Colonel Lance Dupree approached the vehicle. “Welcome,” he said to K, offering a handshake. “It’s an honor to have you, sir.”
“Afternoon, Colonel,” K said and sniffed the humid air. “Was hoping we could talk about something important before the president arrives.”
“Of course, sir,” Dupree said. “We can step into my office.”
K and Dupree entered the office. The door closed.
Nicholas turned to Dirk. “What’s that all about?”
“K is reading him in on Operation Delphi Justice,” Dirk said. “Given that Manuel is working for the military and has seen you, it’s only a matter of time before we’re exposed. Dupree has been pushing for membership to The Order for a long time. Today is his lucky day.”
The meeting wasn’t long. The door opened. K and Dupree were laughing.
On the way out, Dupree glanced at Nicholas and winked, then pumped his fist and pointed to the conference room to lead the way.
As a recruit, Nicholas considered high-level political meetings forums for the acceptance of the superficial or the inevitable. From his perspective, nations, entrepreneurs, cartels, and others power organisms collided like molecules in Brownian motion. The goal of government was to manage the fallout. However, he inverted his thought process after he learned these same power organisms strategically manipulated the geopolitical arena, staking their claim to the world’s limited resources, struggling to create wealth.
Today’s meeting was supposed to include a formal acceptance of the inevitable. President Mendoza and Minister of Foreign Affairs Hernandez had brought a copy of the agreement to maintain a U.S. military base in Panama post-1999 and had announced their intention to submit it to the Legislative Assembly, pending victory in the referendum. The inflow of cash from the last shipment had returned the president’s approval rating to above 50 percent. El Tiempo’s retraction of Lina’s story also helped, but victory would still require a last minute media blitz. Despite the good news, First Vice President Romero was threatening to use his influence with the Assembly to veto any attempt to keep U.S. troops in Panama post-1999. To back his position, he’d brought the Assembly president and two lawyers. Each time someone made a point about the benefits of such an agreement, Romero and his cronies reiterated the legal restrictions and their plan to block approval in the Assembly.
After an hour of deliberation, Romero hadn’t budged. The situation was delicate. The political party was divided regarding keeping U.S. troops in Panama, and the president’s recent, albeit temporary, fall from grace had polarized the two camps. The referendum would be the turning point. Until then, savvy politicians were making ambiguous statements, while hacks like Romero were making their opinions known in the hope of attracting followers. Even if Mendoza were to win the referendum, he would still need Romero on his ticket to win the next election. Romero’s anti-American rhetoric would win him national respect.
Just as the situation looked hopeless, K stood. Nicholas sensed the situation was about to be resolved one way or another.
K walked behind Thomas Rendall, Dylan Dirk, and Colonel Dupree to the head of the table. “You know what this discussion reminds me of?” he asked and waited for a few shrugs. “Marriage,” he said. Everyone laughed. “Except the discussions I have with my wife are more civil,” he added, sparking more laughter, even from Romero and his lawyers. “Marriage because we want to be together, but also because we know each other intimately.” He rested his hands on the table. “So intimately that we’ve spilled each other’s blood.”
“Let’s go back to the beginning,” K continued, “to our wedding day, to see whether some marriage counseling is in order. In 1903, our two countries signed a treaty. In exchange for helping you gain independence from Colombia, we received enough land to build and operate a canal in perpetuity.” He gestured to Hernandez. “Minister, I believe your grandfather signed the treaty. Any comments?”
“Some people say my grandfather sold out Panama. With hindsight, perhaps the treaty did give away too much, but any of us would have done the same thing. Panama was in shambles—an incomplete canal the French had abandoned, rampant disease, and poverty. He did what he thought was best for Panama.”
“Did Panama benefit from the treaty?” K asked pointedly.
Hernandez nodded. “The land we gave you was mosquito infested—useless to us, given our technology—and the inflow of American capital helped build Panama as we know it. I’ll also acknowledge that my family benefited, but my grandfather worked hard. He helped build this nation. I’m proud of what he did.”
“Proud you should be,” K said and turned to Dupree. “Colonel, what is your assessment of the territory the treaty granted to the U.S.? Do you think the U.S. benefited from the treaty?”
Dupree paused, probably thinking about his meeting with K. “The land was sufficient to build and defend a canal. American shipping companies have benefited from the nonprofit status of the canal, but so has the rest of the world. We’ve used the Canal to position naval forces, but today’s force structure doesn’t require it to the same degree, and we’ve incurred a financial burden keeping troops here. Overall, we benefited, but so has the rest of the world.”
K gestured to Romero. “Both sides seem to think they benefited from the treaty, Mr. Vice President. Any comments?”
Romero chuckled and shook his head. “You Americans like to break everything down into neat economic transactions. I’ll be the first to admit that Panama benefited from the treaty, but that treaty was a disgrace. A French man and a few oligarchs negotiated on our behalf. They had no right to give away our sovereign territory, and you had no right to demand so much from us when we were vulnerable.”
