Treaty Violation

by Anthony C. Patton

  “Welcome, Colonel Dupree,” Hernandez said, impressed to see the military man wearing a gray business suit, although it could have used some tailoring. “Come in,” he said and gestured to Sheena. “My assistant, Sheena, was just on her way out.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Sheena,” Dupree said, assessing her body with a grin.

  Hernandez gestured to the couch. “Have a seat, Colonel.”

  “Mind if I use your bathroom?” Dupree asked.

  “Of course,” Hernandez said and gestured to the door. “I’ll call you later,” he whispered to Sheena with a wink and closed the door. “I’m glad you could make it, Colonel—oh, wait!”

  Dupree lifted his hand from the doorknob. “What?”

  “The bathroom,” Hernandez said, “is over here.” He opened the other door and gestured inside. “I’ll pour us a drink,” he added.

  Hernandez waited for the bathroom door to close before hustling into the bedroom. An American was involved, so he had to run things differently. The gringos didn’t understand the mistress concept. Two knocks interrupted him as he pulled the sheets flat.

  “Is somebody here?” Dupree asked from the bathroom.

  Hernandez scurried to the front door. He pulled Manuel Espinosa inside without a greeting and looked both ways to ensure no one had followed him.

  “Good to see you, too,” Manuel said sarcastically and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “I hope this is important.”

  Hernandez gestured to the couch. “Please, have a seat.” He took a deep breath to calm his nerves as Manuel sat and lit a cigarette. He focused his thoughts on the meeting, but the opening of the bathroom door broke his concentration.

  Dupree looked at Manuel. His eyes narrowed as he finished drying his hands. “Who the hell invited him?”

  “Please,” Hernandez said, “have a seat, Colonel.”

  Dupree sat on the couch, leaving an empty cushion between him and Manuel.

  Hernandez sat in his chair, which he’d positioned strategically to control the meeting, and crossed his legs. “Gentlemen, you’re probably wondering why I called you here today.” The plan was under way. He was the Minister of Foreign Affairs. His confidence returned. “Have you ever heard the expression, my enemy’s enemy is my friend?”

  The recruits nodded.

  “We have a common enemy,” Hernandez continued, “someone we can each profit from destroying.”

  “I doubt he and I have anything in common,” Dupree said, looking down his nose at his couch companion.

  Manuel shook his head in disgust. “Cowboy.”

  Unfazed, Hernandez gestured to the wet bar. “Let me offer you a drink.” He’d expected animosity, but the plan would unify them. He filled the tumblers with ice and scotch. Dupree and Manuel joined his silent toast.

  Manuel set his drink down. “What’s this all about?”

  “Cesar Gomez,” Hernandez said, enunciating both names.

  Dupree nodded knowingly and lifted his drink.

  Manuel didn’t look convinced.

  “I don’t have to tell you what he’s done to my life,” Hernandez continued. Two people he’d loved dearly, Helena and Tyler—dead. “I know you want him behind bars,” he said to Dupree.

  “I want him in an electric chair,” Dupree clarified.

  “I also know your views on Panama,” Hernandez said. “We’re pragmatic men. We believe in order and stability. We know that—”

  “What the hell is this about?” Manuel interrupted.

  “You, however,” Hernandez said to Manuel confidently, unfazed, “probably don’t consider Cesar an enemy. In fact, I know you work for him.”

  Manuel scoffed. “I’m a business consultant,” he said, then looked at Dupree and shook his head in disgust. “I don’t deal drugs.”

  “You work for a cocaine trafficker,” Dupree said

  “Gentlemen,” Hernandez said, “allow me to patch up your differences. Colonel Dupree, can you confirm that the operation to arrest Cesar Gomez was put on hold?”

  Dupree groaned. “They called it off after Tyler Broadman was murdered. No offense,” he said apologetically, with a deferential gesture to Hernandez, “but his murder should make us turn up the heat, not cancel the damn operation.”

  Manual leaned forward. “What operation?”

  “I agree,” Hernandez said, putting Manuel on hold. “I propose we continue the operation.” He gestured to them with a circular motion, then leaned forward and looked them in the eyes. “Are you with me?”

