Piranha Assignment

by Austin Camacho

  More importantly, Roberts had solved a major problem plaguing their business. A month ago, Morgan and Felicity had toyed with the idea of moving their headquarters to Miami or New York. California’s gun laws were very restrictive, concerning semiautomatic weapons in particular. Neither single shot, nor bolt action firearms are very useful in the security business. Morgan was also worried that thousands of dollars he had spent on special licenses for fully automatic weapons, his submachine gun collection, would be wasted.

  He convinced Roberts they would not take Bastidas’ security job unless something was done. It seemed incredible, but Roberts had made no more than five telephone calls from Morgan’s office to get the job done. A blanket variance was made for their business to all gun control statutes including import and export laws.

  For that alone, Morgan would have done the job for free, especially since Roberts only expected the project to last one more week. He would he happy to listen to another briefing.

  “We have another man inside,” Roberts said. “His name is Chuck Barton. He’s a mercenary, hired by Bastidas to supervise any necessary liaison between the Piranha project compound and the local government. Very competent. An experienced fighter who’s done a lot of bodyguard work. Anyway, he’s expecting you to make contact. He can fill you in on anything that’s happened since the beginning of the project.”

  “When last did you hear from your inside man?”

  “Two days before the killing,” Roberts told Morgan.

  “Do you think Bastidas suspects him?”

  “I doubt it,” Roberts said. “He may be just playing it safe, or he might not have anything to report.”

  “Well, we’ll know when we get there,” Morgan said. “I’m taking a nap.” He leaned his seat back and closed his eyes.

  Roberts could hardly believe it, but within a minute Morgan’s breathing had slowed to the deep steady rhythm of total relaxation. He remembered Morgan telling him he could sleep whenever he pleased, but it was unsettling to see a demonstration of this ability. Thinking it a rude way to end a conversation, Roberts sat back to try to catch up with the movie. Felicity stepped over their feet and moved to the rest room behind them. As she slid by, Roberts was again struck by her carefree beauty. Did she have any idea what kind of a country she would land in soon? He watched her bright red pleated skirt flip back and forth as she walked, and regretted his need to travel in a business suit.

  When she returned, Felicity plopped into the empty seat across the aisle. Her hair hung loose, with a tortoise shell comb in the left side that Roberts considered a cute touch. She blew out a long sigh that seemed to deflate her white peasant blouse by half. Her expression made it clear she had no interest in the film being shown. When she crossed her long, athletic legs, Roberts lost interest in the screen also, and pulled off his headphones.

  “Are you prepared for Panama?”

  “I think so,” Felicity answered. “My Spanish is quite fluent. We don’t have to worry about changing currency since they use American money, and I’m carrying enough cash and traveler’s checks to buy whatever I might want. And we brought a year’s supply of Cutters.”

  “I’m not talking about insect repellent,” Roberts said. “The political situation down there isn’t…”

  “Stable?” Felicity crinkled her nose. “I think a man in your business would know if we’re in for a real revolution or anything.”

  “Intelligence can be wrong,” Roberts said. He did not go further, and Felicity remained silent. Yet she looked at him as if there was more to the conversation. True, Morgan was asleep now, and she might be bored with flying. But she did not strike him as the type of woman who would talk just from boredom.

  “Is there something else?”

  “Well, I wanted to ask you something,” Felicity said, then looked at him as if she expected part of the answer to appear in his eyes. “Did I understand Morgan correctly, that you found him thanks to an old military file? From his time in Delta Force?”

  “He told you that?”

  “We have no secrets,” Felicity said, and her smile fell just a little. “Morgan is the most interesting man I’ve ever met, but I just can’t see him as a spy.”

  “He never was, in the way you mean.” Roberts’ gaze wandered far away, as his memories carried him to another time. Not necessarily a better time, but perhaps simpler. “Toward the end of the Vietnam war, the Military Assistance Group, Vietnam, or MAC-V as they were called, created the SOG for special tasks. That stood for Studies and Observation Group officially, but privately they were a Special Operations Group. Anyway, MACVSOG was put together to meet the Viet Cong on their own ground. That meant they had to work efficiently at night. Move silently through narrow underground tunnels. Commit acts of sabotage and assassination several miles from any kind of support. That organization eventually evolved into what we call Delta Force today, but back then it didn’t call for sophisticated James Bond types, Ms. O’Brian. It called for tough, vicious killers. People who could survive under almost impossible conditions.”

