Ernesto had mixed feelings about his existence in Panama. He lived in a small row house in an outlying barrio. It wasn’t bad – had running water – and four years ago they’d finally installed electricity. To an outsider it would have been a frightening area; run down, poor and dangerous, but to Ernesto it was simply where many people like him lived. Sure, it had its fair share of crime – mainly burglaries at night, and assaults on weekends when disagreements broke out after a long day’s drinking – but he knew all his neighbors, and they watched each other’s’ backs.
He wished he’d met and married someone special and started a family but with his schedule and limited means there hadn’t been a lot of prospects. Even in Panama, a chubby, thirty-seven year old cook who spent his free evenings and discretionary income at the bordellos in town wasn’t at the top of the food chain for desirable mating material. Besides, the barrio women were usually dark and coarse and illiterate. Ernesto considered himself superior to them.
Originating from Colombia, with light brown skin and green eyes, Ernesto not only knew how to read and write but also had a vocational skill that earned him more than most in his circle. Getting trapped in a marriage with a flat-footed mestizo girl who’d swell to two hundred pounds within a few years of their nuptials wasn’t for him. He preferred the company of the professional ladies of the city, and if he had to pay, well, that’s why he worked and made money. It wasn’t like he had an extravagant lifestyle; no car, a few hundred dollars a month rent between him and his roommate, thirty dollars for utilities, and the rest for entertainment, with a small portion set aside for savings with the local loan shark
Nobody used banks in his neighborhood – they asked too many questions, were suspicious of cash and paid laughably low interest. In virtually every barrio in Central America the neighborhood convenience store ran a profitable side business lending money; and they tended to be trustworthy custodians for savings. He methodically gave the local market owner $200 each month, as he had for three years, and earned fifteen percent annual interest. Sure, the owner lent the money out at sixty percent, but Ernesto was satisfied with a quarter of that as his cut because the owner took all the risk. And Ernesto was building a nest egg. Perhaps one day he could return to Bogota and meet a nice girl – someone with an education who worked in a shop or an office – his savings could easily provide the beginning of a life together. But for now, a little paid romance twice a week did the trick.
Such were Ernesto’s thoughts as he strolled towards the familiar high-walled compound. He punched the red intercom button by the ornate iron gate and the overhead camera mounted at the top of the support beam swiveled towards him. Just as it did every day. The lock buzzed and he entered the grounds. It was a large piece of land, no doubt had belonged to a wealthy colonial landowner back in the day. There were a number of buildings scattered around the two story main house – several garages, servants’ quarters, a kennel and stables, and a large corrugated steel storage shed he knew was used as an office. He believed the place was owned by a powerful Gringo because there was always an armed retinue of at least four Gringo guards patrolling the interior, day and night, often accompanied by several large German Shepherds.
Armed compounds weren’t particularly unusual in Central America, given the often bloody manner in which the narco-trafficantes settled their disputes, along with the ever-present danger of kidnapping for the wealthy and their families. Ernesto had grown so accustomed to the presence of the gunmen he barely registered them beyond giving them a salute or a wave, which they always reciprocated. The entire time he’d worked there he’d never heard of any altercation or problems, so the sentries and high walls topped with razor wire had obviously served their purpose. This was one the of the last places on the planet anyone would want to rob. There were far easier targets.
He’d never met the owner he’d been cooking for – not once in his eight years at the villa. Clearly the man or woman had reclusive tendencies. Fine by him. His weekly salary was always paid in American dollars, and never late, so as far as he was concerned things couldn’t have been better. He simply had to follow the written menu that invariably awaited his morning arrival but was largely left to his own devices beyond that. The shopping was done by parties unknown and the pantry and large double-width refrigerator were always brimming with fresh supplies. It was like working in a small hotel – he kept to himself, stayed out of the way, did his job, and everyone left him alone. His contact person was a bi-lingual Gringo named Stanley, who checked in with him several times a week in addition to handing him his pay envelope.
This morning was Friday. Payday. Ernesto knew that at 10 a.m. on the dot, Stanley would enter the expansive kitchen, chat for a few minutes and then give him his wages – always in twenties. The routine never changed.
But today the activity around the villa was unusual. Four new vehicles sat by the garages – big SUVs, late model, with their rear deck lids open. The sentries no longer carried their weapons and were ferrying crates and boxes from the house. There were at least fifteen unfamiliar people helping move the items, some of which were large trunks.
Ernesto was troubled. This was a first.
He entered the kitchen and placed his backpack onto the counter by the TV as he did every day before approaching the large island to see what the day’s menu consisted of. But today there was no menu. Instead, there was a handwritten note in Spanish, signed by Stanley, along with a brown envelope. He picked up the note and read the terse missive.
“Ernesto, your services won’t be required any longer. Sorry for the lack of notice but I just found out last evening. We’re moving on Friday. The envelope has two week’s pay in it. Good luck finding another position. You’re a good cook.”
