“You got the documents?” Dirk asked curtly.
Nicholas nodded—Nice to see you, too—and handed him the folder. “I took them from her apartment only a few minutes ago.”
Dirk inspected them and smiled as he nodded. He tossed his cigarette to the street and crushed it under his tasseled loafer with a twisting motion. “How did you manage that?”
“The old-fashioned way,” Nicholas said.
Dirk arched his eyebrows, impressed.
“We’re going to have one upset Latina on our hands, though,” he added.
“Why?” Dirk asked.
“She sent the story to the press tonight,” Nicholas said. “Headline story tomorrow morning.”
Dirk groaned. “We’ll have to do damage control. The good news is she can’t trace Enterprise Associates to us. Without this proof, however,” he said, indicating the folder, “she’ll be in big trouble—libel, perhaps jail.”
“I know,” Nicholas said.
“Good work, Nick,” Dirk said and slapped his left shoulder, just above the wound.
Nicholas closed his eyes and held his stomach.
“What’s wrong?” Dirk asked.
“Long story.” He took a deep breath. “As I said, she’ll be pissed.”
“What can she do?” Dirk asked. “She can’t prove you took these documents.”
“Yes, well,” Nicholas said, “hell hath no fury.”
Dirk acknowledged his point. “We would be in deep shit if she exposed these documents. These are the financial records from Tyler’s two deals.”
“That’s what concerns me,” Nicholas said. “How did she get these documents?”
Dirk shrugged. “I have no idea, but I plan to find out. By the way, what’s the status of your next shipment?”
Nicholas was surprised Dirk had glossed over the point, but was eager to tell him the good news. “I’m running the deception plan,” he said. “I told Cesar the shipment would depart at the same time and place as the last one, but I hired a boat captain to pick up the goods in Colombia and bring them back to a pilot in Puerto Obaldia—”
“Puerto Obaldia!” Dirk exclaimed and looked around cautiously. “I heard about the attack. Were you there?”
Nicholas pointed at the wound. “Caught in the crossfire.”
Dirk winced.
Nicholas continued: “I saw an old friend, Charlie.”
Dirk chuckled. Charlie was legendary.
“Turns out he’s running guns to the leftist guerrillas in Colombia, the guns we moved years ago. Anyway, the Colombian paramilitary found out and attacked him to sever his logistics line. Luckily, we won that battle.”
“How did you devise this plan?” Dirk asked.
“Our friend at the operations center, Captain Price, briefed me on their weaknesses.”
Dirk stood as tall as nature would allow, signaling the discussion was complete. “Good work,” he said. “You’re ready for tomorrow—Cesar, the money, the buyers?”
Nicholas remembered a loose end and gestured to the bar. “I have to verify with Captain Price that they’re tipped off for the wrong shipment tomorrow.”
“You’re meeting him here?” Dirk pointed at the El Pavo Real. Nicholas nodded, and they shook hands. He opened his car door and paused. “I’m impressed with your progress, Nick. K made the right decision sending you down here. Your membership will be well deserved.”
“Thanks,” Nicholas said, surprised.
Dirk looked pleased and relieved when he sat in his car. He set the folder on the passenger seat, slapped it, and gave a thumbs-up before driving away.
Nicholas couldn’t put his finger on it, but something wasn’t adding up with Dirk and the documents from Enterprise Associates. Dirk was the one who said he thought Lina had written the anonymous editorial and speculated she might have proof. How did he know? He’d misjudged the events in El Salvador, though, and he didn’t want to jeopardize his membership with The Order if Dirk had a reasonable explanation.
Getting back to business, he entered the quaint mustard-colored foyer of El Pavo Real. The charming hostess responded politely to his “Hola” with fluent English.
“Three dollars, please,” she said and handed him a ticket.
The cover charge was for the live band and included one free drink—cerveza Panama or a mixed drink with Seco, Panama’s own poison. As the band started an instrument check, he walked through the purple dining room to the green billiard room decorated with hanging Budweiser lights above two pool tables. Four GIs playing pool at the first table were making moves on the local talent. Tony Price was sitting at the far end of the bar by the open table.
“You play pool, Tony?” Nicholas asked.
“Hey, Nicholas,” Price said and shook his hand, dangerously close to another slap on the wound. “Can I buy you a beer?”
Nicholas handed him his drink ticket and racked the balls.
“Dos cervezas, por favor,” Price said to the bartender.
Impressive accent, Nicholas thought and grabbed a cue to break. A solid rolled into the corner pocket. He moved to the next shot. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor,” he said and shot again, missing the side pocket.
“What do you need?” Price asked. He grabbed the drinks as the band began a rendition of “Satisfaction.”
Nicholas accepted the beer and toasted.
“You remember our discussion the other night?” he asked.
Price nodded and set his beer down. He lined up a shot and rolled a stripe into the corner pocket.
“I’m more involved in this line of work than I originally led you to believe,” Nicholas said and sipped his beer. “I’m involved in an important operation that could have a connection with one of the cases you’re working. Do you think you could help us?”
“Us?” Price asked nonchalantly and missed the next shot.
