Steve Martini - Guardian of Lies

Alim glanced over his shoulder and realized the men were watching. He could tell by the looks on their faces, they knew something was wrong. Afundi looked at the interpreter, his lips drawn and tight. There was nothing he could do. The Russian had boxed him in. He nodded. Then he studied his men as they listened to the translation, the rasping breath of their dying comrade as background. They looked at each other for a moment and then began to whisper among themselves. Alim walked over and joined them. They talked for a few more seconds. Alim patted one of them on the shoulder as he smiled and spoke to them. He was doing PR. He needed them to move the bomb, and Yakov knew it.

After a few more words with his men, Alim looked at Nitikin and said something in Farsi. “They understand. What you say is acceptable to them,” said the translator.

The words did not square with the livid expression that flashed in Afundi’s eyes at this moment. But the Russian didn’t care. He had gambled on the superstition of Alim’s men. They wanted someone between themselves and the demon that belched blue fire from the hut in the jungle. Of the three men in close proximity, only Nitikin had survived to tame the beast. Surely they had to wonder whether the dragon’s egg he had hidden all these years returned the favor by declining to take the life of its sentinel and guardian.

So what do I tell them?” Thorpe was already on the phone from FBI headquarters to Rhytag at Justice. A reporter from the Associated Press had already called wanting to know if it was true that a San Diego lawyer wanted for murder was on the lam in Costa Rica and the FBI was about to make an arrest.

“What did you tell them so far?” said Rhytag.

“I didn’t take the call. I had my secretary tell them I was busy.”

“Tell them no comment,” said Rhytag. “Tell them it’s a matter under investigation and that we don’t discuss active investigations.”

“That’ll hold ’em for a while,” said Thorpe. “But we have to make a decision. Do we pick him up or do we continue to tail him?”

Rhytag had to think about this for a few seconds. “Damn it. We should have handled the state’s prosecutor with a little more diplomacy.”

“We could let him in on it, tell him about Nitikin and the device,” said Thorpe.

“It’s too late for that. Templeton’s already gone to the press. They’re not going to let it go now. If Templeton suddenly backs off, the media is going to want to know why. You don’t allow someone under a fugitive arrest warrant for two murders to wander free unless there’s a reason,” said Rhytag.

“We can tell them we’re still looking,” said Thorpe.

“Except for one thing; the Costa Rican authorities already know we have Madriani under surveillance. They don’t know why, but sooner or later word is going to get out that we had him on a string. Then all hell is gonna break loose. And what if he slips the tail?”

“You’ve got a point there,” said Thorpe.

“You do know where he is?”

“We’re in contact with our agents down there now. He’s still in his hotel room. No one has seen them yet this morning. We posted one of our agents inside in the restaurant just a few minutes ago.”

“I take it there was no word from your people on where he might be headed or what he’s doing down there?”

“Not yet,” said Thorpe. “We did get a line on the other defendant’s house, Solaz. One of our resident agents called in the location. It’s only a few blocks from the hotel where Madriani is staying.”

“Then that’s a definite possibility,” said Rhytag.

“We had one of the agents go by the place just after nine this morning. He rang the doorbell but nobody answered. We’ve had it checked out before and the place is deserted. The mother’s not there. We had the local authorities run a background check on her. She has no record.”

There were a few moments of silence. “Your call,” said Thorpe. “What do we do?”

Rhytag thought about it, fumed, and then said, “Pick him up.”

“What about the other guy?”

“There’s no warrant out on him,” said Rhytag. “Let him go, but keep a tail on him. But we can’t afford to take any more chances with Madriani.”

“We can try and hold him down there for a few days, sweat him for information in a Costa Rican jail,” said Thorpe. “If we’re lucky, his lawyer may refuse to waive extradition, turn him into a legal pińata.

I don't want to know about it,” said Rhytag. “Just do what you have to.

Liquida was so angry this morning that he would have to restrain himself to keep from cutting the woman’s throat when she arrived home. The previous afternoon he had tried to transfer funds from his savings account in San Diego to his ATM account under the name of John Waters, only to find out that the account was frozen. Somehow Katia Solaz’s lawyers had found Liquida’s bank account. How they had done this he didn’t know. He should never have sold the coin. The old man must have talked. What was worse, the lawyers had placed a hold on the gold ingots Liquida had stored in the safe-deposit box. The woman at the bank assured him that no one had opened the box, but they had scheduled a hearing and invited Mr. Waters to attend. There was no chance of that happening. The critics were right. The U.S. banking system was a mess. What the hell good was a bank if you couldn’t get at your own money without robbing it?

For the moment he tried to put it out of his mind as he planned the last details for the woman’s arrival home. He had covered all the bases. But he still didn’t trust his employer in Colombia. He had double-checked to make sure that the woman would arrive home alone. Her companions, the two FARC attendants who were to escort her, would be delayed in Medellín until Liquida had finished the job in San José.

When the front doorbell rang, it scared the hell out of him. Liquida had been sitting quietly in the living room reading a newspaper, waiting, like the spider for the fly.

He knew it couldn’t be the owner of the house. She would have used her key and let herself in. He glanced at his watch. Her flight from Medellín, through Panama City and then to San José, wasn’t scheduled to land at the airport for another forty minutes.

Liquida set the newspaper aside and silently slipped across the living room toward the front door.

Whoever was there was impatient. They rang the bell once more before he could even get to the door.

The bright morning sunlight outside and the darkness of the entry allowed Liquida to steal a glance through the peephole in the door without being seen. There was a man standing outside the wrought-iron gate. He was wearing a dark blue suit and striped tie. Fair skinned, he was tall, with brown hair. The fingers of his right hand played with the closed button on his suit coat as he stood there looking down at his shoes.

The man had a look of impatience about him. He punched the bell one more time, silently chafing because no one was answering. To Liquida, he smacked of authority, but not Costa Rican. If he was policía , he was norteamericano , thought Liquida. What was he doing here?

The Mexican stood silently off to the side of the door as the bell rang two more times. “Come on, answer!”

He could hear the man whispering to himself.

“Looks like nobody’s home.” This time the voice came from somewhere farther off.

“Looks like it,” the man at the gate shouted back.

“Come on, let’s go.”

The guy at the gate turned and walked away.

Liquida quickly tiptoed into the dining room and climbed the stairs to the first landing, where he watched from the window as the stranger crossed the street and leaned into the open passenger-side window of a large dark Town Car parked at the curb on the other side. The man talked to whoever was behind the wheel for several seconds.