K nodded. “Let’s suppose you’re right. In 1977, we signed a treaty giving the Canal to Panama.” He rested his hands on the table and looked at Romero. “Whatever injustice might have been done in 1903 was undone in 1977. I’m not saying I agree with you, because we weren’t obligated to sign the 1977 treaty, but the fact remains that the Canal will be yours.”
Romero didn’t respond.
“What, may I ask, is your gripe?” K asked.
Romero shook his head with leftist disdain. “You can’t undo over seventy years of injustice with a treaty. You’ve intervened in our affairs and you treat us like second class citizens in our own country. Take this meeting, for example,” he said and gestured to the participants, mostly Americans. “You no doubt expected us to give you what you’re asking for, no questions asked. Yet you’ve shown a complete lack of respect for our national sovereignty.”
K nodded sagely and gestured to Rendall. “Thomas, as our State Department representative, how would you respond to the vice president’s comments?”
Rendall cleared his throat. “Using another analogy, we’re what you might call strange bedfellows,” he said. That got a few laughs. “The U.S. has promoted economic and political progress, but we’ve also used Panama for strategic purposes, at times not always with their best interests in mind, I suppose.”
Good lawyers always know the answers to the questions they ask. Nicholas could only assume K knew what he was doing.
“Mr. Vice President,” K said, “is it fair to say you want to be treated as an equal?”
Romero nodded cautiously.
“Dylan,” K said, “please explain why we haven’t treated them as equals.”
Dirk cleared his throat and gestured across the table. “Whenever we discuss serious issues regarding national security, such as this, you create a political circus.”
Romero shook his head and groaned.
Dirk continued: “You turn every request into a threat to your national sovereignty, as a way to take advantage of the situation.”
Romero scoffed. “All countries negotiate and make deals.”
“This isn’t a game,” Dirk said.
“Why should we agree to your requests?” Romero asked. “What’s in it for us?”
“A secure futu
re for Panama!” K thundered. The room fell silent. “For one moment, Mr. Vice President, don’t concern yourself with us—with how much money we have or how powerful we are. Think only of Panama’s future—not yours but your children.” The room was still silent. “I’ll ask again. Do you want to be treated as an equal?”
Romero looked blinded by his own ambition. The cat’s-got-your tongue syndrome transmogrified into spasmodic shrugs as everyone in the room waited for an answer. “What kind of question is that? Of course we want to be treated as an equal.”
“Gentlemen,” K said, “the recent deaths of Tyler Broadman and Helena Hernandez came as a shock to all of us. Given the probable involvement of Cesar Gomez, we put our operation to arrest him on hold, but now it’s time to pick up where we left off. Over the past few days, we made arrangement for a large controlled cocaine shipment with Cesar Gomez. We would like your assistance in taking him down.”
“You can count on my support!” Hernandez said.
“The drugs will arrive in Colon,” Dirk explained. “We would like to deploy a joint Panama-U.S. team to seize the drugs. We would also like to deploy a second team to take down Cesar.”
“To arrest Cesar?” President Mendoza asked.
“To kill him,” K said flatly, causing some people to flinch.
“Your police will arrest the buyers,” K said, “but Cesar Gomez must die. The referendum is that same afternoon. This story should give you the boost you need to win.”
President Mendoza leaned back and smiled.
“Cesar’s death will show the world what happens to cocaine traffickers,” K added.
“Amen,” Hernandez said and nodded.
“Fine by me,” Romero said. “Cesar is a criminal. He corrupts our politicians. As long as our police lead the operation, we can work together.”
“This is only the beginning,” K said. “Drugs are a threat, and eliminating a threat takes time and resources. The problem won’t go away if we react to every Cesar Gomez that comes along. That’s why we need to solidify our alliance in this war.”
Romero shook his head. “No more American bases.”
Hernandez groaned. “If you read the agreement”—he paused to cough—“you’ll see that Howard Air Force Base will be under Panamanian control.”
Mendoza leaned forward and looked at Romero. “This agreement will allow us to destroy men like Cesar Gomez before they become a problem. This is a great opportunity.”
Romero looked at his lawyers and the Assembly president for a response. Sure enough, he shook his head. “No,” he said.
Gasps of disgust were followed by silence.
K returned to his seat, frustrated, and gestured to President Mendoza, who took a deep breath and leaned over to whisper to Romero, who listened intently and looked up in surprise. Mendoza nodded to confirm he wasn’t joking. Romero advised his colleagues about the details and then shook the president’s hand.
Romero leaned forward to speak. “In case anyone misinterpreted my comments, as long as the agreement is limited to the terms outline in this plan, we are prepared to approve the deal. We look forward to forging this alliance.”
With that, Romero and his colleagues excused themselves and left the building. K winked at President Mendoza and joined the American delegation.
“What just happened?” Nicholas asked.
Dirk, Dupree, and Rendall gathered around.
“Before the meeting,” K said, “I told President Mendoza we had raised an additional million dollars, and that if the situation was desperate, he should feel free to offer it to Vice President Romero as an incentive.”
THIRTY-FOUR
“Turns out Nicholas’ agent had a jealous gay lover with a fancy for machetes,” K said to Dirk, the group of three seated on the couches in Dirk’s office.
