Nicholas flipped the picture to read, “Eternity is the Bliss of Passion,” written in calligraphy. He raised it to his nose to smell the lingering violet scented perfume. He could almost feel her smooth Mediterranean skin, her silky black hair cascading through his fingers, the tide of her blue eyes. He smelled the perfume again and handed the picture to Lina.
“Helena and I were once good friends,” she said, and then forced a smile.
“If you don’t mind my asking, how long did you and Tyler go out?”
“About a year,” she said. “It was off and on at the beginning, but we were getting serious toward the end, or so I thought. Then he met Helena,” she said and sipped her wine. “They got engaged two months later.”
Nicholas winced empathetically. “Two months?”
Lina shrugged to suggest she could be reasonable about the whole thing. “I guess I just didn’t expect things would turn out that way.”
Lina spotted someone on the other side of the room and handed Nicholas a business card. “I have to talk to someone for a story I’m writing. If you need anything—”
“Perhaps we could have dinner some time?” Nicholas asked. “You know, to talk more about what happened.”
Lina paused, surprised, but seemed to warm up to the idea as she looked at him.
“Or, if you don’t have time—”
“No, I would like that very much,” she said.
“Perfect,” he said.
Lina kissed him on the cheek before walking away.
FIFTEEN
Nicholas stood on the tarmac and shielded his eyes as the Beech King Air idled and stirred up dust. Elliot and Sammy donned their shades and descended the steps.
“All right, boys”—Nicholas looked them over—“are you ready?” They nodded enthusiastically. He was satisfied with their appearance: new haircuts, aviator sunglasses, snazzy coats with epaulets, and no signs of a hangover. Every hour was happy hour in Panama, and these two guys never missed a beat, but they had a good reputation and had worked several missions for the CIA in the good old days.
Nicholas unfolded a map and pointed at an X. “Your drop site is in the Bahamas. That’s a long flight. Stay alert.”
Elliot nodded and folded the map. Nicholas pulled two satellite phones from his backpack and handed one to Sammy.
“Call me on the hour,” Nicholas said to Sammy and dialed the other phone. It rang.
Sammy answered it. “Hello?”
Nicholas sighed. “It’s me, Sammy.”
Sammy laughed. “Got you loud and clear, boss.”
“Call me when they load the plane and when you’re over the drop zone,” Nicholas instructed. “Call if you have any problems.” He studied Sammy, who looked confused, and pointed at the phone. “I programmed my number—just hit memory and one.”
Sammy pressed the buttons. Nicholas’ phone rang.
Nicholas handed them an envelope. “That’s fifty thousand dollars—forty-five for you and five for extra fuel in Colombia.” They fingered the cash with wide-eyed grins. “Have a good flight. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Elliot and Sammy saluted, ascended the steps, and closed the door. Nicholas removed the wheel blocks and shielded his eyes from the dust as the propellers spit and coughed to full speed. The plane taxied, sped down the runway, took off, and banked northwest over the Pacific Ocean toward Colombia.
Nicholas stood outside the entrance to Cesar Gomez’s apartment building, a ritzy high rise in Punta Paitilla, an upscale neighborhood overlooking Panama City and the Pacific Ocean. Tropical weather aside, it resembled a posh Midwest enclave: German-engineered cars obeying the speed limit, children wearing private school uniforms, and a well-dressed granny walking a groomed poodle. He winced when he imagined Helena falling to her death, the thud of her body hitting the ground. Strewn violet petals and footprints in the grass near the entrance indicated a mourning site.
“Cesar Gomez,” Nicholas said to the security guard in the lobby.
The security guard inspected him. He stood about four foot ten of pure Kuna Indian descent. “Please, your name,” he said.
“Nicholas Lowe,” he said. “He’s expecting me,” he added and gazed up to see an oscillating security camera. He looked away casually. The last thing he needed was a video clip of his visit to a major drug trafficker.
The guard picked up the phone. After a few seconds, he spoke, nodded, and hung up. He turned to Nicholas and pointed toward the elevators. “Penthouse,” he instructed.
