The Rule of Nine

FORTY-ONE

The Belgica is one of those cozy boutique hotels you often find tucked away in the old world cities of Europe, only this one has a Latin flavor to it.

When I walk through the front door behind Herman, I see that the lobby is small, and at the moment there is no one at the front desk.

Herman and I go up to his room. It takes him five minutes to throw his dirty underwear in his bag and gather his shaving kit and other toiletries from the bathroom. He does one last check of the closet and looks around to make sure he hasn’t left anything, and we head out.

As I turn toward the stairs, Herman is behind me.

“Hold on a second,” he says.

I turn. “Did you forget something?”

He shakes his head, puts his finger to his lips in a sign of silence, and then points back behind us down the hallway. “That’s Thorn’s room,” he whispers. The door is wide open and the light is on.

“You think maybe the cops?” I’m up close in his ear.

He shakes his head. Herman’s not sure.

We move slowly down the hall toward the open door. When we get there we see some luggage assembled on the floor, a large black roller and a smaller one. The bed’s been stripped, all the sheets and towels in a pile on the floor. The closet door is open and there is a light on in the bathroom but no sign of anyone inside.

Herman slowly steps into the room, looks one way and then the other. He doesn’t see anyone. I step in behind him. He checks the closet. There are two shirts hanging inside.

While he’s doing that, I check the luggage tags. They are only temporary, paper, the kind of tags you get from the airlines when you check your luggage. The name on them is Charles Johnston, 113 Calle Once, Havana, Cuba.

I look at the smaller case, reach down and start to unzip it.

“Excuse me! What do you think you are doing?”

The voice sends me out of my skin. I turn around and there’s a guy standing in the bathroom door looking at me. “Who are you?” he says.

Herman steps out of the closet. The guy looks at him. “Oh, señor, it’s you.” The guy in the doorway seems relieved.

Herman says: “Ah, my friend. This is the young man I was telling you about.” Herman looks at me and smiles. “Pablo, correct?”

“That’s right,” says the kid.

“This is the young man at the desk,” says Herman. “Very enterprising fellow. This is one of my associates. Pablo, meet Paul. Two Pablos, how about that?” he says.

I laugh and step away from the bag that I was about to rifle, so that I can shake his hand. Perhaps for a smile and a few dollars he’ll let us search the bags.

“Were you able to deliver your papers to Señor Johnston?” asks Pablo.

“Sadly, no,” says Herman.

“That’s too bad, because I’m afraid he’s checked out.”

Herman starts to laugh as if the kid has made a joke about death.

“I take it you’ve talked to the police?” I say.

“No.” The kid turns serious. “Why would I talk to the police?” It’s obvious he doesn’t know that Thorn is dead.

“You said he checked out,” says Herman.

“Sí, about an hour ago.”

Herman looks at me.

“He was here?” says Herman.

“No. No. He called to say that he couldn’t make it back to the hotel. Tol’ me to put all the charges on his credit card and have his bags forwarded to his new hotel.”

“Where’s that?” I say.

“Oh, well, I’m not sure I should say,” he says.

“Did he say where he was when he called?” I ask.

The kid makes a face, like maybe yes, maybe no.

“Listen, you’ve been very helpful,” says Herman. “Lemme show you how much we appreciate it.” Herman steps in front of me, then turns his back to the kid and rubs his thumb and forefinger together-the international gesture for money-as I reach for my wallet.

I pull out four twenties. Herman reaches around my hand and plucks out two crisp one-hundred-dollar bills from my open bill-fold. Before I can say a word, he is over in front of Pablo, stuffing them in the kid’s breast pocket.

“Oh, thank you, señor.”

“It’s nothing,” says Herman. “After all, we’re all in business to make a profit, and you are a very good businessman.”

“Oh, yes, I wish to be one day.”

“Oh, you already are,” says Herman. “It’s the information age. The most valuable commodity there is.”

“Yes, of course,” says the kid. “I dunno where he is. He called on his cell phone.”

“When exactly?” I say.

“As I say, maybe an hour ago. Perhaps less.”

“You’re sure it was him?” says Herman.

“Oh, yeah. He thank me for putting the muffins and fruit in the bag for him this morning. We’re not supposed to open the continental breakfast until seven. But as you know, he left early. He tol’ me to put all the room charges on his credit card and ship the bags to a hotel in Washington, D.C., overnight,” he says. “I tol’ him we can ship them air freight, express overnight, but it’s expensive. Besides, they won’t ship until tomorrow, and they don’t deliver on Sunday, so he won’t get it till Monday. He said he didn’t care. To put it on his hotel tab, and to give myself a nice tip. He didn’t say how much.”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” says Herman.

