Trader of Secrets: A Paul Madriani Novel Read online

  Trader of Secrets: A Paul Madriani Novel

  Martini, Steve

  HarperCollins (2011)

  Tags: Fiction, Thrillers, Legal, Assassins, Nuclear Weapons, Madriani; Paul (Fictitious Character)

  Fictionttt Thrillersttt Legalttt Assassinsttt Nuclear Weaponsttt Madriani; Paul (Fictitious Character)ttt

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  Product Description

  Defense attorney Paul Madriani is embroiled in a case as perilous as any he has ever faced: one that involves an angry killer who will stop at nothing short of vengeance, and two missing NASA scientists who are holding secrets that a hostile government desperately wants to purchase—in blood if they must.

  Madriani's daughter, Sarah, has evaded the man known as Liquida, who has stalked her all the way across the country. For her own safety, she is being kept under armed guard on a farm in Ohio.

  But one morning, itching for a predawn run to shake off the tension that has grown in the hours she's spent waiting for word from her father, Sarah slips from her ring of protection. What she doesn't know is that at the same moment her assailant is outside, waiting patiently in the dark.

  Meanwhile in California, two men in a parked car argue over millions in cash that could be slipping through their fingers and a scheme involving government technology for sale that could rock the world.

  Paul Madriani, his companion Joselyn Cole, and his longtime law partner, Harry Hinds, track Liquida, not knowing that their quest will carry them deep into the vortex of international terror.It is a journey that will lead them toward a bizarre and cruel twist of nature—and the ultimate weapon of mass destruction. From the nation's capital to California, from Bangkok to Paris and the jungles of Mexico, Madriani and his party race against time to find Liquida and the scientist who is the "trader of secrets" before he can unleash the weapon that could set the world ablaze.

  About the Author

  Steve Martini is the author of numerous New York Times bestsellers, including The Rule of Nine, Guardian of Lies, Shadow of Power, and others featuring defense attorney Paul Madriani. Martini has practiced law in California in both state and federal courts, and has served as an administrative law judge and supervising hearing officer. He lives in the Pacific Northwest.

  Trader of Secrets

  A Paul Madriani Novel

  STEVE MARTINI

  Dedication

  To my daughter, Meg

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Steve Martini

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter

  One

  Most of the blood left on the concrete floor of the garage in Washington belonged to the big black investigator working for Madriani, the man named Herman Diggs, but not all of it.

  Liquida could feel the tight constraint of the large gauze bandage covering the searing wound under his right arm. Every bump in the highway brought pain as the motion tugged on the metal staples holding the wound closed. It made his eyes water. Still, the pain kept him awake and on course.

  What kept Liquida going was his hatred for Madriani and an unquenchable thirst for retribution. The firm of Madriani and Hinds had caused him to lose a small fortune, enough money for Liquida to retire. That was before the lawyers’ investigator carved up Liquida’s back with a knife, but not before Liquida had dealt the man a deathblow. As the bastard lay dying on the concrete floor, Liquida twisted the knife by telling him that he knew where the girl was and that she was next. Now he intended to make good on the promise.

  His right arm hung limp in a sling as he steered with his left hand. Liquida struggled to keep his eyes on the road, periodically holding the wheel with his knees as he sipped fluids, alternating between coffee and orange juice. He refused to consume the pain pills given to him by the physician for fear they might dull his senses; not until the girl was dead.

  The doctor had told him to change the bandages daily and to remain quiet for at least a week to allow the stapled sutures to heal. The all-night clinic was a seedy place in a dingy area just outside D.C., one of those surgi-centers where, for enough cash, usually they would remove a bullet or stitch up an open wound, no questions asked. Liquida was in and out in less than an hour.

  He had no intention of remaining quiet for ten days. Madriani’s daughter would not wait that long on the farm in Ohio. Once she was told what had happened in Washington, she would bolt for another location to hide out, or join her father. Either way it would be much more difficult to find her again. Liquida knew he had to act and act quickly. Before he murdered Madriani, he wanted the lawyer to know that his daughter had died under Liquida’s knife.

  He made the four hundred miles from D.C. to Groveport, Ohio, in a little under eight hours. Liquida napped just briefly in a small motel a short distance from the farm where the girl was staying. He knew that with every minute that passed he ran the risk that Sarah Madriani and her father’s law partner, the one they called Harry Hinds, might pack their bags and make a run for it. But Liquida had no choice. He was in no condition to plan and carry out a killing against a well-guarded location without at least a few hours’ rest.