  There, he’d said it—no turning back. Tyler had asked him a similar question almost one year before when he asked him to spy for the CIA. With hindsight, his acceptance had been hasty. He would have said yes eventually, but Tyler had made him feel it was now or never. This time, however, he was the spy, and this was his operation.

  “The operation might have been put on hold,” Dupree said, “but I’ve dedicated every asset I have to interdict Cesar’s cocaine shipments.”

  Hernandez grinned. “With the right information, Colonel, you won’t have to search for them.” He looked at Manuel. “We’ll know where they are. Isn’t that right?”

  Manual lifted his hands defensively. “Wait a minute. Cesar doesn’t tell me that kind of information. You’re out of your mind.”

  “But you could get that kind of information,” Dupree said, warming to the idea. He gulped his drink and grinned like a cat with a mouse under its paw.

  “I’m sure he could,” Hernandez said confidently. Dupree certainly had intelligence sources but probably no one like Manuel.

  “No way,” Manuel said. “If he suspects anything, he’ll kill me. He doesn’t fuck around.” He leaned back and folded his arms. “Why should I risk my life for you two?”

  Hernandez chuckled to himself. He’d anticipated Manuel’s response! Panama wasn’t a player on the world stage, and his position as Minister of Foreign Affairs up to this point had been a pathetic string of compromises. For once, though, he was going to dictate the rules. A surge of energy rushed through him as he prepared to make a man bend against his will. The sensation of power was euphoric!

  “Manuel,” Hernandez said, “your rice business relies on tariffs to prevent competition from imports.”

  Manuel shook his head in disbelief.

  “I wonder what would happen if those tariffs were reduced,” Hernandez added and rubbed his chin, “or even eliminated?”

  Manuel jabbed an accusing finger at Hernandez. “I employ thousands of people in Panama. If you destroy me, you’ll destroy them. That would be political suicide.”

  “The issue is on the agenda for the next economic summit,” Hernandez said, proud of the perfect timing. “I’m sure the panel will weigh my opinion heavily.”

  “Look on the bright side,” Dupree said with a grin. “Consider it an opportunity to eliminate a corrupt Colombian piece of shit from your country.”

  “He’ll kill me,” Manuel said and puffed his cigarette nervously.

  “Listen to my plan,” Hernandez said. “We’ll destroy a few of his cocaine shipments and wipe him out financially. Without money, he can’t manipulate the legal system.”

  “Or we kill the son of a bitch,” Dupree said. “Our people will protect you,” he promised Manuel, “at least until Cesar is behind bars or dead. We’ll even put you on our payroll.”

  Hernandez tensed up. Manuel was a millionaire who loathed cowboy Americans. Dupree shouldn’t have spoken without doing his homework.

  “Only a scum would spy for the Americans,” Manuel said.

  Hernandez gulped his scotch. He didn’t consider himself a scum for spying for the Americans. He didn’t feel patriotic, but the calculus of his decision was complex. “Well then, consider yourself my employee.”

  “I’ll consider that,” Manuel said, “but I won’t be a CIA spy.”

  “I don’t work for the CIA,” Dupree said.

  “Keep your money,” Manuel said and lit another cigaret
te.

  “I’ll accept that as a yes,” Hernandez said authoritatively.

  Manuel exhaled a smoke cloud and rubbed his forehead. “Cesar is getting to be a pain in the ass.” He looked up. “Why not? Let’s get him.”

  “You’re doing the right thing,” Hernandez said and lifted his glass. “Colonel Dupree, Manuel, here’s to a good team.”

  “No more bullshit about rice tariffs,” Manuel said.

  Hernandez shook his head assuredly.

  Manuel leaned forward to speak, suddenly a team player. “Cesar’s next shipment is leaving tomorrow night.”

  “When?” Hernandez asked. This was too good to be true!

  “I don’t know,” Manuel said, “but I’ll find out tomorrow. He’s working with a new guy, but I didn’t get his name.”

  Hernandez looked at Dupree. “Will your men be ready?”

  “You bet your ass,” Dupree said and grabbed the bottle of scotch.

