Steve Martini - The Rule of Nine

“We saw a device,” I tell her. “Neither of us is an expert. We can’t verify that it was nuclear.”

“What, does it have to go off before we know this? You talked to the Russian.”

“He didn’t speak English,” I tell her.

“But his daughter did. And she told you it was nuclear. She knew it was. Her father was the guardian of that device. We know that. I’ve even heard him referred to as the ‘Guardian of Lies.’ He was the expert, right from the horse’s mouth.”

“Sounds like she knows everything already,” says Herman. “So the only question is whether we’ll talk.”

I look at him. “What do you think?”

“Feds aren’t giving us anything anyway,” he says. “Of course, they might try and throw us in the slammer.”

“Not after you go public,” says Joselyn. “They wouldn’t dare. It would look like the biggest cover-up in history, which is exactly what it is.”

“Okay, but it depends on what you can give us in return. If the information you provide leads us to Thorn and Liquida, I’ll talk. Otherwise no.” I look at Herman.

“That’s good by me,” he says. “Let’s hope your sources are better than Thorpe’s. They don’t seem to have squat on Liquida.” He looks at Joselyn. “Of course, if what you got is ten years old and cold as a witch’s tit it probably ain’t gonna help us much anyway.”

“Then we have an agreement?” she says.

“Agreed. But the information has to net Liquida,” I tell her. “If we bag Thorn in the process, great. But Liquida’s the key. If the information we develop results in his arrest and conviction…”

“Or his death,” says Herman.

“Or his death, then we’ll go public, in any forum, any way you want to do it.”

“Agreed. One other thing,” she says. “Some of my sources are confidential. Not all, just some. And on those I can’t disclose their identity. Is that understood? I can assure you the information is golden.”

I look at Herman. He nods. “Agreed,” I tell her.

“Good. Then I have some information for you,” says Joselyn.

“Already?” I say. “Just like that. Damn it.” I look at Herman. “She probably would have given it to us anyway. Wouldn’t you?” I put it to Joselyn.

“I don’t know. You weren’t looking terribly pathetic today. I’m not sure. But based on what I know, Thorn is very big on planes. Which I already knew. Apparently he’s qualified to fly commercial aircraft, large jets. That I didn’t know. According to my information, over the years he’s purchased more than one plane from places called commercial boneyards. Out in the desert, here in California, Arizona, and New Mexico. I have a list of names and addresses for these.”

“I assume this is from one of your confidential sources?” I ask.

“No, as a matter of fact it came from Bart Snyder. I got an e-mail from him a few days ago.”

“Where did he get it?” I ask.

“I don’t know. He just said he got it from unidentified sources.”

“And this is your golden information?” I look at her.

“I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to find out.”

“Maybe you could call him and find out who his sources are and whether they’re reliable before we chase all over the Southwest?” I say.

“If you want, I can do that,” she says.

“Why didn’t he copy us on this e-mail?” I ask.

“I don’t know. You want me to ask him?”

“No.”

“Perhaps it’s your demeanor,” she says.

“What’s wrong with my demeanor?”

“You tend to put people on the defensive. Like right now, you’re angry because you think you might have gotten this tidbit for nothing. You need to drain some of the lawyer juices.”

“Snyder is a lawyer. So are you,” I tell her.

“Yes, but I’ve had time to develop a soft side and shed the bristles.”

“That’s true. You slid under the table like a slinky, in that clingy, soft sweaterdress. Certainly nobody could call that abrasive. That must be why he communicated with you. What else did he say? In the e-mail, I mean.”

“Now you sound jealous,” she says.

“Why would I be jealous?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “Did you like the dress?”

“Very nice.”

“It’s up in my luggage. I packed it in case I needed it again.”

“You wear it like a weapon, do you?”

“Only if I need to.” She’s already searching the Web on her phone. “One of the boneyards is in Victorville, north of here. We could cover that one by car, and then book flights to Arizona and New Mexico if necessary. I have copies of the pictures of Thorn, the ones Snyder showed us. He scanned them into his computer and sent them attached to his e-mail. I printed them out.”

“I’ve got copies in my briefcase too. I got them when he was at the office,” I tell her.

“See, he didn’t withhold everything from you,” says Joselyn.

“We could split up, but I don’t think we ought to fly,” says Herman. “It’d be a long drive to Arizona and New Mexico, but we’ll have to use the car.” He winks at me. We have already ditched the tracking device from my car, and Herman took care of the other two, the one from his Chevy and the one from Sarah’s VW. By now they are crisscrossing the country on the back of sixteen-wheelers, so Liquida must be getting dizzy.

“If you and I split up, we don’t save that much time. If the place in Victorville turns out to be a dead end, whoever is headed to Arizona wouldn’t be that far ahead,” I tell him.

“I could fly to Arizona,” says Joselyn. “Besides, why would we want to drive? It could take a week or ten days to cover all that ground.”

“And what if you do get lucky and run into Thorn by yourself at one of these places?” I ask.

From the look on her face, she hadn’t thought about that.

Herman opens the flap of his jacket and shows her the butt of his pistol. “Bertha gets airsick,” he says. “And I’d rather not leave her behind.”

“I understand,” she says.

Nine o’clock at night and Liquida was angry. He had a naturally short fuse, and Madriani and his buddies had taken nail clippers to it by sabotaging his eyes in the sky.

Liquida knew something was wrong when all four of the devices started moving at once. He was pretty sure the girl’s Volkswagen bug was still in the garage at the house.

Then he received word from the satellite-monitoring company that clinched it. They told him that one of his GPS tracking devices was found on the trailer of a big rig when the driver went to deliver his load in Phoenix. The trucking company wanted to know who had put it there and why. Liquida typed an e-mail back, telling them he didn’t know, that someone must have stolen it and was using it to play games. He knew that if Madriani found one of them, the others would be turning up soon.

Faster than snot on a kid with a cold, Liquida headed for Madriani’s law office. He found the place dark and buttoned up tight, with a sign inside the glass on the front door saying CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Obviously the lawyer, or somebody helping him, had thought this thing through. Liquida began to wonder if the FBI was involved. Maybe killing the blonde was a mistake. He should have killed the daughter and taken his chances on Madriani going to ground. The lawyer would have had to hang around at least long enough to go to his daughter’s funeral. Otherwise people would talk. Liquida could have popped an IED in the open grave. Some Simex and a detonator wired to a cell phone, one-button quick dial and they could have shoveled them all into the same hole as soon as they picked all the pieces out of the trees.

Liquida was furious. The two lawyers, the daughter, and the investigator were gone, and now he couldn’t find anybody in the office to kill.