Steve Martini - The Rule of Nine

“Shit!” said Soyev. “Bastard never paid me. Second half of money.”

Thorpe was lying. The call fingering the Russian was placed to the TSA, the Transportation Security Administration, at the airport. And it wasn’t taped.

“Who is he?” said Thorpe.

“If I knew, believe me, I would tell you,” said Soyev. “I don’t know his name. I call him Chief. He calls me Tonto, but he never uses the name. Whenever I call, he knows my voice.”

“You’ve never met him?”

“No. This is not unusual,” said the Russian. “I never meet most of my customers. Just voices on the phone.”

“And the money?” says Thorpe. “I assume he paid you something. How? An overseas numbered account?”

Soyev nods.

“I need the name of your bank and the number of your account,” said Thorpe.

“Fat chance.” Soyev laughed. “Next you’re going to tell me you have a bridge you wish to sell me.”

“We won’t touch the funds,” said Thorpe.

“And for this what do I have, your word?” said Soyev.

“I need the number. With your account number I can have the Treasury Department turn the screws on the bank and trace his last wire transfer back to his bank and his account number. With that number we may get a name.”

“If we are going to be doing this, I need to talk to a lawyer,” said Soyev.

“While you’re conferring with your lawyer, he could be setting off one of the devices. How many are there?” asked Thorpe.

Soyev sat back in the chair and folded his arms. “What kind of a deal do I get? Life in prison does not sound like bottom line to me,” said Soyev.

“Do you know what he was doing with the bombs? Do you have any information on targets? If you know, now is the time to tell us. Afterward it’s going to be too late.”

“I know nothing about that,” said Soyev. “All I did was obtain items he asked for. He tells me nothing about anything else.”

Thorpe turned to one of the interrogators. “Gimme the transcript of the telephone conversation, Pyongyang to Cuba.”

The agent went to his briefcase, found it, and handed it to Thorpe. Thorpe flipped a few pages. “Here it is. You talk about ‘the big guy’ and ‘the kid’-Fat Man and Little Boy, is that correct?”

Soyev looked at him but didn’t say anything.

“I’m going to assume that it is. You told the man in Cuba that ‘the kid’ will take a later flight. Meaning that the smaller of the two devices was not on the Russian plane that was forced down in Thailand.” He looked at Soyev. “So I’m assuming it was shipped some other way?”

Soyev was now refusing to make eye contact.

“That means that the ‘Fat Man,’ or ‘big guy,’ was the one we found on the plane in Bangkok. But then you go on to volunteer to your compatriot, to your coconspirator in Cuba, and I quote, ‘the man has a brother.’ Look at me when I’m talking to you!” Thorpe shouted at him.

The Russian’s head and eyes jerked to the right to engage Thorpe.

“That means there was a replacement for the ‘Fat Man,’ doesn’t it? Doesn’t it?”

Soyev didn’t want to, but he nodded, almost by reflex.

“Has that device been delivered?” asked Thorpe.

This time Soyev nodded more deliberately.

“Where did you deliver them?” said Thorpe.

“I want to talk to a lawyer,” said Soyev.

“Later,” said Thorpe. “Right now you talk to me.”

“All I know is that one of them was shipped to New York. The other I don’t know about because it was transshipped. I delivered it to Havana. From there I don’t know.”

“New York?” said Thorpe. “Where? Did you have an address?”

“It was a bonded warehouse on the docks. It was to be picked up.”

“Which one of the devices went to New York?”

“The replacement,” said Soyev.

“Fat Man? The big one?” asked Thorpe.

Soyev nodded.

Shit, thought Thorpe.

“And you have no idea what the target is?”

“I don’t know that there is a target. People buy munitions for all kinds of things.”

“You don’t need a lawyer. You’re doing fine on your own,” said Thorpe. “He never mentioned a possible target? Think!”

Soyev paused for a moment, if for no other reason than to make it look good. “No. As I say, I have no idea what he was going to do with any of this equipment.”

“What equipment?” said Thorpe. “You sold him two bombs. According to my experts, these things are just half a step down from nuclear devices.”

“No. No. They are wrong,” said Soyev. “I have never dealt in nuclear materials or any weapons of mass destruction.”

“I see. You’re a merchant of death with moral standards, is that it…?”

Before Soyev could answer, Thorpe said, “Are you going to give me the number for your overseas account or not?”

“Not until I talk to my lawyer,” said Soyev.

“Yeah, and by the time he gets through, the account won’t exist because he’ll clean it out for his retainer. Take him away. Lock him up, and get him a lawyer. And make sure the court knows he can afford to pay for his own. If he’s going to kill a bunch of taxpayers, the least we can do is make sure they don’t have to pay for his legal defense.”

The flight time from Miami to San Juan, Puerto Rico, is listed as two hours and forty-three minutes. Today’s flight takes us more than three hours. According to the pilot, we have been bucking heavy headwinds all the way.

We sit three abreast in the center section, Joselyn between Herman and me, and we look over her shoulder at a photo of the Hotel Belgica in Ponce on Joselyn’s laptop. She found the Web site and downloaded it to a file before we left the airport in Miami.

The hotel is two stories, something from the plantation period of the last century. It has an upscale ambience, even from the outside, pastel masonry with white trim, arched windows, and green wrought-iron railings. There are awnings over all of the windows as well as the main entrance on the ground floor. The building could pass for one of the better establishments on Royal Street in New Orleans.

“Looks like a nice place,” says Joselyn. “Too bad we can’t stay there.”

“Can’t take the chance,” says Herman. “Not if Thorn’s there. All we need is for him to recognize you.”

That Thorn may be there is a long shot, but it’s the only lead we have. We have to assume that he penned the note with the hotel’s telephone number for a reason. Either he or someone he is dealing with is staying there.

Joselyn has also downloaded a map of the town of Ponce onto her computer. It looks like a vacation spot with an abundance of hotels and cultural exhibits, and a sizable port facility. There is a museum of art, and a central plaza with a cathedral as well as a number of tourist sites, mostly eco tours and snorkeling according to the information on the computer.

“Where we stayin’?” says Herman.

“I booked us at a small hotel downtown, not far from the Belgica,” I tell him. “I reserved a car at the airport. When we land I’ll get the car, you guys can get the luggage, and we’ll meet out in front.”

“I have to make a phone call,” says Joselyn. “I need to contact my office, let them know I’m alive.”

“I’ll grab the luggage,” says Herman.

A half hour later we’re on the ground, inside the terminal. “Catch you guys later. Out front at the curb.” I point.

“I’ve got to go to the ladies’ room,” says Joselyn. “I only have the one checked bag.”

“I got it,” says Herman.

I walk toward the rental-car counter and Joselyn heads the other way.

Just inside the door to the ladies’ room, Joselyn stops, reaches into her purse, and pulls out her cell phone. She turns it on, punches in a name, and highlights it when it comes up on the screen. She hits the green button and places the call. It rings three times before it is answered by a familiar voice.