Treaty Violation

by Anthony C. Patton

  “I have friends,” Manuel said calmly and refilled his glass. “That’s what you pay me for—information, no?”

  Cesar mumbled an apology.

  “I’m watching out for you.” Manuel crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. “You should invest some money in legitimate businesses. I have a few ideas if you’re willing to listen.”

  “Legitimate?” Cesar scoffed. “You’d better think twice if you think Cesar Gomez is going to join this consumer culture in its prolonged state of adolescence.”

  Manuel lit another cigarette and took a deep puff, not phased. “You can’t live like this forever. First, you pay for your women.”

  Cesar restrained himself. Paying beautiful women an allowance was normal. Husbands did it all the time.

  “Second, you’re a loner and you extort people. Why don’t you settle down with a nice wife and have some little Cesars?” He grimaced with amusement. “Maybe not.”

  Cesar glared at him. He would settle down and start a family, but he would continue his revolution in new and exciting ways. He had yet to define what that meant, but he had confidence in himself and in his vision for the future.

  “Cesar Gomez knows what he’s doing,” he said. “I’ll run drugs, hookers, whatever it takes to smear the capitalists in their own slime. Do you think I left the glorious revolution in the jungles of Colombia to become a vulgar bourgeois? No offense, my friend, but you live a boring life running your little businesses.”

  Manuel puffed his cigarette. “I’m worried about you, that’s all.”

  “Cesar Gomez is in control. I’ll continue to live this life, doing my part to destroy the imperialists. See if you can get that word on the street!” He stood and gestured to the door. “Thank you for stopping by. I should have a shipment ready in a few days. Get me all the information you can on what air and maritime assets the Americans and Colombians will have available.”

  “Sure thing,” Manuel said with a wink.

  Cesar couldn’t hold back a smile as he strolled outside to the patio. He could have won an Oscar for that performance. Three more cocaine shipments and his life would change forever—a numbered Swiss account and a private beach house on a Caribbean island.

  His elation ended, however, when he rested his hands on the ledge and looked down at the busy street below, where Helena had fallen to her death. The last thing he remembered, she’d agreed to stop using cocaine—right here, on his patio, face to face with him on that fateful day. He removed the photograph of Helena from his shirt pocket, admired it, and raised it to his nose to smell the lingering violet scented perfume.

  Eddy approached from behind, tapped him on the shoulder, and handed him a stack of papers. “I got the information you asked for about Mr. Nicholas Lowe.”

  Cesar cleared his throat and examined the pages. “Let’s see…El Salvador…yes, yes…well, well, well.” He looked at Eddy and smiled. “Good work, Eddy. It seems the famous Nicholas Lowe is back in the game.”

  TEN

  Nicholas Lowe departed the El Panama hotel. The night air was perfect. The enlisted hangout, My Place, was still active. The bar had been bombed in 1989 after masses of Panamanian women started dating the gringos who’d invaded their country, ushering in a saga of broken promises and single mothers.

  An ethnic medley of taxi drivers with surprisingly colloquial English—“Hey, man, you want a beautiful girl?”—offered free trips to the gentlemen’s clubs, and undoubtedly charged gringos twice the regular fare for respectable destinations. Nicholas assured them he didn’t require their services. He wanted to enjoy the walk, to acclimate himself.

  Garbage littered the street where an elderly woman was cooking shish kebobs on a tinfoil-lined hibachi. The coals weren’t glowing and the marinated beef was still raw, but the gray smoke acted as a perfume for the city’s stink. By three in the morning, she’d be one of the most popular women on the street.

  Past adventures flashed in his mind as he waited for the traffic to clear on Via España. He was amazed more than ten years had passed. He hadn’t honed his case officer skills during that time, but he’d learned a lot by watching the key players use his intelligence reports to construct geopolitical strategies that shaped world events. When the traffic finally cleared, he dashed across the street, strolled past the Citibank building, and turned left on the next road leading up to Josephine’s Elite.