I am thinking that it probably won’t matter, as Thorn no doubt stole the credit card from somebody else.

“I wonder if you could get the address for us, the hotel in Washington where the bags are going?” says Herman. “It would be a big help.”

“It’s downstairs. I’ll go get it,” he says. He takes two steps toward the door and stops. “Maybe I should take the bags down first.”

“We’ll watch them,” says Herman.

“Okay. Be right back.”

The second he leaves the room, Herman and I open both bags. Dirty clothes, two pairs of shoes, one of them dress shoes polished like a mirror, a shaving kit, neatly packed, almost anal. Herman is right. Thorn is military. Everything packed in its proper place.

“The kid didn’t pack like this,” I say.

“No,” says Herman.

It’s obvious that Thorn was getting ready to leave.

We dump everything out on the bed and start pawing through it. I check the pockets of the pants for anything left behind. They are all empty.

I slide my hand along the inside edge of the small case, into the elastic pouch where small items are sometimes stored. I find a plastic sewing kit, needles and thread, some matches, and a unique folding knife. It has a clear plastic handle through which you can see the blade.

I wonder how Thorn gets it through airport security until I open it and realize that the four-inch razor-sharp blade is ceramic. The handle is formed from a clear solid block of acrylic. To a scanner the knife would be virtually invisible.

I continue my search along the inside edge until I feel something solid rub against the back of my hand. It’s not inside the elastic pouch but behind the lining of the suitcase itself. I open the ceramic knife and slice the lining of the case, reach inside, and pull out not one, but three separate passports: one French, one British, and the last one U.S. I open them. They all have the same photograph of Thorn but different names.

“From my recollection, they look better than the ones you and I bought down in Costa Rica,” says Herman. “And a much clearer picture of the man. No wonder he wants the suitcase back.” Herman grabs all three of the passports and slips them into his pocket.

We’re running out of time. I hear the kid coming up the stairs.

Herman grabs the knife, folds it up, and slips it into his pocket. “Keep goin’, I’ll keep him busy.” He steps out into the hallway. A second later I hear the two of them talking, this time in Spanish, down the hall near the head of the stairs.

I run my hand along the liner until I feel something else. It’s not a passport. It’s too small. I try to reach it with my fingers through the slit in the lining, but I can’t quite get it.

I look for the knife and realize it’s gone. The voices are moving this way.

Herman tells Pablo he wants to check out. He tries to draw him back toward the stairs.

“Okay, but I should lock up,” says Pablo. “I must not leave Señor Johnston’s bags unattended.”

I rip the lining and reach inside. It’s a small black book the size of a pocket calendar. I don’t have time to open it. I just jam it in my pocket and start throwing clothes and shoes, the shaving kit, all of it in a jumbled mess inside the suitcases. I zip up the large bag, set it on the floor, and pull the zipper around on the smaller one just as I hear them approach the doorway. I set it on the floor, then turn and smile.

“Did you get the address?” I ask.

“Absolutely,” says Herman. “Pablo is very efficient and professional. He assures me that he said nothing to Señor Johnston about our efforts to serve him.”

“Good man,” I tell him.

“Of course, that is your business,” says Pablo. “When I give my word, it is important that I keep it.”

“Yes, indeed,” says Herman. “Let’s let Pablo lock up so I can go down and check out. Then we gotta get out of here.”

“Yes, we do,” I tell him.

Less than an hour later, we’re back in the room at the Hotel Melia. Joselyn dries her hair with a towel and watches over my shoulder as Herman and I pore over the booty from Thorn’s suitcases.

Herman opens up one of the passports and shows her a more current picture of Thorn.

“He hasn’t changed much at all,” she says. “That’s how I remember him from Seattle. Dorian Gray.”

“What’s this, I wonder?” I’m looking through the little black book. The first page is covered in a long series of numbers, dark blue ink pressed firmly into the paper as if the writer has a tendency to push too hard.

“It looks like a code of some kind,” says Joselyn.

There is a separate set of numbers on each line.

“Could be dates,” says Joselyn.

“What do you mean? There’re too many numbers on each line,” I say.

“Turn the page,” she says.

I do it and the numbers continue, for two more pages. The writing is precise, very neat, but looks hard, as if the ballpoint engraved itself in the fine paper.

“What it looks like to me is a series of dates,” says Joselyn, “at least the first six numbers on each line. Look, they’re set off by a space from the rest of the numbers on the line. It’s like two columns. The dates could be international style, not like we do it in the States. The number of the day followed by the number of the month, and then the last two digits for the year.”

“Then what’s the rest of it?” I ask. “The other numbers?”

