Treaty Violation

by Anthony C. Patton

  Nicholas began to sweat when the footfalls stopped outside of Nash’s office. Someone jingled some keys. The sound of a key sliding into the lock felt like a dagger piercing his stomach. He held his breath and slid back against the wall to hide behind the door as it opened, using the tips of his shoes as a doorstop.

  “This is my trading computer,” Nash said and turned on the light. “As you can see,” he continued after making some keystrokes, “we’re down about eighty-seven million dollars on our S&P futures contracts. We needed the money a few weeks ago. The banks froze our accounts. Our only options are to add money or to close out our positions, but we’re confident the market will rebound, so we don’t want to take any unnecessary losses. In fact, members around the world are buying contracts to artificially prop up the market.”

  Losing eighty-seven million dollars explained Nash’s stress level, but The Order seemed too conservative to speculate in the S&P futures market—intervene to reduce market risk and allay investor fears, perhaps, but not raw speculation. Then again, the money was probably only a small fraction of The Order’s investment portfolio. Although Nicholas thought it impossible, his heart raced even faster when he realized the margin call was roughly equal to the value of the last cocaine shipment K and Dirk had asked him to run with Cesar.

  “Let’s avoid closing out our positions,” a third voice said gravely. It was K. “Christ, eighty-seven million dollars,” he added and smacked the door. Nicholas’ eyes fluttered; every muscle in his body tightened. “We’ve waited too long to make this margin call, but we’ll have the one hundred million dollars tomorrow. Problem solved.”

  Nicholas wanted to scream. He could believe Dirk or other members of The Order could be involved in something this sinister, but not K. Why hadn’t they asked someone else to complete the operation if they were desperate for money? Why kill Tyler?

  “Speaking of tomorrow,” Dirk said, “have you heard from Nicholas? I called him earlier, but he wasn’t in his room.”

  “Probably making arrangements for the final shipment,” K said. “Nash, need you to coordinate with the banks to deposit the bonds first thing Monday morning. We have to help them resolve this problem before the quarterly earnings reports are due.”

  “Yes, sir,” Nash said.

  The lights went out as the three men left the office.

  Nicholas stood alone in the darkness. Every muscle in his body ached from the tension. By refusing to work with The Order or by taking steps to expose their plan, Tyler had become a threat to their $87 million margin call.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Cesar Gomez gestured for Eddy to pass him the bottle of lime Gatorade as he labored on the stair stepper. The view of the city and the Pacific Ocean from the patio was spectacular. He chugged the green liquid. “You’re a good man, Eddy.”

  Eddy grinned and gripped the towel wrapped around his neck.

  The cool drink soothed Cesar’s throat but his legs felt leaden, his arms leaning progressively harder on the rails to support his seemingly increasing weight. A tilted patio umbrella shielded him from the sun, but the sweltering heat purged poisonous liquids through his pores. Years of substance abuse had solidified like mineral deposits and had upset his chemical balance—his thoughts, his emotions, his identity. A few whacks with a hammer and chisel, however, and the process of purification had begun.

  The next step was retirement, but this time for good.

  He ridiculed himself for having believed that Adriana and Maria were ever anything more than conniving sluts. He would stop fooling himself about the finances of feminine delights. “You pay either way,” was his new motto. He’d paid Adriana and Maria with wire transfers to veil the true nature of their relationship, to sustain the illusion. He’d tried to have his cake and eat it: love and freedom.

  Ironically, Nicholas Lowe had woken him from his slumber. Seeing Adriana and Maria in his hotel room the other day had enraged Cesar, until he evaluated the situation. He sensed that Nicholas was spiting him, but he’d grown to respect the American. He admired the way Nicholas worked in gray areas with humor and class, never losing site of his objective, and never moralistic. Cesar was honest enough to admit he was jealous of Nicholas—his looks, his charisma, the way women responded to him.