Dirk laughed as Nicholas shook his head in amusement and emptied the bottle of champagne into his glass.
K continued: “Nicholas hopped the fence and ran down the street—in broad daylight, mind you—in his swimming trunks.”
Nicholas sipped his champagne. “I thought the guy wanted to relax in the sun and pass me some information. No, really,” he added, “I had no idea he was gay or that his machete wielding lover was spying on us.”
The laughter that followed was forced. The spell was broken.
“Dylan,” K said to Dirk after a short silence, “do you have any of those hotel reimbursement forms? My suite was slightly over the per diem rate.”
“Slightly?” Dirk said with a wink.
“I’ll get it,” Nicholas said and walked to the computer.
Nicholas got comfortable, opened the file manager, and selected a file. Unfortunately, he clicked the wrong one. He drummed his fingers on the desk while it loaded. When it opened, he moved the mouse to close it, but the words on the computer screen caught his attention—the letter Dirk said he had found in Tyler’s car:
You murdered Helena!
You murdered Helena!
You murdered Helena!
You murdered Helena!
You murdered Helena!
THIRTY-FIVE
Nicholas awoke the next morning with a jot and blinked to focus in the darkened hotel room. His head was pounding. His mouth was cotton dry. He threw the blankets off his body and sat up. Rays of sunlight pierced the vertical blinds flapping in the breeze from the air conditioner. He shivered as the cool air raised goose bumps on his damp skin. He rolled to the side of the bed, struggled to his feet, and groaned when an empty wine bottle spun under his foot and smacked against the wall. The clink of the glass sent a sharp pain through his head as he stumbled to the bathroom.
A dull pain throbbed in his left arm as he twisted the hot water faucet for the shower. The steaming water soothed his chilled skin as he pondered the file on Dirk’s computer. He didn’t want to act hastily, but the only explanation was someone had paid Nestor to kill Tyler, perhaps The Order, but certainly not Cesar Gomez. Who made the decision? Why make it look like someone had gotten revenge for Helena’s death? What did Tyler do? The most worrisome variable was The Order had selected him to replace Tyler. Had the promise of membership been a trap? Was this El Salvador again?
Am I next?
An idea flashed in his mind as he massaged his scalp with shampoo. Perhaps The Order had ordered the hit after Tyler took the documents from Enterprise Associates. It wasn’t clear why Tyler took the documents or how Lina got them, but The Order had other options. They could have ordered the U.S. Embassy Marines to detain him until they found the documents. Regardless of how Nicholas weighed the facts, nothing explained Tyler’s murder…unless Tyler had uncovered something! Had Tyler found or threatened to expose some sensitive information? What did the documents from Enterprise Associates reveal? Why was The Order determined to get them back? The only reasonable explanation was a plot to cover something up.
After toweling off and getting dressed, Nicholas left the hotel and drove to the World Trade Center. The roads were deserted—Panama City looked as hung over as he felt—and he parked two blocks from the building to approach undetected from the rear. Unfortunately, the security guard in the lobby recognized him. Nicholas handed him a dollar bill for working too hard on a Saturday. The guard winked and said he never saw him.
The elevator opened with a ding. He walked carefully down the empty hall to muffle the click of his heels. As he approached the suite, he removed a lock pick from his pocket and looked around to verify no one was watching as he opened the door. Once inside, he flicked the light on to record the path to Nash’s office in his short-term memory. He then locked the door behind him, turned off the lights, and maneuvered to Nash’s office, where he picked the lock, closed the door behind him, and turned on the light.
He sat at the computer and tapped the space bar. The monitor lit up and displayed a screen with dropdown menus. As he scrolled through the options, he paused and wondered what the hell he was doing. He’d never used this computer. If Nash had any
brains, he would have protected the programs with passwords. Not to mention, if The Order had murdered Tyler for taking the documents, he was now risking his life.
He selected the option to create a financial report. A screen popped up requesting information. He entered the inclusive dates and initiated the search. He jumped in his chair when the phone at the front desk started ringing, the polite ring from the television dramas about lawyers. He peeked outside the office and took a deep breath to calm himself. When he closed the door, the report was ready.
He selected the print option and read the details on the screen as the laser printer finished warming up. He didn’t spot anything unusual as the first page spit out, just names and account numbers, but on the second page, which detailed the transactions from the first four shipments, things got more interesting. If he understood the numbers correctly, The Order was sending only a small fraction of the money from the controlled drug shipments to President Mendoza’s account. In fact, only five hundred thousand dollars of the five million dollars received from the most recent shipment had gone to the president. The other four and a half million dollars had gone to a numbered account. Perhaps Tyler had discovered the identity of that account, contrary to the wishes of The Order. Nicholas started formulating new explanations for Tyler’s murder—why he’d taken the documents, why The Order wanted them back—but after the third page finished printing, he decided to get out of Dodge. He exited the program and turned off the light; but as he opened the door, the dead bolt on the entrance door twisted.
Nicholas swore under his breath and eased the door shut. His heart pounded as he pressed his ear against the door to listen.
“This is Enterprise Associates,” Dirk said. Heels clicked on the marble floor. “Nash here handles our futures trading.”
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