  Nicholas stood below the purple and pink neon lights. Many agents had divulged secrets in exchange for bombshells with insatiable lusts for carnal pleasures. He’d used sexual currency on many occasions to satisfy his agents’ peccadilloes. Paying for dancers and hookers was cheaper than wiring money to numbered Swiss bank accounts.

  The bouncer frisked him and wished him well. Inside, two beauties rattling promises of sensual satisfaction escorted him to a chair. The white lace lingerie contrasted nicely with their cinnamon skin. He sat in a chair two rows from the stage and opened his arms as they slithered onto his lap. Their perfumes enveloped him, inducing an oriental rhythm in his heart.

  “Si, papi,” they purred and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Two drink minimum,” a waiter said.

  Nicholas looked up and focused his senses. “Scotch,” he said. “Tell Cesar that Nicholas is here to see him.”

  “Nicholas,” the beauties said in unison and kissed him again.

  “A drink for the ladies?” the waiter asked.

  Buying a drink for a dancer was a bad investment, considering bang for your buck, but the ladies looked thrilled, and he wasn’t spending his own money. “Of course,” he said.

  “Gracias, papi,” they said and kissed his neck.

  Stenciled words on the acrylic napkin holder advertised “Regular” dances for $10.00 and “Special” dances for $25.00. A woman on stage with a black robe was dancing dramatically to a techno version of Carl Orff ’s Carmina Burana. The final fling of the robe was anticlimactic and didn’t quite capture the bacchanalian passion of the music.

  The waiter set the drinks on the table. “Start a tab,” Nicholas instructed and clinked the ladies’ glasses of champagne.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the waiter said. “He will see you.”

  Nicholas nodded and savored his blended scotch.

  “The ladies will show you the way,” the waiter added.

  The beauties escorted Nicholas past a dimly lit room filled with feminine shadows casting spells atop moaning men—the “Special” dance room. They opened a door at the end of the hall and announced Nicholas’ arrival. A man inside voiced his approval. The urge to hesitate overwhelmed him.

  A red light illuminated the small room. Cubicle speakers attached to the ceiling played the music from the DJ booth. Bottles of liquor, a bucket of ice, various carafes, and a circular mirror with lines of cocaine covered the table. Cesar sat with a naked woman on either side, his hands groping their bodies.

  Nicholas cleared his throat. Cesar looked up and unfettered himself. He extended his hand but couldn’t reach. He looked like a caricature of evil in this sleazy setting. Nicholas knew he could hate Cesar, but decided to control his emotions during the operation.

  “Get out!” Cesar told the women. “Cesar Gomez has business to take care of.” When they protested, he screamed, “Get the hell out, you dumb bitches!”

  The ladies left. Nicholas sat.

  Cesar snorted a line of cocaine and shook his head to quell the jitters. “Cesar loves this blend. Do you want some?” he asked and slid the mirror.

  “Nicholas is trying to quit,” he said with a smirk as they shook hands.

  Cesar snapped his fingers and pointed. “Funny guy.” He looked Nicholas up and down with a spent redness in his eyes. “I like that, a sense of humor. Besides—” He stopped suddenly. His eyes fluttered as he moaned.

  Nicholas felt something slithering at his feet. A young lady crawled out from under the table. She wiped her mouth, grabbed a hundred-dollar bill from the table, and scurried out of the room. Cesar awoke slow
ly from his reverie.

  “Sorry about that,” Cesar said. He shook his head to regain his bearings. “No,” he continued and pointed at the cocaine. “I was testing you. Cesar Gomez doesn’t do business with people who use the stuff. I only test the quality.” He moved the cocaine to the other side of the table and wiped the excess powder off his hands. “How about a drink?” He gestured to a bottle of Aguardiente and filled two glasses.

  Nicholas analyzed his urge to choke Cesar to death. That would be too easy. He would take him down slowly, methodically, and smile each time he thought of him rotting inside a federal prison. “How pathetic.”

  Cesar set down the bottle and looked up. “What?”

  You, you scum, Nicholas thought. “The way people keep buying cocaine,” he said, aware that Cesar knew he worked for the CIA. As much as Nicholas hated it, they were partners.

  Cesar gulped his drink. “Cesar Gomez always says you can rely on three things.”