Nicholas pressed the button for the penthouse. His heartbeat surged with the progressing LCD numbers for the floors. Anxiety about the mission, hatred for what Cesar had done to Tyler and Helena, his own future—they all clumped together in his throat.
He felt relieved when the gravitational force reversed and the elevator stopped. Cesar was waiting for him when the door opened.
“Welcome to my humble home,” Cesar said.
“Gracias,” Nicholas said and admired the plush palace: polished marble floors, leather furniture, a colorful display of Inca artwork, and a wall-to-wall window providing a panoramic view of the city and the Pacific Ocean. Wealth, it appeared, civilized even the vilest of men. “I spoke to my pilot. The plane is on the ground and your men are loading the goods.” He removed the satellite phone from his coat pocket. “If you’re ready, I’ll wire the money.”
“Eddy,” Cesar said and snapped. A frail, wiry man rushed over.
“Confirm the wire transfer,” Cesar instructed Eddy, then turned to Nicholas and gestured to a man who walked in from the patio holding a drink. “Allow me to introduce my associate.”
“Good evening,” Manuel said.
Nicholas shook his hand and observed him carefully. “Mucho gusto.”
“Mucho gusto. I recommend your plane not wait on the airstrip for too long,” Manuel said and extracted a cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket.
Nicholas removed a lighter from his pocket and lit it. Cesar shouldn’t have introduced a new person, but at least no one was using names.
“Gracias.” Manuel exhaled a cloud of gray smoke into the spinning ceiling fan. The smoke dispersed. “The Colombians will launch their A-37s if the Americans track it on radar.”
Cesar lifted a finger. “My men can prep a plane in twenty minutes at the new airstrip,” he said calmly. “The pilot shouldn’t have any problems.”
“They should be airborne soon,” Nicholas said, noticing a dramatic change in Cesar. He seemed a different animal away from cocaine and whores, very businesslike. “Do you have any information about U.S. air assets tonight?” he asked Manuel.
Manuel nodded. “Good news. There are no airborne early-warning aircraft tonight, only two Citations and a Navy P-3. Your men should be in good shape if they take off undetected.”
Manuel’s knowledge of U.S. detection and monitoring assets was frightening proof the drug dealers had a competitive advantage in the war on drugs.
Cesar slapped Manuel on the shoulder. “As you see, I have my own spy agency.”
Nicholas had been trained to appear oblivious each time he heard the word spy.
“Any recommendations for the next shipment?” Nicholas asked.
“I’ll look into it,” Manuel said and checked his watch. “Hate to spoil the party, boss, but I have to take care of some business. Pleasure to meet you.” He waited for Cesar’s nod of approval and strolled to the elevator with a cautious glance at Nicholas.
Nicholas leaned closer to Cesar. “I’m going to have to check that guy out.”
Cesar laughed and shrugged. “His name is Manuel Espinosa. Knock yourself out. He knows I’ll kill him if he betrays me…and trust me, I’ll find out.”
Nicholas dialed his phone and looked at Cesar. “I’ll send the money.” An electronic voice answered and led him through a sequence of steps to process the transaction. He entered the numbers, confirmed his options, and then just like that, $1.5 million transferred from one account to the next. “Done
.”
“You can wait on the patio while I verify receipt,” Cesar said.
Nicholas nodded as two bikini-clad beauties walked past. The topless blonde wore a leopard skin g-string, the brunette a mauve bikini.
The brunette touched her chin inquisitively. “Who’s your new friend, Cesar?”
Cesar cleared his throat nervously. “Ladies, this is a friend.” He turned to Nicholas. “Allow me to introduce Adriana and Maria, the loves of my life.”
Nicholas kissed their cheeks.
“Show him to the patio,” Cesar said. “And keep your hands off the ladies,” he added with a nervous chuckle.
“That could be difficult,” Nicholas said, seeing through Cesar’s forced laughter. He offered each an arm. “Ladies, I hope you didn’t get dressed up for little old me.”