  What impressed Cesar most about Americans like Nicholas and Tyler was how they served their corrupt regime with selfless dedication. He would have been victorious in the jungles of Colombia with soldiers like them. No wonder America was the only remaining superpower: it had an excess supply of highly educated patriots with the material resources to achieve its goals. Despite America’s vulgar capitalism, revolutions never threatened the peace, but the gringos were too blind to recognize their blessings or to acknowledge their responsibilities. In the final analysis, America was still an evil empire.

  Cesar’s battle was over. The Americans were too powerful and too corrupt for him to succeed, whether fighting in the jungles of Colombia or selling drugs. Tomorrow’s shipment would be his last. He was content after his retirement six months ago, but the Americans had forced his hand. Removal from the Linear target list would make his life easier, but helping the imperialistic War on Drugs had been a disgraceful compromise. The Americans were hypocrites, acting with impunity to protect their interests. The only time they preached ethics was to promote their agendas or to stifle economic competition. Globalization, global warming, the “war on” you name it, to name a few, were fraudulent machinations to support their grand plan to convert the world into mindless debt slaves. That was someone else’s battle now. Cesar had visions of quietude, a place to contemplate and write his memoirs.

  The lobby telephone rang. Cesar, curious about the unannounced visitor, gestured for Eddy to get it. He saluted, pivoted clumsily, and hustled inside. Cesar’s muscles approached fatigue. He decreased the stair stepper speed and wiped his face with the towel. Despite the pain and exhaustion, a feeling of elation surged through his body. A second wind or some inexplicable energy source seemed to be fueling his muscles.

  “Getting your annual exercise, I see,” Nicholas said as he walked out to the patio, poised and calm. He wore sunglasses and a navy blue polo shirt with khaki slacks. “The ladies must be shopping,” he added and gestured to the skyline.

  Cesar laughed and wiped his face with the towel. “I got rid of those bitches. Cesar Gomez is a new man now.”

  “Too bad,” Nicholas said. “I kind of liked the old Cesar.”

  Cesar laughed. “You don’t have to be kind to me, Mr. Lowe.” His muscles were numb now, his pain euphoric! He slowed the pace, just a bit, but the speed indicator plummeted to the “warm-up” zone. The digital screen flashed to warn him he was stepping too slowly—as if a stupid machine could make such an assessment! No wonder the Americans were heartless: they subjected themselves to the cold calculations of machines.

  “If you don’t mind,” Nicholas said and sat on a patio chair, “I’m going to enjoy the sun. I’m getting tired just watching you.”

  Cesar looked at the timer, his goal in sight: ten more minutes to qualify for a successful aerobic workout. That probably applied to young people. What did the machine know? His body had had enough. He pressed a button to stop the machine. The steps lowered him to the deck. Eddy handed him the bottle of Gatorade.

  “Your timing is impeccable,” Cesar told Nicholas and groaned as he chugged his drink and stretched. “Let’s step inside my office.”

  Nicholas nodded empathetically and followed him. Inside the office, Eddy closed the blinds and turned on the air conditioner.

  “Much better,” Cesar said and sat at his desk. “What’s on your mind?”

  Nicholas leaned back. “I’d like to make a deal.”

  Cesar set the Gatorade down. “I thought we already had a deal.”

  Nicholas cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Tomorrow, we will transport a large shipment of goods.”

  Cesar gestured for him to continue, suddenly eager.

&nbs
p; “I’d like to offer you the chance to turn yourself in to the police and face trial in a U.S. federal court for drug trafficking.”

  Cesar tried to read Nicholas’ countenance. His initial reaction was that Nicholas was joking, but his face showed no signs of humor. He drank more Gatorade and wiped his mouth to mask his nervousness. “I think I’ll stick to the original plan of leaving Panama and moving to a quiet tropical island.”

  “Not if you’re dead,” Nicholas said coldly.

  Cesar clenched his fists. The word betrayal sprang to mind.

  “They’re planning to kill you,” Nicholas continued and raised a suggestive eyebrow. “I’m willing to save your life.”

  Cesar remembered the deal he’d made with Dirk and laughed at himself for being so stupid. The Americans were backing out! Nicholas might have something up his sleeve, though; all Americans did. “May I ask you a question?”