Ernesto opened the flap and peered inside at the paltry wad of twenties. Unbelievable. He was now unemployed, even though he’d never missed a day’s work – except when his mother had died – and all he got by way of thanks was one lousy extra week’s pay? Ernesto sat heavily beside the island and read the note again. Stanley hadn’t even bothered to show and personally deliver the news – Ernesto just got a short letter. Why not just text message him on the bus on the way in? What a thoughtless way to reward almost a decade of loyal service. Gringos were all the same. You couldn’t trust them; they viewed anyone foreign as beneath contempt – just cheap little robots for their own convenience, unworthy of the most cursory consideration.
He deserved better than this. Whether Stanley wanted to talk or not, Ernesto intended to have a conversation with him. This wasn’t over – not like this. For the first time after his eight years in the compound he shouldered his backpack and moved through the connecting double doors into the hall that led to the main house. It was buzzing with activity; men hastily carting boxes from the house to the vehicles. Ernesto was invisible to them; just another of the locals hired to move their belongings and clean up after them. He realized he had no idea where to find Stanley – even if he was still in the villa. His indignation rapidly fading, he stopped outside one of the open doorways halfway to the main wing. Glancing inside, he saw several monitors, some audio-visual gear and a case filled with about a dozen late model video cameras.
Ernesto looked up and down the hall. It was temporarily deserted. Overcome by an impulse he didn’t completely understand, he leaned into the room and grabbed the nearest camera, hurriedly stuffing it into his bag before closing the lid on the camera container. He scanned the hall again. Nobody had seen anything.
He stood for a moment in the hall, internally debating his next move, when a man in one of the house ‘uniform’ windbreakers rounded the corner. The Gringo stopped when he saw Ernesto and spoke to him in rapid, clipped Spanish without any hint of an accent.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.
Ernesto’s righteous indignation buckled, replaced by fear of being caught. “Er, nothing, sir...I was actually looking for Mister Stanley...”
“Stanley?
He’s gone. Who are you?”
“Ernesto. The cook. I really need to speak with Mister Stanley...”
“He’s gone, and he’s not coming back…just like you.” He narrowed his eyes. “You shouldn’t be here. You need to leave the area right now.”
“But I–”
“I’m not going to repeat myself. Get out of here – now – or I’ll have you removed by the guards.”
Ernesto weighed his anger at his abrupt termination against the likelihood of being prosecuted for stealing an expensive piece of electronics.
Discretion won the day.
“All right,” Ernesto protested. “But you tell Mister Stanley the way he treated me isn’t right. It isn’t right.”
The man regarded him with a stony stare and pointed to the kitchen door.
Ernesto got the message. He turned and slunk back down the passageway, through the kitchen and out of the compound.
Eight years, and the fuckers boot him out just like that.
Chinga tu Madres, Putas.
Chapter 3
Sam Wakefield sighed contentedly as the climate control in his Range Rover dropped the interior temperature to a comfortable 69 degrees. Late Spring was hellish around the equator. It was all he could do to make it from his waterfront Panama City high rise condominium into his car without sweating through his hand-tailored dress shirt. True, his condo and elevator were also air conditioned but the underground garage wasn’t. He dreaded the fifty yard walk from the elevator to his vehicle. It was bad enough being stationed in the tropics without having to suffer the heat and bugs like a local ditch digger.
When he saw Sam’s daytime headlights approach, the uniformed security guard raised the access gate so Sam didn’t have to slow before pulling onto the side street that ran alongside of his building. This was a daily ritual, as Sam was a creature of habit. Every morning at 9:45 he left home, making the drive to the embassy in exactly six minutes.
Sam hummed along with his stereo – he’d just had the latest satellite system installed to keep up on the latest tunes and news from the States. Panama wasn’t bad, overall, but he despised what passed for the culture; you’d have had to hold a gun to his head to get him to listen to the salsa that permeated virtually every location in the country. Let the natives dance around the fire to whatever jungle stomp floated their boats – he’d take Aerosmith or Brooks and Dunn every time.
His official title was Commercial Attaché but the closest Sam had ever gotten to anything commercial was watching ads on TV. As the top man in Panama for the CIA, he was chartered with overseeing the local efforts in the war on drugs, and keeping his other eye on the various narcotics cartel factions, along with ensuring the local DEA guys didn’t get too militant in their attempts to quash the inevitable cocaine traffic. He also spent a fair amount of time spying on the Chinese – who were everywhere since the new canal project had gotten underway.
He viewed his position as a springboard to greater things and secretly loathed anything to do with Panama, including his colleagues on the ground there. The country served as a backwater posting for losers and most of his peers with State Department credentials were has-beens and casualties rather than fast track achievers.
Sam arrived at the U.S. Embassy gates and honked. The marines on duty saluted and opened the gate. He roared into the walled parking area and skidded to a stop in his assigned spot by the side entry door. He’d connived for a full year to get that slot, in order to avoid having to walk across the lot. During the rainy season it was a pain in the ass, and he’d trashed several pairs of Johnson and Murphy loafers negotiating the puddles surrounding his old parking place on the far side. Thank God those days were over.
