Hunter's Moon

by Randy Wayne White

  As Wilson idled the plane toward what looked like a seaside cattle ranch, he told me, “A man’s supposed to meet us here at three. But we’re early and he’s one of those pompous asses who’s always late.”

  I knew he wasn’t talking about Vern.

  Four hours later, at sunset, the man arrived. Turned out the pompous ass was Kal Wilson’s adversary, General Juan Rivera.

  Rivera hadn’t gotten my e-mail. And he wasn’t in Panama to see me.

  19

  General Rivera told President Wilson, “The American newsman Walt Danson is in Panama searching for you, old friend. I am saddened I must damage our reunion with this bad news. If he was not such a famous journalista”—the general’s eyes sought mine in a knowing way—“I would have him kidnapped. But kidnapping famous people is time-consuming. They are demanding, and so nervous about how their food is cooked. As you comprehend, we have very little time.”

  Wilson was looking at me. “How could Danson possibly know I’m in Panama?”

  “It is not a thing I understand,” Rivera replied, moving imperceptibly to distance himself from me. “I can only tell you it is true. Something else that is more bad news: Only two hours ago, I was sitting at an outdoor cantina in the jungle watching the news on CNN, and the sexy gringa—Shana Waters?—she was interviewing fishermen who said you purchased gas from them for your craft. This was on a beach, and she was wearing a blouse that my new wife said was quite expensive. One of the campesinos, he titled you ‘The Chief.’ ”

  Rivera was a showman, performing for an audience even when there was none. He was enjoying this chance to impress the president with his English. I interrupted. “Did she describe the plane?”

  “Yes. Very accurately.”

  “What about the location?” If Waters was on our trail, she might be selfish enough to keep the story exclusive.

  “She said . . . Honduras. ‘Somewhere in Honduras,’ is the way she said it. Such a sexy gringa—in my humble opinion. The entire world is searching for you, Mr. President. The news is on every screen. But if Shana Waters succeeds, do you think it is possible that you could arrange an introduction?”

  As an aside to me, Rivera added, “It is a thing I miss. Being interviewed by the journalistas of New York and California, particularly women. They are so . . . receptivo. It is one of the reasons I have decided to”—he stumbled for a moment—“decided to abandon my retirement from the revolution.” He smiled. “Do you not agree, Mr. President? It is the time for revolution once again.”

  Wilson, who was not smiling, said, “Yes, General, I agree. It is time for a change. First, though, we have to deal with this security problem. How do Waters and Danson know I’m in Central America? And for Waters to broadcast from the exact spot where we refueled—that was an unscheduled stop, remember?” He was speaking to me, as my brain reviewed the linkage: Key West . . . Danson, Waters . . . Tim the Gnome . . . Tomlinson . . . Me . . .Wilson . . .Vue . . . Rivera.

  I said, “Only you, me, and Tomlinson knew about that stop.”

  “Is it possible one of the fishermen recognized me?”

  “No, they didn’t get close enough. If someone had binoculars, maybe, but unlikely. No one was expecting us.”

  Both men were now staring as I considered alternative explanations, both probably wondering who had tipped off the TV people, me or Tomlinson.

  We were in the foreman’s cabin of a working cattle ranch owned by a friend of Rivera. The room smelled of leather and horses. Rivera had ordered privacy. Except for men cutting wood in the distance, the president and I had seen no one until Rivera landed on the beach in an old Huey helicopter, blasting sand and spooking horses. With him were four men in military khaki, plus the pilot. All wore sidearms.

  As I approached Rivera, we both spoke at the same time, surprised, the general saying “What are you doing here?” as I asked “How did you find me?”

  It wasn’t until Rivera greeted Wilson with a bear hug that I understood that the powerful, unseen force providing assistance to the president was the same man I wanted to assist me.

  What had Wilson said in Key West?

  I trust old enemies more than I do new friends. At least I know what they want.

  Something like that.

  I was sure the maxim now applied to me.

  RIVERA WAS TELLING US HOW HE KNEW WALT DANSON was in Panama to search for the president.

