Trader of Secrets: A Paul Madriani Novel (8 page)

“No need to be embarrassed.” Croleva fancied himself a mind reader, a delusion fostered by the fact that most people were sufficiently terrified of him that any semicivil suggestion from Bruno was generally followed by the word
yes.

Larry Leffort sat on the couch against the far wall in Raji’s Paris hotel room. He knew that playing twenty questions with Bruno could end with piano wire being used to make something other than musical notes.

“Listen to me,” said Raji. “You don’t understand.”

Bruno’s forced smile compressed the furrows above his eyebrows. The no-man’s-land between there and the shiny bald dome up top looked like a crooked plowed field. “Tell me. What is it that bothers you? Why do you want to go back?”

“I just want to go home, that’s all.”

“There is nothing there for you,” said Bruno.

“I want my life back. Can’t you get that through your head?” Raji was afflicted more by anger than fear at the moment. “I know that coming here was a mistake. We all make mistakes. I’m sorry if I caused you problems. But now I just want to go home. That’s all there is to it. Understand?” Raji looked up at Bruno, all three hundred and sixty pounds of him and gave the man an annoyed expression, like what part of no don’t you understand.

“I knew it,” said Bruno. “It is a woman. I can see it in your eyes. You miss her. You are in love. Admit it. Dat’s only natural. Young man like you. But soon you will be a rich man. You must learn to cast your net into the open sea, where there are many fish.” Having divined the problem, Bruno’s brain didn’t allow for conflicting messages even from the patient. “You want a woman, I get you one. Beautiful woman. No problem.”

“I doubt he’s ever been with a girl,” said Leffort.

“Fine. You want a boy, I get you . . .”

“No!!!” Raji glared up at Bruno and shouted. “You’re not listening.”

“OK, OK. You want more than one woman? I can do that.”

Raji just sat on the bed, looking up at the ceiling and shaking his head.

“How many can you get?” asked Leffort. “Women, I mean.” Leffort knew there had to be piercing and tattoo parlors in Paris. Just think what he was missing.

Bruno shot him a harsh glance that crossed the room like a bolt of lightning. The two Americans were driving him crazy. He couldn’t wait for Liquida to arrive so the Mexican could take them off his hands.

“You, outside!” Bruno gestured to Leffort. “You stay here. I’ll be back in a minute,” he told Raji.

Croleva and Leffort stepped from the room into the hallway outside. Bruno said something in Russian to the man seated in the chair at the end of the hall. They had already bolted the window in Raji’s room closed so that he couldn’t crawl out on the ledge and try to escape.

Leffort and Bruno walked a short distance down the hall, out of earshot of Bruno’s thug sitting in the chair.

“We are going to have to put something in his food to sedate him,” said Bruno.

“You think that’s necessary?” said Leffort.

“Yes. And you will have to keep an eye on him.”

“Why me?”

“Because you are his friend. He trusts you.”

“Right,” said Leffort.

“And because, if you had done your job, you would already have the rest of the materials, in which case we wouldn’t need him any longer.” Bruno was talking about the final targeting programs. “You are certain that he has them?” Croleva watched Leffort’s face closely as he asked the question.

“Yes. Absolutely. He has them. I know it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he told me. And because he ran the programs and plugged in the targeting data for a computer simulation the day before we left. And it worked.”

Bruno studied Leffort’s eyes for any hint of deception.

“He completed the programs three weeks ago.” Leffort couldn’t afford to show even the slightest equivocation on this. If Bruno thought for a moment that Raji didn’t have the final targeting software, he would kill both of them now and make whatever excuses were necessary to his clients. Without that software the rest of the project materials were worthless, and both Leffort and Bruno knew it.

“You say he loaded them into a computer for the simulation? Then why couldn’t you get them from the computer?”

“Because he deleted the software the moment the test was done. He’s no fool,” said Leffort.

“Then where are they? We have been through his luggage. They are not there. At least not that we could see. You have checked his working papers and you say they are not there. I have had my people scan everything from his laptop. There is nothing there. So maybe he left the programs behind. That could be the reason he wants to go home. He knows he cannot deliver when the time comes.”

“No, he either has them or he has access to them at some remote location online,” said Leffort. “He would never have gotten on that plane otherwise. I’m sure of that.”

“So where are they?”

“I don’t know, but I’ll find out,” said Leffort.

“You had better,” said Bruno. “I cannot allow you to leave Paris until I am certain that you have them. Do you understand?”

Leffort nodded.

*  *  *

Liquida had two more tasks to complete before leaving Dubai. The first was done using one of the hotel’s guest computers. He typed up an anonymous letter addressed to the U.S. Embassy in Dubai. It was one of Liquida’s “white-glove specials,” for he always wore gloves when he printed them out. Fingerprints on the paper were a no-no. It was an anonymous tip to law enforcement. He used them occasionally to take down competitors or to drop sand in the gears of a client who failed to pay. He sealed the letter in a blank envelope and delivered it to a private courier service in downtown Dubai. He paid for the delivery in cash, used a pseudonym to set up the account, and left firm instructions that the letter was to be held in their offices until he called. At that time he would give them the delivery address. Liquida didn’t want to give them the address now in case they screwed up and delivered it early, in which case it would be his ass in the flames.

The second task was more painful. Back at the hotel, Liquida downed some of the pain medications given to him by the doctor in D.C. He used the sharp point of one of the stilettos to spread the ends of each of the thirteen surgical staples. Then, gritting his teeth, he plucked them out one by one from the pursed-up wound under his right arm. Liquida found it difficult maneuvering the sharp point of the blade with his left hand. He stopped periodically to steady himself and to dab the bleeding pinholes around the wound with tissue from a dispenser on the bathroom counter.

