The Rule of Nine (7 page)

Economic markets recovered in less than a year and came raging back to hit peaks never before seen. The damage to the Pentagon was repaired in a few months and the U.S. military set about to crush two of the regimes thought to be most antagonistic to American interests.

As he clicked on the keys, the Old Weatherman thought about his old comrade, Senator Joshua Root. He had voted for the war along with the rest of them. Back in his day, when he was young, Root used a different name. He didn't call himself Josh to pander to voters. No, back then he was spouting a different rhetoric, the words of revolution—power to the people, throwing rocks and Molotov cocktails. That was before he saw the error of his ways and sold out.

The Old Weatherman wondered if Root had ever seen him coming, or if the good senator had been completely blindsided by the first e-mail message. Of course, like himself, Root had a number of private e-mail accounts where he hid out in dark corners, places where government censors, auditors, and investigators could not see his personal musings and sins. The Old Weatherman had found them all. Even if Root closed one, the Old Weatherman could go to another. It was because the Old Weatherman had an inside connection, someone Root could never get rid of.

People like Root never expected to be held accountable for anything. Their sense of privilege and entitlement blinded them. And, of course, Root couldn't go to the police and tell them that he was being blackmailed. The truth would destroy him.

The Old Weatherman stopped the pounding of the keys for a moment and thought about it. It had to be the work of the gods, all of it. It was too perfect.

The attack on the World Trade Center accomplished something that no one realized at the time. What became a series of protracted and unpopular wars distracted many in Washington,
particularly in the White House, from the real danger. A rapidly expanding bubble of false fortunes and speculation in the nation's housing market was threatening to take the country where it hadn't been in more than seventy years, into the grip of another Great Depression.

When the bubble burst on the eve of the national election, it came with such swiftness and public shock that the country was left reeling. Overnight the reactionary forces in the White House and Congress were swept from power in a way that hadn't been seen almost since the Civil War. It was something that no one could have predicted even a month before.

When all the dust had settled, the Old Weatherman sat back and pondered the stunning political landscape that lay before him. For the first time in modern American history, all of the stars were aligned, the set pieces in place. He couldn't believe his eyes. A young, liberal president, some called him radical, was installed in the White House. His party controlled both houses of Congress with majorities that could not be overridden or stalled.

For at least the next two years, until the midterm elections, they had a free hand. It was the perfect storm and the Old Weatherman was about to add the coup de grâce. While Congress and the White House argued over health care and taxes, unemployment and trade, a new subterranean agenda of change would be moving on a parallel course, one that the powers in Washington could never anticipate.

The system was now vulnerable to true endemic change on an order that had not been seen since the founding of the country, change that, if successful, and if done soon, would alter the direction of America for the next hundred years.

T
he house had a dangling For Sale sign planted in the dead grass of the front lawn. A large old elm tree near the sidewalk provided shade, so he pulled up to the curb and parked. Even the words “For Sale” hung vertically from a partially broken chain. It appeared that the place was deserted, nobody there who might get nosy and come out and see what Liquida was doing.

He knew it could take hours. For Liquida it was an act of amusement on its way to becoming a labor of love.

For the man they called “the Mexicutioner,” pursuing a vendetta was a high art form. It was not something to be hurried or rushed.

He knew there was a limit to the level of physical pain a human body could endure. Liquida had often tested this boundary, looking for new horizons. But at some point the brain's natural defenses always seemed to kick in and the object of his attentions would lose consciousness. He was able to revive the barbecued Arab three times while probing all of his nerve endings with an arc welder and tongs before the guy finally latched on to the only sedative that Liquida had never been able to reverse—death.

This might be okay for some of his guests, but not for the lawyer.
For him there was no amount of physical pain sufficient to quench Liquida's thirst for revenge.

In a single stroke Madriani had transformed Liquida's plans for his own future into cinders.

Among his various paid chores several months earlier, the Mexican had used a chef's knife from a Del Mar coin dealer's kitchen to turn him into sliced sushi. As the soon-to-be cadaver lay shivering on the floor, Liquida couldn't help but notice the glitter of heavy metal all around him, coins everywhere.

While he knew he'd been a good boy, the thought that Santa might come flopping down his chimney with a load of gold anytime soon didn't seem likely. So Liquida decided to help himself. He hauled off enough precious metal to set up his own gold reserve and form a country, and then played the wizard doing alchemy as he transformed the rare coins into gold ingots that couldn't be traced.

Until he could wrap it and put on a bow, Liquida stashed his early Christmas present in a safe-deposit box at a bank in San Diego under the name John Waters. With visions of sugarplums, warm sandy beaches, and bikini-clad courtesans dancing in his head, Liquida started browsing pictures of villas in exotic locations in the
Wall Street Journal
and on the Internet. It was about then that everything came crashing down.