  Hernandez leaned back and smiled. He would prove them wrong, all those who thought he cared only about his own wealth and power. His motivation for destroying Cesar was personal, no doubt, but eliminating that cancer would make Panama a better place for everyone.

  An image of Helena flashed in his mind. Her radiant smile sent a shudder through his body.

  “Minister Hernandez?” Dupree said.

  Hernandez, startled, looked at Dupree, who was holding the bottle of scotch. “Yes, of course,” he said and accepted another drink.

  They raised their glasses again and toasted. For the first time in a long time, he was doing the right thing.

  FOURTEEN

  Nicholas Lowe entered the Radisson hotel reception room and spotted Dylan Dirk near the buffet table. A banner welcomed the guests to the “Economic Summit.” Journalists with camera crews were stopping attendees to ask questions and conduct interviews.

  Nicholas accepted a glass of red wine from a passing waiter and strolled along the buffet table toward Dirk. The food line offered more for the senses: a tropical fruit salad, ham and turkey cuts with dinner rolls, chicken wings and meatballs, and finger desserts. A portly chef at the end sliced a large roast under the amber glow of a heat lamp.

  “Good evening,” Nicholas said.

  “Hey, Nick,” Dirk said and turned to his wife, Ellen. “Honey, look who’s here.”

  “Oh my, Nicholas Lowe,” Ellen said and hugged him with a firm kiss on the cheek. Her sandy blonde hair smelled of strawberries, and her black dinner dress revealed her shapely figure. She was in her late forties, but still a head turner. “Gosh, it’s been so long,” she added with a friendly squeeze on the arm. She leaned closer. “I think we were drunk the last time we saw each other.”

  “I think you’re right,” Nicholas said, remembering her offer to spend some time alone on the beach with a bottle of champagne during the Christmas party.

  “Dylan tells me you’re working in Panama now,” Ellen said with a wink.

  Dirk leaned closer to Ellen. “This is an unofficial visit,” he said in a lighthearted tone.

  “I’ll give you two some time to talk,” Ellen said. She gave Nicholas another firm hug and whispered in his ear. “Congratulations on your membership.”

  Nicholas waved to Ellen. He was surprised Dirk had told her about his membership and that both seemed pleased about it.

  Nicholas gestured to the food line and grabbed a plate. “Ellen is in good spirits.”

  Dirk grabbed a dinner roll and a slice of ham. “She’s an amazing woman.” He split the roll and dabbed some mustard.

  Nicholas reached for the pincers, tested it like a curious lobster, and flipped open the lid of the stainless steel chafing dish. He waited for the steam to clear and retrieved four chicken wings. “Any clues or leads on Tyler’s murder?”

  Dirk shook his head and scooped some Swedish meatballs onto his plate. “We have people checking blood samples. All the evidence indicates Nestor killed him.” He tapped the spoon on the edge of the chafing dish, closed the lid, and looked at Nicholas. “Nestor is dead, so we aren’t getting much information from him.”

  “I suppose not,” Nicholas said and focused on the fruit salad.

  “Is everything ready for tomorrow?” Dirk asked.

  “Good to go,” Nicholas said and nodded when the chef offered a slice of roast beef. “The shipment leaves tomorrow,” he added as they walked to an open corner. “I met the pilots, arranged payment, and coordinated with the buyers. Everything is good to go.”

  “You met Cesar?” Dirk asked.

  Nicholas didn’t like Dirk’s micromanagement style, but he nodded and ate the fruit before it marinated for too long in the au jus.

  “Stay focused,” Dirk said. “No matter how you feel about Cesar, we have to run three more shipments with him to raise enough money for the president’s campaign fund.”

  “K was clear about my objective,” Nicholas said calmly, indicating he took his orders from a higher power.

  Suddenly alert, Dirk pointed. “You see that woman over there talking to Minister Hernandez?”

  Nicholas focused on the Latina beauty as he chewed an overcooked chicken wing.

  “She’s a journalist—Lina Castillo.” His eyes narrowed as if deep in thought. “I have the sneaking suspicion she wrote the anonymous editorial in El Tiempo about the president taking drug money.”

  “Why?” Nicholas asked and dropped the chicken wing on his plate.

