Steve Martini - Trader of secrets

“The instructions on the phone mentioned something else, called a code.” She is looking at notes she made on the small writing pad.

“Yeah, I know. I already thought about it,” I tell her. “But the only numbers we have are the five digits on the back of the label. I’ve dialed them in every combination I can think of. If that’s Liquida’s code, it should have connected, and it didn’t.”

“Yes, but you didn’t dial the right way.” She’s looking at her notes. “You entered the pound sign. The instructions didn’t say anything about a pound sign for the code, only for the extensions.”

I dial again, all five digits-00088. This time I omit the pound sign. We wait. A second later, we hear the digitized voice once more.

“Press one for extension 13. Press two for extension 47. Press three for extension 76. Press four for extension 128. Press five for extension 343.”

I press one. “There are no messages.” I do the same with the second and third extensions. There is nothing on either of them. When I press number 4, the mechanical voice says: “There are two messages. Press one to hear the first message.” I do it. We hear a voice.

“This is WOD.”

The small hairs on the back of my neck rise with the sound of his voice. I am holding the phone out so that we can all hear it. Joselyn pens a note as quickly as she can, just the essentials: “payment,” “job accepted,” “Saint-Jacques,” “Monday A.M. ” Then the voice says: “If you wish to delete this message, press seven.” The call ends. “Press one to hear the next message.” I hit one.

It’s another male voice, somebody by the name of Bruno. “The payment for the last job was sent three days ago. Sorry for the delay. I have another commission for you if you are interested. It’s a big one. Six-figure fee. Details are with the money. Advise as to availability.” And then a click as the man hangs up. “There are no other messages. If you wish to delete this message, press seven.” I hang up.

Joselyn heads to her laptop already set up on the desk near the television.

“Where the hell is the Hotel Saint-Jacques?” I ask.

“Gimme a minute,” she says.

“There is no clue as to where Liquida is calling from,” says Harry. “He could be anywhere.”

“My guess is he’s here,” I tell him.

“Why, because of the girl with the bag? I wouldn’t count on it. The contents of that bag could be anywhere by now. They could be shipped overnight halfway around the world by morning.”

I look at my watch. “Friday. We have three days. One thing we do know is where he will be come Monday morning. We need to get ahold of Thorpe. Call it in to him.”

“Your watch is wrong,” says Harry. “When you changed the time, you forgot to change the calendar. We lost a day. We crossed the international date line, remember?”

“You’re right.”

“It’s Saturday night,” says Harry. “Twelve hours’ difference between here and the East Coast. Opposite ends of the earth. That means it’s Saturday morning in Washington.”

“Oh, hell,” I tell him.

“Thorpe’s office is closed,” he says. “We could leave a message.”

“He’ll get it Monday morning,” I tell him. “It’ll be too late.”

“So we call the FBI, one of their field offices,” says Harry. “They gotta be open on weekends.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” says Harry. “Not here. In the States.”

“They won’t know us from Adam,” I tell him. “By the time they check us out and get on top of it, Liquida will be gone.”

“Hotel Saint-Jacques. It’s in the Latin Quarter, Left Bank. It’s Paris,” says Joselyn. “He’s headed for Paris.”

Liquida zoned out in the back of the limo on the way to the airport. For ninety minutes he drifted in and out. His only worry now was whether the Thai authorities at the airport might have a description of him, or worse, a sketch provided by Madriani’s daughter.

If they had the Spanish name from his passport, they probably would have nailed him at the hotel in Pattaya. The hotel had taken a copy of the passport. Liquida had to assume that the passport was still good. He would get a new one the minute he connected with Bruno.

“Oh, shit!” With the name Bruno, it hit him right between the eyes.

“A problem?” said the driver.

“No, no, everything’s fine.” The message Liquida had left for Bruno was still on the tape. With the cops drilling out his locked box it wouldn’t take long before they discovered the message system. That is, if they hadn’t already found it.

Liquida whipped out his cell phone and started dialing. He waited for a moment while the instructions played out, then keyed in the code. He listened to his own message and took solace from the fact that the system was still up and running. The message was still there. If the FBI had found it, Liquida was guessing that after listening to the messages, they would have taken the system down and hauled the hardware back to their lab for analysis.

He waited for the message to Bruno to end. The moment it did Liquida pressed seven. “Message deleted.” He went on to Bruno’s original message left for him and erased that as well. “There are no messages on your system.”

He wondered if the eggheads at the FBI would have any way to retrieve deleted messages. If so, by the time the lab sorted it out, he would be gone. Liquida made a mental note to keep his stay in Paris brief.

The doorbell rang in the D.C. condo. Sarah turned the dead bolt, unhooked the chain, and opened the door without hesitation. She already knew who it was.

“Hello, Ms. Madriani?” The man was in his midforties, with short gray hair cut military style and parted neatly on the left. In a blue worsted suit he could have passed for an Iowa banker, but for the FBI credentials he was holding with the flap on its leather case hanging down.

“You must be Agent Ellison.” Sarah spoke without looking at the agent or his credentials.

“So they tell me.”

Sarah’s gaze was stranded on the Olympic-class eye candy standing behind him. By the time she forced her attention back to Ellison, he was already smiling.

“That’s OK. I’m getting used to it. Being a potted plant, I mean.”

“I’m sorry.” Sarah smiled and felt her face glow red.

“The good-looking one here is Mr. Adin Hirst,” said Ellison. “Don’t feel bad. You should see the secretaries in my office. He leaves in a few days. The place is going to look like a wake when he goes.”

“Yes, well, your office called earlier. They told me you would be coming by.” She tried to change the subject. “Please come in.”

The two men stepped inside. Sarah closed the door behind them. Ellison gave her a business card and told her he was with the Bureau’s International Operations Division, training section.

No matter how hard she tried to fix her attention on Ellison, Sarah couldn’t help but sneak another glance at the younger one. Six two, dark wavy hair, brown eyes, and tawny complexion. She guessed that the James Bond of the FBI couldn’t have been more than mid to late twenties.

She was overjoyed to have company, any company, so this was a pleasant surprise indeed. After four days alone, with only the dog Bugsy for companionship, Sarah was going stir-crazy in the cloistered apartment.

“The handsome one is here for training,” said Ellison.

“Gimme a break.” Adin blanched. “Don’t listen to him. He’s been giving me a hard time since we met.”

“I can imagine.” Sarah looked up at him and smiled coolly.

“Nice to meet you.” He reached out and shook her hand.

Sarah had always wondered if such smoking exterior looks routinely spoiled whatever was on the inside. She had never been close enough to find out.