Steve Martini - The Rule of Nine

I’m standing near the exit to the garage still trying to reach Joselyn on the phone as they roll Herman into the back of an ambulance. Half of the blood from his body is now on the concrete floor near where he lay. But sadly, I don’t have time to think about it.

On the third ring she finally picks up.

“Hello, Paul, where are you? I thought you were coming right back.”

“Never mind,” I tell her. “Are you still in the room?”

“Yes.”

“Stay there, and don’t open the door unless you hear my voice. Do you understand?”

“What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

“I’ll be there in a minute. Just wait for me.” I hang up and look over my shoulder. The cop who was taking my statement is busy talking to somebody else.

I step out into the sunlight, take off the yellow jacket, and hand it to one of the firemen. “Thanks.” And before he can say anything, I skip across the street and scurry down the sidewalk on the other side under the chrome marquee and through the front door of the Hotel George.

Shirtless and speckled with Herman’s blood, I draw stares from curious onlookers as I make my way through the lobby to the elevator. One older woman is standing there waiting for a car to arrive. She looks at me wide eyed.

“An accident,” I tell her.

“I take it someone was hurt?”

“Yes. He’s on his way to the hospital.”

“What a shame,” she says.

“Yeah, it is.” We walk into the elevator together and I lose her on the third floor as I get off and head for my room. I knock on the door. “It’s me.” Then I use my key to get in, but the door is locked with the safety bar.

“Just a minute,” she says. Joselyn comes over, closes the door all the way, then opens it again. “What happened to you? Where’s your shirt? Are you cut?”

“No. But Herman’s been stabbed. It’s bad,” I tell her. “He’s on the way to the hospital.”

“What do you mean, it’s bad?” she says.

I head for the bathroom to wash my hands. “I don’t know if he’s going to make it. It was Liquida. Herman was able to tell me before he passed out. And Thorn got away. Slipped out of the garage somehow.” I grab a facecloth, wet it down, and start to mop the blood off my body, then notice that the knee of my pants where I pressed it into Herman’s back is stained a dry brown. I strip my pants off.

“Let me get you some clothes,” she says. A few seconds later Joselyn is back at the bathroom door with a clean shirt and a pair of pants. “Here.”

“What I need to know from you is who you called,” I tell her.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean your source who gave you all the assurances that the FBI and the police had Thorn under glass. Because there was nobody there. Thorn led Herman into a trap in the garage. And the only way he could have done that was if someone tipped him off and he knew that we were following him.”

“What are you talking about?” she says.

“It’s possible Thorn might have seen Herman following him,” I tell her, “but I doubt it. Herman was too good to let that happen. But even if he did, that doesn’t explain Liquida. Herman didn’t say anything on the phone this morning when he called about anyone else tagging along with Thorn. According to Herman, when Thorn came out of the elevator in his hotel this morning, he was alone. If anybody had been with him, Herman would have mentioned it, especially if it looked like it might be Liquida. But he didn’t. That means Liquida was already waiting for Herman over in the garage. And the only way that could have happened is if someone tipped Thorn off that we were here. And the only person we’ve talked to besides Thorpe, and he didn’t know where we were staying, was your contact.”

I look at her as all the computations are being made in that sharp little brain behind her eyes. “I…I find that hard to believe,” she says.

“Hard to believe or not, it’s a fact. Who else knew we were here?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

“It’s time to cough it up. The name,” I tell her. “Who have you been talking to?”

“Zeb, sorry to break in, but we got another problem.” This time it wasn’t Thorpe’s secretary but Ray Zink, his assistant. And from the look on Zink’s face, Thorpe knew it was trouble.

“We’ve got reports that there’s a commercial air-freight flight, a FedEx plane originally bound for Newark, reporting some kind of onboard emergency and requesting permission to land at Reagan National. Air traffic control tried to divert the flight to Dover Air Force Base and then lost radio contact. But the plane is still in the air and bearing down fast on Washington.”

“Well, there’s nothing we can do? Did they scramble fighters?” said Thorpe.

“Yeah. Two F-16s out of Andrews,” said Zink.

“Okay, well, keep me posted.”

Zink turned and started to leave.

“Just out of curiosity,” said Thorpe, “where did the wayward FedEx flight originate?”

Zink turned and looked at him. “Puerto Rico.”

It took about two seconds of cold fusion before all the circles and rings began to link up in Thorpe’s brain. He slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Of course. That’s it!”

“What is?” said Zink.

“The plane from the boneyard,” said Thorpe. “It was where Madriani was headed the last time we talked, Puerto Rico. Madriani told me that Thorn had purchased a commercial jet. I didn’t pay any attention. We had Soyev, a bird in the hand. But he didn’t know anything because his client kept him at arm’s length. He’d never met him. The phone call from North Korea to Cuba. It would be the perfect location for Thorn to hide out while he waited for the two bombs. And Little Boy is still out there.”

“You think it’s on that plane?” said Zink.

“I’d bet my life on it,” said Thorpe. “Madriani and I have been chasing the same man. We just didn’t know it. Thorn was Victor Soyev’s other half. The client who stiffed him and turned him in. It all makes sense.”

Thorpe jumped up from his chair. “Ray, get me Madriani’s cell number. My secretary has it. Do it now.”

Thorpe’s attention suddenly turned toward the White House and the Capitol Building. He was confident that the fighters and the other layers of air defense deployed since 9/11 could take down the plane. The question was whether they could defend against whatever was on board.

My contact is Senator Joshua Root,” says Joselyn. “I am telling you this only because I am certain that he has nothing to do with what happened to Herman. I am telling you in confidence and I expect you to keep the secret. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

We are in our room at the Hotel George. I’m still changing my clothes.

“I can’t believe what you’re saying,” she says. “I’ve worked with him for years. There has to be some mistake.”

“Did you tell him where we were staying, here in D.C.?”

She nods. “Yes, but why would he do anything like that? What possible involvement could a man like Joshua Root have with someone like Thorn? What would he possibly have to gain? It’s not like him. Josh Root is a dove. I know him. He is a gentle man. He hates violence. True, he’s had some bouts with serious depression in the last year or so. But he has been treated for that. We all have times when we’re not ourselves. God knows what I’ll be like when I’m his age. But there’s no way he’d be involved with someone like Thorn.”

“What else did you tell him?” I ask.

“I told him about Thorn and the plane, what happened down in Puerto Rico. I told him everything we knew, and I asked for his help, and he agreed.”