invitation to a funeral-his own. Although he didn’t like it, at the moment he didn’t have much choice. “One thing I don’t care for here is the location. You have them set up in the hotel across the street, right?”
“What’s wrong with it?” said Bruno.
“It’s just that the Latin Quarter is a tourist area. The Iranian gets away from you here, you’re going to have your hands full. There are too many prying eyes and nosy sightseers,” said Liquida. “Let me take them out to the suburbs.” Liquida wrinkled an eyebrow at Bruno. He was talking about neighborhoods to the northeast where angry Arab immigrants burned hundreds of cars each night, whenever they felt a grievance coming on. “Let the Iranian see what’s going on out there. It may loosen his tongue.”
“No time for that,” said Bruno. “Besides, there are too many police and French intelligence out that way. My people are already set up in the hotel. Just keep your knife in its sheath and use your head. A little finesse. That is what is called for here. I am sure you can do it. I have confidence in you.”
“Whatever you say.” The reason Liquida wanted out of the hotel was not because it was a tourist site. He had left the name “Hotel Saint-Jacques” on the message machine in Thailand. Liquida began to sweat, wondering if the FBI might already have the place under surveillance. With a fresh passport and another hotel, Liquida would have had a new lease on life. Time to figure out what to do. Now he would have to cross the street and walk into the hotel with his luggage and hold his breath as he did so.
On the way in from the airport, after talking to Bruno on the phone, Liquida had made one more call. This one was to the private courier in Dubai, the dispatch service that was holding his anonymous letter. He told them to deliver it and gave the address of the U.S. Embassy in Dubai, Office of the Legal Attache.
Liquida had checked on the hotel computer in Dubai just before leaving. His FBI poster on their website was now updated with a sketch. This had to be courtesy of Madriani’s daughter. It wasn’t a very good likeness. He felt it failed to properly display the strength of character in his face. It looked like a picture made by a machine. Still, it was one more fly in the ointment, something to contend with whenever he flew commercial.
Liquida’s anonymous letter was in reference to the FBI’s most wanted website, not the old one used for gangsters, but the new one on terrorism. In the letter Liquida claimed to be a physician in Dubai. Liquida had postdated the letter by two days, knowing that he would be out of the country by then. He withheld his name, explaining that he could not take the chance of publicly assisting the American FBI since he resided and worked in such a dangerous region of the world. He explained that a foreigner had come into his office requesting medical attention. The man claimed to be a guest staying at the Dubai Beach Resort. He wanted the doctor to remove some surgical staples from what he claimed was a wound under his arm. While the doctor was happy to assist, he recognized the injury as a knife wound and immediately became suspicious. Later after the man left, he checked the few sources available to him online and discovered a wanted poster on the FBI website showing a sketch that looked very much like his patient. One of the aliases posted under the sketch was the name “Liquida.”
If the FBI found anything in Thailand, Liquida was hoping to send them in another direction, back to Dubai. By the time they checked out the lead in the Arab Emirates and discovered that the Spanish passport had moved from there in the other direction, to Thailand and then on to Paris, Liquida planned to be long gone, under a different name and on a different continent. He hoped that by then the Americans would be hooked on the Spanish passport. Liquida had plans for that as well.
He didn’t dare tell Bruno that the FBI was breathing up his ass and that the Paris hotel might be compromised. Bruno would pull out of the Latin Quarter all right, but only after one of his henchmen pumped a bullet into Liquida’s brain and dumped his body in the Seine. The only way out now was to work and work fast, to get out of Paris and back to Mexico where he knew the lay of the land. Perhaps it was all a matter of perspective, but for Liquida, suddenly the old cartels were not looking nearly so bad.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Waiting for our flight from Bangkok to Paris, I borrow Joselyn’s laptop. She is an Apple user. I am not. She sets up the e-mail for me, and I send two quick e-mail messages.
The first message goes to Thorpe telling him about the Hotel Saint-Jacques and Liquida’s message on the tape along with the number code to get into it. I tell him that we are on our way to Paris, hoping that maybe he will have someone there to meet us. The second e-mail I also send to Thorpe but with a request that it be delivered to Sarah. I tell her we are headed to Paris, but I give her none of the details. I tell her not to worry, that we hope to be back in just a few more days.
I would have called Thorpe’s office, but since it is the weekend, and with a twelve-hour time difference between Bangkok and Washington, all I would get was his voice mail.
When I finish with the laptop, Joselyn takes it back and treats us to the mysteries of Earth Google and Google Maps. Within less than a minute she shows us the street view of the Hotel Saint-Jacques in Paris using Google Maps. Moving the camera’s perspective she is able to glide in front of the place, adjust the angle of view to look at the hotel from the ground level to the roof, and move down the side streets as if we were there. Cars on the road and pedestrians on the sidewalk are all stopped in freeze-frames as if frozen in time.
“How did you do that?” Harry is mesmerized.
“I’m sure you’ve seen this before,” she tells him.
“I’ve seen maps,” says Harry. “But not like that.”
“Watch.” She does it again, zooms in from the satellite view to the bubble that appears on the street and from there to the sidewalk view. “It’s easy,” she says.
“Maybe for you.” Harry is leaning over her shoulder looking at the screen. “How often do they update the pictures?”
“I’m not sure,” she says.
“Maybe if we watch long enough, we can catch Liquida coming out of the building,” says Harry.
Joselyn stops moving her finger over the tracker and looks back at him with big round eyes. The smile spreads across her face as she laughs. “You have a good poker face.” She turns back toward the screen. “For a second I thought you were serious.”
Harry shoots me a dense look.
“Even the village idiot knows the satellite overhead and ground photos are not in real time,” says Joselyn. “And, in answer to your question, they probably upgrade the photos every few years.”
“Wouldn’t want you to think I’m some techno-bozo with a bone through my nose,” says Harry. “But are there any programs out there that give you pictures in real time?”
“Not unless you have an office at Langley with the CIA,” she tells him. “I wanted to take a look at the area around the Hotel Saint-Jacques so we can see the lay of the land. Maybe we can scout out a place to stay. Somewhere safe.”
She has a point.
Joselyn moves back to the map page and starts typing in a search for other hotels in the area.
There is no one from the FBI to meet us at the airport in Paris when we arrive. I suspect Thorpe may not have received the message.
By the time we approach the Hotel Claude Bernard, it is dark. The street outside looks nothing like the daytime pictures we saw on Joselyn’s computer nearly twelve hours earlier.
The incandescent lights in the restaurants and bistros combine with the eerie glow from the brighter lights of central Paris to give the neighborhood a fairy-tale-like appearance. Based on the map, the Bernard is about three hundred yards west of the Hotel Saint-Jacques and on the same side of the street, the rue des Ecoles.
According to the computerized map, there are two other hotels that are closer, but the Bernard appears, to us at least, to be safer because of the distance. There is not much chance of running into Liquida by accident unless we get careless; that is, assuming he is booked at the Saint-Jacques. It is at times like this I miss Herman and his streetwise instincts for knowing how heavily, and where, to tread. The fact that Herman, who lives in the dark crevices of tracking and surveillance, was ambushed by Liquida in a dim garage in Washington is not lost on any of us.
Businesses crowd the sidewalks on both sides down the rue des Ecoles, mostly small shops, restaurants, and