The ladies led Nicholas to a poolside table. Maria poured him a scotch on the rocks. He admired the swimming pool, the stocked bar, and, well, Adriana and Maria. Their flirtatious smiles, however expensive or phony, were nonetheless flattering.
“How long have you been the loves of Cesar’s life?” he asked.
“Please,” Maria groaned as Adriana rolled her eyes. “I don’t know how much longer I can put up with his shit.”
“Ladies,” Cesar said from behind with a loud clap, “put on some clothes!”
The ladies said good-bye with seductive winks. Nicholas waved to the ladies and admired the setting sun as Cesar arrived.
“I verified the wire transfer,” Cesar said, all businesslike. He gestured to the skyline. “I love the view from up here.”
Nicholas didn’t acknowledge him. He had a job to do, but he had a few words to say first. “I doubt Helena Hernandez thought the same thing before she fell to her death.”
Cesar lifted a finger in anger but managed a smile. “I wasn’t responsible for that. I left two hours before she fell. She was here alone when it happened. Ask the police.”
Nicholas remembered the photograph of Helena and wondered why a woman with a bright future would jump to her death.
“Tyler was murdered soon after her death. How do you explain that?” He’d just violated an important rule—don’t get personal—but seeing Cesar living in luxury while two people were dead was an injustice he couldn’t ignore. “And Helena was raped—here—during your party. How do you explain that?”
Cesar whistled at Eddy and gestured with both hands as if swinging a baseball bat. He walked to the ledge and gestured for Nicholas to follow.
Nicholas rested his arms on the ledge and observed the cars below.
“I won’t bullshit you,” Cesar said. “I gave cocaine to Helena.”
Eddy handed Cesar a wooden baseball bat and waited for Cesar’s nod of approval before returning to the penthouse.
“The irony,” Cesar continued, “is I refused to give her cocaine twice. The first time was the day she was raped.” He stepped back and swung the bat forcefully.
“What’s with the bat?” Nicholas asked, stepping back to a safe distance.
“I used this bat to bust open the skull of the man who raped her,” Cesar said and swung it again. “I refused to give her cocaine. She asked my friend, who got her high and raped her in one of my bedrooms during a party. I killed him and rushed Helena to the emergency room. No one tells that version of the story, but I saved her life.”
Nicholas scoffed. “You addicted her to cocaine.”
Cesar nodded repentantly. “That was the day I quit trafficking cocaine, six months ago. I won’t waste your time with explanations, but the only reason I’m running these shipments with you is so that Dirk will take me off that damned Linear list.”
Unfortunately, Cesar had a good point. Nicholas had suspicions about Dirk’s agenda from day one. Curiosity compelled him to ask a question. “When was the second time?” he asked. “You said you refused to give her cocaine twice.”
Cesar folded his arms. “The day she died. She came here asking for cocaine. I refused and begged her to quit. To my surprise, she agreed. I thought it was safe to leave her alone. She seemed happy about her decision.”
“How did she fall off the building?” Nicholas asked. The numbers weren’t adding up.
“I don’t know,” he said. “And I want you to know I wasn’t responsible for Tyler’s murder. Given our arrangement, I stood to gain nothing from his death.”
As much as Nicholas resisted the notion, Cesar might be telling the truth. He wanted Cesar to be a caricature of evil, an easy target of his hatred…but he had forgotten one important detail. “Let’s suppose Tyler was planning to arrest you. In that case, you would have had a motivation to kill him.”
Cesar chuckled. “You can’t be serious. Tyler couldn’t have arrested me in his wildest dreams. I have every judge and politician in this country paid off.” He stood tall, suddenly confident. “I’m sure Tyler blamed me for his problems with Helena, but he was in over his head with her, and with this operation.”
Nicholas glared at Cesar, who lifted his hands defensively.
“Don’t get me wrong. Tyler was a good man—perhaps too good. He was working in too many shades of gray.”
Nicholas’ first impulse was to hit Cesar with the bat, but he checked his anger and concluded that Cesar was merely projecting his own insecurities and fantasies of grandeur.
