computer?”
“Because he deleted the software the moment the test was done. He’s no fool,” said Leffort.
“Then where are they? We have been through his luggage. They are not there. At least not that we could see. You have checked his working papers and you say they are not there. I have had my people scan everything from his laptop. There is nothing there. So maybe he left the programs behind. That could be the reason he wants to go home. He knows he cannot deliver when the time comes.”
“No, he either has them or he has access to them at some remote location online,” said Leffort. “He would never have gotten on that plane otherwise. I’m sure of that.”
“So where are they?”
“I don’t know, but I’ll find out,” said Leffort.
“You had better,” said Bruno. “I cannot allow you to leave Paris until I am certain that you have them. Do you understand?”
Leffort nodded.
Liquida had two more tasks to complete before leaving Dubai. The first was done using one of the hotel’s guest computers. He typed up an anonymous letter addressed to the U.S. Embassy in Dubai. It was one of Liquida’s “white-glove specials,” for he always wore gloves when he printed them out. Fingerprints on the paper were a no- no. It was an anonymous tip to law enforcement. He used them occasionally to take down competitors or to drop sand in the gears of a client who failed to pay. He sealed the letter in a blank envelope and delivered it to a private courier service in downtown Dubai. He paid for the delivery in cash, used a pseudonym to set up the account, and left firm instructions that the letter was to be held in their offices until he called. At that time he would give them the delivery address. Liquida didn’t want to give them the address now in case they screwed up and delivered it early, in which case it would be his ass in the flames.
The second task was more painful. Back at the hotel, Liquida downed some of the pain medications given to him by the doctor in D.C. He used the sharp point of one of the stilettos to spread the ends of each of the thirteen surgical staples. Then, gritting his teeth, he plucked them out one by one from the pursed-up wound under his right arm. Liquida found it difficult maneuvering the sharp point of the blade with his left hand. He stopped periodically to steady himself and to dab the bleeding pinholes around the wound with tissue from a dispenser on the bathroom counter.
As he moved the blade, Liquida dripped venom while bargaining under his breath with the evil imps that inhabited his heart. He haggled for the soul of the dead black bastard who did this so that Liquida might staple his spirit to the hottest rock in hell. By the time he pulled the last wicked little piece of wire from his flesh, he was a quivering mass of sweat. Liquida looked at himself in the mirror. Even to his own eyes he appeared the hideous image of Gollum.
He rested for an hour and then showered. When he was done patting the wound dry, he checked the towel to make sure that the tiny pinholes from the staples were no longer seeping blood. He dressed, putting on a pair of tan slacks and a loose-fitting Egyptian cotton white shirt with an open collar and black buttons down the front. He left the bottom of the shirt outside his pants and slipped on a pair of loafers with no socks, the casual Spanish squire on holiday.
Liquida spent the rest of the day relaxing, sitting under an umbrella by the pool and reading newspapers to catch up on the evil others had done while he was on the run, hiding and plucking sharp pieces of wire from his body.
He was two days early removing the staples, but he had no choice. Bruno’s offer wouldn’t wait. It was now or never. If Liquida didn’t reply and do so soon, the offer would be gone.
While the better half of his brain told him it was a setup, his weaker side didn’t want to believe it. Besides, he had no option. He was running out of money. He needed the cash in that box. And if Bruno had a job for him, a big one, there would likely be money for expenses. Bruno was hip deep in people who could supply top-notch passports and create new bulletproof identities, all the resources that Liquida needed for cover. It would buy time. He could use it to stay out of the clutches of the Americans.
He wanted to believe that it was all there in the box. The problem was, there was only one way to find out.
Chapter Eleven
Harry, my law partner, gives me a sleepy stare from tired, heavy-hooded eyes. It’s almost noon and Harry just fell out of bed. He and Sarah came in late last night in a two-car caravan, large dark SUVs with all the windows blacked out, driven by the FBI.
This morning Sarah is out working with one of their computer techs in the ongoing effort to refine an Identi- Kit portrait of Liquida, at least as much as she can remember. It is likely to be the only image they have since Herman, who was taken from behind with the knife, says he never got a clear look at the man.
“Paul, listen. I don’t know how else to say it. I’m sorry.” Harry is looking at me sheepishly, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “I was supposed to be watching her and I blew it.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“Yes, it is. I should have been watching her more closely. You trusted me and I let you down.”
“You did what you could. Besides, it was my job. I’m her father. I should have been there.”
“You couldn’t be everywhere,” says Harry. “We agreed I would be the one responsible for keeping an eye on her and I failed. Simple as that.”
“Let’s not talk about it,” I tell him. “The important thing is, she’s alive.”
“No thanks to me.”
Harry and I are seated in the two tufted wingback chairs in the living room of a safe house in Washington, D.C. It is a high-rise condo courtesy of Thorpe and the FBI. At the moment none of us knows how long we’ll be here. The place is decked out with rented furniture and contractor-painted eggshell-white walls. With all the blinds drawn it has the ambiance of a whitewashed cave.
“Any idea how Liquida found the two of you on the farm?” I ask.
Harry nods. He’s gazing down at the floor, still half asleep. “They think he used an electronic tracking device. The fucker’s devious,” says Harry.
“I thought Herman had the cars all swept. He found the one attached to your car and had it removed,” I remind him.
“He did. Liquida mailed another small tracking device to Sarah at the house, figuring she probably left a forwarding address with the post office. The FBI found the tracking device in one of the drawers in her bedroom in Ohio. The note with it said it was from you, that you’d explain what it was the next time the two of you talked on the phone. When you talked, Sarah forgot to mention it. All Liquida had to do was read the tracking information on his computer. It led him right to the farm.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“She didn’t tell me about it because the note said it was a surprise for me.” The craggy gray lines down Harry’s face appear like ravines on a mountainside. He seems to have aged five years since I saw him last in Coronado. That was less than a month ago.
Our law practice in California is now a shambles. Neither of us has been in the office for weeks, forced into hiding by Liquida. No doubt clients are now complaining to the state bar that their phone calls are not being returned. Before long the bar will be trying to punch our tickets to practice. Harry and I can take down the shingle and start selling pencils out on the street. Our lives are unraveling.
“Coffee’s ready.” Joselyn sticks her head through the open doorway to the kitchen.
“Be there in a minute,” I tell her.
“You two need to stop talking about this. Dredging up all the little details isn’t gonna make it go away. What’s happened has happened. The more you pick at it, the worse it’s going to get.” She’s been listening through the open door.
“So what are we supposed to do?” I turn and look at her.
