The Rule Of Nine Part 7

So it's easy to see how a spirited disagreement can quickly escalate beyond the normal civility of single-fingered hand gestures and four-letter name-calling. The one time I had to pull the gun, I was happy to have it. When somebody leans across my desk with a needle-sharp shank angry over the result in his case and questions the need for my continued existence, it's comforting to be able to mediate by citing the case of Mr. Springfield pointed at his groin from the kneehole of my desk.

I punch the b.u.t.ton on the side of the pistol and check the clip-seven rounds, eight if I want to load a live one in the chamber. The .45 ACP jacketed hollow point is a short, stubby little bullet with enough wallop to make an elephant's eyes water. It's designed to spread on impact. So if you have to shoot, you want to hit your target in the ma.s.s of the upper body where all the energy will be absorbed. You never want to shoot an idiot in the head where the bullet will pa.s.s through the vacuum and kill somebody behind him.

I slam the clip home, pull the slide back, and let it go, chambering the first round, then lower the hammer with my thumb and click on the safety. The pistol fits into a leather f.a.n.n.y pack with Velcroed webbing that I snap around the weapon to hold it in place. Then I zip up the pack and strap the belt around my waist.

Anyone itching for a permit to pack might want to carry a four-pound diving weight in their back pocket for a few days. It's a good prescription for a cure. The dead weight of the pistol and three loaded clips makes my behind feel as if it's lost the battle with gravity. No wonder cops all seem to be shrinking. With the load of gizmos on their belts, it's a wonder they can stand up.

I head toward the stairs and down to my car in the garage.

TWELVE.

It was nine o'clock. Thorn was packing his bags, getting ready to pull out of Havana the following morning, headed for his next port of call, when the phone next to the bed rang. Unless it was the front desk, it was trouble. Only two people on his crew knew where he was, and both of them had been told not to call unless it was an emergency.

He dropped the folded shirt into the bag and grabbed the phone. "h.e.l.lo."

"Cheeef, is Victor here. We got problem."

Thorn immediately recognized the voice. Victor Soyev was his procurement man. The Russian was a former army ordnance sergeant who'd found himself without a chair when the music stopped in the Soviet Union. Like 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 ma.s.sive 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 pa.s.sengers was...o...b..ard?" 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 h.e.l.l 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 pa.s.s, 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 cla.s.s," 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 s.h.i.t, 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 gra.s.s 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 gla.s.s, 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 gla.s.s. 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 doork.n.o.b with his gloved right hand. With the care one might use to unthread the fuse from a bomb, Liquida turned the k.n.o.b until he felt the gentle click of the lock as it slipped from the bra.s.s 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 k.n.o.b 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. He could see the steady rise and fall of her breath as he approached from the right side. Her head was partially buried under the pillow, shutting out whatever light and noise might interrupt her deep sleep.

Liquida a.s.sessed the situation. It wasn't as easy as it looked. If he tried to pull the bedcovers off her to get a clear strike, she might scream before he could silence her. He gauged the thickness of the bedspread against the length of the blade in his hand, and wondered if the comforter was filled with goose down or something harder. Hopefully it wasn't Kevlar.

He crept forward, searching with his eyes for the area just above the small of her back. As he drew closer he could make out the definition more clearly.

Liquida was two feet from the edge of the bed. His foot found a weak spot and the floor squeaked as he lifted off it. A second later the body on the bed began to move. He froze in place and stared at the moving mound. He was prepared to pounce if he had to, but he knew if he did they wouldn't be alone in the room for long. He watched as she shifted under the covers and prayed that she would not roll over and open her eyes. Instead she stretched out, took a deep breath, and settled back in. Liquida was thankful, because in the process she flattened enough of the hills to show him his target. If only she would stay still.

He looked at the floor and quietly took two more steps. It put him at the edge of the bed. He looked down. He couldn't see her head. But he knew where it was, under the pillow.

He leaned over the bed, held his breath, and in a single fluid motion Liquida grabbed the pillow with his left hand and forced it down against the side of her face as he plunged the needle-sharp point of the knife through the covers and into her back. A few flakes of down floated like snow around his gloved hand as he pressed the knife home.

Liquida was lucky and he knew it. The blade slid cleanly between her ribs. Her body jolted with the shock. She tried to scream, but her face was buried deep in the mattress and sealed by the pillow. Liquida pressed down hard, with all of his weight. He had the knife in her but it was like riding a tiger. She was stronger than she looked. Before he realized it, she was struggling into position to do a push-up. If she got her face out of the mattress and let out a scream, they would hear it a block away.