  “He arrived in the capital this afternoon, trying to charter a helicopter. He came in a craft from Managua too small, he said, for his crew and equipment.”

  I was picturing the single-engine plane that had circled us, as Rivera continued, “Walt Danson went to the only avión company in Central America that I do not trust. Those malvados. But even there I have extra eyes. Loyal comrades in the flying business eager to help. As you know, I own a beautiful helicopter.”

  Through the office window, I could see the Huey’s tail section. Someone had used green spray paint in an attempt to cover MASAGUAN PEOPLE’S ARMY, stenciled in white. The aircraft had to be twenty years old. Like its owner, the Huey had seen better days.

  As a young revolutionary, Rivera had been among the most charismatic figures in Central America. Like Fidel Castro, he was driven and ruthless. Unlike Castro, he actually was a good baseball player. Three years pitching in the Nicaraguan League elevated Rivera to icon status. I am a mediocre catcher; still play amateur baseball. The sport is what brought us together, even though we were on opposing sides in two revolutions.

  But great revolutionaries are seldom great administrators and Rivera was no exception. He was an inspiring leader but an uninspired bureaucrat. Dressed in fatigues, with his beard and field cap, Rivera photographed like a film star. In a suit and tie, though, he looked like an out-of-shape vacuum cleaner salesman who smelled of cigars.

  The apex of his career in mainstream politics, ironically, was when he outmaneuvered Wilson in a showdown over illegal Latin immigration and then publicly snubbed the U.S. president at the Conference of American States.

  It was incredible that the two men had forged a secret friendship. Or maybe inevitable . . .

  In Key West, Kal Wilson had admitted he was more comfortable as a hero than as president. He loved leading the charge but hated arranging tents afterward.

  That was true of Rivera, I felt sure. I once saw him on horseback, leading his troops toward a Contra stronghold—not exactly a cavalry charge, but Rivera didn’t turn and run when he started taking fire, nor did his troop.

  In some ways, the two men shared threads of a similar destiny. Their political stars had blazed, then dimmed, at about the same time. Both were horseback anachronisms in a young, impatient world that was guided by committees and administered by computers.

  The public will tolerate an incompetent politician. But not a failed hero. The people have so few.

  ON THIS NOVEMBER EVENING, RIVERA WAS DRESSED AS he had as a younger man. His camo fatigues were tight around the belly, his beard was gray, but his eyes were as brown and bright as his polished boots.

  He was still a showman. Probably still ruthless. You didn’t have a conversation with Rivera, you listened to a speech. I noted key points as he continued to talk, explaining at length how he knew Danson was in Panama.

  Danson was accompanied by a two-man crew, he told us. They had a lot of equipment, but the Cessna from Managua had been the only plane available. They needed a larger aircraft, plus they’d somehow offended the pilot.

  “Television stars are vulgar,” Rivera counseled. “I have met many and can assure you of this truth. You may be aware, Mr. President, that I was invited to be a television star, even though I am not a vulgar man. But I refused out of loyalty to my people.”

  Wilson was diplomatic. “It was the viewing public’s loss, General.”

  Because of his destination, Danson had been told he needed a helicopter, Rivera said—significant. He also wanted to charter a ten-passenger plane and keep it standing by because he expecte
d “friends” to arrive soon. Cost was of no importance.

  My guess: If Danson found the president, he planned to import a bigger crew. He was in contact with New York, so he was also aware that Shana Waters was only a half a day behind him . . . and behind us.

  An example of the occupational death dance Wilson had mentioned.

  Rivera said, “There is no doubt why they are here. One of my comrades overheard the cameraman mention your name. Not once but twice. They also overheard the place where the famous Danson wanted to go.” Rivera was growing more serious. “My friends are very good at overhearing. There is no mistake.”

  The place, he said, was near the village of Muelle de San Carlos.

  The general focused on me a moment. “Is that name not familiar, my old catcher friend?”

  It was, but I’d been a lot of places and heard a lot of names. Then I remembered.

  “John Hull owned a farm near there,” I said.

