Trader of Secrets: A Paul Madriani Novel by Steve Martini

audit. Do you?”
    “No.” Raji got religion fast. He didn’t even hesitate.
    “That’s what I thought. So why don’t you give me the guidance programs so we can get this thing done?”
    Fareed reached for the door handle. This time he opened it and stepped out. He leaned back into the car. “Like you and the number for the Swiss account, I don’t have them with me right now.”
    “Where are they?”
    “I’ve got ’em; they’re safe. I’ll get them to you the next time we meet.” Raji closed the door and headed for his car.

Chapter
Nine

    W hen Liquida failed to kill Madriani’s daughter, he knew instantly that he was operating on borrowed time. No doubt, the lawyer had already informed the FBI that Liquida was connected to the D.C. bombing. With the news of the attack at the farm, federal authorities would waste no time throwing up checkpoints in Ohio and the surrounding area. State patrols would be watching for him, a lone driver in a late-model sedan, dark hair, probably Hispanic. The description would become more detailed the longer Liquida waited.
    The girl had gotten more than a good look at him. From the evident shock on her face, Liquida’s image was probably seared into her psyche like a woodcut engraving. The cops would have a solid description of him the minute they could shake her out of her catatonic trance. He now had a reason to kill her other than vengeance: his own survival—but it would have to wait.
    Instead of driving west on the interstate where authorities would most likely be fanning out in their search, Liquida made a snap decision. He turned around out on the main highway and headed like a comet for the outskirts of Columbus less than twenty miles away. He made one stop at a hardware store just two miles from the airport. There he purchased a roll of plumber’s lead tape and headed for the restroom.
    Fifteen minutes later, Liquida abandoned his rental car in a parking space at the airport, bought a ticket at the counter, and checked his luggage, including the rolled-up collection of stilettos from the trunk of the car. He killed a few minutes waiting outside the TSA security area watching people pass through the metal detector, a few of them being wanded as they set off the detector’s alarm.
    He got in line; took off his shoes, watch, and belt; and emptied his pockets into one of the plastic trays. He pushed the tray along with his overnight bag toward the conveyor belt and waited his turn.
    A few seconds later, the tray and the bag disappeared into the metal box housing the scanner. Liquida was directed to pass through the metal detector. He held his breath and walked through. A minute later he had his shoes on, his belt through the loops in his pants, with the bag over his left arm headed for the gate.
    Plumbers use lead tape under hose clamps to tamp down vibration where it’s a problem. Golfers and tennis pros paste the stuff to their rackets and club heads to weigh them down and straighten out their swing. Liquida applied his lead tape to the area under his arm to prevent the surgical staples from tripping the alarm on the TSA metal detector. If they wanded his back and it buzzed, they would pat him down. And when they felt the staples and the puffed-up wound, they would invite him into the little room and tell him to take off his shirt. Even TSA staff could recognize a knife wound once they saw it.
    Liquida caught his flight to Atlanta, where he scanned the departure boards inside the security area for the quickest exit out of the country, somewhere safe. He was burning money like kerosene. Soon he would have to start using stolen credit cards, something Liquida never liked to do. It only heightened the risk of detection.
    He used his last set of foreign travel documents, a Spanish passport that was tucked away in the lining of his overnight bag. He purchased a ticket and boarded a Delta flight for the United Arab Emirates. It was a long trip, the longest of his life, at