Coming up onto the bed, Liquida forced his knee into her lower back and collapsed her arms. She struggled to escape the searing pain as he moved the blade around in the wound. Her legs thrashed at the covers and her fingers clawed the sheets, but Liquida wouldn't let up. He searched for the sweet spot before she could throw him off. He angled the knife handle down and jammed the blade upward under the ribs as hard as he could. Jenny arched her back in a rigid bow. He felt the penetration as the tip of the blade sliced through the sac and pierced her heart.

Liquida sat on her like a jockey, his knee still planted in her back. He could feel the life force beneath him dissolve as her body settled back into the mattress.

He took a second to catch his breath, and then he lifted the pillow from her face. Her left eye was wide open, but it was too dark to see if the pupil was dilated. He swept the long blond hair away from the side of her neck and felt for the jugular. There was no pulse. Leaving the knife where it was, Liquida hoisted himself off her and back onto his feet, at the side of the bed. Then he reached over and pulled the knife out as a crimson stain seeped slowly, in a broadening circle, through the thick white muslin.

Liquida had followed the two women all night, but from a safe distance. He parked up on a hill near a hotel and watched them through his field gla.s.ses down below as they had dinner in the restaurant's outdoor plaza. He also saw Madriani's detective. How could he miss him? The biggest thing moving in Old Town that night. Liquida had seen him before, months earlier, in Costa Rica. He wasn't someone you were likely to forget. A man the size of a mountain, with a shiny, bald black head that looked as if he spit-shined it at night. He stood there on the wooden boardwalk in front of the shops, smoking his cigar as he watched the two girls from a block away.

The moment he saw the investigator, Liquida knew he had the lawyer's attention. So he followed the two women, but kept his distance. When the blonde dropped Madriani's daughter off at home, he followed the blonde. If he killed the daughter, the FBI would throw another blanket over the lawyer and Liquida might not be able to find him again. They had done it once before. But kill her friend and there was no way to prove that Liquida was involved. After all, she was a perfect stranger. And there would be no fingerprint left behind this time. The police would start looking for jilted boyfriends or anyone who might have been stalking the blonde. But Madriani would be left to wonder. The minute his daughter told him that her friend was dead it would begin to gnaw at him.

It is true. There are things worse than physical pain and death: the certain knowledge that these are coming, not only for you, but for those you love.

THIRTEEN.

It's not quite noon. I'm in a booth at the Brigantine waiting for Harry to join me for lunch and I am about to be ambushed.

Joselyn Cole sits at one of the bar stools across the room, one shapely leg crossed over the other as we pretend not to notice each other in the largely empty restaurant.

Yesterday she went to see Herman and he slammed the door on her as I'd warned her he would. So unless Coronado is suddenly on the way back to her office in D.C., I'm a.s.suming she's back for one more shot at me.

The c.o.c.ktail waitress cruises by to take my order.

"Gin and tonic, hold the lime," I tell her.

Cole glances at me in the mirror over the bar, and as the waitress leaves, Joselyn swivels on her stool and steps down. This morning she looks very different. A white sweaterdress of thin-ribbed wool clings to her body like water on its way down to midthigh over skin-tight black leggings. She dangles a small purse from her arm as she nurses her drink with both hands and moves toward me with a kind of arousing feline elegance. New day-new tack.

"I thought it was you when I heard the voice," she says.

"You come here often, do you?" I give her a big grin.

"Your secretary told me you were having lunch here," she says. "You don't mind?"

"I'm going to have to talk with my secretary."

"Oh, I hope I'm not getting her in trouble," she says. "I told her we were meeting for lunch and I forgot the location. So it really wasn't her fault."

"There you go, you did it again," I say. "Did you tell her who you were this time?"

"I told her who I was the last time. It was only the stuff about the bar that I lied about. And yes, I did tell her who I was."

"And she believed you about lunch?"

"I'm here, aren't I? If you have a problem with me, you need to tell your secretary. After all, the woman doesn't have a crystal ball. For all she knows we could be having a tryst."

"I'll make a note," I tell her.

"I don't like lying, really," she says. "But you make it very difficult to tell the truth."

"You're talking about your attempt to ambush Herman?" I say.

"The least you could have done was give me an open field shot at the man."

"If I'd known you could dress up and look like this, I would have gone over personally and nailed his door shut," I tell her.

"Well, thank you, I think." She smiles, standing there all hippy and slinky in high heels, curves in all the right places. "Besides, I can tell, you're not really angry."

I shoot her a glance.

"At your secretary, I mean."

"We're back to clairvoyance, are we?"

"Care if I sit?"

"Would it make a difference?" I ask.

She sets her drink down and slides into the booth across from me. "Tell me, is the food good here?"