  Hull, with the help of the CIA, had built a dirt airstrip sizeable enough to land cargo planes. Colonel Oliver North and associates had used the strip to transport food and arms to the Contras during the war in Nicaragua.

  “It is true I had a base near John Hull’s, but this camp is far to the south. You should remember this property. A secret camp that is also a farm. You do not remember the excellent baseball stadium my men constructed?”

  It was a rocky infield with a couple of benches, not a stadium.

  “Of course,” I said, smiling—until I saw that Rivera was not smiling. Danson was on his way to Rivera’s secret camp, I realized. That’s why he’d chartered a helicopter.

  The president had figured it out. “Son of a bitch—your farm—that’s where I sent Vue and Tomlinson. They’re there right now, spending the night. What time did Danson’s helicopter leave?”

  “Only a few minutes before my comrade contacted me with the information. That was a little more than an hour ago, after I saw the sexy gringa in her pretty blouse.”

  “How far is your camp from Panama City?”

  “About an hour’s flying time.”

  Wilson began to pace. “If Danson isn’t there yet, he soon will be. Damn it. How could he know?”

  Rivera said, “It pains me that I also must ask this question. How did the famous man learn of my secret base?”

  Walt Danson had the GPS coordinates, Rivera informed us. He gave the coordinates to the pilot of the helicopter he chartered.

  “The exact coordinates?” I asked.

  “Yes. Written on a paper.”

  I turned to the president. “We’re being tracked. There’s a telemetry transmitter somewhere on the plane. It’s the only way to explain how Waters knew where we refueled in Honduras, and why Danson—” I stopped, aware that I’d overlooked the obvious. If the plane was bugged, why wasn’t Danson flying here, to the cattle ranch? Instead, he was bound for a place near the Caribbean coast.

  If there was a bug, it was no longer on the plane.

  Wilson was right with me. “Either Tomlinson is feeding them information, which I doubt, or there is a transmitter in the gear Vue took from the aircraft. If Vue or Tomlinson had planted the bug, they would’ve made sure it stayed on the aircraft. If either one of us had planted a bug, we wouldn’t have allowed them to take it from the aircraft.”

  Reasonable. And comforting. The president’s logic, by including us all, cleared us all.

  The “Angel Tracker” chip in the president’s shoulder had been the size of a rice grain. It would have been easy to hide a transmitter anywhere in the plane. Perhaps in one of the containers that we’d transferred to Vue’s SUV.

  But who?

  I WAS REPLAYING THE LINKAGE, STILL PUZZLED, AS Rivera said, “Thank God, no matter how it happened. My great worry was that you were at my camp, Mr. President. I have not explained why. The avión company is owned by extranjeros. It is a word we use.”

  The general looked at me for help.

  I said, “The charter company is owned by foreigners? I don’t understand. Almost everything in Panama is owned by foreigners.”

  “They are Muslims. But not Latin Muslims. You see? They are foreigners. Brought here by Dr. Thomas Bashir Farrish, that cabrone. If the famous Danson knew your location, then the foreigners would also know because it is their helicopter. They might sell the information to other journalists. Or even give it to someone who wants to kill you.”

  Wilson stopped pacing as the implications crystallized. “Islamicists own that charter company?”

  “The same people, Mr. President, who offered money for your head. That is why I am overjoyed you are safe. With such men, the way their brains work; killing civilians, children—they are foreign in that way, also. They are malvados. Capable of anything.”

  Malvados. Evildoers.

  I said, “Farrish is behind all this?”

  “He’s a main player,” Wilson replied.

  “Because of politics? Or religion?” Change the political makeup of Central America and Panama could cancel the Indonesian company’s lease.

  His expression severe, Wilson said, “Both. Islamicists consider me a prize. I’m a symbol. The cleric who offered the reward is Altif Halibi, an Indonesian. Halibi is a disciple of the cleric who converted the billionaire playboy into a billionaire Islamicist.”

  Meaning Thomas Farrish.

  “Halibi visits Farrish in Panama often. Either one of them—or their lieutenants—could’ve hired Praxcedes Lourdes, along with a dozen other psychopaths, to kill me. Halibi doesn’t have a million dollars to pay as a reward. Farrish does.”