  “I have a good feel for how she writes. She likes to investigate these kinds of stories.” He looked at Nicholas. “I know you’ll be busy with the operation, but I want you to get to know Lina. Find out what she’s up to. If you find anything resembling proof of her allegations, take it. We can’t let her mess up our operation.”

  Nicholas looked longingly at the roast beef, set his plate down, and grabbed two glasses of red wine from a passing waiter.

  “She wrote a good story about the Panamanian banking industry last week,” Dirk said as Nicholas walked away.

  Nicholas paused when he arrived. “Pardon me, aren’t you Lina Castillo? You wrote that exquisite piece on the Panamanian banking industry last week.”

  Lina exuded pride. “I’m glad you liked the story.” Pins held up her brown hair. Her intellectual glasses detracted attention from her figure. Her white business suit balanced professional but practical. She definitely had the sexy librarian look, but Nicholas couldn’t discern whether she was self made or under the patronage of a sugar daddy.

  Nicholas clumsily looked for a place to set his extra glass of wine. “Could you hold this?” Lina accepted the glass as he kissed her on the cheek. “My name is Nicholas Lowe. Wow, your story was insightful.” He sought acknowledgment from Hernandez.

  “She’s the best,” Hernandez said: “the only journalist I can trust to not misquote me.” Everyone enjoyed the humor. “Is this your first visit to Panama, Mr. Lowe?”

  “Not the first or the last,” Nicholas said and shook his hand, intrigued to be speaking with one of Tyler’s best spies. Hernandez acted appropriately smug for a minister: firm handshake, polished manners, and his mind on more important matters.

  “Forgive me,” Lina interjected. “This is Minister Hernandez.”

  “I recognize you from the newspapers,” Nicholas said. “I know some people in Washington who think very highly of your work.”

  Hernandez seemed to appreciate the comment, but he didn’t flinch, probably the result of Tyler’s superb training.

  “Panama is great,” Nicholas added. “I’m sorry. The two of you were probably in the middle of something important. I’ll just—”

  “I was just leaving,” Hernandez said and checked his watch. “I have to meet with the president.” He extended his hand to Nicholas. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Lowe.” He touched Lina’s shoulder. “Take care,” he added and walked purposefully to the exit.

  Nicholas lifted his glass to Lina’s. They toasted. “Here’s to Panama.”

  He sipped the wine an
d gestured to the conference room exit. They walked to the ledge overlooking the lobby. The crowd noise faded to a buzz.

  “Being a journalist must be exciting,” Nicholas said.

  Lina shrugged innocently, concealing her pride. “I interview interesting people, like Minister Hernandez. Many stories I write have an impact.”

  “I bet,” Nicholas said. “My work is less glamorous: I fix computers.”

  “We all need computers.”

  She looked comfortable and relaxed, with a revealing hint of professional superiority.

  “I heard about Minister Hernandez’s daughter, Helena,” he said, hoping to gain some insights from her reaction. “A real tragedy,” he added.

  Lina rested her hands on the ledge and looked down. “She was a good friend.” She stood erect and stepped back, as if shocked out of a nightmare.

  “I’m sorry,” Nicholas said. “I didn’t know—”

  “No,” she said, “it’s all right. I knew her for many years.”

  Lina obviously had normal human emotions. The next test, however, wouldn’t be easy. “I know how you feel. Her fiancé, Tyler Broadman, was a good friend of mine.”

  She touched his arm. “I’m so sorry. Tyler was such a dear friend.”

  “You and Tyler were friends?” Nicholas asked, intrigued.

  “How should I say this,” she said, “he and I dated before he met Helena.” She looked at him cautiously. “He never mentioned me?”

  Nicholas jogged his memory and shrugged. “He probably did, but we hadn’t spoken for some time.” He touched her arm. “I’d already made my travel plans before all of this happened. I wanted to come down to see them before the wedding.”

  Lina removed a picture from her purse and handed it to Nicholas. “Every year she had a photograph taken of herself.”

  Nicholas concealed his admiration. Helena smiled as if possessing the secret of life. His eyes focused on her pearl necklace with a golden heart shaped locket.

  As if reading his mind, Lina pointed at the picture. “Tyler gave her the necklace during their engagement party.”