Trader of secrets

Chapter Twenty-One

Liquida saw the girl coming out of the building as he sat on the bike with the engine purring. She had the white canvas bag, carrying it with the straps over her shoulder. He could tell there was something in it from the way it drooped.

She walked a short distance up the sidewalk on the other side and then slowly began to cross over. Liquida watched her as she carefully threaded her way through traffic.

He looked to see if anyone was following her. It was possible they could be watching her from a distance. If they were, all hell was going to break loose in about twenty seconds.

She reached his side of the street and headed down the sidewalk in front of Liquida’s hotel. Just as she stepped off the curb across from the beer bar, the kid on the taxi bike pulled out of the side street directly in front of her.

They talked for a second as Liquida watched. Then the kid handed her the five-hundred-baht note. She took it, and a second later handed the bag to the boy on the bike.

The kid took off like a shot, turned north onto Second, and screamed along the shoulder of the road, streaking past the stalled traffic like lightning.

It happened so quickly that Liquida barely had time to react. He slapped the face mask down on his helmet, twisted the throttle, and took off after him. He tried to gun it and glanced down at his speedometer just as the flailing form darted out from in front of the stopped bus. He jerked the bike to the left. The guy did a toreador move to the right, hips and ass in reverse. Liquida screeched by him, shaving the front of the guy with the right side of the bike and the hot muffler.

He didn’t bother to look back. Instead, Liquida twisted the throttle all the way over. The bike shrieked along the side of the road, leaving all of the commotion behind. Liquida raced along, trying to catch a glimpse of the kid, but the taxi bike was gone.

By the time Harry sees me coming out of the office door, the woman with the bag is halfway down the stairs.

He steps out of the men’s room. “Let’s get out of here.”

I put a finger to my lips.

“What’s up?” he whispers.

I motion for him to join me at the stairwell. We wait until I hear the wooden door downstairs open and then close again.

“Come on!” We head for the stairs.

“What the hell’s goin’ on?”

“The gal with the bag…”

“Yeah.”

“She may be delivering to Liquida,” I tell him.

We hustle down the stairs into the hallway on the ground floor. We stop just inside the door that leads out to the street. I open it six inches or so, just enough to see out.

“There she is.”

She is off to the right, walking up the sidewalk away from us. The loud flower print of her dress and the oversize bag over her shoulder make her easy to track even with the glut of pedestrians at rush hour.

“Let’s go.” Harry tries to push by me.

“No, no. I can see her fine from here. Give her a second. See where she goes. She’s starting to cross the street.”

“What, you’re gonna let her get away?” says Harry.

“No, but if Liquida is out there somewhere watching her, he’s gonna bolt the minute he sees us. We may not get another chance.”

I watch her as she crosses over. I am getting a little nervous. If she jumps into the back of one of the little blue trucks, the ones they use as buses, and heads down a side street, we could lose her.

“What’s she doing now?” says Harry.

“She’s over on the other sidewalk. Let’s go… No, hold on! She stopped. She’s talking to somebody.”

“You think it’s Liquida?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so… Oh shit!” I am out the door before Harry can move, running for the street. I hurdle a vendor out on the sidewalk and weave between the cars stopped on the road. I cross three lanes when I run smack into the side of a large white tourist bus that pulls up. His air brake hisses as he stops. I hear the high whine of the motorcycle engine over the heavy rumbling diesel as I race toward the front of the bus.

Out under the bus’s massive windshield, I look to the right searching for the woman and the man on the motorbike, praying that she is still there and has the bag.

As I run out from in front of the bus I get only a flashing glimpse of the oncoming rocket through the periphery of my left eye. Throwing my body back, I feel the end of the handlebar as it carves a path across my lower stomach, followed by scorching heat on my left shin. I land on my ass in front of the wheel of the bus, stunned and praying that the driver sees me and doesn’t lurch forward.

Up on the third floor, Charlie One wasn’t even looking through the spotting scope. He had his hands full fielding orders from the U.S. Embassy in Bangkok. They instructed him to notify the Pattaya police as to their location and to wait there until the police arrived. The embassy was busy making apologies to a higher authority.

“What should we do about the three U.S. citizens?” He listened over the cell phone as they gave him instructions. Then he ended the call.