  Four days with Kal Wilson and I finally understood why he wanted to be at Panama’s Independence Day ceremony. All the “principals” would be there, he had said.

  I was picturing it, imagining what my role would be, as Wilson told Rivera, “If Farrish’s people believe I’m at your camp, they could send someone after me. We’ve got to warn Vue. Is there a way to contact them, General?”

  Rivera appeared embarrassed. “All winter, at that place, we had a generator and a telephone line. Even the Internet and a hot tub. But then the rainy season arrived, and after so many storms—” He shrugged. They were all out of service.

  I suggested, “Morse code?”

  Wilson said, “I can try. Vue and I are supposed to make contact at nine and again at eleven. But maybe he’s already hooked up.” As the president jogged toward the bedroom, where he’d placed his bag, he called, “Does your camp have an airstrip? Or a lake?”

  “No, I am sorry. Besides, it will soon be too dark for your plane to land.”

  Through the office window, beyond the helicopter, the orange rim of the Pacific was fading. It was twenty to seven, and I was thinking of Tomlinson. He’d had a rough day, finding the bodies, and then driving hours to a remote farm. He would be in a marijuana-and-rum stupor by now—maybe for the best.

  “General Rivera,” I said as I opened my duffel, “I need to borrow your helicopter. And a weapon.”

  “Of course. I will come with you. But”—Rivera looked toward the bedroom where Wilson had disappeared—“but it is very important that the president and I are in Panama tomorrow morning—”

  I interrupted. “That’s why you’re staying here. The president’s security—and your security, General—that’s primary. All I need is your pilot.”

  Wilson reappeared at the door. “I am not going off and abandoning Vue, goddamn it! You can shit-can that nonsense right now, mister.”

  I said patiently, “You’re not abandoning him, sir. You’re sending me. Our bargain was that I get you here and then back home safely. Let me do my job . . . Sam.”

  Rivera said, “Sam? Who is this Sam?”

  I had my shirt off, pulling on a black wool watch sweater. I would need it in the helicopter. My jungle boots were in the duffel, too, worn soft but glassy with wax. “Mr. President, if you have plans for Panama now’s the time to share the details. I’ll get to the Canal Zone tomorrow, but I may be late.”<
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  “But what if Danson’s still at the general’s camp? He’ll recognize you from Key West.”

  “I’ll offer him a drink and wait for Shana Waters to show up, then—” I paused. My sarcasm had produced an accidental clarity.

  I was kneeling, tying my boots. I looked up. “Shana Waters’s tape recorder—the one Danson gave her. Where is it?”

  Wilson stepped from the bedroom toward me, then began to nod. “That damn digital recorder.”

  I said, “I listened to it on the flight from Key West, then gave it back to you.”

  Wilson was still nodding. “And I put it in the box with the things we didn’t need. Vue took it. The bug’s in her damn digital recorder!”

  It made sense. Danson had tracked the signal to Lake Nicaragua, then either followed the Land Rover until he realized he needed a helicopter or maybe until his pilot decided he’d had enough and dumped the crew in Panama City.

  Wilson said, “Danson, that shrewd old bastard. He gave Shana a recorder bugged with a telemetry chip. Maybe to blackmail her or just to keep track of where she was. That clever bastard.”

  An expensive recorder. Something she wouldn’t throw in a drawer.

  But Waters was now tracking Danson. How?

  The president said, “Maybe they had exchanged gifts at Christmas.”

  I thought about it and nearly smiled. “Yeah.” Two of a kind.

  I was no longer concerned about TV reporters.

  I was picturing my friend alone on a farm—a place with pigs, most likely—and Praxcedes Lourdes outside, watching from the darkness, accessing Tomlinson’s facial qualities.

  The two had met, once, in a Florida courthouse.

  Lourdes would remember.

  20

  Five miles out, the helicopter pilot said “Fire” as if he wanted me to pick up a weapon and open fire. A moment later, though, he said, “Something’s on fire,” and I knew he was talking about Rivera’s camp.