Good answer, Nicholas thought—casual, yet attuned to the subtlety. He approached the table. “Have you ever considered working as a civilian?” He conjectured that Price was smart enough to know he was referring to the CIA or some other civilian spy agency. His arm ached as he reached over the table, but he knocked another solid into the far corner pocket and looked back for a response.
“I’ve thought about it,” Price said, nodding. “Are you hiring?”
“We’re always looking for adventurous people,” Nicholas said and moved to the next shot. “I know some people back at headquarters. I could put in a good word.”
Price nodded. “That would be great. What do I do?” he asked confidently, and then missed after shooting hastily.
“Give me a copy of your resume,” he said. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
Price took a healthy sip of his beer. “How can I help?”
Nicholas scrutinized the area before leaning over to shoot. “A source tipped us off about a drug shipment tomorrow, but we think he’s talking to other people.”
“Maybe he’s the same guy who told us,” Price said. “Why would that matter?”
Nicholas shot a ball firmly into the corner pocket. “We pay him to talk to us, but he might be taking money from more than one U.S. agency. We protect our sources with code names, so the left hand doesn’t always know what the right hand is doing.” He lined up another shot and leaned over, sliding the cue across the soft skin between his index finger and thumb. “He’s the only person with information about the shipment tomorrow. If he—” He stood and looked at Price. “Are you sure you don’t mind doing this?”
Price shook his head. “No problem. If I can help, I will.”
Nicholas bit his lip, his Oscar-winning rendition of indecision. “I need you to inquire about any tippers for tomorrow night. Our source tells us a shipment is leaving from the same place and time as the last one. If you have the same information, it means our guy is talking to more than one agency.”
“I work tomorrow night,” Price said. “I’m sure they’ll tell me.” He grabbed his cell phone and walke
d outside to make the call.
While he was gone, Nicholas eyed two stunning Latinas wearing black cocktail dresses near the bar. It didn’t take a genius to figure out they were looking for some fun.
“Satisfaction,” they sang provocatively, stirring their drinks.
Nicholas raised his glass and smiled.
Price returned presently and nodded. “You were right. Same place and time.”
“Damn,” Nicholas said for effect and clapped Price on the shoulder. “I really appreciate this. If I were you, I’d find that plane tomorrow. It’s a sure thing. If anything changes, I’ll call.”
“I’ll put all my assets on it,” Price said.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to make a call,” Nicholas said and gestured to the two knockouts at the bar. “Order those two ladies a drink. I’ll be right back.”
Nicholas stepped outside and called Cesar. “Nicholas here,” he said and checked his watch. “About the shipment tomorrow, I have a last minute change of plans. Are you ready to copy some information?”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Staff Sergeant Collins stood as Captain Price entered the operations floor. “We have a new tipper, sir. A boat going from Colombia to a plane waiting in Puerto Obaldia—”
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” Price said with a raised finger and gestured to Bruce Devlin, the U.S. Customs Service representative. “Are the P-3s over Colombia yet? I got word yesterday of a shipment departing from the same place and time as the last one.”
Devlin nodded. “Our planes are over Colombia now, but we have a new tipper,” he said and gestured to Collins.
“I don’t care about a boat heading for Panama,” Price said. “Key West can worry about that.” He pivoted on his left heel, surprised to see Colonel Vasquez, the Colombian liaison officer. Normally, Price had to rub the answering machine three times to conjure his presence. “Good evening, sir. If the A-37s launch from Barranquilla now, they can destroy the aircraft before it takes off.”
“We have reports that guerrillas are planning an attack,” Vasquez said and dialed a number on the phone. “We can’t launch our aircraft,” he added and began speaking Spanish quietly into the mouthpiece.
Price frowned. He wasn’t sure what a land attack had to do with launching airplanes, but he would listen to the rationale before making a decision.
“Sir, as I said,” Collins repeated, “we have a new tipper.”
“I heard you,” Price said. The intelligence guys were batting about five percent the past year; their credibility was wanting. He picked up the radio. “Key West, do you have any assets looking for this surface vessel going to Panama?”
“Negative,” the man on the radio said. “If your assets aren’t available, we’ll launch our alert aircraft…Also, be advised, we’re attempting to pre-position a Coast Guard vessel near the drop sight in the Bahamas.”
“Good copy,” Price said and set down the radio. “Can someone tell me why we should divert our assets from a known tipper to fly a mission for Key West, especially if they have an aircraft on alert ready to look for the vessel?”
“When that boat docks in Panama,” Collins said, “it’ll be in our area of operations. But as I told you, this tipper is an update.”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” Devlin interjected. “We’ll go after a boat or an aircraft. We just want to chase some bad guys.”
“Sir,” Collins said more forcefully, “the shipment leaving Colombia was canceled.”
“Captain Price,” Vasquez said and set down the phone, “our A-37s can’t launch. They could get shot down by small arms fire when they descend to strafe the plane.”
Price gestured crisply to Devlin. “How does this affect you?”
“We’re fine as long as long as we maintain a safe altitude.”
Price looked at Collins, finally understanding that he was referring to an update, not to a new tipper. “What do you mean the shipment was canceled?”
