Steve Martini - Trader of secrets

The kid pocketed the money and took off, heading down Soi 2 for Beach Road and back to the taxi stand.

Liquida didn’t waste any time. He scooted over near a trash can in front of the nightclub and quickly went through the contents of the bag. He opened the envelopes and examined it all. Anything not important he tore up into little pieces and tossed into the trash can.

He ripped open the large insulated brown envelope and found four packets of wrapped five-hundred-euro banknotes, each bound with a brown paper wrapper. He also found a printed note from Bruno Croleva giving him the initial details of the new job, the where and when of Liquida’s next travels. He looked closely at the mark on the bottom of the page. Bruno never signed anything. Instead he used a signet ring like the ancient Roman consuls. He would use an ink pad and punch his seal on the bottom of the page. A signature on incriminating documents was hard to deny. A signet ring could always be melted, and yet to those who knew it, the mark was unique-an arrow with crossed serpents.

Liquida didn’t bother to count the money. Instead he tore off the wrappers, tossed them in the trash, and then flexed the bills carefully in small groups, bending them to see if any of them were unduly stiff. He looked for any notes that might be glued together. The cops now had tiny radio-emitting wafers thinner than a credit card and not much bigger than a postage stamp. These were tracking devices that, if you didn’t find them, could lead authorities right to your front door. When he was finished, he tossed the insulated envelope into the trash, keeping only the money and Bruno’s note.

In less than two minutes, Liquida buzzed out of the parking lot headed for Beach Road. He was feeling relieved and rather pleased with himself. There was no reason to worry after all. The drop box in the office was perfectly safe. He would change it soon, but for now it was good. It was also the only way to contact Bruno, the lockbox in conjunction with TSCC’s messaging system. Liquida would have to notify him that the job was accepted. And he would have to do it soon; otherwise Bruno would hire someone else.

Liquida glanced at his watch, checking the date. Almost a week had passed since Bruno’s original offer. If Bruno didn’t hear from him soon, Liquida would lose the job, and with it any gold-plated passports and new identities.

He stopped the motorbike before he reached the end of Soi 2. He pulled off to the side and grabbed Bruno’s note from the bag. Liquida reached for his cell phone, flipped it open, and dialed a local number using the Thai SIM card he had purchased the day before.

He keyed in Bruno’s extension on the Thai messaging system and, when prompted, left a message: “This is WOD.” Liquida liked the acronym. It even sounded like a Thai name. “Payment retrieved. Job offer accepted. Confirmed. Will arrive Hotel Saint-Jacques Monday A.M. Will require usual documents, at least three sets.” The last was code for passports and identity papers. Bruno’s operation excelled at this.

Liquida pushed the end button on the phone and flipped it closed, another chore done. He fired up the bike and headed back to the hotel to pack.

By the time I scrape myself off the pavement in front of the bus and get to my feet, the girl in the flowered dress and the man she was talking to on the motorbike are nowhere to be seen. There is a growing cluster of people around me. One old lady touches my torn left pant leg below the knee. I glance down. The frayed threads look as if they are singed.

The bus driver has set the air brake, turned off the engine, and come down out of his seat through the open bus door to see what has happened. Harry is right behind him.

“You OK?” Harry pushes his way around the driver.

“I think so.” I am leaning over, feeling around to make sure my leg is still there. “Did you see him?”

“See who?” says Harry.

“The guy on the bike.”

“I saw him,” says the driver. “Guy’s crazy. Run right over you.”

I ignore the driver, talking instead to Harry. “No, I don’t mean the guy who hit me. I mean the other one. The guy on the bike, the one she was talking to.”

“I couldn’t see a thing. I was on the other side of the bus,” says Harry.

“You didn’t see him before the bus pulled up? When she was standing there talking to him.”

“Oh, you mean when we were back there in the doorway?”

“Yes.”

“All I could see was the back of your head,” says Harry. “How the hell am I supposed to see anything when you’re in the way? Next time get a glass head,” he tells me.

“Damn it!”

“What difference does it make? They’re gone now.”

“Right, and one of them has the bag, the stuff from the drawer.” I am looking over the crowd to see if the girl is gone. “I couldn’t tell if she got on the bike or if she just gave him the bag.”

“What drawer?” says Harry.

“Never mind. I’ll fill you in later.” I hear sirens in the distance. “Let’s get Joselyn and get the hell out of here.”

Harry and I slip back inside the building. We climb the stairs and I tap on the dark glass. “Open up!”

A few seconds later Joselyn opens the door.

“Let’s go.” I tell her.

“What happened?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Just then we hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Joselyn, Harry, and I head toward the back of the building. We leave the way we came, out the back and down the steps next to the loading dock. We cross the parking lot and escape through the narrow gap between the two buildings.

Charlie Three got to the Marriott and called Madriani’s room using one of the house phones. He was prepared to hang up if anybody answered. No one did. He tried the partner’s room and got the same result.

He stood in the lobby debating whether he should call the bad news in to Charlie One using the radio, or if it might be wiser to switch to the cell phone. Just as he reached for the phone on his belt, a silver lining appeared over the hotel’s main entrance.

He pulled out his phone and turned his back so they wouldn’t get a good look at his face as he pushed a single button and did a quick dial to Charlie One. The phone rang three times before it was answered.

“Yeah!” He didn’t sound happy. Charlie One was yelling into the phone over the din of background noise. He was obviously under some stress.

“Thought I’d let you know the three of them just walked into the hotel,” said Charlie Three.

“You just made my day. Are they all right?”

The agent looked over his shoulder and took a peek at the three Americans as they walked by him toward the elevator. “They look fine to me.” There was music and crowd noise on the other end of the phone, then a quick siren punctuated by a buzzer. “What the hell’s goin’ on over there?”

“You don’t want to know,” said Charlie One.

“You want I should call Charlie Four and we can pick up the three of them over here and put ’em on a plane in the morning? I don’t want to have to go through this again,” said Charlie Three.

The agent in charge thought about it for a second and then said: “No. All we were asked to do is to follow them and provide protection. If they’re OK, leave ’em alone. Just stay there and make sure they don’t leave the hotel again unless you’re on them like second skin. Understood?”

“Got it.”

“Call Charlie Four and tell him to get over there and provide some backup. And stay off the radio. Whatever you do, don’t come back over here.”

“Why not?”

“I’m afraid we’re gonna be here for a while.”

“Got it.”

Charlie One ended the call and was about to slip the phone into his pocket when a hand reached around from behind and took it away from him.