Treaty Violation

by Anthony C. Patton

  “Promotion?” Nicholas asked.

  “Of course,” K said.

  “A command position in the field?” Nicholas added cautiously.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” K said and folded his arms.

  “I have to make up for ten lost years. It’s the least you can do for me.”

  K nodded reluctantly.

  “Then I think we have a deal,” Nicholas said.

  They shook hands. K gestured to the leather chairs. They sat.

  “Need you down there ASAP,” K said, getting down to business. “You’ll be going under cover as a computer contractor to provide technical support to our office.”

  “Do we have time for a drink?” Nicholas asked.

  K poured two drinks and handed a cigar to Nicholas. They toasted. Nicholas savored the smooth single malt scotch and tucked the cigar into his breast pocket.

  “How the hell are things in Panama?”

  “A mess—situation normal,” K said. “In accordance with the 1977 Carter-Torrijos treaties,” he added indignantly, “we’re making plans to remove our military and hand over the Canal to the Panamanians. The narcos are gaining influence.”

  “Drug shipments? Money laundering?” Nicholas asked.

  “And weapons smuggling,” K said. “The narcos are turning it up. They’re probably testing Panama’s resolve as our troops prepare to pull out. Christ, they killed Tyler. Need you down there ASAP to turn this thing around.”

  “That’s it? Take out some drug dealers?”

  K shook his head and gestured to the letter Nicholas was holding. “Are you familiar with operation Delphi Justice?”

  Nicholas glanced at the letter and shook his head.

  “Delphi Justice, on paper,” K said, “is a sting operation against the Linear target Cesar Gomez.” The CIA and the DEA, among other federal law enforcement and intelligence agencies, nominated “Linear” targets to focus the efforts of the federal government on eliminating drug kingpins rather than petty dealers—cutting off the head, so to speak.

  “Cesar Gomez,” Nicholas said, rubbing his chin. “Wasn’t he that leftist guerrilla leader in Colombia back in the day?”

  K nodded. “Now he’s running cocaine to the U.S. and Europe, mostly air shipments from the northern coast of Colombia. Tyler was working with him.”

  “With him?”

  K arched his eyebrows and sipped his drink. “Unofficially, Delphi Justice is a covert action program to maintain a U.S. military presence in Panama post-1999. To do that, we’re helping President Mendoza in Panama win a referendum in two weeks that will allow him to run for reelection. The current constitution allows him to serve only one term. In return for accepting our help, he has agreed to allow us to keep some military bases in Panama, even if it means violating the 1977 treaties.” He leaned closer. “Here’s the sensitive part.”

  Nicholas leaned closer.

  K’s eyes narrowed. “We’re running controlled cocaine shipments with Cesar Gomez and using the profits to fund President Mendoza’s campaign. Congress wouldn’t fund the operation, so we found another way. Sound familiar? The first two shipments were successful—the Coast Guard seized the drugs after we collected the profits—and the president is moving up in the polls. Aside from the U.S. president, no one knows we’re funneling money to President Mendoza—State, Defense, DEA, Congress, no one.”

  “Got it,” Nicholas said.

  “We’re telling the other agencies the operation was canceled because of Tyler’s death,” K said and tilted his head suggestively.

  “Understood,” Nicholas said. “I’ll fix some computers and see what I can do.”

  “The stakes are high,” K said. “If you fail, if we fail, the consequences will be devastating—from losing our ability to move naval vessels through the Panama Canal to the Chinese taking control of Canal operations. Dylan will give you more details when you arrive.”

  “Dylan…Dirk?” Nicholas said derisively.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” K said. “He was stained by the El Salvador mission, but he’s doing solid work. Focus on the mission. Everything will work out this time. Trust me.”

  Nicholas finished his drink. “I have to take care of a few things before I leave tomorrow. What about this Peru-Ecuador Crisis Action Team?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” K said as they embraced. “Good to have you back, Nick.”

  “Good to be back,” Nicholas said, unable to restrain a smile as they left the office.

  “Janette, please give Nicholas his airline ticket,” K said.

  Nicholas looked at his name printed on the ticket.

  “You made reservations? You knew I’d say—”

  “I knew you’d say yes,” K said.

  Nicholas shook K’s hand.

  “Welcome home, Nickie,” Janette said.

  She was right. He was home.

  FOUR

  Panamanian Minister of Foreign Affairs Victor Hernandez splashed cold water on his face and looked in the mirror. Outside the bathroom, applause thundered in the hotel conference room. Hernandez, late fifties and balding, but tall and handsome in his tuxedo, exuded the refinement of a gentleman, but inside the pain had become unbearable. Tears welled in his eyes as he removed a photograph of his daughter Helena from his pocket. He raised the photograph and smelled the lingering fragrance of violet scented perfume. He dried his eyes and returned to his seat in the front row of the conference room. The pain of Helena’s death was something he would simply have to live with.

  “Panamanian sovereignty at last!” President Alex Mendoza said and pounded his fist on the podium. The audience burst into applause. The stout president wore a navy blue suit, French blue shirt, and a patterned yellow silk tie. He stood with aplomb under the bright lights, with sweat shining on his rounded, pinkish face.

