Steve Martini - Trader of secrets

Most of the blood left on the concrete floor of the garage in Washington belonged to the big black investigator working for Madriani, the man named Herman Diggs, but not all of it.

Liquida could feel the tight constraint of the large gauze bandage covering the searing wound under his right arm. Every bump in the highway brought pain as the motion tugged on the metal staples holding the wound closed. It made his eyes water. Still, the pain kept him awake and on course.

What kept Liquida going was his hatred for Madriani and an unquenchable thirst for retribution. The firm of Madriani and Hinds had caused him to lose a small fortune, enough money for Liquida to retire. That was before the lawyers’ investigator carved up Liquida’s back with a knife, but not before Liquida had dealt the man a deathblow. As the bastard lay dying on the concrete floor, Liquida twisted the knife by telling him that he knew where the girl was and that she was next. Now he intended to make good on the promise.

His right arm hung limp in a sling as he steered with his left hand. Liquida struggled to keep his eyes on the road, periodically holding the wheel with his knees as he sipped fluids, alternating between coffee and orange juice. He refused to consume the pain pills given to him by the physician for fear they might dull his senses; not until the girl was dead.

The doctor had told him to change the bandages daily and to remain quiet for at least a week to allow the stapled sutures to heal. The all-night clinic was a seedy place in a dingy area just outside D.C., one of those surgi-centers where, for enough cash, usually they would remove a bullet or stitch up an open wound, no questions asked. Liquida was in and out in less than an hour.

He had no intention of remaining quiet for ten days. Madriani’s daughter would not wait that long on the farm in Ohio. Once she was told what had happened in Washington, she would bolt for another location to hide out, or join her father. Either way it would be much more difficult to find her again. Liquida knew he had to act and act quickly. Before he murdered Madriani, he wanted the lawyer to know that his daughter had died under Liquida’s knife.

He made the four hundred miles from D.C. to Groveport, Ohio, in a little under eight hours. Liquida napped just briefly in a small motel a short distance from the farm where the girl was staying. He knew that with every minute that passed he ran the risk that Sarah Madriani and her father’s law partner, the one they called Harry Hinds, might pack their bags and make a run for it. But Liquida had no choice. He was in no condition to plan and carry out a killing against a well-guarded location without at least a few hours’ rest.

He changed the bandage on his wound. It was a painful exercise, twisting around and using his one good arm, trying not to pull the sutures or tear the skin around the wound as he wrestled with the tape. He set an alarm for two hours and collapsed onto the bed to sleep.

Joselyn Cole and I spent most of the night locked up with the FBI and the Metropolitan Police, each of us in separate rooms being interrogated about the events leading up to the bombing near the Capitol.

Joselyn and I have been an item now for the greater part of six months. She is, you might say, my better half, especially if intellect, moral values, and judgment count for much. During a time when I have found myself increasingly tossed about by waves of chaos, Joselyn has become my outrigger, that extension of life, the flotation of love that keeps me upright.

In terms of philosophy, she is my opposite number, the positive to my own negative political electrical charge. She is a dreamy-eyed liberal whose self-appointed mission is to get the nuclear genie back in the bottle with the cork on tight. Joselyn is the chief instigator and lobbyist for an organization known as Gideon Quest. We met six months ago in the turmoil following an attack on the naval base in Coronado. She arrived at my front door looking for information. The rest, as they say, is history.

Thorpe and the FBI grilled us into the wee hours, recording our statements and getting all the details, everything we knew about the device that landed in the rail yard just outside Union Station in Washington, D.C., how we got involved, and what we knew.

The twisted tracks and thirty-foot hole in the ground have screwed up the local rail system big-time, though this was not the intended target.

A little after two in the morning they turned us loose, at least long enough to get a few hours’ sleep. By six A.M. we were back catching catnaps from chairs near Herman’s bed in the intensive care unit at George Washington University Hospital. The prognosis is not good. But if Herman regains consciousness at all, I don’t want him to wake up in a strange room with no one there.

Herman’s sister is due in from Detroit this afternoon to join the bedside watch.

In the meantime, Joselyn and I are being chaperoned by the FBI. If we are not in custody, it’s as close as you get. After I had a brief phone conversation with my daughter last night, the FBI lifted our cell phones. They don’t want us talking to anybody about the events until they know more. We are now incommunicado, their favorite couple it seems, at least until they finish pumping us dry of any useful information.

Agents check into the ICU every so often to see if Herman is awake and able to talk. No doubt they want to check his story against ours, trusting people that they are. Still, considering all the media parked outside, satellite trucks around the block and 24/7 cable coverage of the big bang in the rail yard, coming and going through the hospital basement in a darkened FBI van is not the worst way to travel.

Joselyn is slouched in the other chair with her eyes closed. Her little snoring sounds punctuate the noise of the ventilator forcing oxygen into Herman’s lungs. I decide to take a walk.

Outside the room I nearly run into a nurse carrying a fresh IV bag and a bottle of clear liquid.

“What are you doing here?” She glances at her watch.

“I’m a friend of the family.”

“Only family are allowed in ICU.”

“He’s all right.” The voice comes from behind me, a uniformed cop planted on the bench a few feet away. “He’s allowed. Check the list. The doctor put their names on it, both him and the woman inside the room.” The cop doesn’t look up at her. Chewing gum, he’s studying a tattered copy of Field amp; Stream.

The nurse doesn’t like interference with her authority, which upsets the hospital pecking order. But she suffers it and slips by me into the room.

“How’s he doin’?” The cop is still looking at the magazine.

“Same.”

I see Zeb Thorpe down at the end of the hall talking to one of the agents. What he is doing here at this hour, I’m not sure. Thorpe never seems to sleep. It’s the price you pay for being head of the FBI’s National Security Branch.

Thorpe has become our chief jailer. The man is a brick, an ex-Marine with a flattop straight out of the ’50s. He looks the part of the original Jughead, but he has moments of inspiration. He is dogged once he gets on the scent, though at times he can be slow to pick it up.

Thorpe has posted security all over the hospital and limited press access to the lobby downstairs.

Last night during the interrogation, one of his people let slip with a comment that caused me to think that the rail yard bombing may not be the only iron Liquida has in the fire. There is no telling what other mischief the Mexican may be involved in.

Thorpe is hoping to talk to Herman to find out if he got a good look at Liquida. So far the authorities have a pseudonym, “Muerte Liquida,” with no face. They are streaming the videos from every security camera near the garage where Herman was knifed, hoping to find pictures of the mystery man. So far, from what I am told, they have had no luck.