Read Online Trader of Secrets: A Paul Madriani Novel by Steve Martini - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steve Martini
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Fingerprints on the paper were a no-no. It was an anonymous tip to law enforcement. He used them occasionally to take down competitors or to drop sand in the gears of a client who failed to pay. He sealed the letter in a blank envelope and delivered it to a private courier service in downtown Dubai. He paid for the delivery in cash, used a pseudonym to set up the account, and left firm instructions that the letter was to be held in their offices until he called. At that time he would give them the delivery address. Liquida didn’t want to give them the address now in case they screwed up and delivered it early, in which case it would be his ass in the flames.
The second task was more painful. Back at the hotel, Liquida downed some of the pain medications given to him by the doctor in D.C. He used the sharp point of one of the stilettos to spread the ends of each of the thirteen surgical staples. Then, gritting his teeth, he plucked them out one by one from the pursed-up wound under his right arm. Liquida found it difficult maneuvering the sharp point of the blade with his left hand. He stopped periodically to steady himself and to dab the bleeding pinholes around the wound with tissue from a dispenser on the bathroom counter.
As he moved the blade, Liquida dripped venom while bargaining under his breath with the evil imps that inhabited his heart. He haggled for the soul of the dead black bastard who did this so that Liquida might staple his spirit to the hottest rock in hell. By the time he pulled the last wicked little piece of wire from his flesh, he was a quivering mass of sweat. Liquida looked at himself in the mirror. Even to his own eyes he appeared the hideous image of Gollum.
He rested for an hour and then showered. When he was done patting the wound dry, he checked the towel to make sure that the tiny pinholes from the staples were no longer seeping blood. He dressed, putting on a pair of tan slacks and a loose-fitting Egyptian cotton white shirt with an open collar and black buttons down the front. He left the bottom of the shirt outside his pants and slipped on a pair of loafers with no socks, the casual Spanish squire on holiday.
Liquida spent the rest of the day relaxing, sitting under an umbrella by the pool and reading newspapers to catch up on the evil others had done while he was on the run, hiding and plucking sharp pieces of wire from his body.
He was two days early removing the staples, but he had no choice. Bruno’s offer wouldn’t wait. It was now or never. If Liquida didn’t reply and do so soon, the offer would be gone.
While the better half of his brain told him it was a setup, his weaker side didn’t want to believe it. Besides, he had no option. He was running out of money. He needed the cash in that box. And if Bruno had a job for him, a big one, there would likely be money for expenses. Bruno was hip deep in people who could supply top-notch passports and create new bulletproof identities, all the resources that Liquida needed for cover. It would buy time. He could use it to stay out of the clutches of the Americans.
He wanted to believe that it was all there in the box. The problem was, there was only one way to find out.
Chapter
Eleven
H arry, my law partner, gives me a sleepy stare from tired, heavy-hooded eyes. It’s almost noon and Harry just fell out of bed. He and Sarah came in late last night in a two-car caravan, large dark SUVs with all the windows blacked out, driven by the FBI.
This morning Sarah is out working with one of their computer techs in the ongoing effort to refine an Identi-Kit portrait of Liquida, at least as much as she can remember. It is likely to be the only image they have since Herman, who was taken from behind with the knife, says he never got a clear look at the man.
“Paul, listen. I don’t know how else to say it. I’m sorry.” Harry is looking at me sheepishly, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “I was supposed to be watching her and I blew
The second task was more painful. Back at the hotel, Liquida downed some of the pain medications given to him by the doctor in D.C. He used the sharp point of one of the stilettos to spread the ends of each of the thirteen surgical staples. Then, gritting his teeth, he plucked them out one by one from the pursed-up wound under his right arm. Liquida found it difficult maneuvering the sharp point of the blade with his left hand. He stopped periodically to steady himself and to dab the bleeding pinholes around the wound with tissue from a dispenser on the bathroom counter.
As he moved the blade, Liquida dripped venom while bargaining under his breath with the evil imps that inhabited his heart. He haggled for the soul of the dead black bastard who did this so that Liquida might staple his spirit to the hottest rock in hell. By the time he pulled the last wicked little piece of wire from his flesh, he was a quivering mass of sweat. Liquida looked at himself in the mirror. Even to his own eyes he appeared the hideous image of Gollum.
He rested for an hour and then showered. When he was done patting the wound dry, he checked the towel to make sure that the tiny pinholes from the staples were no longer seeping blood. He dressed, putting on a pair of tan slacks and a loose-fitting Egyptian cotton white shirt with an open collar and black buttons down the front. He left the bottom of the shirt outside his pants and slipped on a pair of loafers with no socks, the casual Spanish squire on holiday.
Liquida spent the rest of the day relaxing, sitting under an umbrella by the pool and reading newspapers to catch up on the evil others had done while he was on the run, hiding and plucking sharp pieces of wire from his body.
He was two days early removing the staples, but he had no choice. Bruno’s offer wouldn’t wait. It was now or never. If Liquida didn’t reply and do so soon, the offer would be gone.
While the better half of his brain told him it was a setup, his weaker side didn’t want to believe it. Besides, he had no option. He was running out of money. He needed the cash in that box. And if Bruno had a job for him, a big one, there would likely be money for expenses. Bruno was hip deep in people who could supply top-notch passports and create new bulletproof identities, all the resources that Liquida needed for cover. It would buy time. He could use it to stay out of the clutches of the Americans.
He wanted to believe that it was all there in the box. The problem was, there was only one way to find out.
Chapter
Eleven
H arry, my law partner, gives me a sleepy stare from tired, heavy-hooded eyes. It’s almost noon and Harry just fell out of bed. He and Sarah came in late last night in a two-car caravan, large dark SUVs with all the windows blacked out, driven by the FBI.
This morning Sarah is out working with one of their computer techs in the ongoing effort to refine an Identi-Kit portrait of Liquida, at least as much as she can remember. It is likely to be the only image they have since Herman, who was taken from behind with the knife, says he never got a clear look at the man.
“Paul, listen. I don’t know how else to say it. I’m sorry.” Harry is looking at me sheepishly, wiping the sleep from his eyes. “I was supposed to be watching her and I blew
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