  Hernandez groaned—that damned phrase. Unfortunately, so-called social progress had destabilized the regime and forced him and the president to pander to public sentiment with phrases like Panamanian sovereignty. Democracy wasn’t bad in principle, but it assumed the masses were intelligent enough to make wise decisions, which any civilized man knew simply wasn’t the case.

  “With the Canal, Panama’s greatest natural resource,” Mendoza continued, “we manifested our destiny. Today we stand before the next millennium awaiting our third freedom.” He sipped his water and acknowledged the crowd’s applause.

  Hernandez hated the cliché third freedom, but the audiences loved it. The president was referring to independence from Spain in 1821, Colombia in 1903, and, though only symbolically, the future independence from the United States of America on December 31, 1999.

  Hernandez checked his watch and rose as the applause erupted into a standing ovation. The departure of American troops would not help Panama’s future. He would prefer to live in a Panama without American GIs, but the gringos provided money and stability, two things desperately lacking in Panama. All nations depend on law and order and wise leadership from men who know how to lead. If he had things his way—and the president assured him he would—the American military would remain in Panama post-1999, despite what the naïve populists preached about sovereignty.

  “We’ve proven ourselves capable,” Mendoza said as the applause faded and the people returned to their seats. “We’ll maintain the pride of the Canal. It will continue to serve the world as a center for international shipping. I might add that it would be an honor to lead Panama into the twenty-first century.” He smiled as the crowd cheered. A few boos fizzled.

  “Success in the next century will hinge on our relationship with the United States, our partners in economic development and regional security.” The boos were growing—not a good sign. “This, my distinguished guests, is our promise, from the people of the Republic of Panama to you and the rest of the world. Thank you.”

  Hernandez stood as Mendoza gathered his notes from the podium and waved to the cheering crowd. Along with First Vice President Antonio
Romero, Hernandez followed a pack of security guards out of the conference room.

  In the hotel suite, President Mendoza lit a cigar and gazed out the window with a view of the Panama City skyline. He turned, puffed his cigar, and inspected the glowing coal.

  “Well, give me some feedback,” he said.

  “The speech was excellent, Mr. President,” Hernandez said. “Unfortunately, your comment about the U.S. military wasn’t well received.”

  “Damned right,” Romero said.

  Hernandez shook his head in disgust. An obnoxious drunk, a self-professed idealist who’d slithered up the political ranks by pandering to common sentiments, Romero had been added to the election ticket to win the support of a crucial minority party.

  “We don’t have a comfortable majority in the polls,” Hernandez told Mendoza, referring to the referendum to allow the president to seek a second term in office. He handed Mendoza a newspaper clipping with charts and statistics.

  Mendoza examined the clipping. A true pragmatist with brains and charisma, he was an effective cocktail of “third way” sound bites to satisfy the masses and conservative policies to keep the country running. With a penchant for gauging public opinion and formulating divide-and-conquer tactics, he’d garnered a third of the vote in the last election to win a plurality.

  “The error factor keeps us above fifty percent,” Mendoza said.

  “Or below fifty percent, Mr. President,” Hernandez added.

  “Speaking of the referendum,” Romero said, “I noticed an increase in our advertising. Our numbers are going up. That’s great.”

  Hernandez nodded, but he smelled something rotten behind Romero’s greasy smile.

  “I favor getting reelected as much as the next guy,” Romero continued, “but where’s the money coming from?”

  Mendoza set down his cigar and swirled his drink. “I don’t have a list with me,” he said and looked around as if one might be handy, “but we have many supporters. We’re a popular party with a mandate from the people. Businessmen, civic leaders, many people believe we represent Panama’s future.”

  “We don’t disclose that information to the public,” Hernandez added. “As the first vice president, you have the right to know where our money comes from, of course.” He did not intend to give the list to Romero because a lot of money had come from the Americans, which Romero would exploit for his own political gain. “I’ll talk to the party treasurer,” he continued, “but getting a complete list could take some time.”

  Romero laughed. “I didn’t ask for a list. I only wanted to know where the extra money was coming from.” He paused and clucked his tongue as he looked at Mendoza. “Funny how the increase in advertising coincided with your proposal to allow the Americans to keep military bases in Panama post-1999.”

  Hernandez jabbed an accusing finger. “Hold it right there—”

  “No,” Mendoza said. “That’s a fair observation. Let me ask you an important question. Would you accept money from the Americans if it was the only way to get reelected?”

  Romero shrugged. “I’d rather not take money—”

  “I didn’t ask you what you’d rather do,” Mendoza said calmly. “Given the options of reelection or defeat, would you accept money from the Americans?”

  “I suppose I’d take the money,” Romero said, “but I wouldn’t sell out Panama.”

  “You wouldn’t sell out Panama,” Hernandez repeated as if deciphering the words of a moron. “I suppose you know what’s good for Panama?”

  “I know Panama doesn’t need those damned Americans!” Romero said.

  Hernandez shook his head in disgust and poured a drink. The Americans were the masters of geopolitics—he could admit that without envy—and they, like he, knew that keeping U.S. soldiers in Panama post-1999 was in both nations’ interests. Leaders worked in gray areas to make the world appear black and white to the masses.