Collins relaxed now that he had center stage. “We received an update. The shipment has changed. A boat is taking the cocaine from Colombia to Puerto Obaldia, where it’ll be loaded onto a plane destined for the drop site in the Bahamas.”
“What’s your source?” Price asked. Nicholas had said he would call to notify him of any changes. No call.
Collins folded his arms. “I can’t tell you the source, sir.”
Price shook his head. “These guys don’t move five hundred kilos of cocaine from a plane to a boat on a whim.”
Collins gritted his teeth and walked to the secret chamber.
Price grabbed the radio. “Key West, be advised, unable to assist. Request you launch your alert aircraft. How copy?”
“Good copy…Will launch our alert aircraft, over.”
Price set the radio down and looked at Devlin. “Tell your guys to stay over Colombia and find that aircraft.”
Devlin nodded and reached for his radio.
“Sir,” Price continued and faced Vasquez, “you said something about guerrillas?”
“We have reports that guerrillas are in the area. They will probably try to shoot down our aircraft,” he said.
“Sir,” Master Sergeant “Skip” Higgins, the Senior Watch Technician, interjected, “Colonel Dupree told us to destroy all suspect aircraft before they take off. We can’t wait.”
“That’s my understanding,” Devlin added. “They have to launch now, or we’ll never get there in time.”
Price exhaled. Regulations outlined how to respond to all situations, except the real world ones he faced each day. He knew what he wanted to happen, but the law required the Colombians to make the decision to use deadly force within their own sovereign territory.
“Sir,” Price said to Vasquez, “I don’t understand.”
Vasquez gestured to the corner. Price followed him. “Captain Price,” he said, “my pilots will be in grave danger. Our reports indicate the guerrillas received a shipment of weapons yesterday. They might use them to shoot our aircraft.”
Price nodded. “I understand the threat, but by not flying, don’t they win? Don’t we have to show them we’re willing to fight?”
“Why do you say we?” Vasquez asked. “We’re worried about smugglers selling weapons to the rebels who kill our people. Your country is concerned only about cocaine. We participate when it helps our cause, but you can’t expect us to solve your problems. I can’t order my pilots to fly into a dangerous situation to stop one cocaine shipment.”
Price couldn’t refute Vasquez’s logic, but he could attack one of his premises. He gestured to Devlin. “Can your guys do some surveillance of the area?”
Devlin shrugged. “We can, but unless the A-37s launch now, they won’t be able to attack the aircraft before it takes off.”
“Sir, what do you think?” Price asked Vasquez. “Our guys will look first, but can you launch your aircraft now and tell them to orbit until the area is declared safe?”
Vasquez looked at Devlin and nodded. “I’ll make the call.”
TWENTY-NINE
Nicholas passed a mass of suits huddled around a big screen TV in the El Panama hotel lobby. CNN Headline News was summarizing the financial activity for the day.
“Bad day?” Nicholas asked a distraught gentleman.
“Bad?” he said and laughed with whiskey soaked grace. “Try horrible!” He rattled the cubes in his drink and shook his head solemnly. “The markets plummeted again!” He sighed. “I should have bought those index put options.”
“And I should have invented the microchip,” a man retorted.
“I was going to buy them,” the first man assured Nicholas.
Nicholas nodded knowingly and walked to the swimming pool where Daisy Holland was sitting at a table listening to a salsa band. She wore a black dress, a tasteful step ahead of the other women but not excessively formal or out of place. She offered her cheek for a kiss and squeezed his hand.
“Does Willie always dance with the band?” Nicholas as
ked and gestured to the stage.
Willie raised his hands joyfully and gyrated his derriere as the attractive singer rubbed up against him.
Daisy rolled her eyes amusingly. “He loves those vixens.”
Nicholas lit her cigarette.
“Thanks, love,” she said. “Who wouldn’t?” She blew a stream of gray smoke. “Such perky tits. Look at them. Perfect.”
“They are nice,” Nicholas said.
Daisy gestured to her cleavage in disbelief. “These are nice. Hers are spectacular.”
“Magnificent,” Nicholas said.
The eccentric drug dealers were a nice break from espionage and bullet wounds. He could finally relax, knowing that everything was in place for a successful shipment. Alfredo was only minutes away from the drop site in the Bahamas with no U.S. aircraft following him. Captain Tony Price, he conjectured, deserved some credit for that.
Nicholas eyed the diced apple chunks in Daisy’s wineglass when the waiter arrived. “Another glass of sangria?” he asked.
“Tequila, love,” she said.
Nicholas raised three fingers.
The spirited song about a man whose homosexual tendencies come out when he drinks, something about paddling a canoe, ended. After the applause, the singer escorted Willie to the table and kissed him on the cheek. She wore a gold sequined dress. Her long black hair, obviously a wig, was combed straight. Willie beseeched her to join them for a drink, but she refused politely and gestured to the other band members. Daisy handed Willie a napkin to wipe his face. He looked exhausted but exhilarated as he plopped onto his chair.
The waiter set three shots of tequila down and put the salt and lime wedges in the middle of the table. Nicholas licked his hand, showered it with salt, and grabbed a lime wedge.
“A toast,” he said, “to the good life.”
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