Trader of Secrets: A Paul Madriani Novel (25 page)

I open my eyes. A fat guy with a bald head has just come out of the front door to the Hotel Saint-Jacques.

“No.” I start to close my eyes again.

“You’re going to have to stay awake if we’re going to do this,” she tells me.

“Give me a break. I got almost no sleep last night.” With thoughts of Liquida running through my head, I kept wondering why the FBI hadn’t sent someone to meet us.

“That’s not my fault,” says Joselyn. “I don’t know what he looks like. You do.”

It’s late afternoon. Joselyn and I are camped in the front seat of a small black Renault. We rented it through the front desk at our hotel this morning. She is behind the wheel. I’m in the passenger seat. We are parked across the street and about a half block down from the front entrance to the Hotel Saint-Jacques.

It is a European-style boutique inn with a single entrance on the main street shaded by a maroon canvas awning. There is not a lot of foot traffic in or out. On the corner it looks as if there is an attached restaurant or bar.

We are at a loss to figure out how to confirm whether Liquida has checked into the hotel or not. It would be senseless to call the front desk, since it is certain he would never register under the name Liquida. Joselyn called looking for the other name left on the Thailand message system—the name “Bruno.” The desk told her there was no one there, either under the Christian name or surname of Bruno. We’re batting zero for two.

“Tell me what he looks like.” Joselyn is talking about Liquida.

“He’s got black hair.” My eyes are closed again, but I can see him. “You have to remember it was more than a year ago. His hair looked like it might have been slicked down. His face is pockmarked. Childhood acne would be my guess.” The minute I say it the mental image is blocked. The concept of Liquida as a child is a non sequitur, like describing Satan when he was a kid.

“How tall is he?”

“I’m guessing average build, but I don’t really know. He was seated behind the wheel of a car when I saw him. It was quick, nighttime, and I only got a glimpse. But I won’t forget the face.”

“Why not?”

“He was dead in the eyes, if you know what I mean.”

“No. Tell me.”

“How do I explain it? Ever seen any mug shots?”

“A few.”

“Luciano and Dillinger, you look at their eyes?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t cut it, not with Liquida. I’ve thought about it. The only picture I can ever recall seeing that comes close is Dillinger’s postmortem shot, the one they took after the feds shot him. The lids half open but no spark of life whatever. That’s Liquida.”

“Now you’re freaking me out,” she says. “Could it be that’s why you couldn’t sleep last night?”

“You asked.”

“OK. So tell me more.”

“That’s it.”

“No, you said his eyes were dead—why, what’s your theory?”

“It’s no theory. Go to San Quentin, take a look through the yearbook. You can always tell the ones who like to kill from the rest. You don’t need any training. You can see it in their eyes. Like a vampire looking in a mirror. There’s nothing there. I’m not just talking about the nutcases in the adjustment center. I mean the ones who crave killing. The ones who, if you let them out, will kill again before sundown, not because conditions force them, but because they’re addicted. It’s their narcotic of choice.”

“You really think there are people like that?” Joselyn is a romantic. She likes to believe that wherever there is life, there is some goodness.

“I know there are. And Liquida is hooked. He may not be a bloodsucker, but he mainlines on death. Look in his eyes and you’ll get a glassy, dead stare, as if whoever made him forgot to light the candles. If his pupils are moving, it’s only because he’s measuring you for a box, or a fifty-gallon drum if he can fold you up neatly enough to fit.”

“Now I’m not going to be able to sleep tonight.”

“If you see him, you’ll recognize him. Trust me. So maybe I can catch a few winks now.”

She waits about ten seconds. “I don’t get it,” says Joselyn. “We send a message to Thorpe, tell the FBI what we found, and we get nothing. You would think they have connections in Paris. The law enforcement fraternity. Why don’t they call somebody with the Paris police and have them come out?”

“Probably for the same reason we don’t.”

“Why is that?” she asks.