  He changed the bandage on his wound. It was a painful exercise, twisting around and using his one good arm, trying not to pull the sutures or tear the skin around the wound as he wrestled with the tape. He set an al
arm for two hours and collapsed onto the bed to sleep.

  Chapter

  Two

  Joselyn Cole and I spent most of the night locked up with the FBI and the Metropolitan Police, each of us in separate rooms being interrogated about the events leading up to the bombing near the Capitol.

  Joselyn and I have been an item now for the greater part of six months. She is, you might say, my better half, especially if intellect, moral values, and judgment count for much. During a time when I have found myself increasingly tossed about by waves of chaos, Joselyn has become my outrigger, that extension of life, the flotation of love that keeps me upright.

  In terms of philosophy, she is my opposite number, the positive to my own negative political electrical charge. She is a dreamy-eyed liberal whose self-appointed mission is to get the nuclear genie back in the bottle with the cork on tight. Joselyn is the chief instigator and lobbyist for an organization known as Gideon Quest. We met six months ago in the turmoil following an attack on the naval base in Coronado. She arrived at my front door looking for information. The rest, as they say, is history.

  Thorpe and the FBI grilled us into the wee hours, recording our statements and getting all the details, everything we knew about the device that landed in the rail yard just outside Union Station in Washington, D.C., how we got involved, and what we knew.

  The twisted tracks and thirty-foot hole in the ground have screwed up the local rail system big-time, though this was not the intended target.

  A little after two in the morning they turned us loose, at least long enough to get a few hours’ sleep. By six A.M. we were back catching catnaps from chairs near Herman’s bed in the intensive care unit at George Washington University Hospital. The prognosis is not good. But if Herman regains consciousness at all, I don’t want him to wake up in a strange room with no one there.

  Herman’s sister is due in from Detroit this afternoon to join the bedside watch.

  In the meantime, Joselyn and I are being chaperoned by the FBI. If we are not in custody, it’s as close as you get. After I had a brief phone conversation with my daughter last night, the FBI lifted our cell phones. They don’t want us talking to anybody about the events until they know more. We are now incommunicado, their favorite couple it seems, at least until they finish pumping us dry of any useful information.

  Agents check into the ICU every so often to see if Herman is awake and able to talk. No doubt they want to check his story against ours, trusting people that they are. Still, considering all the media parked outside, satellite trucks around the block and 24/7 cable coverage of the big bang in the rail yard, coming and going through the hospital basement in a darkened FBI van is not the worst way to travel.

  Joselyn is slouched in the other chair with her eyes closed. Her little snoring sounds punctuate the noise of the ventilator forcing oxygen into Herman’s lungs. I decide to take a walk.

  Outside the room I nearly run into a nurse carrying a fresh IV bag and a bottle of clear liquid.

  “What are you doing here?” She glances at her watch.

  “I’m a friend of the family.”

  “Only family are allowed in ICU.”

  “He’s all right.” The voice comes from behind me, a uniformed cop planted on the bench a few feet away. “He’s allowed. Check the list. The doctor put their names on it, both him and the woman inside the room.” The cop doesn’t look up at her. Chewing gum, he’s studying a tattered copy of Field & Stream.

  The nurse doesn’t like interference with her authority, which upsets the hospital pecking order. But she suffers it and slips by me into the room.

  “How’s he doin’?” The cop is still looking at the magazine.

  “Same.”

  I see Zeb Thorpe down at the end of the hall talking to one of the agents. What he is doing here at this hour, I’m not sure. Thorpe never seems to sleep. It’s the price you pay for being head of the FBI’s National Security Branch.

  Thorpe has become our chief jailer. The man is a brick, an ex-Marine with a flattop straight out of the ’50s. He looks the part of the original Jughead, but he has moments of inspiration. He is dogged once he gets on the scent, though at times he can be slow to pick it up.

  Thorpe has posted security all over the hospital and limited press access to the lobby downstairs.

  Last night during the interrogation, one of his people let slip with a comment that caused me to think that the rail yard bombing may not be the only iron Liquida has in the fire. There is no telling what other mischief the Mexican may be involved in.

  Thorpe is hoping to talk to Herman to find out if he got a good look at Liquida. So far the authorities have a pseudonym, “Muerte Liquida,” with no face. They are streaming the videos from every security camera near the garage where Herman was knifed, hoping to find pictures of the mystery man. So far, from what I am told, they have had no luck.

