"I've got to go to the ladies' room," says Joselyn. "I only have the one checked bag."

"I got it," says Herman.

I walk toward the rental-car counter and Joselyn heads the other way.

Just inside the door to the ladies' room, Joselyn stops, reaches into her purse, and pulls out her cell phone. She turns it on, punches in a name, and highlights it when it comes up on the screen. She hits the green b.u.t.ton and places the call. It rings three times before it is answered by a familiar voice.

"h.e.l.lo, Joselyn here. Is your boss in? I need to talk to him. Tell him it's urgent." She waits on the line, tapping her pointed high heel on the floor nervously as she holds the phone to her ear. She glances under the stalls to make sure no one is within earshot.

"h.e.l.lo. Thanks for taking my call. I don't have much time. I'm in Puerto Rico at the airport...

"I know. I know. I didn't know myself that I was coming down here until late yesterday. Unfortunately, I haven't had a moment alone since then to make the call, not during the day when I could reach you. And I didn't want to commit any of this to an e-mail or a text message..."

She listens for a moment as he agrees that texting or e-mail would be unwise.

"Listen, we've got a problem. Remember the lawyer I told you about and our last conversation about Thorn? You wanted me to keep you informed ...

"Yes, well, the lawyer's been nosing around with the FBI. I'm not sure exactly what he told them or how much they believe, but he's managed to track Thorn to a hotel in a small town called Ponce in Puerto Rico."

She listens to the voice on the other end.

"Yes, that's what I said. There are the two of them, Madriani and his investigator, a man named Herman Diggs. They were armed, but they're not any longer. I don't think Madriani got the FBI to follow through, but I'm not sure. That's why I'm calling you, to give you a heads-up."

She listens for a moment.

"I'm not sure what he knows," says Joselyn. "But he may be about to find out, and it could get pretty hairy. Do you understand?" She listens again.

"Exactly. That's why I called," she says. "I would like you to take care of it. A single phone call from you would do it."

Joselyn listens for a moment. She gets the reply she was hoping for. "Good. Then I'll leave it in your hands. You'll take care of it...?"

"Good. I can't stay on the line. They're gonna start wondering where I am. I'll call you when I know more. Take care." She pushes the red b.u.t.ton, drops the phone in her purse, and heads back out to the luggage-claim area.

There was a reason Thorn had picked the ancient Boeing 727-100C, and strangely, it wasn't because of the price of the plane. The old rear trijet design had everything he needed.

Dating to the early 1960s, the 727-100C included an internal auxiliary power unit for starting its own engines on the ground. This eliminated the need for a heavy external power source on the remote runway in Puerto Rico.

The "C" designation meant it was convertible and could be used for either freight or pa.s.sengers depending on how the interior of the plane was configured. It had a large freight door on the forward left-hand side of the fuselage that could be used or not, depending on whether the air carrier was flying pa.s.sengers, freight, or a combination of the two.

The 727 had been the workhorse for most U.S. domestic short-haul flights during the 1960s and '70s because it required very little ground maintenance. Its wing design incorporated leading-edge flaps that gave the plane greater lift, allowing it to remain stable in flight at low speeds. For all of these reasons it could service smaller cities with shorter runways, resulting in one of the plane's most distinctive features, the built-in drop-down ramp, or airstair, near the tail section of the plane. For Thorn, this was critical.

The drop-down stairs were lowered from under the rear belly and allowed pa.s.sengers to get off the plane without the need of roll-up steps or a connecting jetway. Some airlines came to love it when they discovered that pa.s.sengers could be de-planed from the front while cleaning crews could climb on board from the lowered airstairs at the rear, thereby shortening the turnaround time.

But this love affair came to an abrupt end in 1971 because of one man, a ghost who called himself Dan Cooper. An early aviation hijacker, Cooper waylaid a Northwest flight claiming he had a bomb in his carry-on luggage. He demanded and got $200,000 in twenty-dollar bills along with four parachutes. Cooper used one of the parachutes to make the leap into criminal history by jumping from the steps of the rear drop-down ramp at ten thousand feet with the flaps lowered to reduce speed. He was never seen again.

