a chance. Customs generally limited the amount of cash transported across international boundaries to ten thousand dollars unless the funds were declared. Liquida couldn’t declare the money without explaining where it came from. He had no choice. He would have to run the gauntlet and hope they didn’t look in the bag when he arrived in Paris.
Once there he could use several bank accounts that he maintained in Europe and make deposits through ATM machines. If he spread the funds among several accounts, it would draw less attention. By the time he flew out of Paris, he would no longer be carrying large sums of cash.
He checked his watch, then grabbed the binoculars from the suitcase and took one last look out the window. Liquida couldn’t figure how the cops might have gotten onto him. It was possible that they simply stumbled on the drop box. If so, Liquida’s timing was impeccable. But he didn’t believe in either religion or chance.
He looked to see if either the woman from the bar or the taxi bike driver were among the throng of cops across the street. It was possible either one or the other might have taken his money and then called the police if they were suspicious. If they were being questioned, that would explain it.
He scanned the crowd, looking for the woman’s bright-colored dress. He didn’t see it. What he did see were two tall Westerners, what the Thais refer to as farangs. As he surveyed the crowd, the swirl of commotion, the two Caucasians seemed to be in the eye of the storm. One of them was talking to a Thai cop who looked to be in charge. Liquida didn’t have to wait long for confirmation. The cops handed documents back to the two men, what looked like passports and two blue credential cases, the kind used by Interpol, the police, and the FBI. Liquida had seen enough.
He pulled the cord on the blinds and stepped quickly across the room. He repacked the binoculars, grabbed his shaving kit from the bathroom, stashed it in his luggage, and dropped the room key on top of the nightstand. He zipped up the suitcase, grabbed the overnight bag, and stepped out the door, headed for the back stairs.
Chapter Twenty-Five
What does that give us?” says Harry. “We have ‘T’ for Trident; ‘S’ is storage. Presumably those are the locked drawers themselves, unless there’s another storage location we don’t know about. The first ‘C’ stands for courier and the last is communications. The courier I think we know. So what kind of communications you think they’re offering?”
“I’m guessing it’s probably the client messaging service, the other phone number on the label,” says Joselyn.
“I’m for calling it,” I tell her.
“Let’s do it,” says Harry.
I pick up the phone and dial. Joselyn is over my shoulder listening with her ear next to mine. She picks up a notepad and pencil from the nightstand. Two rings and a digital voice answers. “To collect or leave a message, enter the extension number followed by the pound sign. To delete or change messages left on any of your assigned extensions, enter your code.” I wait for a second and there is a beep.
I hang up.
“We need to know the extension number to leave or collect messages,” I say.
“Back where we started,” says Harry.
“Not necessarily.” I dial again. This time I wait for the beep and enter the five numbers printed on the back of the WOD label: 00088. Then I punch the pound sign. I wait a few seconds and the system hangs up on me. I try again, only this time I drop the three zeros. I get the same result. The system disconnects. I get a dial tone. I try a three-digit extension and a four-digit extension, dropping one of the zeros on the first call and two on the second. I strike out each time. “Now we’re back where we started,” I tell them.
“Let’s think about this. The instructions on the phone indicate more than one extension per client,” says Joselyn. “And Liquida would want more than one.”
“Why?” says Harry.
“Because he would need a separate extension for each of his clients. He’s not going to want client A listening to the messages he leaves for client B, or for that matter the messages they leave for him, not in his line of work.”
Joselyn is right. Liquida would want to keep it all straight. He would want to limit each message to as few ears as possible.
“The instructions on the phone mentioned something else, called a code.” She is looking at notes she made on the small writing pad.
“Yeah, I know. I already thought about it,” I tell her. “But the only numbers we have are the five digits on the back of the label. I’ve dialed them in every combination I can think of. If that’s Liquida’s code, it should have connected, and it didn’t.”
“Yes, but you didn’t dial the right way.” She’s looking at her notes. “You entered the pound sign. The instructions didn’t say anything about a pound sign for the code, only for the extensions.”
I dial again, all five digits-00088. This time I omit the pound sign. We wait. A second later, we hear the digitized voice once more.
“Press one for extension 13. Press two for extension 47. Press three for extension 76. Press four for extension 128. Press five for extension 343.”
I press one. “There are no messages.” I do the same with the second and third extensions. There is nothing on either of them. When I press number 4, the mechanical voice says: “There are two messages. Press one to hear the first message.” I do it. We hear a voice.
“This is WOD.”
The small hairs on the back of my neck rise with the sound of his voice. I am holding the phone out so that we can all hear it. Joselyn pens a note as quickly as she can, just the essentials: “payment,” “job accepted,” “Saint-Jacques,” “Monday A.M. ” Then the voice says: “If you wish to delete this message, press seven.” The call ends. “Press one to hear the next message.” I hit one.
It’s another male voice, somebody by the name of Bruno. “The payment for the last job was sent three days ago. Sorry for the delay. I have another commission for you if you are interested. It’s a big one. Six-figure fee. Details are with the money. Advise as to availability.” And then a click as the man hangs up. “There are no other messages. If you wish to delete this message, press seven.” I hang up.
Joselyn heads to her laptop already set up on the desk near the television.
“Where the hell is the Hotel Saint-Jacques?” I ask.
“Gimme a minute,” she says.
“There is no clue as to where Liquida is calling from,” says Harry. “He could be anywhere.”
“My guess is he’s here,” I tell him.
“Why, because of the girl with the bag? I wouldn’t count on it. The contents of that bag could be anywhere by now. They could be shipped overnight halfway around the world by morning.”
I look at my watch. “Friday. We have three days. One thing we do know is where he will be come Monday morning. We need to get ahold of Thorpe. Call it in to him.”
“Your watch is wrong,” says Harry. “When you changed the time, you forgot to change the calendar. We lost a day. We crossed the international date line, remember?”
“You’re right.”
“It’s Saturday night,” says Harry. “Twelve hours’ difference between here and the East Coast. Opposite ends of the earth. That means it’s Saturday morning in Washington.”
“Oh, hell,” I tell him.
“Thorpe’s office is closed,” he says. “We could leave a message.”
“He’ll get it Monday morning,” I tell him. “It’ll be too late.”
“So we call the FBI, one of their field offices,” says Harry. “They gotta be open on weekends.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know,” says Harry. “Not here. In the States.”
“They won’t know us from Adam,” I tell him. “By the time they check us out and get on top of it, Liquida will