  Nicholas nodded.

  “I know you work for the U.S. government. More specifically,” he added and pointed accusingly, “I know you work for the CIA.”

  “I’m sorry—I missed the question,” Nicholas said blithely.

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  Nicholas lifted his hands. “You could find out the hard way.”

  Nicholas was obviously an expert at revealing information on his own terms. Good training, that’s what his soldiers in the jungles of Colombia had needed.

  “Let’s suppose your people are planning to kill me tomorrow,” Cesar said. “Why are you willing to save my life?”

  “Because I know you didn’t kill Tyler Broadman.”

  Cesar didn’t expect that answer. Finally, someone knew the truth! Despite the fact that Tyler had worked for the CIA, Cesar respected him. He’d conducted himself with the utmost professionalism, despite probably knowing how Helena got her cocaine.

  “You’re right,” Cesar said. “I had nothing to do with his death.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Nicholas said.

  Cesar knew he was right, but he refused to acknowledge the point. Rumors had circulated that Tyler was planning to kill him. Others drug traffickers would have interpreted that as a threat and ordered his assassination.

  “That’s why I want to see you behind bars,” Nicholas continued. “The fact remains that the U.S. and Panamanian governments intend to kill you. The decision was made yesterday. I can assure you Dirk will do everything—”

  “Dirk is a son of a bitch!” Cesar pounded his fist on the desk. Dirk had caused him endless misery by making him a Linear target. Spies had followed him around the clock. He had to pay companies to locate bugs and detect wiretaps. His banks complained U.S. agents had harassed them for details about his accounts. The Americans had “turned up the heat.” He’d paid his lawyers to hide his assets in complex offshore structures. He even quit dealing drugs because Helena had been raped in his apartment.

  “I figured Dirk would resort to cheap tactics and back out on our deal,” Cesar said and shook his head to calm the storm in his mind. “Not that I agree to your proposition, but tell me how you could save my life.”

  Nicholas folded his arms confidently. “Our current plan is to ship the goods from Cartagena to Colon. Once in port, my people will re-invoice the container and put it aboard a ship destined for Miami. Simple and lucrative.”

  Cesar nodded.

  “What you don’t know is a team will seize the container before it leaves port, after we collect the money, of course.”

  “Of course,” Cesar said dryly.

  “The buyers will be arrested,” Nicholas continued. “You’ll be killed while trying to escape.” He gestured randomly. “We’ll tell the media you resisted. CNN Headline News—you’ll be famous around the world for fifteen minutes.”

  “Sounds dramatic,” Cesar said. Dying might be the best way to make the world appreciate his revolution, but he refused to be martyr fodder on the Anglo-Saxon Zionist propaganda news network. He wouldn’t let the American masses feel safe believing their government was a stalwart against evil. “America ends up smelling like roses,” he added. “What’s the other option?”

  “An all expense paid vacation to a U.S. federal prison.”

  “I see,” Cesar said, weighing his options. “Again, not that I’m agreeing to your plan,” he said, hoping for another way out, “but how could you stop them from killing me?”

  “A journalist, Lina Castillo, will be on the scene to cover the story of your arrest. They won’t kill you with her there.”

  “Lina Castillo,” Cesar said, “the one who wrote that bullshit story about my giving drug money to the president?” Like any sensible person, he ignored the media in Panama, until his name was on the front page. Normally he respected the political ideology of journalists, but Lina had threatened his safety by printing that crap. Perhaps Dirk had planted the story to build national resentment against him.

  “Lina will be there; we’ll make a videotape of your confession to prove you turned yourself in voluntarily, alive and well.”

  Cesar liked that idea. Panamanian holding cells were hardly bastions of civilized behavior or due process.

  “The police will arrest you,” Nicholas continued, “after which you’ll be extradited to a U.S. federal court to stand trial.”

  “How kind of you,” Cesar said and folded his arms. Something wasn’t right. Americans didn’t do selfless things. “I understand everything about your plan except one thing. Why? Why did you help this journalist? Why go out on a limb for me?”