“What do they want us to do?” said his partner.

“Punt.”

Up ahead, two parked baht buses had the shoulder blocked. Liquida found an opening, moved to the right, and started streaming through the groove between the stalled vehicles. He rode the line, easing off whenever he approached a blind spot. He stopped at a red light and glanced skyward to see if there was anything moving overhead. It looked clear.

He was certain that nobody could have followed the kid on the ground. It would have been impossible on anything but a bike. And if motorcycle cops had gone after him, Liquida would have seen them.

The light turned green. Within seconds the twenty or so bikers at the head of the line took off down Second Road headed for the Dolphin Circle and the roundabout a mile away.

Liquida hung back and allowed some of the traffic to pass him. A minute and a half later he approached Big C, a large shopping center off to the right. He drove in front of it and stopped at the curb directly across from the intersection of Soi 2. He sat there for a few seconds looking down the narrow side street as traffic moved past him.

About a quarter of the way down there was an empty parking lot on the left side of Soi 2. It was in front of a nightclub that Liquida knew did not open until at least nine at night. Sitting in the parking lot on his bike wearing his grimy green vest was the taxi kid. Liquida could see the white beach bag hanging from the handlebars of the kid’s bike like a trophy.

He looked to make sure there were no other vehicles in the lot. There was nothing moving on Soi 2. Liquida waited for a break in traffic on Second Road, then swung across the lanes and onto the narrow side street. He went straight to the parking lot next to the taxi bike, peeled off a thousand-baht note, gave it to the kid, and took the bag.

The kid pocketed the money and took off, heading down Soi 2 for Beach Road and back to the taxi stand.

Liquida didn’t waste any time. He scooted over near a trash can in front of the nightclub and quickly went through the contents of the bag. He opened the envelopes and examined it all. Anything not important he tore up into little pieces and tossed into the trash can.

He ripped open the large insulated brown envelope and found four packets of wrapped five-hundred-euro banknotes, each bound with a brown paper wrapper. He also found a printed note from Bruno Croleva giving him the initial details of the new job, the where and when of Liquida’s next travels. He looked closely at the mark on the bottom of the page. Bruno never signed anything. Instead he used a signet ring like the ancient Roman consuls. He would use an ink pad and punch his seal on the bottom of the page. A signature on incriminating documents was hard to deny. A signet ring could always be melted, and yet to those who knew it, the mark was unique-an arrow with crossed serpents.

Liquida didn’t bother to count the money. Instead he tore off the wrappers, tossed them in the trash, and then flexed the bills carefully in small groups, bending them to see if any of them were unduly stiff. He looked for any notes that might be glued together. The cops now had tiny radio-emitting wafers thinner than a credit card and not much bigger than a postage stamp. These were tracking devices that, if you didn’t find them, could lead authorities right to your front door. When he was finished, he tossed the insulated envelope into the trash, keeping only the money and Bruno’s note.

In less than two minutes, Liquida buzzed out of the parking lot headed for Beach Road. He was feeling relieved and rather pleased with himself. There was no reason to worry after all. The drop box in the office was perfectly safe. He would change it soon, but for now it was good. It was also the only way to contact Bruno, the lockbox in conjunction with TSCC’s messaging system. Liquida would have to notify him that the job was accepted. And he would have to do it soon; otherwise Bruno would hire someone else.

Liquida glanced at his watch, checking the date. Almost a week had passed since Bruno’s original offer. If Bruno didn’t hear from him soon, Liquida would lose the job, and with it any gold-plated passports and new identities.

He stopped the motorbike before he reached the end of Soi 2. He pulled off to the side and grabbed Bruno’s note from the bag. Liquida reached for his cell phone, flipped it open, and dialed a local number using the Thai SIM card he had purchased the day before.

He keyed in Bruno’s extension on the Thai messaging system and, when prompted, left a message: “This is WOD.” Liquida liked the acronym. It even sounded like a Thai name. “Payment retrieved. Job offer accepted. Confirmed. Will arrive Hotel Saint-Jacques Monday A.M. Will require usual documents, at least three sets.” The last was code for passports and identity papers. Bruno’s operation excelled at this.

Liquida pushed the end button on the phone and flipped it closed, another chore done. He fired up the bike and headed back to the hotel to pack.