Liquida was starting to get nervous. He hadn't checked on the gold in a while. Something told him it was time to move it, and it would take a few trips. They had to roll it in and out of the vault on a heavy steel cart because of the weight. Liquida didn't want to spend time hanging out at the bank while some clerk fished for signature cards and he did an eye tango with the security guard or anybody else who happened by. So he called the bank to tell them he was in a hurry and to ask them if they might have a signature card ready when he arrived. When he gave them the name John Waters and the box number, the clerk did a quick check and told him that, under a court order, the box was sealed.

Liquida wanted to crawl over the phone line to get at her. He asked why, and all they would give him was the lawyer's name—Paul Madriani. If he wanted to get at the box, John Waters would have to file an objection and go to court. And Madriani knew that whoever owned the box couldn't do that. If they showed up in court, they'd be met by a firing squad.

Some way, he didn't know how, Madriani must have traced the name John Waters. Liquida couldn't figure out how else it could have happened. He had picked the name himself from out of the blue. It was a play on words. “Liquida” meant water in Spanish, but he couldn't understand how the lawyer would have either name. So how did he find the box? It would probably be the first question he asked when he got Madriani on the working end of a blowtorch.

The next thing he knew, the cops were at the bank with a drill for the lock and Liquida's dreams of an indolent life on the beach went up in smoke.

The timing couldn't have been worse. With the economy tanked, now every teenager in Tijuana with a rusty razor was undercutting his prices. You could hire a quick death for the cost of a Big Mac. Throw in fries and they'd make it look like an accident.

Each day he watched as the spot price for gold soared like a rocket while his venom toward the lawyer turned more toxic.

Liquida steered away from the drug cartel at the border and instead began nosing around the fringes of the international terror trade. He had heard enough frantic bargaining from the fevered mind of the Arab before he died to know that there was money there. The only things deeper than the primeval grievances that fueled their hatred were the pockets that paid for the revenge. Even at current prices, there was always more oil money.

Liquida ended up taking a job from an Australian who thought he was fooling the stupid Mexican with his lousy American accent. The word was that the man was wired into a major contract being paid for in euros, most likely money from the Middle East.

He took the job, but he figured there was no harm in stirring a
little enjoyment in with his business. Liquida knew he'd left at least three fingerprints on the Dumpster where he'd dropped the burned body. As soon as they figured out who Liquida's grilled guest was, they would connect the roasted remains to the fireworks in Coronado. The FBI would land on the Dumpster as if it were a national treasure. It would take them a while to sort out all the prints, the guys who drove the hoist trucks and the ones who unloaded them, Dumpster divers who fished through the trash for goodies, and drifters who saw the container as a five-star condo and tried to move in. In the end they would come away with a few prints they couldn't identify and could not clear. These would end up in the FBI's big mainframe, a computer somewhere in West Virginia.

Liquida then filched one of Madriani's business cards from the reception counter in his office. He did this during the chaos of the Paparazzi Putsch when he realized that the two lawyers were nowhere to be found. He superimposed a single patent thumbprint on the back of the business card, using a little graphite so they couldn't miss it. Then he waited for the right opportunity. It came when Liquida killed the young tour guide in Washington. He had no idea why the Aussie wanted the kid dead. What's more, he didn't care. He knew the card with his print would set off all the bells and whistles in the FBI database, roping in the lawyer and leaving the feds to wonder what the connection was between the two cases, and whether Madriani had told them everything he knew.

 

It was just a little after seven when the flash of headlights roused Liquida from behind the wheel. He saw the car pull into the driveway. He lifted a pair of field glasses and peered toward the front of the house half a block away, on the other side of the street. He watched as a tall, skinny blonde got out of the car and climbed the steps to the front door.

A few seconds later someone opened the door. In the light he could see another woman just inside, talking to the blonde, who was still standing on the porch. They were laughing. A few seconds later they both went inside and the door closed.

As he waited he wrote down the license-plate number from the blonde's sedan, parked in the driveway.

Several minutes went by. Liquida was looking at his watch as the door to the house opened once more. This time both women came out, the blonde followed by a shorter woman with brown hair who was carrying a light jacket. She was smiling as the two of them came down the steps and headed for the car.

From the corner of his eye, Liquida caught movement up on the porch. He shifted the binoculars, refocused them a little, and there he was. Standing in the doorway waving toward the car in the driveway was the lawyer Madriani.

Liquida had seen his picture splashed all over television enough times that he now had visions of him in his sleep. As he glanced back and forth between the lawyer and the two women, he realized that the brown-haired girl belonged to Madriani, probably his daughter.

Liquida watched as the car with the two girls backed out of the driveway onto the street. Its headlights shone down on him as the car approached. Liquida leaned over on the front seat until they passed, then looked up just in time to see the front door at the house close behind Madriani.