“I recognized your name when we talked on the phone,” Cesar said, changing the subject. “I called some old friends to check you out. Guess what I found?”
Nicholas shrugged indifferently, suddenly curious.
“You had quite a reputation in El Salvador about ten years ago. Many people knew you and still say good things about you.”
Nicholas resisted a smile as he remembered his soldiers in El Salvador. He’d recruited them, trained them, and suffered with them through many bitter battles against the FMLN guerillas. They were passionate men who sang songs of love and courage around the campfire at night while cooking whatever food they’d scrounged during the day in the mountains of Chalatenango. Each night ended with a solemn remembrance of those who’d died fighting the communists. One evening, after a particularly bloody battle, they invited him to this sacred event, called him one of their own, and offered him a drink of wine from a dented tin cup. The flavor still lingered in his mouth when he thought of them.
Cesar continued: “They said of all the Americans, only you showed a genuine interest in them. You wanted to help them forge their own destiny, and actively fought against giving vast resources to the oligarchs as part of the peace process.”
“I guess I have friends in low places,” Nicholas said and faced the city.
“I was surprised, to say the least,” Cesar said. “Some spies are members of The Order, all of them bastards—Dirk, for example—so I did more research and learned you’re not a member. That made sense, given your moral fiber, so I asked myself why you associate with them. Why do you play their petty games if you’re a virtuous man?”
“Sounds like you’re doing too much abstract analysis,” Nicholas said.
“Then how about some specifics,” Cesar said. “Most of your men died. You almost died. All because some corrupt members of The Order wanted to make some money and steal land. My guess is they never expected you to make it out alive.”
Nicholas had reached the same conclusion a thousand times, but he couldn’t agree with it now, not with Cesar saying it. “That’s not what happened.”
“Why do you work for those bastards? The Order doesn’t care about justice or the common man.” He gestured to the horizon. “How many people have they killed in the name of progress? How many more must die?”
Nicholas shook his head. “Spoken like a good communist.”
Cesar was suddenly calm. “Don’t tell me you’re so naïve as to believe we live in a just world.”
Nicholas and Cesar looked at each other sternly as Eddy stepped outside carrying a tray with two drinks.
“Hold that thought,” Cesar said. “Let’s toa
st to our first successful shipment.”
“To our first successful shipment,” Nicholas echoed and closed his eyes as the Aguardiente flowed down his throat.
SIXTEEN
Captain Tony Price, U.S. Air Force, the Senior Watch Officer, gestured across the operations floor for the intelligence and weather officers to come front and center. He looked confusedly at the computer display as the two officers approached. He’d tracked many suspect aircraft during his tenure at the 24-hour operations center at Howard Air Force Base, Panama, but never one that turned south before delivering the drugs at the drop site. “You said this aircraft correlated with your intelligence tipper, right?”
Staff Sergeant Chris Collins nodded assuredly. “We received a report about two hours ago,” he said. “It indicated the exact takeoff time and location. The aircraft is carrying five hundred kilos of cocaine to a drop site in the Bahamas.”
Price injected the data into his operational planning calculus to help him decide whether to burn more tax dollars on a pursuit aircraft. “What’s your source?”
“I can’t disclose that,” Collins said. As his security clearance demanded, he was protecting sources and methods. Like many priests of the nation’s spy world, the cult of secrecy seemed to be his primary source of professional satisfaction.
Price concluded the report probably had come from a human source or a communications intercept. Photographs couldn’t provide that type of information. He’d worked with intelligence guys long enough to learn their lingo, and long enough to realize that the world of espionage possessed an element of intrigue. Waiting four years to be denied a cockpit hadn’t made for a thrilling career, but at least he’d found a productive job working with airplanes.
“How confident are you?” he asked calmly.
“Couldn’t be more reliable,” Collins said.
Price nodded and pointed at the computer monitor. “Then can you explain why the aircraft turned south before dropping the drugs?” he asked. “The Navy P-3, call sign Viper, got radar lock on him south of Haiti. I don’t care what you do—go to the secret chamber, if you must—but find out where this aircraft is going to land.”
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