Steve Martini - Trader of secrets

“And we know he had a connection in North Korea because that’s where Soyev got the thermobaric device,” said Britain.

“Correct,” said Llewellyn.

“All the places where weapons were used in the last two terrorist attacks were either obtained or transited during their shipment to the United States,” said Thorpe. “And it seems that in addition to peddling blockbuster ordnance, Bruno has become a major talent agent. He doesn’t just sell the weapons. If you require it, in a pinch, he can rent you the services of specialists who can wield them and do so with great discretion. According to the CIA, one of his principal artists in this field is a professional assassin known only by the alias ‘Liquida,’ which in Spanish means ‘water.’ In other words, if you’ve got a deal going down and suddenly somebody’s getting ready to drop sand in the works, Bruno can commission Liquida to lubricate the gears with blood.”

“OK, I understand all that,” said Llewellyn, “but how does that give us a leg up on whatever it is that has the White House in such a shit storm?”

“That’s the thing about information,” said Thorpe. “Whoever has it possesses power. In this case, the power to know more. During the telephone conversation, the White House let it drop that apparently the National Security Agency has no file on Bruno.”

“I don’t understand,” said Britain.

“The NSA managed to track some Skype traffic, Internet telephone communications, and apparently a chat line message left by one of the missing researchers from NASA to someone named Bruno Croleva. They wanted to know if the bureau had anything in its files on a man by that name. I’d suggest that gives us two leads, not one, Croleva and Liquida. And we’d better find them fast,” said Thorpe.

Five hours out over the Pacific and my body is beginning to cramp up in the tight coach seat. We are thirty-two rows back in the big 767, and not even halfway to Taipei. There we have a two-hour holdover before we fly on to Bangkok, another three and a half hours in the air.

Harry, Joselyn, and I flew directly from Washington to L.A., not even going near San Diego. We booked a midnight flight on EVA Air, the national airline of Taiwan. I can’t begin to calculate the number of time zones we will cross, let alone the international date line.

By the time we arrive, we will be the walking dead, talking in our sleep, terminally jet-lagged with no chance to get over it before our scheduled return flight in three days.

The lights are out in the cabin, and the shades are all pulled. Most of the passengers are in various states of disarray. Some of the pros brought bedclothes, loose sweats or shorts to sleep in. There are bodies under rumpled blankets, some of them hugging pillows. The guy behind me is slouched in his seat snoring like a foghorn with his knees buried in the back of my seat. The interior of the plane has the mood of an opium den but without the benefit of the drugs.

Joselyn’s head is tilted on my shoulder. She is snoring gently in my ear, making harmonics with the foghorn behind me. Harry is just across the aisle. He is snoozing when he can, but like me he is having trouble finding the sandman.

He looks at me and sees my eyes open. “Who was the Sherlock who thought this one up?”

“You wanted to come,” I whisper to him.

“What’s the time difference in Thailand?” says Harry.

“I think it’s fourteen hours ahead of the clock on the West Coast,” I tell him.

Joselyn begins to stir. She lifts her head from my shoulder and stretches. “You still awake?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Take a pill,” she says. “Want an Ambien? I’ve got some up in my bag in the overhead.”

“No. I want to try and keep my head clear.”

“For that you need sleep,” she says.

“I keep thinking about Thorpe,” I tell her.

“What about him?”

“He let us go way too easily.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” says Joselyn. “Could be he just realized he couldn’t hold us any longer.”

“No. He didn’t even try and argue when I told him we were going. Instead he tells me to be careful and gives me the name and number of the agent in charge of the FBI field office in San Diego. Told me to call him if we had any problems. That’s not the Thorpe I know. The question is, what’s he up to?”

Thorpe showed us the composite computer sketch of Liquida, the one they had been working on with Sarah before we left. He gave us a copy in case we needed to study it more. I didn’t say anything to him, but my daughter is not the only one who has seen the man. The sketch was a good likeness of the face I saw that night in Costa Rica, now nearly two years ago. It is not a face I am likely to forget.

I turn around in my seat and glance down the aisle behind me, stretch my upper body, and check to see who’s sleeping and who’s awake. I turn back to the front. “I’m betting he put a tail on us.”

“Who?” says Joselyn.

“Thorpe.”

“For our sake, I hope you’re right. Do me a favor. If you’re able to identify him, ask him to come up and sit here so I can sit in his lap.”

“You don’t think I can protect you?”

“In a word…” She sticks her fingernails under my rib cage, causing me to jump. Then she giggles.

“Cut it out.”

“Don’t be so uptight.”

“You’re right, I shouldn’t complain. Thorpe allowed Sarah to remain in the condo.”

“After what happened in Ohio, I’m sure he’ll have his people keep a close eye on her,” says Joselyn.

“Unless she pulls a slip on them the way she did with Harry,” I say.

“Why would she do that?”

“Sarah wasn’t happy about being left behind. You don’t know my daughter.”

“She can be that willful?”

“Willful isn’t the word for it. Having the dog was the only thing that kept her from forcefully boarding the plane with us.”

“She perked up when you told her Herman was getting out of the hospital tomorrow.”

Joselyn was right. The thought that she could play nurse to Herman, someone she likes, made Sarah feel more useful. Herman will be bunking in the condo for a period of convalescence. Still, I am itching to get back as quickly as possible before Sarah’s mind turns to thoughts of home.

“I contacted the embassy and gave them the airline and the flight number. I told them that the plane should be on the ground shortly before noon their time.” Bill Britain was looking tired, jowls down to his ankles. Thorpe looked almost as bad. It was nearly three in the morning, Washington time. The two of them had been at it for nearly twenty hours. Thorpe didn’t plan to go home until Madriani and his party were safely under surveillance.

“I’m wondering if I gave in a little too easily,” said Thorpe. “I mean, just letting them go like that. They’re not stupid.”

“Not to worry,” said Britain. “Two agents will meet the plane at the gate. We sent copies of their passport photographs so our people will recognize them. We’ve got three cars, and we’ve brought in backup from the embassy in Jakarta.”

“Good. You’re sure they got on the flight?” said Thorpe.

“Checked it and double-checked it,” said Britain. “L.A. field office saw them get on and watched the plane until it took off.”

“I should have detailed two agents to stay with them all the way across,” said Thorpe. He was looking a little worried.

“Why? What could happen to them on the plane?” said Britain.

“We don’t know where Liquida is,” said Thorpe. “He could be anywhere. For all we know, he could be on the fucking airplane with them.”

Britain had no comeback for this.