“I knew it,” said Thorpe. “I knew it. Tell Susan to get Llewellyn up here right away. We need to talk.”
Britain opened the door, delivered the message, and closed it again.
“Which one of the two of them was it?” said Thorpe.
Britain looked at his notes. “According to his U.S. passport, his name was Raji Fareed…”
“Software guy,” said Thorpe. “That makes sense. Looks like Madriani’s man was telling the truth.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind. Anything else?”
“Fareed was booked into the hotel under an Egyptian passport with an alias,” said Britain. “The hotel desk said they never saw him in the flesh. Only his passport picture. It was delivered by another man who brought the passports down in a bundle. They said the guy booked an entire floor of rooms for a week. They checked out a day early.”
“How many in all?”
“Seven, according to the desk. Six showed up on the first day. Liquida arrived with his new Spanish passport three days later,” said Britain.
“Get copies of all the passports. Make sure the photos are clear. And I want those rooms scoured, anything they find bagged and brought back here, do you understand?”
“Our people from the embassy are already working on it,” said Britain. “But I’m not sure the French authorities are going to allow us to take evidence if it relates to the murder in the alley.”
“Do it anyway. Check and see if they found a computer. If so, tell our people not to let it out of their hands. Tell the French it’s embassy property. Put it in a diplomatic pouch if they have to. Go to the State Department and tell them we need a backdated diplomatic passport in Fareed’s name. Shoot it over there. Tell the French he was on State Department business acting as a courier. If State gives you any trouble, tell them to call the White House. Did you check the hotel to see if there was any sign of Madriani, Hinds, or Joselyn Cole?”
“We checked. No sign. The front desk looked at their passport photos and didn’t recognize any of them.”
“Have our people check the other hotels in the area and do me a favor, put all three names and their passport numbers on the no-fly list. Do it immediately. And make sure they’re not just tagged for additional screening. I want them held with a notation to contact the legat’s office at the U.S. Embassy. And tell the embassy to contact my office immediately if they find them.”
“I can put them on the list but it won’t be updated with the airlines until tomorrow,” said Britain. “And without a warrant, the French authorities won’t take them into custody. How do we hold them?” said Britain.
“Don’t worry about that. Just go out to the airport, get their luggage, give them a ride to the embassy, and keep them there. We’ll worry about the legalities later.”
Britain turned to head for the door.
“One more thing,” said Thorpe.
“Yes.”
“What kind of resources and juice do we have down in Mexico at the present time?”
Britain wrinkled his forehead with the thought. “I’m not sure the Mexican government has a handle on what’s happening down there right now. We don’t have much influence, if that’s what you mean. What do you need?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
“If you need boots on the ground, my guess is your best bet’s gonna be Drug Enforcement.”
“Then get ahold of somebody at DEA and tell them I need a meeting, later today if possible. Tell them this comes from the highest authority. The man in the big house at the end of Pennsylvania Avenue.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Coming in from Paris, Harry, Joselyn, and I decided to steer clear of the U.S. air carriers with connecting flights through the States. We feared that Thorpe might have his net out to snag us coming through U.S. Immigration before we could make our way south to Mexico.
Instead we caught an Air France flight from Paris direct to Mexico City. There we hopped a connecting flight to Cancun. Arriving just before midnight, we rented a car and took rooms for the night in a small hotel just south of the city.
This morning we get up early, grab a light breakfast, and drive south along the Mayan Riviera. The sun is bright. The azure blue sea is beautiful, rolling waves piling up on the sugar-sand beaches as we race along the highway.
We head for the coastal town of Tulum. I have not been there in years. My recollection of the area is of ancient Mayan ruins, walls of white coral stone on the cliffs above the beach overlooking the Caribbean. The conquistadors who first glimpsed them from the sea described them in their journals as alabaster marble palaces. It was a view that sealed the fate of the Mayans, for it inspired visions of limitless silver and gold in the minds of the Spaniards.
For the better part of an hour we drive along the coast highway. There are people on the beaches and the occasional “Tourista” van with vacationers, though not nearly as many as I recall from my trip to the Yucatan ten years earlier. Stories of heads lopped off in resort towns like Acapulco and shootings along the border tend to put a dent in tourism. Ordinarily the excesses of narco violence would cause me to wonder what risk we are taking by coming here. The fact that we are chasing Liquida is its own set of perils, causing any other fears to seem incidental.
Joselyn is sitting next to me studying a tourist map from the hotel. In one hand she has a printout of the notes from the flash drive hidden in the eyeglasses of the dead man from Paris. We still have no name for him.
“It looks like there is a connecting highway going west out of Tulum.” She plots it with her finger on the map. “Coba looks as if it’s, maybe, I’m guessing about forty kilometers west of Tulum. I’m not sure about the scale on this map.”
“I don’t remember exactly,” I tell her. “It’s been a long time. The last time I was down here I was pretty well lost. If it wasn’t for Herman, I’d probably be buried in the jungle out there somewhere.”
“How did you meet him?” she asks.
“He was working for a security company in Cancun. We hired an entire team of them for executive protection. Herman turned out to be the only one I could rely on. We connected and the rest is history.”
“Along the way he took a few bullets,” says Harry. “Herman’s a regular magnet. If it’s made of metal, you can be sure he’s got a piece of it somewhere inside him. For a man with nine lives, he’s used up twelve of them.”
“If you’re keeping score, you must miss him,” says Joselyn.
“What’s not to miss? Biggest human shield I’ve ever seen,” says Harry. “You bet I miss him. And for a big man he moves pretty fast. At least he did before this latest episode. Who knows now? He may be nothing but a walking comp claim. May have to put him out to pasture.”
“Yeah, you tell him that. Just make sure you’ve got a forty-yard running start when you do it,” I tell him. “Harry likes to sound indifferent and cold,” I tell Joselyn. “The fact is he and Herman have a lot in common.”
“What’s that? Yeah, now you’re gonna tell her we’re half brothers,” says Harry. “Same father, different mother. How is it we’re the same? Tell me.”
“You’ve got the same selfless spirit. Don’t be ashamed of it. You’re just a smaller shield,” I tell him. “If somebody shot at us, it would be a footrace to see which of the two of them got to the bullet first. Harry’s only problem is he’s not fast enough.”
“Who, me?” Harry sounds hurt.
“Yeah, you.”
“Never!” he says.
“Do you remember if there was a hotel in the town of Coba?” Joselyn changes the subject.
“I didn’t know there was a town,” I tell her. “As I recall, Coba was more of a wide spot on the road. Except for the Mayan ruins, there wasn’t much there. Last time I came, I was driving in from the other direction, coming east off the highway between Cancun and Merida. I passed the turnoff to Coba and never even saw it. I ended up a few miles from Tulum before I realized. I had to turn around and go back.”
“So you’re telling me it doesn’t have a Holiday Inn?”
