Steve Martini - Trader of secrets

“Liquida now knows we have a witness, somebody who can identify him. He’s gotta figure we’ll have a pretty good description. He’s wounded and on the run. If you were in that situation, what would you do?” said Thorpe.

“I’d go to ground,” said Britain.

“Right, but where?”

“Someplace where I’d feel safe, probably outside the country. Someplace where our reach does not extend.”

“He has to know the longer he waits, the harder it’s going to be to get out,” said Thorpe. “His face, or a pretty good likeness, is going to start circulating with TSA at the airports, security at the train stations, and bus depots. He’s going to be feeling antsy about renting a car, figuring we’ll be sending any sketches to rental car agencies along the main routes between Ohio and the Mexican border.”

“He’ll run for Mexico,” said Britain. “It’s obvious.”

“Yeah, well, he has a habit of doing things that are not obvious, not until after they’re discovered. And by then it’s usually too late,” said Thorpe.

“Mexico is Liquida’s home turf. It’s where he’s going to feel most comfortable, at least until the heat’s off. If I was gonna hide, that’s where I’d go to do it,” said Britain. “Especially given the current situation.”

He was referring to the veritable civil war currently going on between the cartels and the Mexican government. During the last year, more people were killed by violence in Ciudad Juarez and Tijuana along the U.S. border than in Iraq and the Afghan war combined. Not only was this familiar ground for Liquida, but the chaos in Mexico made it highly unlikely that local or federal Mexican authorities would have the time or the inclination to look for him. They were too busy trying to stay alive.

“So tell me,” said Thorpe. “If we’re so right and Liquida is headed for Mexico, why are Madriani and his friends jetting off to Thailand?”

“Because they’re crazy,” said Britain.

“I’m not so sure.”

“You told him the address in Pattaya was a dead end. Our people checked it out. There’s nothing there.”

“Madriani asked me whether our agents actually went inside the office at the address in Pattaya, whether they looked around. Did they?”

Britain glanced at him with a dubious expression. “I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

“Why don’t we find out?”

“You want to know what I think? I think Madriani’s off his nut. He’s finally cracked. Let’s assume for purposes of discussion that there’s something in Thailand that shows the way to Liquida. Or maybe the man himself, perhaps he’s there, though why the hell he would go there instead of Mexico, which is much closer and which he knows like the back of his hand, is a mystery, you have to admit. But let’s assume that he’s there. Why would two lawyers and a girlfriend…”

“Three lawyers,” said Thorpe. “Joselyn Cole is also a lawyer, though she doesn’t practice anymore.”

“Fine, three lawyers,” said Britain. “Why would three lawyers in their right minds want to go off searching for Liquida, especially after they saw what he did to their investigator? I mean, this is a guy who looks like he could coldcock a charging bull in rutting season, and Liquida carved him up like a turkey.”

Thorpe took a deep breath. “They’re desperate, that’s why.”

“There’s a difference between being desperate and having a death wish,” said Britain.

“From where they’re standing, they’re running out of time,” said Thorpe.

“What do you mean?”

“We’re not walking in their shoes. Spit out the government teat for a second and think. Twice now, over a span of more than a year, Liquida has forced Madriani and company to take up residence under a rock. Both times they had to stay there for extended periods. Their law practice has to be drying up. They’re probably on the verge of losing everything they own. Liquida has tried to kill Madriani’s daughter, and he managed to kill one of her friends. He took down their investigator, the man you say could slay a bull. So unless somebody gets a collar on the Mexican and does it soon, as far as they’re concerned their lives are over. They may be breathing, but it’s the economic and social equivalent of death. What do you do when you’re desperate? You chase the only lead you have. The Thailand note, as thin as it is, is probably the only thread they have left that, in their minds at least, would seem to lead to Liquida.”

“Yeah, but it doesn’t,” said Britain. “They’re chasing a rainbow.”

“Well, fine, then at least they won’t get hurt,” said Thorpe. “You have to remember they don’t have access to our intelligence reports.”

“Thank God for little favors,” said Britain. “I understand everything you’re saying. I feel sorry for them. But they’re better off staying here where they’re safe. I wish they would just let us do our job. Let us find Liquida. It’s what we do.”

“They probably would,” said Thorpe, “if they had some idea how long it was going to take. But they don’t, and we can’t tell them because we don’t know. Do me a favor; check and see if our agents in Bangkok got a look inside that office.”

“Will do,” said Britain. “In the meantime, let’s hope to hell nothing happens to Madriani or his friends. We may have a lot of explaining to do if Liquida kills one of them.”

Britain was right. With the high profile that Liquida had assumed since the meeting at the White House, the theory that he might be involved, it would look very bad if the bureau were seen as trying to lure him out using three American civilians as bait.

“Make sure your agents stay on top of them when on the ground in Bangkok,” said Thorpe. “Whatever you do, DON’T lose them!”

“Understood.” Britain left the office, closing the door behind him.

Thorpe sat at his desk, the fingers of both hands teepeed under his chin as he considered the consequences of what he had done. That Liquida was stalking Madriani and his clan out of some psychotic soul-searing thirst for vengeance was clear. What was problematic for Thorpe was the fact that he had let Madriani and the others go, knowing that they were headed for Pattaya in Thailand.

What Britain saw as a long shot, Thorpe saw as a fertile fishing ground. Pattaya was a city with a reputation as a fugitive’s Mecca. Like Port Royal during the age of piracy, it was one of those places that offered instant camaraderie, often without any questions. Split-second friendships were formed over a bottle of local Thai-brewed beer and the assumption that if you were bold enough to be there, then you belonged.

The unnumbered constellation of outdoor bars and the neon confusion of Pattaya’s nightlife presented a kind of analgesic refuge for anyone on the run, whether it be from the law, life, or a nagging wife. All poisons were treated with the same remedy, and it almost always came out of the long neck of a bottle. It was precisely the kind of place where Liquida could go and feel completely at ease. The kind of community where you could relax on the beach and recover from a wicked and obvious knife wound, and no one would notice, and if they did they would never ask questions. Old bullet wounds and knife scars were so plentiful in the shirtless atmosphere of Pattaya that most people never even bothered to look.

Thorpe visited Pattaya for the first time as a young man, during Vietnam when he was in the Marine Corps. Then it was an R amp;R center, rest and recuperation from the stresses of combat. Since then the city had grown up, with high-rise thirty-story condos, glitzy restaurants, and a shopping mall that was first world. But still the city had a reputation to defend, and “wild” was its name.