Joselyn uses her finger and counts the numbers on each line. “Assuming the first six numbers represent dates, then there are ten additional numbers on each line. Could be phone numbers,” she says. “Area code and then seven more for the local number. Give me a second,” she says.

She tosses the towel on the bed and gets her cell phone out of her purse. “Take the numbers on the first line, forget the first six and just give me the last ten,” she says.

I read them to her and she keys them into her phone. She listens for a second, then hangs up. “Nope. It’s disconnected. Give me the next one.”

We try again.

“No, it can’t be phone numbers, must be something else,” she says.

I flip the pages. “Not necessarily. Try this one.” I read it to her and watch as she dials.

I hear it ring. She gives me a wide-eyed look and a thumbs-up. It answers, a kind of synthesized voice, not human but computer generated. It is loud enough to make out the words from where I am sitting. “Speak clearly in order to be identified.”

“Hello,” says Joselyn. Suddenly the line goes dead. She looks at her phone. “I think I dropped the call.”

“Let me try.” I dial the same number on my cell, get the same synthesized voice with the same message “Speak clearly in order to be identified.” The second I say, “Who is this?” it hangs up.

“What is it?” says Herman.

“It must be set up on some kind of voice-identification system,” I tell him. “If the wrong person calls in, it hangs up. It’s obviously a system for Thorn to communicate with someone. Probably a backup copy. He must have another one he works from and keeps this one in the suitcase in case he loses it.”

“How come that number answered but the other ones didn’t?” says Joselyn.

“It’s the phone number for today’s date,” I tell her. “And there is one more for the day after tomorrow, and that’s it.”

“So what does that mean?” she says.

“Either Thorn gets another set of communication codes,” says Herman, “or else by then whatever he’s up to is gonna be finished. What’s today’s date?”

“October second,” I say.

“So that means the fourth, which is what, Monday?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“And all we know, at least according to Pablo, is that sometime Monday his luggage is supposed to be in Washington. What’s the name of the hotel?” I ask.

“The Washington Court,” says Herman.

“I know it well,” says Joselyn. “It’s right downtown, walking distance to the Capitol.”

“So what do we do?” I slowly flip each page of the little book as we talk. After the code, the book is blank, not a mark on it.

“Be a waste of time to call the cops again,” says Herman. “We tell them that Thorn’s still alive, they’re just gonna say so what. That means he wasn’t on the plane. As far as they’re concerned, maybe he wasn’t even involved in it.”

“I agree,” says Joselyn. “Listen, if Thorn’s headed to Washington, why don’t you let me make a phone call. I have a contact who I believe should be able to get some action.”

“Who’s that?” says Herman.

“I can’t tell you. You’ll have to trust me. But I know he can reach all the way to the highest levels of the Justice Department.”

“You got that kind of juice, do it,” says Herman. “You have any problem with that?” Herman looks at me.

“One question. Will we be able to get information back from your contact?” I ask her.

“What do you mean?” she says.

“I mean, if they pick up Thorn in D.C. and he lawyers up, we may lose any hope of identifying or locating Liquida. Will you be able to get information from your man regarding Liquida?”

“That’s a good point. Let me find out,” she says.

“Go ahead and call him,” I tell her.

Joselyn takes her phone and heads into the bathroom. She closes the door to make her call.

“Secretive,” says Herman.

“I suspect that’s her big source on weapons systems,” I tell him. “That’s how she got all the details after the attack in Coronado. Leaks from friends in high places.”

I reach the last page of the little book, not a single mark, only the communications code on the first three pages. I’m about to flip it onto the table when I notice that the last page has been ripped out. The front and back cover of the moleskin pocket book is stiffened with cardboard.

“Herman, do me a favor. In my briefcase you’ll find a pencil in the pocket up top. Get it for me, will you?”

Herman gets the pencil as I examine the inside of the back cover, holding it up at an angle to the light.

“Whatya find?” Herman hands me the pencil.

“I don’t know. Have you got that knife?”

Herman fishes it out of his pocket. “I want it back,” he says.

“I found it,” I tell him.

“I’ll arm-wrestle you for it.”

“I value my elbow joint too much. You can keep it.” I open the knife and shave the pencil point on one side to expose more of the lead. Then I take the flat edge of the pencil and rub it gently back and forth over the impression carved in the white paper covering the inside of the back cover of the little book. Slowly the writing from the missing page emerges in the form of white letters from the growing panel of slate gray graphite. It is in the same neat hand as the coded numbers: “Waters of Death, Second Road, Pattaya, Thailand.” A group of numbers follow, nine digits in all, separated in sets of three with a space between each set, and the name “J. Snyder, 214 S. Pitt St., Alexandria, VA.”