  Nicholas arched his eyebrows, ready to be enlightened.

  “First, the human desire for material goods is insatiable; people will work themselves into their graves to buy more stuff. I call that consumerism. Second, people will trade their souls for economic security. I call that slavery. To quote your philosopher Herbert Spencer, we haven’t abolished slavery; we have nationalized it.”

  “Spoken like a good Marxist,” Nicholas said.

  “Marx was an idiot!” Cesar yelled and slammed his empty glass on the table. “Why does everyone credit him with every good idea? He was a capitalist pig!” He cleared his throat and relaxed. “You have to read between the lines, of course.”

  “Of course,” Nicholas said. “What’s the third thing?”

  Cesar stroked his mustache. “Oh yes, the masses, left to their own devices, will live a life of self destruction. People need other people to tell them what to do. I developed my revolutionary theory from these truths.”

  “That’s a cynical view of human nature,” Nicholas said, noticing the irony of Cesar speaking with such conviction about corrupted human nature. A vivid vision of Cesar writhing in his grip appeased his tension. “Sounds like you believe people are driven by primal desires, not by reason. What kind of revolution is that?”

  “Reason rationalizes the self-deceptions caused by layers of oppressed desires,” Cesar said and grinned.

  “Did Marx say that?” Nicholas asked, laughing to himself.

  “I said that!” Cesar yelled, analyzing Nicholas’ smirk. “Oh, I see, funny guy.”

  Nicholas shifted his position to change the tone. “Humor aside, a lot must have happened during the past ten years for you to go from being a leftist guerrilla to being a cynical cocaine trafficker.” He arched a subtle eyebrow. “We know about your past.”

  Cesar glared at Nicholas. “My cynicism is a reflection of the times. Your country is responsible for converting the masses around the globe into money-hungry consumers. Unlike you, I still have my ideals. I have a plan to change the world, if you’d like to hear it.”

  “I’d probably find your plan intriguing,” Nicholas said, “but I don’t think we’re here to discuss political philosophy.”

  Cesar’s intellectual vigor faded. “We’re here to make a deal. My third deal, by the way. Make sure Dirk doesn’t lose count. Two more shipments after this one and I’m finished.”

  “That’s the deal,” Nicholas said.

  “I get paid up front. No credit.” Cesar handed Nicholas a business card. “That’s my bank account number.” He smiled sheepishly. “I’m planning to use the money to buy a retirement home and live the good life after this is finished.”

  Nicholas gave Cesar no reason to believe he gave a rat’s ass about his plan. “I’ll wire the money after your men have loaded the plane,” he said. “Can I assume a rate of three thousand dollars per kilo?” Cesar nodded. Tyler’s reports had indicated the price from the first two shipments. “Five hundred kilos should do.”

  Cesar opened a map of Colombia. “Tell your pilot to file a flight plan to Santa Marta. When he approaches the tower he should descend to one thousand feet and pass this call sign.” He pointed to the word BORNEO. “The tower will make an official record of the plane landing, but the pilot should continue at the lowest altitude possible to this coordinate.” He pointed at a remote airstrip on the Guajira Peninsula. “My men will be there to load the plane, slap on a fake tail number, and sell extra fuel.” He grinned. “We’re a full service operation.”

  “Can you provide my pilot with enough fuel to fly past the island of Hispaniola?” Nicholas asked. Tyler’s first two shipments had gone to the Bahamas.

  Cesar nodded. “He’ll have more than enough fuel. Don’t forget, my men don’t load the plane until after I collect my money.”

  Nicholas nodded.

  “Stop by my penthouse on Saturday,” Cesar added. “Tell the security guard at the front desk you’re one of my bankers.”

  Nicholas arched an inquisitive eyebrow. “What is Colombia’s track record for shooting down airplanes?”

  “They track most planes on radar, but they destroy only one or two a month. Not if I have anything to say about it, of course.”

  “Of course,” Nicholas said with discreet sarcasm.

  “Cesar Gomez never blows a deal,” he said confidently. “I have many friends who can ensure pilot error during shoot down attempts.”