“There’s no hard evidence that Liquida’s inside. Britain, Thorpe’s man on the phone—the only thing he seemed to key on when we spoke was the fact that none of us—you, Harry, or I—have seen Liquida in the flesh. Not here and not in Thailand. The minute I told him we had no visual confirmation, he told me to drop it and get back to D.C.”

“Why didn’t you tell us that back in the room?” says Joselyn.

“Because I didn’t want you to lose hope.” I open my eyes long enough to wink at her. “If I tell Harry that, he’s gonna want to go back. And once we go back, that’s it. Thorpe’s not going to let me out of his sight again. And if you recall, Harry was not in favor of this trek to begin with. And don’t you go telling him what Britain said. There’s enough to deal with right now without having to do a pitched battle with Harry.”

“Maybe he’s right,” says Joselyn.

“You heard the voice on the tape. Tell me you don’t think Liquida’s inside that building.” I nod toward the hotel across the street. “He said he’d be in Paris Monday. That was yesterday.”

“If in fact it was his voice,” says Joselyn.

I look at her.

“OK, so perhaps he’s there. We can’t prove it unless we see him.”

“That’s why we’re sitting here.”

“It is possible the FBI might know something we don’t.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” she says.

“You’re starting to sound like Harry. Give them time. I am confident that Thorpe will come around the minute he hears Liquida’s voice on that tape.”

“If you say so.”

“What time does Harry spell us?” I ask.

“Six o’clock, why?”

“I need to call Sarah at the condo as soon as we get back to the room. I told her we’d be back in four days. Knowing my daughter, she’s going to be mad as hell.”

Chapter
Thirty-Three

K
nock, don’t ring the bell,” she told him. “Herman’s trying to sleep.” Sarah hung up the phone and went to stand by the door. She waited until she heard the slight rap and then opened up.

Adin was standing there.

“Come on in.”

“You’re sure it’s a good time? I mean if you’re busy . . .”

“No, not at all. Herman is resting.”

All of a sudden the dog started to bark.

“Damn it! Or at least he was,” said Sarah.

“Who is it?” Herman’s deep voice bellowed from somewhere down the hall.

“It’s OK, Herman. It’s just a friend.”

Bugsy started to bark again.

“I’m gonna kill that dog,” she said.

“Why don’t you bring him out?” said Adin.

“Are you sure? He’s not terribly friendly around men. He tolerates Herman only because he’s in bed. He drove the visiting nurse, this young guy, right up against the wall in Herman’s room this morning. I had to go pull him off. That’s why he’s locked up.”

“Go let him out,” said Hirst.

“I’ll put him on a leash if you want to meet him.” Sarah headed down the hall. A few seconds later she came back with the Doberman on a heavy leash. There was a choke chain that looped around Bugsy’s neck. It tightened every time he pulled. Even with this the dog dragged her from the hallway out into the living room.

“Put water wings on him and you could ski behind him,” said Adin. “He’s beautiful.”

“He thinks so,” said Sarah.

“Let him go.”

“I don’t dare.”

“Sooner or later we’re gonna have to meet,” said Adin.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Adin got down on one knee. “You can mop up the blood if I’m wrong, but I don’t think he’s going to attack me.”

“It’s your funeral,” said Sarah. Gently she released the strain on the leash.

“Go ahead and take it off,” said Adin.

“No. No. You don’t know him. I need to be able to haul him in if I have to.” The minute she let go of the leash, Bugsy stopped.

He looked at Adin, one knee down on the floor ten feet away. The dog and the man were at eye level.

“Come on.” Adin coaxed him. “The secret is no sudden moves. Come on.” He allowed his voice to rise just a little. With the rest of his body perfectly still, he slowly raised his right arm, keeping his hand limp, palm down, with his fingers curved a little and open.

Bugsy moved slowly across the floor, sniffing the air as he went. A step at a time he slowly glided across the carpet until he was no more than three feet from Hirst. The dog moved cautiously to his right as if circling.