Some claimed that he died in the jump or soon thereafter, either in the snowy mountains of the northwest or by drowning in one of the many rivers in the area. Others claimed they had seen him since. The FBI was still looking for him. Like Jacob Waltz and the "Lost Dutchman Mine," D. B. Cooper had acquired the status of a myth.

For this reason he was one of Thorn's heroes. Cooper left two enduring monuments to his brief criminal career. The scanning of all carry-on luggage for bombs and weapons, and another that was linked to his name, the so-called Cooper Vane.

This morning Thorn was busy at the airfield in Puerto Rico removing the old Cooper Vane from the tail section of his plane. The vane was a deceptively simple mechanical device. Federal law required its installation on all commercial planes with rear airstairs after Cooper's crime.

The vane consisted of an oval-shaped control surface that stuck out from the underbelly of the plane like an oversize Ping-Pong paddle. This was connected to a rectangular steel plate on a pivoting bolt that was spring-loaded. When the plane was on the ground, the paddle remained perpendicular to the fuselage, its flat edges facing the front and rear of the plane. But in flight, when air speed hit the forward face of the paddle, it would turn parallel to the fuselage, pivoting the steel plate with it. The plate acted like a gate latch, preventing the airstairs from being lowered in flight.

The ability to lower the airstairs in flight was critical to Thorn's plan. Hence the vane had to come off.

While Thorn worked on this, his ace welder was busy working on the rear ramp itself. He used an arc welder to fix two heavy steel rails, one along each side of the ramp, about six inches above each step. These steel rails had been prefabricated and had a slight curve, higher at each end and lower in the middle. Affixed to each of the two rails were heavy steel rollers, four on each side.

Thorn drilled out the post pivot on the Cooper Vane and removed the steel plate. Then he patched over the hole with an aluminum panel, sealing it with a special epoxy to ensure that the patch wouldn't leak when the plane was pressurized. He then turned his attention to the next task, the bomb-Little Boy, still resting in its wooden crate.

Thorn had done considerable research before settling on the plane and the type of ordnance to be used. One of the most insightful pieces of literature, strange as it might seem because it was so dated, was a postwar a.n.a.lysis based on captured cla.s.sified doc.u.ments from the j.a.panese of their attack on Pearl Harbor.

Thorn was particularly impressed with the detailed a.n.a.lysis regarding the destruction of the USS Arizona.

The j.a.panese bomb that did the job was about eight hundred pounds, less than half the weight of Thorn's device. Contrary to popular belief, it wasn't an aerial bomb at all. It was a modified naval artillery sh.e.l.l, armor piercing, with a box-fin stabilizer attached to the tail and a delay fuse added to the nose. The j.a.panese were an entire generation ahead of any other warfaring nation in their conception of how to retread old ordnance with new technology.

When it hit the ship, it sliced through the top weather deck of solid teak. It then pa.s.sed through two armor-plated lower decks, each one four inches thick, before it came to rest in the forward magazine of the battleship. There it exploded, igniting almost a million pounds of gunpowder used to fire sh.e.l.ls from the ship's fourteen-inch guns. The blast melted iron bulkheads and literally lifted the ship out of the water.

For the j.a.panese bombardier who dropped it, it was a lucky shot. Thorn couldn't afford to rely on luck. He would compensate for this with a combination of laser-guidance systems and advanced control surfaces that would dramatically increase the glide ratio of the ordnance he was using. Like the j.a.panese, he would marry old technology to new.

The answer was the Paveway, a series of laser-guided add-ons made by Texas Instruments, Raytheon, and a number of other corporations starting in the 1960s. The various versions included large tail-fin a.s.semblies and nose-cone attachments with laser seekers. These could be attached to any dumb iron gravity bomb, transforming it into a precision-guided system with a glide ratio in some instances exceeding fifteen nautical miles.

The defensive perimeter around the target was twice this range, thirty nautical miles. But the government had already compromised this protective zone by their demonstrated and repeated indecision regarding the rules of engagement. Thorn was well aware of these incidents, one of which had involved a state governor whose pilot drifted into the protection zone through ignorance.

It's what always happened when the airs.p.a.ce over a target was too often inhabited by people of power and influence. It was one thing to shoot down a planeload of three or four hundred taxpayers. It was another to shoot down one of the privileged political cla.s.s flying in their ego-containered government jets. The pattern had been set to hold their fire and try to escort the violator to the nearest airport where their a.s.s could be gently hauled off in a limousine of state to the nearest five-star hotel.