There were many forms of pain; physical was only one of them, and perhaps not the best. Liquida started the car, and pulled away from the curb in a slow U-turn. He focused his gaze on the taillights of the Camry, already a block away as they turned left and headed off toward the bridge.

 

I grab the wireless house phone from the cradle in the kitchen and punch in the number. It rings three times before he answers.

“Hello!”

“Herman, Paul here.”

“Whassup?”

“I need some help. I'm sorry to call this late, but Sarah's out on the town.”

“Why didn't you stop her?” he says.

“I tried. She wouldn't listen. There's probably no reason to worry. But I'd feel much better if somebody was close at hand.”

“Understood,” says Herman.

“There's no need to race down there, but you're closer than I am. She's out with a girlfriend, a tall blonde named Jenny. They're going to have dinner at a restaurant in Old Town, Café Coyote.”

“I know the place.”

“They just left, so it'll take 'em a while to get there. No need to bust your hump. After that they're headed to a club in the Gaslamp Quarter, but I'll take care of that.”

“You sure?” says Herman.

“Yeah, I got it. If you can cover the dinner, just stay with them until they're in the car. Then you can go home and get some sleep.”

“Okay,” he says. “Call me if you need some help.”

“And, Herman, if you can, try not to crowd them.”

“I never do,” he says.

“If Sarah finds out, she'll be on the warpath for a month.”

“Gotcha,” he says, and hangs up.

Sarah doesn't know it but Herman has been her guardian angel on and off for the past five weeks, ever since the FBI pulled out and we came home. He follows her to and from work and keeps an eye on her from a distance whenever she has something going on outside work. Tonight she caught me by surprise. I had no idea she was going out.

I head upstairs, grabbing my briefcase and oxfords as I go. Moving at a quick clip I drop everything on the bed in my room and start to change. In less than a minute my suit jacket, pants, shirt, and tie have joined my oxfords in a heap up near the pillows. I throw on some jeans and a thin navy blue sweatshirt with a hood in case I need it to mask myself from my daughter. I slip on a pair of running shoes, check my watch, and walk to the nightstand.

Inside the top drawer is a two-tone stainless and blued .45 automatic. It's a Springfield Arms ultracompact, with a three-and-a-half-inch barrel. And contrary to what Sarah might think, it's not new. Though she's never seen it before now, I've had it for years, ever since she was a little girl. And on one or two occasions I've felt the need to keep it close, but always in the office.

Herman is an investigator. He's had a license to carry for years, though he doesn't often use it. Harry and I are new to this. Though I've done my share of target shooting over the years and at one time did some loading with a friend who had the equipment, I've never had a desire for a permit to carry a concealed weapon. Now, in light of what's happened, and the warning from Thorpe, the county sheriff has issued permits to both of us.

In the last two years, three lawyers in this county have been shot. So far the scorecard is one wounded and two dead. Deterrence is a problem since the sentencing guidelines for shooting a lawyer in this state call for ten minutes of probation to reload while they frame the certificate of merit to be awarded to the shooter by the local prosecutor.

I don't do divorces, the most dangerous area of law, because I don't like surprises. Why should I allow some angry husband to pop into my office without warning or even the courtesy of an appointment, and shoot me while I'm behind my desk? If the maggot wants to defend his honor, then give me a pistol and tell him to turn and take five steps so I can shoot the crazed bastard before he gets there.

In criminal law you usually know what you're dealing with. It's
normally your own client who will jump you, and he's often confined, for good reason. If he's not, you probably want to keep your eye on him. You have to figure he wasn't arrested for good housekeeping.

Of course, you can always draw the odd client, the mental three-headed hydra who opens as Mr. Rogers and shows up a week later playing Darth Vader without the mask, and his friends who insist on testifying the minute Satan releases them from the ninth circle of hell and they can get to your office to prepare their perjury. It happens.

So it's easy to see how a spirited disagreement can quickly escalate beyond the normal civility of single-fingered hand gestures and four-letter name-calling. The one time I had to pull the gun, I was happy to have it. When somebody leans across my desk with a needle-sharp shank angry over the result in his case and questions the need for my continued existence, it's comforting to be able to mediate by citing the case of Mr. Springfield pointed at his groin from the kneehole of my desk.

I punch the button on the side of the pistol and check the clip—seven rounds, eight if I want to load a live one in the chamber. The .45 ACP jacketed hollow point is a short, stubby little bullet with enough wallop to make an elephant's eyes water. It's designed to spread on impact. So if you have to shoot, you want to hit your target in the mass of the upper body where all the energy will be absorbed. You never want to shoot an idiot in the head where the bullet will pass through the vacuum and kill somebody behind him.