  Felicity nodded. “And Morgan fit the bill.” She fell silent for a moment, as if assessing his words, and then said “You’d think after a couple of years of that, he’d want to get back to a normal life. Instead, he became a mercenary.”

  “In my experience,” Roberts said, “you subject a man to enough stress you get one of two products. You either get a broken man, or a man who loves stress. Most Vietnam vets fall into one category or the other. In fact, look at your own life. Why did you keep stealing, Ms. O’Brien? In fact, why are you here now?”

  “Okay, that’s enough amateur analysis,” Felicity said.

  “Anything else you want?” Roberts asked.

  “Yes. Call me Felicity, will you?”

  Before long the whine of the big plane’s engines changed, the no smoking light came on, and the pilot asked his charges to put on their seat belts. A moment later, a group of mature adults became a mob of school children shoving their way out of the plane, jostling each other with their carry on luggage. Roberts avoided the rush and left last, separating himself from his friends.

  Moments later, Felicity followed Morgan down the jet’s stairs. They stepped into hot, muggy air and Felicity could already feel perspiration breaking out on her body. It was probably a mild day for the tropics, with temperatures in the mid-eighties. It was not the heat that affected her, but the humidity. Morgan took her arm and led her into the airport.

  Felicity sat in the cafeteria for almost two hours, drinking the best coffee of her life, while Morgan dealt with the long, laborious customs problem. They were traveling as official United States government representatives, but some of the equipment they brought with them was unusual, to say the least.

  After the long wait, Felicity helped Morgan load their luggage and a big trunk into a topless Land Rover he had reserved. They drove to their hotel room where they showered and changed. Twenty minutes after their arrival they were on the road again, driving northeast out of Panama City.

  Felicity’s travel clothes were replaced by a military styled khaki jumpsuit, designed to breathe with her. She would be comfortable, but her outfit still said all business. Morgan wore a similar set of khakis, with a safari jacket to cover his double shoulder rig.

  “You’re sure you know where you’re going?” Felicity asked, grateful for the warm wind blowing her hair back and drying the perspiration on her face.

  “I checked the map thoroughly,” Morgan said. “Don’t you trust me?” Of course she did. Morgan’s infallible sense of direction, combined with his judgment of distances, meant he could load a map into his head, and follow himself on it with unbelievable accuracy. It may well be impossible for Morgan to get lost, Felicity thought.

  Morgan was familiar with this part of the world from past adventures, but Felicity stared around like any tourist. She was surprised that Panama City felt so much like an American city in the Southwest. Downtown looked like any downtown. She
saw the usual high rise office buildings, hotels, nightclub, and bars. A huge bridge loomed in the background, which Morgan called the Thatcher Ferry. It crossed the canal, whose waters were too blue to be a river, but too clear to be ocean water.

  Most of all, it was the people that held her attention. They seemed to her a beautiful group, more homogeneous than anywhere she had been. Yes, she saw blacks and whites and Indians, but each seemed a small minority. At least two out of three people she saw were some charming blend.

  “I’ve seen mulattos, people of both white and black background, in France,” she commented to Morgan, “but not nearly in these numbers. And I’ll admit I’m surprised so many people here have a mix of white and Indian blood.”

  “Mestizos,” Morgan said, weaving through traffic. “To tell the truth, that’s one of the reasons I like Central and South America so much. No prejudice problem here. For generations, these people have solved their racial conflicts the best way. In bed.”

  Felicity knew the canal had made Panama the crossroads of the world, and as expected, she couldn’t imagine a more bustling place than Panama City. She saw every late model car, and streets clogged with tourists. Foreign businessmen were in evidence, and a good number of Americans mixed in with the natives. She had to wonder how much the city had changed since losing its American military presence. She knew that people from other countries, like Colombia, fled to Panama to avoid violence. The government was stable since the U.S. forces departed, but like most places there was crime and violence, mostly related to drug trafficking.

  As they drove away from the canal area the city faded, replaced by more rural areas. The human mix slipped dramatically to the Indians. Everyone she saw exhibited the straight black hair, high cheekbones and reddish brown skin of the people who lived there before the Americans, before the Spaniards, before “civilization” destroyed their long history.

  At the small city of Chepo, Morgan turned north, toward the Atlantic Ocean. They drove through thick forests. People they saw were tending coconuts or sugar cane or the bananas Morgan had told her were Panama’s major cash crop. As they drove down from the central highlands, agriculture became more evident, and roads became narrower. Still, Morgan kept on unerringly to the north. He drove with a big smile, whistling some Spanish tune she didn’t know.