Once inside the building he strolled to his second floor wing of offices, enjoying as always the plush feel of the thick carpeting underfoot. As expected, his special blend espresso roast was brewed and ready when he entered his suite. His secretary, Melody, automatically brought him a cup, handling the tray with efficiency. Sam had drilled into his staff again and again that they were a bastion of American civilization; that it was important to get the small details right lest they slip down the slippery slope and become savages. In his mind, having coffee out of genuine china cups represented an important line in the sand, as was speaking English at all times, even to the locals, and even though his Spanish was fluent. Inside these walls lay American soil, and English was the official language of America. If you didn’t like it, the door was that way.
Sam scanned the daily briefing that had been deposited into his inbox and reviewed his itinerary for the day. Meetings all morning before lunch at the Boxer Club in the penthouse of the shiny new HSBC building, followed by several hours of conference calls with DC. The usual grind, in other words, and he secretly counted the days until he was re-stationed in three months. He’d been pushing Langley for a position on the Beltway, where all the power players gravitated to, and hoped his exile in mosquito-land would shortly be over. Sam understood that a few foreign postings were mandatory for a well-rounded Agency resume but that didn’t mean he had to like living in this cesspool. True, Panama City was cosmopolitan as they came and more akin to New York or Singapore than his preconceived image when he’d received the assignment – visions of Toucans and jungle huts abounded – but it was a far cry from Georgetown and he couldn’t wait to get the hell out. His wife felt much the same way; she lived as a virtual shut-in at their condo, spending her days glued to their 50-inch television watching U.S. programming and gobbling Vicodin for her non-specific back pain.
Reclining in his padded leather swivel chair, feet on the desk, he savored his coffee and contemplated his misfortune. Only a few more months and then it was hasta la vista, baby, and Panama could continue rotting without his skilled supervision. He would miss his mistress, but that was about it – anyway, there were plenty of available hotties on the Beltway circuit so any discomfort would be short-lived. Even so, he had to admit some of the local talent was top shelf – about the only thing this hellhole had going for it.
Sam was the ultimate paradigm of a mid-level bureaucrat. More than just petty and vindictive, he also possessed a unique exclusionary mechanism for his own weaknesses and lapses in ethics. Though a harsh judge of others, he had an elastic sense of right and wrong when his comfort or convenience were at stake. He lacked self-awareness to an Olympic degree, making him a perfect candidate for government work; especially when involving clandestine activities, because he had no messy internal barometer which might cause him to question his orders. Whereas many of his peers struggled with the toll their professional choices had taken on their personal lives and integrity, Sam remained blissfully devoid of introspection. He was selfish to the exclusion of all else, lacking any ability to empathize with his fellow man. He perceived others as extensions of his own desires and needs – like characters in his personal movie – worth no intrinsic value other than as objects within his cozy microcosm.
If asked about his philosophy, Sam would have launched into a long-winded description of an Ayn Rand-ian ‘heroic’ objective individual whose sole duty was to his own happiness. This amounted to nothing more than a rationalization mantra to justify his lack of concern for anyone but himself, though he’d learned to cloak his selfishness in a high moral tone.
In his youth, he could have gone either way – his temperament and psychological makeup were eerily similar to that of many serial killers. One of his greatest regrets in life was having never been in combat while in the service – not because of a desire to hurt others – but because he’d been deprived of an experience that would have made him a more attractive candidate for his chosen career. While still in high school, Sam had decided that he really, really wanted to be a spy. The primary attraction had been a lifestyle that valued and rewarded deception, together with his internal perception of the job – molded by a voracious diet of Le Carre and Ludlum novels. Other humans were boring, useless creatures – and here was a job that required one
to be a consummate user of others, while affording the luxury of living in exotic locales.
Unfortunately, for all his ambition, Sam had gotten shortchanged in the intelligence department. Not that he was a stupid man – he just wasn’t a particularly smart one; beyond a certain ruthless cunning, bred from infancy, of habitually lying to everyone around him. Still, the CIA had embraced him with enthusiasm, just as he had selflessly committed to the Agency as though he’d finally discovered his real family.
But now, as he’d aged, Sam discovered that not only was he unsuited for field work, having been exclusively stationed in desk job roles from the onset, but his natural limitations were compromising his ambition of ascending to the upper tiers of the Agency. That was intolerable. Finally, after a string of postings to obscure locations in second and third world countries, he’d gotten the plum position of Station Chief in Panama, which signaled an opportunity to move up the food chain and take his rightful place back in the real world – once he was done here. The end of his Panamanian tour was approaching and he’d soon be off to DC for an enviable life in the fast lane.
He was so close he could taste it.
“Melody? Can you get the maintenance guys to adjust my chair so it doesn’t squeak? I can’t hear myself think,” Sam called to the outer office.
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “I’ll get someone on it while you’re at lunch. I asked yesterday as well, but they never showed up.”
Good Lord. How hard was it to get the locals to do their job? Their laziness was incredible – he was almost compelled to oil the thing himself, but he’d be damned if he would let them get away with shirking.
It was the principle, after all.
Chapter 4
The Geronimo Breach Page 2