Adin didn’t move his hand. He left it where it was.

Bugsy came in from the side and slowly sniffed the back of his hand.

“That’s a good boy.” He allowed the dog to sniff as long as he wanted.

Slowly the dog moved in closer to Adin’s body. He picked up the scent off his chest and his face. By the time dog and man were nose to nose, the nub of Bugsy’s docked tail was wagging like the stylus on a Richter scale in a tremor.

“I don’t believe this. He’s never done that before with anyone, even the trainers on the farm,” said Sarah.

“It’s all a matter of trust. They can smell fear, and they can sense danger. The reason he went after the nurse is probably because the man panicked. You start backing up and instinct tells him to go after you, to close the distance. You have to remember that his only real weapon are those pearly white teeth. And to use them he has to move in. Maintaining close contact is his only defense. And with a Doberman, the best defense is a good offense. It’s in their breeding.” Adin slowly drew his right arm in, keeping the palm away, with the back of the hand toward Bugsy.

“How is it you know so much about dogs?”

“I used to work with them, in another life,” said Adin. He slowly scratched the dog’s head, carefully slid his hand down and petted the feltlike hair on his snout.

Bugsy sat down, ears straight up, the nub of a tail wagging behind him.

“Good thing you’re not a burglar,” said Sarah. “If he was a cat, he’d be purring.”

“I don’t think we need this anymore.” Adin removed the leash, unclipped the metal collar, and removed the choke chain from the dog’s throat. “That’s better.” Slowly he stood.

Bugsy got up, walked around behind him, and sat again as if he was heeled on a leash waiting for a command. “Whoever trained him did a good job.”

“They didn’t think so,” said Sarah. “That’s why they gave him to me. He flunked training.”

“He outwitted them,” said Adin.

“Trust me, they raise Dobermans, my aunt and uncle. They’ve been doing it for years.”

“And I’m sure they know their business. But Bugsy may be the Einstein of Dobermans for all we know.” Adin walked over to the couch and sat down.

As if to prove the point, the dog walked half a foot behind him all the way as if they were tethered. When he got to the couch, he sat on the floor right next to Hirst, ramrod straight between the couch and the coffee table, and didn’t move.

“I think I’ve lost my dog,” said Sarah.

“No. He’ll be back to pulling you down the hall again the minute I leave.”

“Why?”

“Be glad he doesn’t speak English. If he did, he’d have you on a leash. I’d say this is one smart animal.”

“Then why did he give the people on the farm so much trouble?”

“The dumb kid in class,” said Adin. “Failing every subject, always in trouble, until you test him and find out he has an IQ of a hundred and eighty. I’d say Bugsy learned everything in the first two days, got bored, and spent the rest of his time training his masters.”

“They told me he came from the shallow end of the gene pool. He was worthless. Pet quality is what my uncle called him.”

“Don’t look now,” said Hirst, “but who’s off the farm living in a condo? I’ll bet he sleeps on your bed at night. Give him time and he’ll have all your pillows.”

Sarah didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

“And you love it there, don’t you?” Adin petted his head and the dog wiggled.

“Yeah, well, he’s sleeping on the floor tonight,” said Sarah.

The phone rang, and Bugsy flinched as if he was going to take off.

“Heel!” said Adin.

The dog froze.

“First time he hasn’t torn the place to pieces when the phone rang or the door chimed.” She reached for the receiver and picked it up. “Hello. . . . Dad, where the hell are you?” She turned her back, cupped her hand over the mouthpiece, and lowered her volume.

“You guys were going to Thailand. You were gonna be back in three days, remember? Now I get a message from Thorpe’s office, you’re in some swank hotel on the Left Bank . . . Yeah, yeah, I know.” She waited for a moment to let him get a word in. “Well, I hope you’re having a good time, because I’m here wrestling the dog with one hand and juggling Herman with the other. . . . I know the dog was my idea. That’s not the point.”