  “I helped Lina,” Nicholas explained, “because I felt sorry for her. I’m offering to help you because we’re a nation of laws. You deserve to be punished for your crimes.”

  “Crimes?” Cesar asked. “I didn’t kill Tyler or Helena. What crimes are you talking about?”

  “How about killing thousands of innocent people with your cocaine?”

  Cesar scoffed. He never expected such banality from Nicholas. “Don’t make me laugh. How about The Order destroying people’s lives around the world with wars, weapons of mass destruction, bank debt, and political and economic oppression?”

  “Some people have died along the way,” Nicholas retorted, “but usually those who profited from oppressing their own people.”

  “I forgot,” Cesar said, “The Order is the savior of humanity.” The most ironic claim of those fascists was that they considered their ideology “compassionate,” what brainwashed psychologists referred to as “tough love.” Nicholas’ uncharacteristic comments, however, indicated something was amiss. “How do you know I didn’t kill Tyler? Why did that cause you to make a deal with me today?”

  “That has nothing to do—”

  “Wrong,” Cesar said confidently. “You know I didn’t kill Tyler. Who killed him? Why do you feel responsible for the journalist? What are you hiding from me?”

  “Nothing,” Nicholas said calmly.

  Cesar saw through his feigned confidence, but the real face behind the mask remained a mystery. The truth would require more interrogation. “You don’t have to play their games anymore. Be your own man, Nicholas. Fight your own battles.”

  “What, so I can be like you?” Nicholas scoffed, then leaned back and shook his head. “I don’t agree with everything The Order does, but—” He jabbed a finger before Cesar could speak. “I’m finishing this operation, and you’re going to jail.”

  For the first time, Cesar saw pain on Nicholas’ face, which could mean only one thing. “They killed him.” They were viler than he imagined, even to their own people.

  Nicholas shook his head, but his face said otherwise.

  “That’s what this is about,” Cesar continued. He hated to see another victim of The Order’s machinations. He leaned forward and extended a hand. “Nicholas, we can work together—”

  “There is no we!” Nicholas shouted. “I’m not like you.” He stood and rested his fists on the table. “Yes, they killed him. But guess what? I’ll expose their cr
ime after this is over. That’s how we’re different.”

  Cesar stood and shook his head. “We are the same. We’re warriors of justice.” Nicholas’ hostile tone was clearly directed at The Order, not at him. “Why did you help those soldiers in El Salvador ten years ago? Why are you helping me today?”

  Nicholas appeared deaf to his questions.

  “Because you fight injustice.” He and Nicholas were alike. They could work together to stop The Order. “We both do. Why do you think I’ve been fighting this battle?”

  Nicholas shook his head in disbelief. “How about I acknowledge that The Order has done some bad things in the past and you acknowledge your cocaine trafficking activities have been anything but a humanitarian mission.”

  Cesar shrugged and nodded reluctantly. Deep down, he knew cocaine only hurt innocent people and that his plan to unravel the social fabric of the American regime was futile. Byzantine rationalizations had led him down this dead end life of drugs and loneliness. He’d spent his adult life attacking bad people rather than helping good people.

  “We’re supposed to meet the buyers at Paitilla Airport tomorrow morning,” Nicholas said, getting down to business.

  Cesar nodded, tacitly agreeing to the new plan.

  “Instead, we’ll change it to Albrook Airport at six-thirty. I’ll arrange for the Panamanian police to arrive at that time. We’ll have the whole thing on film. In the meantime, I recommend you arrange to have a lawyer on call.”

  “What will happen to you?” Cesar asked with genuine concern. Perhaps Nicholas hadn’t considered the possibility that The Order would kill twice to protect its interests.

  “I’ll be fine,” Nicholas said.

  Cesar paused to think. “I agree to your plan, Mr. Lowe. I’ll have my day in court, and I have enough money to buy the legal system. I’ll soon be a free man.”

  Nicholas shrugged indifferently and pointed at him with a serious expression. “Don’t try to escape,” he warned.