As he moved the blade, Liquida dripped venom while bargaining under his breath with the evil imps that inhabited his heart. He haggled for the soul of the dead black bastard who did this so that Liquida might staple his spirit to the hottest rock in hell. By the time he pulled the last wicked little piece of wire from his flesh, he was a quivering mass of sweat. Liquida looked at himself in the mirror. Even to his own eyes he appeared the hideous image of Gollum.

He rested for an hour and then showered. When he was done patting the wound dry, he checked the towel to make sure that the tiny pinholes from the staples were no longer seeping blood. He dressed, putting on a pair of tan slacks and a loose-fitting Egyptian cotton white shirt with an open collar and black buttons down the front. He left the bottom of the shirt outside his pants and slipped on a pair of loafers with no socks, the casual Spanish squire on holiday.

Liquida spent the rest of the day relaxing, sitting under an umbrella by the pool and reading newspapers to catch up on the evil others had done while he was on the run, hiding and plucking sharp pieces of wire from his body.

He was two days early removing the staples, but he had no choice. Bruno’s offer wouldn’t wait. It was now or never. If Liquida didn’t reply and do so soon, the offer would be gone.

While the better half of his brain told him it was a setup, his weaker side didn’t want to believe it. Besides, he had no option. He was running out of money. He needed the cash in that box. And if Bruno had a job for him, a big one, there would likely be money for expenses. Bruno was hip deep in people who could supply top-notch passports and create new bulletproof identities, all the resources that Liquida needed for cover. It would buy time. He could use it to stay out of the clutches of the Americans.

He wanted to believe that it was all there in the box. The problem was, there was only one way to find out.

Chapter
Eleven

H
arry, my law partner, gives me a sleepy stare from tired, heavy-hooded eyes. It’s almost noon and Harry just fell out of bed. He and Sarah came in late last night in a two-car caravan, large dark SUVs with all the windows blacked out, driven by the FBI.

This morning Sarah is out working with one of their computer techs in the ongoing effort to refine an Identi-Kit portrait of Liquida, at least as much as she can remember. It is likely to be the only image they have since Herman, who was taken from behind with the knife, says he never got a clear look at the man.

“Paul, listen. I don’t know how else to say it. I’m sorry.” Harry is looking at me sheepishly, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “I was supposed to be watching her and I blew it.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is. I should have been watching her more closely. You trusted me and I let you down.”

“You did what you could. Besides, it was my job. I’m her father. I should have been there.”

“You couldn’t be everywhere,” says Harry. “We agreed I would be the one responsible for keeping an eye on her and I failed. Simple as that.”

“Let’s not talk about it,” I tell him. “The important thing is, she’s alive.”

“No thanks to me.”

Harry and I are seated in the two tufted wingback chairs in the living room of a safe house in Washington, D.C. It is a high-rise condo courtesy of Thorpe and the FBI. At the moment none of us knows how long we’ll be here. The place is decked out with rented furniture and contractor-painted eggshell-white walls. With all the blinds drawn it has the ambiance of a whitewashed cave.

“Any idea how Liquida found the two of you on the farm?” I ask.

Harry nods. He’s gazing down at the floor, still half asleep. “They think he used an electronic tracking device. The fucker’s devious,” says Harry.

“I thought Herman had the cars all swept. He found the one attached to your car and had it removed,” I remind him.

“He did. Liquida mailed another small tracking device to Sarah at the house, figuring she probably left a forwarding address with the post office. The FBI found the tracking device in one of the drawers in her bedroom in Ohio. The note with it said it was from you, that you’d explain what it was the next time the two of you talked on the phone. When you talked, Sarah forgot to mention it. All Liquida had to do was read the tracking information on his computer. It led him right to the farm.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“She didn’t tell me about it because the note said it was a surprise for me.” The craggy gray lines down Harry’s face appear like ravines on a mountainside. He seems to have aged five years since I saw him last in Coronado. That was less than a month ago.

Our law practice in California is now a shambles. Neither of us has been in the office for weeks, forced into hiding by Liquida. No doubt clients are now complaining to the state bar that their phone calls are not being returned. Before long the bar will be trying to punch our tickets to practice. Harry and I can take down the shingle and start selling pencils out on the street. Our lives are unraveling.

“Coffee’s ready.” Joselyn sticks her head through the open doorway to the kitchen.

“Be there in a minute,” I tell her.

“You two need to stop talking about this. Dredging up all the little details isn’t gonna make it go away. What’s happened has happened. The more you pick at it, the worse it’s going to get.” She’s been listening through the open door.

“So what are we supposed to do?” I turn and look at her.

“Get off your ass and come get something to eat.” Before I can say anything more, she disappears back into the kitchen.

“Yeah, I can see how she could be good for you,” says Harry. He looks up at me and winks. “How’s Herman doing?” He changes the subject.

“They moved him out of intensive care yesterday.” We get up and start walking toward the kitchen. “He’ll be on the mend for a while. But he’s starting to get irritable.”

“That’s a good sign.”

“The doctor’s telling him six weeks to two months before he can do any heavy lifting.”

“Take bets,” says Harry. We enter the kitchen. “Give you three to one Herman’s back out on the bricks in less than a month.”

“At death’s door one day, fighting to go home the next. Herman’s always been a quick healer,” I tell him.

“More power to him,” says Joselyn. “Either one of you would be laid up for a year.”

“You see what I have to put up with? What a hard-ass.” I look at Harry and smile.

“Yes, and it’ll be a long time before you touch it again with that kind of an attitude.” Joselyn has her back to us as she works at the counter slicing some small sandwiches and stacking them on a plate. “He’s been in the dumps since he first heard about what happened to Sarah.”