  Nicholas feigned veneration and sipped his Aguardiente. The anise liqueur warmed his throat and left his tongue pleasantly numb. The lingering aroma triggered memories of hard candies in crimson wrappers.

  “Unless we have any other business to discuss,” Nicholas said, standing, “I’ll see you Saturday night.” He stood to leave, ignoring Cesar’s outstretched hand.

  “Your plan is hopeless,” Cesar said as Nicholas reached for the door. “You know, The Order, the group responsible for misery and oppression.” He chuckled. “You see, Mr. Lowe, I know a lot about you as well.”

  Nicholas turned.

  Cesar continued: “I know about the millions of lives The Order has destroyed in its quest to rip humanity from the jungle, but the plan won’t work.”

  Nicholas was shocked to hear Cesar knew about him and The Order. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do,” Cesar said, laughing. “The Order will never accept someone like you. I can’t help but wonder what happened during the past ten years to make you go from having a heart to wanting to join them.”

  “I’ll see you on Saturday,” Nicholas said. One more minute of this nonsense and he would resort to the choking option.

  “Don’t worry—it was a compliment,” Cesar said.

  Outside the room, Nicholas gathered his composure and walked to the entrance. He was satisfied with the meeting, but Cesar’s comments disturbed him. With a deep breath, he concluded that Cesar was just messing with him.

  To his surprise, the two beauties were waiting for him, wearing jeans and tight T-shirts. They held either arm and kissed him. “Vamos, papi.”

  Nicholas accepted a card from a waiter. He opened it to read: “Two special gifts for a virtuous man.”

  Nicholas paused to admire the beauties—their ability to conjure lustful eyes was nothing short of an art form—but he finally got a hold of himself, kissed them on the cheek, and waved down a passing taxi.

  ELEVEN

  After navigating the new and inefficient system of one-way streets and shortcuts through the morning traffic, Nicholas found a parking spot near the Panama City World Trade Center complex. The trip would have been difficult for any foreigner—Panamanians relied on memory to get from point A to point B, not on street signs or sequentially numbered roads—but because the old system was still etched in his memory, he was twice confused.

  The affluent strip connecting the high-rise apartment towers in Paitilla and Calle 50 had changed since his last visit. Modern buildings, ritzy shopping boutiques, and fast food franchises lined the avenue. Patatus, once
a watering hole for enlisted gringos on Fridays now struggled for business while hip joints like Rock Cafe and La Cantina prospered. A haven for the affluent—white collar workers by day, spoiled teens and young professionals by night—this Petri dish of Americana was a fragile experiment amid the city’s chaos and poverty.

  Nicholas entered the parking lot of the Radisson hotel, the shorter tower of the World Trade Center complex. The business day was under way. Maroon-uniformed bellhops hailed taxis for stodgy old businessmen. Attractive, fashionable ladies unlocked the front doors of retail stores like Chanel, Tommy Hilfiger, and Façonable. Everything was polished, but just outside the perimeter of the complex, the road was bumper-to-bumper chaos with honking traffic that had managed to turn three lanes into four.

  The brass nameplate for the top floor suite said “Enterprise Associates,” but there was nothing to indicate this office was any different from the others. Nicholas knocked and heard the click of high heels on marble. The dead bolt twisted. The door opened until the chain was taught. A seductive blue eye inspected him.

  “Hello, my name is Nicholas Lowe,” he said.

  The woman opened the door and locked it behind him. “Hello, Mr. Lowe,” she said and shook his hand. “Jessica Porter. Mr. Dirk said to expect you.” The accent was northern European. Her wavy blonde hair rested fetchingly on the shoulders of her navy blue business suit. Twenty-eight tops and no wedding ring to boot.

  The office was clean and decorated with enough artwork, furniture, and plants to satisfy a dozen wealthy clients. Fanned out magazines and stacked newspapers covered the tables. Two fresh pots of coffee were receiving their last drops. He sensed an eerie perfection for which only The Order could be responsible. A smile filled his face as he focused his attention on his alluring guide. Her hips swung like a metronome with each click of her heels.

  “How may I be of assistance?” she asked as she sat at her desk and folded her hands.