To Thorn, this was invariably the case. The defensive systems and the people operating them seldom failed. But the pampered powerful whose minds were focused on their own wealth, comfort, and continued power could sabotage anything, and almost always did.

THIRTY-FIVE.

Joselyn, Herman, and I checked into the Hotel Melia in downtown Ponce. The Melia is in the historic area, about ten blocks from the cathedral and the Hotel Belgica. Joselyn checked into her room while Herman and I took the car and headed toward the Belgica to see what we could find out.

It took a few minutes to make our way through town, Herman behind the wheel with me navigating. Ponce is a larger and more congested area than it looked like on the map pictured on Joselyn's computer.

When we finally found the street that went in front of the Belgica, traffic was one-way, and by the time we got in front of the hotel we were almost past it before we realized. There were cars parked on both sides of the street, with nowhere for us to stop. Then we got lucky.

A car pulled out of a spot at the curb across the street about a half block down from the entrance to the hotel. Herman blocked traffic, with horns blaring behind us, to let the guy out, then pulled forward, backed in, and turned off the engine.

"You got those photographs of Thorn?" he says.

I reach over to the backseat and find the three photos in my briefcase. "I thought we agreed we weren't going to use these?"

"Sit tight." With that, Herman takes the photographs from my hand and is out of the car. He slams the door, leaving me in the pa.s.senger seat as he strolls down the sidewalk in the shade until he is just opposite the entrance to the hotel. I watch as he slips between traffic, crosses the street, and disappears through the entrance under the awning.

We had already decided that we would use the photographs of Thorn to question the clerk at the front desk only as a last resort. Innkeepers are generally protective of their guests. Any word that someone was asking questions about him and Thorn would vanish like a puff of smoke. And any hopes of finding a trail that might lead to Liquida would vanish with him. Of course, all of this a.s.sumes that Thorn is even here.

While I'm waiting in the car I feel the cell phone on my hip and I'm wishing I could call Sarah. I could, but I don't. I haven't spoken to her in several days, and by agreement we haven't called each other. It's a problem. I have had to delete all contact information on her from my phone in case either I or the phone falls into Liquida's hands. There are simply too many records maintained on cell phones and computers to feel safe. Even without information in your contact lists, a call made or received showing an area code can leave an indelible record that can be traced. I am glad that Harry is with her.

Herman is inside the Belgica for a while. It's starting to warm up in the car.

Just as I reach for the door handle I see Herman step out from the hotel's entrance under the awning. He has some literature in his hand and a smile on his face. He crosses the street, sashaying between the cars, making his way back, and opens the driver's-side door. Then he settles in behind the wheel.

"You look satisfied."

"It's hot in here."

"I know."

He puts in the key and turns on the engine and the air conditioner. Then he closes the door.

"What did you find out?"

"We got lucky," says Herman. "Our man's there."

"Did you see him?"

"No, but Joselyn said Thorn had an Australian accent. The kid behind the registration desk was very helpful. I told him I was lookin' for a man with an Australian accent who was supposed to be stayin' at the hotel. I slipped him a couple of twenties, showed him my PI credentials, and told him I was serving process in a divorce case."

"And?"

"He says, 'You mean Seor Johnston?'" Herman looks at me and smiles. "So much for hotel privacy. I showed him the close-up photo of Thorn and the kid says, 'Yeah, he checked in two days ago.'"

"How do you know he won't tell Thorn?"

"Best reason in the world, economic stimulus," says Herman. "I told him the two twenties I gave him had brothers. If he kept his mouth shut until after I served Johnston, I'd make it an even hundred. I stuffed another twenty in his pocket on the way out just to keep him happy. So you know what that means?"

"Yeah. I owe you sixty bucks," I tell him. "And if you pay him the other forty it's coming out of your own pocket."

"Don't worry. You don't have to pay me right now," he says. "I'll put it on my next billing statement."

"Is Thorn in the hotel now?" I ask.

"No. He leaves his key at the desk when he goes out and picks it up when he comes back. The clerk checked. The key was in one of the slots behind the counter, room 219," says Herman. "Guess who's in 221?" He opens his hand and flashes me the key. "Looks like you and I won't be snorin' in the same room tonight. And by the way, you can tell Joselyn that, for the record, you do snore."