  Romero folded his arms and faced the window. “You want those damned American soldiers reminding us we can’t take care of ourselves?”

  Hernandez jabbed an accusing finger but decided not to respond. Romero had a point: Panama’s dependence on America was disgraceful, but the world was full of harsh realities.

  “If I may, gentlemen,” Mendoza said.

  Hernandez and Romero apologized.

  “The vice president has a good point,” Mendoza said. “I agree that selling out Panama for the sake of reelection would be reprehensible”— he gestured to Romero—“but what if we’re doing it for Panama’s benefit? I call that a win-win situation. I truly believe an alliance with the Americans is the right choice.”

  Hernandez nodded approvingly as Romero grumbled.

  “Drugs are a threat,” Mendoza continued. “The American military presence provides stability and security, which is good for the Canal and for business.”

  “Exactly,” Hernandez said.

  “But when will we walk on our own two feet?” Romero asked and threw his hands up in defeat. “How long will we ask the Americans to protect us from ourselves? Panamanians must experience freedom, which also means assuming responsibility.”

  Hernandez groaned and sipped his drink.

  “Our destiny is freedom,” Romero continued. “Freedom means the departure of American soldiers. Can you imagine what allowing them to remain would do to our national psyche? It would perpetuate our dependency mindset, which would be shameful and irresponsible. We can do better than that.”

  “All the polls indicate the people favor a continued U.S. military presence.” Hernandez hated to invoke polls, but this one was convenient to his purpose. “If the citizens are eager for the Americans to leave, why do the polls not reflect that sentiment?”

  “Because they’re afraid!” Romero said. “The Americans are their hedge against government incompetence. Economic reform, not military bases, is Panama’s most important issue. The other problems are merely symptoms of social injustice.”

  Mendoza nodded and puffed his cigar. “I’ll find a way to allow the U.S. military to stay here post-1999, regardless of what the 1977 treaties or the Legislative Assembly say.” He silenced Romero with an open hand. “Economic progress, as you said, is also important. We must make Panama more competitive if we plan to succeed in the twenty-first century. We must conform to World Trade Organization standards.”

  “But Mr. President,” Hernandez said, shocked, “surely you don’t mean total conformity? Panama first needs law and order, or an open economy will result in chaos.”

  Romero laughed. “Real competition would threaten your business interests. You don’t want to help Panama; you want to use the corrupt system and the Americans to protect your bottom line.”

  Conspiratorial nonsense, Hernandez thought. He wasn’t boiling oil to protect himself from a peasant revolt. Hell, he’d provided thousands of jobs to those ungrateful bastards. “Panama isn’t ready for radical economic change,” he said calmly. “Change takes time.”

  “I intend to take time,” Mendoza said. “I’m creating a comprehensive plan to make Panama more competitive in the 21st century. The changes will affect some sectors more than others”—he glanced at Hernandez—“but forcing companies to compete fairly is the best way to create a better future for Panama.”

  “Well said, Mr. President,” Romero said triumphantly and raised his drink.

  Three knocks on the door ended the uncomfortable silence. One of Mendoza’s advisors entered the room, pulled the president aside, and whispered in his ear. Mendoza shook his head sadly and gestured for Hernandez approach.

  “I’m afraid I have some terrible news,” Mendoza said. “Tyler Broadman was murdered.”

  Hernandez held his chest and took a deep breath as he sat on the couch. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth to fight the pain. Mendoza gestured for Romero to get some help.

  FIVE

  Dylan Dirk walked around the desk and extended his hand. “Welcome to Panama,” he said to Nicholas Lowe. The plush
office in a nondescript office building was nestled in a quaint neighborhood. The tropical sun had tanned his skin; his salty brown hair and mustache

  were neatly trimmed; and the pinstriped charcoal suit magnified his Napoleonic frame. They hadn’t spoken in years, but Dirk offered a top-of-the-day handshake.

  Nicholas scrutinized him. He wanted to hate him for his role in the El Salvador fiasco, but time obviously had healed his grudge. He decided to put Dirk on parole and play by the rules. He would complete the operation, for Tyler, with or without Dirk’s support. “You look great,” he said. “How long has it been?”

  Dirk rubbed his chin. “It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

  Nicholas nodded in an offhand way. Dirk looked like a tamed version of his younger self. Years of administrative duties tended to have that effect on senior intelligence officers.

  Nicholas gestured to the computer. “Before I forget, do you have a rental car reimbursement form?”

  “In the Admin folder,” Dirk said. “I know you’re down here as a computer technician on paper, but are you actually good with computers?”

  “I can hold my own,” Nicholas said assuredly.

  Dirk seemed to appreciate the humor.

  “You’d be surprised what they’re teaching us back at headquarters,” Nicholas added as he searched the Admin folder on the computer. “Computer skills are now the agency’s top hiring criterion. We get a bonus for every database we create.”

  Dirk looked confused.

  Nicholas smiled to indicate he was joking.

  “They installed these new computers,” Dirk said and rested his hand on the monitor. “They said it was user friendly, but it saves documents in places I can never find.”