the Internet. They were not much bigger than a thumb drive and could easily be hidden in the lapel of his coat. While the connection was slower than high-speed Internet, he could have attached the software along with his notes to an e-mail. The entire package would have been on its way and out of their grasp within a few minutes. Fareed would have been free to throw a chair through the window and if need be, jump for it.

Instead he was playing for time, hoping for more information and praying that somehow he would find a way to get it out.

Chapter
Thirty-One

J
ust after three in the afternoon Bill Britain, head of Counterterrorism, knocked on the door to Thorpe’s office.

“Come in.”

The second Britain opened the door Thorpe looked up from his desk and said: “Did you get ahold of Madriani?”

“I did.”

Thorpe issued a sigh of relief and leaned back in his chair.

“But he wasn’t easy to find,” said Britain.

Thorpe was relieved. He was also angry and frustrated with the lawyer and his two companions. “How the hell did they get away from our people?”

“I don’t know,” said Britain. “I didn’t want to tell them they’d been under surveillance.”

“Probably just as well.” Thorpe had taken a huge risk by letting them go. If anything happened to them, he would be answering questions for the next several years. They had lied to him about going to San Diego on business, though Thorpe knew from the inception that the story was a ruse. The FBI had used them as bait to try to trap Liquida. This was something absolutely forbidden, using civilians as possible targets. Thorpe had never done it before. He did it now only because of the importance placed on the matter by the White House. Using them as bait was a long shot. It failed. Now Thorpe wanted them back.

Instead, Madriani had slipped the bonds of the FBI’s operation in Bangkok. He had skipped out of Thailand, sending Thorpe an e-mail as if it were a picture postcard, telling him they were on their way to Paris. Worse yet, they claimed to be hot on Liquida’s trail. Then in all the excitement, they failed to give Thorpe the name of the hotel where they were staying in Paris. Thorpe handed the crisis off to Britain, who had been up half the night trying to run them down.

“Got ahold of Madriani at his hotel early this morning,” said Britain.

“I hope you woke him up,” said Thorpe.

“It was early afternoon their time,” said Britain.

“Too bad.”

“The good news is they’re OK.”

“Are you sure?”

“I talked to all three of them.”

“I have half a mind to have them picked up. The question is, how? We’d have to cut paper to satisfy the French authorities, and I don’t have any charges. Did you tell them to get their asses back over here now?”

“I did.”

“And what did they say?”

“Madriani wants us to send in the troops,” said Britain. “He claims Liquida is booked into a hotel just down the street from the one they’re staying in. A place called Hotel Saint-Jacques.”

“That’s what he said in the e-mail,” said Thorpe. “Sit down.”

Britain took a seat. “I don’t think they’re in any danger.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I think they’re chasing rainbows,” said Britain. “When I pressed Madriani over the phone, asked him whether they’d actually seen Liquida, he said no. Though he probably wouldn’t know what he looks like.”

“You’re wrong,” said Thorpe. “Madriani has seen him, at least we think so, at least once, in Costa Rica a little over a year ago.”

“So be it,” said Britain. “He admitted they never saw him in Thailand or in Paris. But he’s sure he’s there.”

“How does he know?”

“All the stuff he told us in the e-mail, except none of it pans out,” said Britain. “I had our people in Bangkok go back out and check the office in Pattaya, just in case there was something to the lead Madriani gave us, the thing about Waters of Death.”

“Yeah?”

“The embassy wasn’t particularly happy to be doing this. Seems they’re still putting out fires with the Pattaya police, but they did it.”

“And?”

“There is nothing anywhere in that office referencing Waters of Death, or anything close to it,” said Britain. “Just a lot of filing cabinets. We also ran a check on the telephone messaging system, the one Madriani told us about. It does exist.”

“Well, that’s something,” said Thorpe.

“Yes, but there’s nothing on it. At least not using the code he gave us. I had our people dial in, and according to them, the voice on the tape said there were no messages. There was no reference to anything called WOD or any mention of a hotel in Paris. You want my opinion, I think Madriani and his pals are smoking dope.”

“Could be somebody erased the message,” said Thorpe.

“It’s possible,” said Britain. “But if I had to guess, I’d say Madriani is looking in all the wrong places.”

“What do you mean?”

“This.” Britain slid a file across the desk. “It came in yesterday morning, a report from our legat in Dubai. Take a look at the photocopy of the letter on top.”

Thorpe opened the file and read. A few seconds later he looked up: “Did anybody check it out?”

Britain nodded. “We got a copy of the sealed indictment on Liquida and wired it over to our embassy in Dubai late yesterday. Our agents got the local authorities—including some armed military, they weren’t taking any chances—to visit the Dubai Beach Resort. The Spaniard under the passport checked out four days ago.”

“Was it him?”

“Take a look underneath the letter,” said Britain. “There’s a copy of the passport photo from the front desk at the hotel. The quality of the copy is not great, but you can judge for yourself.”

Many hotels overseas are required by law to copy the passports, the entry stamp, and the photo page of all foreign registered guests.

Thorpe looked at the photograph and compared it to the sketch of Liquida from the FBI’s wanted poster, a copy of which was also inside the file. He took out a magnifying glass from the center drawer of his desk and looked at the photo more closely and back to the sketch. “I’d say it’s a pretty fair likeness. Have we checked with Spanish immigration?”

“The embassy in Madrid checked overnight. We’re waiting for an answer back.”

“Probably stolen or lost.”

“And of course he wasn’t about to leave any forwarding address at the hotel in Dubai,” said Britain.

“So he’s either still in the Emirates or he’s left the country.”

“Our people from the embassy are checking with their immigration department as we speak.”

“Knowing Liquida, he probably has another passport, in which case he could be long gone and we wouldn’t know it,” said Thorpe.

“No way to know until we hear back from immigration. In the meantime, what do you want me to do about Madriani? You want me to have somebody from the Paris embassy go babysit?” said Britain.

Thorpe thought about it for a moment. “If Liquida was in Dubai four days ago, I suppose it’s possible he could have flown on to Paris or . . . via Thailand to Paris. But you say none of the information Madriani gave us regarding Liquida’s connections to Thailand panned out?”

“Correct. After I hung up from him this morning, I got the report back from Bangkok,” said Britain. “None of the information in Madriani’s original e-mail to you checked out.”

“Did you call him back?”

“I tried. There was no answer in either of the rooms. They must be out.”

“And yet Madriani claims to be tracking Liquida from Thailand to Paris.” Thorpe looked across the desk at Britain.

“That’s what he says, but he admits he has absolutely no visual ID on Liquida, nothing in Thailand or in Paris. That much is clear.”

“So it sounds like he’s working on faith,” said Thorpe.

“Liquida could be on the other side of the moon based on what we know from Madriani,” said Britain.

“We can’t afford to waste any more time,” said Thorpe. “Listen, have my secretary prepare an e-mail. Tell her to send it out over my name. Send it to Madriani. Use the e-mail address he used to send his last message to me. Tell him that if he and his two friends are not back here in D.C. within forty-eight hours, I’m going to put their names and passport numbers on the international no-fly list. Tell him that the only way home after that will be on a MATS flight, military air transport, direct to Andrews Air Force Base. They can come back bundled up like freight. Let’s see if that puts a kink in their chain.”

Chapter
Thirty-Two

I
assume that’s not him,” says Joselyn.