many other Russians with an instinct for business, Soyev quickly learned that change can be good. His talent lay in the murky world of international arms trade and its shipping sideline, what Soyev called “special handling” but most normal nations viewed as smuggling.
“Victor, we may be on an open line here.” At times Soyev could be an idiot. It provoked Thorn, but then it probably didn’t matter. The two men had never met, only voices on the phone. Soyev knew Thorn only as Mr. Bell, one of his many aliases, and neither man particularly trusted the other. It was a symbiotic relationship only because it produced money for both.
“Understood. It’s an open line,” said the Russian. “But it was necessary I talk to you.” Thorn was telling him to keep it cryptic in case the Cubans or anybody else was listening in. “Our shipment got diverted.”
“When?”
“Last night. I just found out. Apparently some engine problem. They had to put down in the land of smiles.”
Soyev was telling him that the giant IL-76, a massive four-engine cargo plane carrying one of the critical items, had apparently been forced down in Thailand.
“Did they fix the problem?” said Thorn.
“No. Seems they got more serious problem now. Open cargo door,” said Soyev. “I am told that it cannot be fixed. I’m sure you see something about it in tomorrow’s paper.”
Open cargo door could mean only one thing. Thai customs had discovered what was on the plane. They had seized the entire load. The wire services and the press were already on it.
Thorn looked out the window and thought for a moment. “Which, ah…” He collected his thoughts. “Which of the passengers was onboard?” he said.
Soyev didn’t know what to say. He understood the question, but he was afraid to use the code words over an open line. He might as well telegraph Washington. Thorn thought it was cute. It was his plan, and he was in charge, so there was nothing Soyev could do to stop him from using the terms. But what the hell was the use of code names if you couldn’t use them? He also talked about “breaching the monastery,” though Soyev had no idea what it meant.
“Tell me,” said Thorn. “Which of them had the boarding pass, the big guy or the little kid?”
“Big guy,” said Soyev. Thorn had solved the problem for him.
“I see,” said Thorn. If it had to be, this was better than the alternative.
“The kid will take a later flight,” said Soyev.
“Make sure he goes first class,” said Thorn.
“You bet. I will take him by the hand and make sure he gets a good seat. By the way, I’m still here,” he said.
Oh shit, thought Thorn. Soyev was calling from North Korea. Might as well just hang a neon sign in the sky.
“I’m gonna have to go,” said Thorn. “Can’t talk any longer.”
“The man has a brother.” Soyev spoke before Thorn could hang up.
“Really?” The North Koreans had made not one, but two of the devices.
“Yes.”
“Do you know if the brother might like to visit?” Thorn was asking if it was for sale.
“I think so.”
“Then we would love to have him,” said Thorn. “I think we can make the same accommodations.” Thorn was going to need more money. They had already paid for the device. Now they would have to pay again. He would have to get on the phone, to the link with its elaborate voice synthesizer, and leave a message. No problem. They would call the oil sheiks and dial up a few more million. After all, what’s money when you have all that oil?
“Good,” said Soyev. “I let you know tomorrow if he can come.”
“Good. You have my schedule?”
“Yes.”
“Call me,” said Thorn.
“You bet.” Soyev hung up.
If the Russian had his schedule, then he knew where to call him tomorrow, either on his stateside cell or at the hotel in downtown Manhattan.
Liquida moved quickly across the grass in the backyard until he stood beneath the window where he had seen the light go out a few minutes earlier. She was the last to turn her light out after arriving home. The room upstairs had to be her bedroom. And now the house was dark. He crept along the side past a coiled-up hose and a small bench. He kept his feet on the brick pavers.
Halfway to the front Liquida found what he was looking for, a partially open window, a slider someone had left ajar just a crack, probably for fresh air. Through the dark glass, he could see the glow of green light from the digital clock over the stove-3:18 A.M. The window looked out on the side yard from a small dining nook just off the kitchen.
With the window open Liquida knew it was unlikely that there would be any electronic contacts to trigger an alarm. Nonetheless, he scanned with his eyes along the inside frame behind the glass. He could see no metal contacts and no security catch that might prevent the window from opening all the way.
Using the needle-sharp point of his knife, Liquida gently punched a hole in the screen. Then he maneuvered the long stiletto until it released the metal clip inside. With gloved hands he removed the screen and set it on the ground, propping it against the side of the house. He used two fingers to gently slide the window open, and then with the feline agility of a cat, Liquida slipped inside.
He reached out and grabbed the window screen and gently dragged the bottom of the aluminum frame through the sandy, dry loam of the planter bed outside. This would prevent anyone from gaining an impression of the soles of his shoes.
Inside, the house was still and entirely dark except for the glow from the kitchen clock and a narrow shaft of light streaming in from down the hall. By now they were both asleep, in separate bedrooms upstairs.
Liquida moved swiftly and without a sound through the kitchen and down the hall until he came to the front entryway. The light was streaming in through the living room window from a streetlamp out in front. Quickly he stepped through the shaft of light, turned, and climbed the stairs two at a time.
When he reached the top, Liquida saw a closed door immediately to his left, just a few feet down the hall. To the right were an open door and another door farther down that was closed. The open door in the middle had to be a bathroom between the two bedrooms. He crept slowly toward the open door until he saw the porcelain pedestal of the sink, then slipped past the opening to the closed door at the end of the hall. This was her room, where Liquida had watched the light go out from the yard down below.
He quickly glanced over his shoulder toward the other bedroom down the hall. Satisfied that no one stirred, he transferred the knife and carefully gripped the doorknob with his gloved right hand. With the care one might use to unthread the fuse from a bomb, Liquida turned the knob until he felt the gentle click of the lock as it slipped from the brass striker in the door frame. He held his breath and gently eased the door open just enough to quickly slither inside.
Holding the door behind him, his gaze fixed to the front, Liquida scanned the darkness like a bat searching for its quarry. He held the inside knob turned tight so that the bolt was retracted all the way into the door. Then with his hip he silently pressed it closed.
In the dim light of the room he began to make out the soft muslin landscape of the thick comforter. He couldn’t see her, but she was in there somewhere. He hoped that the padded hills and valleys would somehow define her body so he could find the right spot.
Slowly he rotated the wrist of his right hand behind him until he was certain that the door was latched closed once more.
Then Liquida turned his full attention to the front. He glanced quickly around the room, sizing up the terrain around the bed to make sure there was nothing in the way, shoes to be kicked or clothes he might trip over. Once he was certain he had a clear path, Liquida took the knife in his right hand and moved slowly around the foot of the bed.
His eyes were fixed on the girl’s subterranean form, buried somewhere under the rolling hillocks of the covers.