  The killer who cut his teeth working for the Tijuana drug cartel, Liquida, aka “the Mexicutioner,” is a ghost with no record on file, either here or in Mexico. He has now branched out and gone global. By all accounts he has slipped the bonds of narco-terrorism to move on to the wider world of clients with larger weapons and deeper pockets. In doing so he has grabbed the attention of Homeland Security and the FBI.

  Thorpe eyes me over the shoulder of the other agent, finishes the conversation, and heads my way.

  He sidles up close, looks me in the eye. “How’s he doing?”

  I shake my head. “No change.”

  “You know, if you’re tired, you and the lady can go back whenever you want. I’ll have one of my guys drive you.”

  “Back to the government pad?”

  “Where else?”

  “That’s OK, you don’t have to wait for us. We can find our way,” I tell him.

  He gives me a tight-lipped smile, all dead in the eyes, and switches the subject. “The doctor’s changing out the medication in his IV, lightening up on the sedatives.”

  “Do me a favor. Leave him alone,” I tell him. “If he’s gotta die, let him do it in peace.”

  “What?” He holds his hands out palms up, looking at me as if to say, What did I do? “Doctor’s just changing out the meds, that’s all.”

  “Right.”

  “If he does comes around, you will let us know?” he says.

  “What good will it do? Herman can’t talk with the tube down his throat.”

  “Yeah, but he can point. We got a man with a laptop and Identi-Kit software waiting in the hall outside. If Diggs saw Liquida, we’d like to get a shot at a sketch if we can.”

  “Why not? You can just put your man with his computer and the software in Herman’s coffin and see what develops.”

  “I don’t like this any more than you do,” he says. “But I’ve got a job to do. It may not be pleasant, but it has to be done.”

  “I take it your people ran up a dark hole after Liquida left the garage? No leads?”

  “We’re still looking.”

  “That means he’s had, what . . . ?” I look at my watch. “Eleven hours’ head start to lose himself.”

  “We’ll get him,” says Thorpe.

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. He’s probably gone to ground until he can recover. We’ll get him.”

  “Always the optimist.”

  “According to forensics, your investigator must have done a pretty good job on him. He left a small river of blood getting out of the garage.”

  “Not enough to satisfy me,” I tell him.

  “They tracked the trail through a back entrance and half a block before it disappeared. Either somebody picked him up out on the street or he had a car stashed. We’re checking all the hospitals and clinics.”

  “Call me when you catch him. I have a daughter and law partner who would like to go home, and a life I would like to resume.”

  “Tell that to your investigator,” says Thorpe.

  Touché!

  “You’re sure there’s n
othing else you can remember?” he asks.

  “We told you everything we know. I’ve gotta get back inside.” I turn to walk.

  “Thanks for your help. I mean it. You will call the minute he wakes up?”

  “Yeah. Maybe. We’ll see how he’s doing.” I leave him standing there as I disappear back into the room with Herman.

  The nurse has already changed out the IV. She leaves and I settle into my chair.

  “What’s going on?” Joselyn is half asleep, roused by my entry into the room.

  “Thorpe appreciates everything we’ve done for him.”

  “That’s grand. Tell him I can die a happy woman,” she says.

  “Go back to sleep.” I settle back into the chair and close my eyes.

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  How long I slept I am not sure, but it must have been deep REM because a rasping noise invades my subconscious for some time before it becomes clear that it is the sound of someone choking.

  I open my eyes and Joselyn is gone. Her chair is empty.

  I turn and see Herman’s eyes wide open, his hands clawing at the tape around the tube at his mouth and nose.

  I am out of the chair in a flash, grabbing his wrists to keep him from yanking on the tube.

  “Herman! Herman, relax. It’s me. It’s Paul. You’re all right. They’ve got you on a ventilator. Leave it alone.”

  His arms pull against me, struggling to reach the tube in his mouth. The trauma of the last day is etched across his broad face like a death mask. His eyes are staring at me in stark terror. Herman is in a state of panic, fighting the device that now controls his breathing.

  He tries to move his mouth as if he wants to say something.

  “Don’t try to talk. They got a tube down your throat. There was some lung damage. You’re gonna be OK,” I lie to him. “Doctor says you’re gonna be fine. Just rest.” I want to reach for the call button to get the nurse but can’t let go of Herman’s hands without running the risk that he’ll pull the tube.