"Did the desk clerk have any idea when Thorn might be back?"

"No, but he said Seor Johnston seems to be on some kind of a schedule and appears to be working very hard."

"How's that?"

"According to the clerk, he leaves every morning between six thirty and seven and doesn't get back until after dark. Kid says he doesn't know where he goes or what he does. Johnston keeps to himself. But he's gone all day. Tell you what, I'll drop you back at the Melia, then I'll have to bring the car over here. I'll need it in case Thorn shows up and leaves again, so I can follow him. My room's right next door to his, so I should hear him when he comes in."

"Do you want me to call Thorpe again, tell him we think we found Thorn?" I ask.

"We got this far, why don't we wait and see what's goin' on? Besides, he didn't seem that enthusiastic the last time."

"He was busy," I tell him.

"He's always busy," says Herman.

"I'd feel a whole lot better if we hadn't had to leave the pistols in my car at the airport in Tucson," I tell him.

"Makes two of us," says Herman. "I'll just have to be extra careful and keep my distance till we find out what Thorn's up to. In the meantime, I need to park the car in the back. You were right. The clerk says there's a lot back there. He gave me a parking pa.s.s. He says it's where Johnston parks his car. He asked me if it was possible to serve him with the process back there in the parking lot, can you beat it? He says his boss wouldn't want anything unpleasant to happen in the hotel."

"What did you tell him?"

"Told him I would. Why not? This way the clerk won't be asking any questions when he sees me follow Thorn out of the hotel. I told him it could take a day or two to find the right moment, so I could lay the papers on him without causing any embarra.s.sment."

"And the kid bought it?"

"Oh, yeah. I got him believing process servers are all jet-setting chichi types. Personally, I always fly in early, check into a sw.a.n.k hotel, taste the wine, and lay around the pool for a few days so's I can practice to see which hand I'm gonna use to lay on the paper." Herman glances at me and laughs. He starts the car and looks over his shoulder to check for traffic. "Young clerk's gonna be mighty disappointed when we have to call 911 and SWAT shows up with Thor's hammer to take Mr. Johnston's door off the hinges, burn holes in the carpets, and smoke the place up with flash bangs. That kinda stuff tends to knock a few diamonds off your rating with three A," he says.

"I'd like to keep it to ourselves until we know what Thorn's up to and hopefully get a lead on Liquida," I tell him.

Herman ignores me. "You need to get some rest. I'll get you back to your hotel. Listen. You go upstairs, knock on her door wearing your jammies and dragging a blanket behind you with a pillow under your arm, and tell her you want to take a nap. Wipe a little sleep from your eyes when she opens the door." He looks at me, and for a moment I think he's serious. Then I realize that he is.

"Trust me, it'll work," he says. "Women love that s.h.i.t. They can't resist it."

"You don't know Joselyn. I think she can resist anything. And if not, she'll just a.n.a.lyze the h.e.l.l out of it until it dies."

"No. Trust me. She won't be able to say no. It's something about the maternal instinct."

"What, and tell her I'm having a nightmare, so I can crawl into her pants? If I tried to manipulate her like that, she'd shrink-wrap my brain, tell me I'm suffering from an a.n.a.l-retentive disorder, and spin me around like a compa.s.s until my d.i.c.k was pointing back to my own room." I shake my head. "Listen, I'm not sure there's anything real happening between us. I mean, sure I'm attracted to her. I'm a red-blooded male. What's not to like? She's beautiful, s.e.xy, cute, smart..."

"Listen to yourself," says Herman. "You're not sure there's anything happening between the two of you, but you're about to have an o.r.g.a.s.m all over Avis's front seat."

"It takes two before you have a relationship. I'm not sure she has any deep interest in me."

"She's got the hots for you."

"Says who?"

"Says who? Says me."

"Did she tell you that?"

"She doesn't have to. I got eyes. I can see and I can hear. And everything I see and hear tells me she's got a lock on you like a radar beam. Why do you think she's trailing along with us?"

"Because of her past dealings with Thorn. She wants to see him get nailed," I tell him.

"Sure, she hates the guy. She's scared to death of him. But that's not the reason she's here. She's worried about you."

"You think so?"