  “You sure look happy,” Felicity said.

  Morgan looked around at the overgrown road and tropical vegetation. “Well, I’m home.”

  After a little more than an hour on the road Felicity’s bottom started getting sore. She was about to ask Morgan for a break when they suddenly left the forest. The clearing was about a hundred meters deep. Morgan slipped the vehicle into neutral and coasted up to the fence. It was standard chain link, eight feet high. It appeared that they had arrived.

  “Fence looks good,” Morgan commented.

  “You think that barbed wire across the top will slow anybody down?”

  “Actually it’s concertina wire,” Morgan told her. “A lot meaner. And the clearing’s as deep on the other side as it is here.”

  “Sure, but I could take that fence in thirty seconds at night,” Felicity said. “And there isn’t a guard in sight.”

  As if on cue, two armed men in camouflage uniforms emerged from a concealed shelter. Aside from the assault rifles they pointed at their visitors, they wore sidearms, grenades, and stern expressions. Hard men, Felicity thought. Morgan stood in the vehicle, keeping his hands on the wheel.

  “I’m Stark,” he announced with bold confidence. “She’s O’Brian. Bastidas is expecting us.”

  “You fit the descriptions,” one of the guards said, as the other unlocked and opened the gate. “Let me see some identification.” Morgan and Felicity handed over their passports which received scrupulous examinations before the lead guard handed them back. Then he walked to the back of the four wheel drive vehicle and tapped the big trunk with his AKM’s barrel.

  “What is inside this?”

  “Stuff,” Morgan answered.

  “What kind of stuff?” the guard asked, pointing his rifle at Morgan’s chest.

  “Our stuff.” The two men locked eyes and, for a moment, Felicity feared violence. Then the guard turned, and reached for the trunk’s latch.

  “Open that and you’re a dead man,” Morgan said softly, his right hand easing under his open safari jacket.

  “When we finish talking to Bastidas, you boys will be working for us,” Felicity pointed out. “If we were the bad guys, we’d have brought help, and they would have overrun you by now. It’s not a very good idea to be leaving that gate open for so long. Questions could be answered on the other side, after the gate’s secure.”

  Guard number two glanced toward the tree line. After a second’s hesitation, the first guard jogged back inside and waved them through. The gate secured, the guards pointed them up the path to another checkpoint. As they drove away, Felicity released a breath she had held for almost a minute.

  “What in the world was that all about?”

  Morgan waved the situation away with his hand. “They love that macho bullshit down here. Never get any respect without it. Trust me.”

  The inner compound was so well groomed, Felicity thought of it as landscaped. The lawn was even and the trees placed for a pleasing appearance. A barracks-type brick structure stood to the right of the main path. To the left stood a tall Victorian style house, also of brick, with huge windows and gables. It looked out of place in this tropical paradise, standing a quarter mile or so in front of the bay.

  “Not sure why, but the house seems familiar,” Morgan said. “Gives me the creeps.”

  “Did you ever read ‘The Fall of the House of Usher’ in your younger days?” Felicity asked.

  “Yeah,” Morgan said with a grin. “This is the house on the cover.”

  To the left of the house stood a long carport. Morgan pulled his leased Land Rover in between two others. As they stepped out, they saw a flurry of activity at the house. The front door burst open, and Bastidas marched forth like an emperor, attended by two men in waiting. Morgan shifted in his seat.

  “Not looking forward to this.”

  “We’ve already agreed how we’ll play it out,” Felicity said. “Just let me take the lead, okay?”

  “Word has only just now reached me of your coming, my friends,” Bastidas said in his high-pitched voice. He wore a white outfit identical to the one they had seen him in last. Felicity wondered how many men she knew who could carry off wearing a cape. This man did it. They shook hands, standing in the glare of Bastidas’ brilliant smile.

  “I have awaited your arrival anxiously,” Bastidas said. “These two will take your luggage to your rooms. Of course, you’ll stay in the main house with me. Have you had lunch? On the plane? Good. I imagine you’re anxious to check out our security measures. And of course, you’ll want to see the project itself. Worn out from your travels? No, I thought not, hardy creatures like yourselves.”

  Locking his eyes on Felicity, Bastidas paused for a breath and lowered his voice. “My dear, you look so much lovelier in red hair. Is this your natural color? That was a dirty trick you pulled on me in California, eh? Taught me a good lesson, though. No hard feelings, eh? You only did to me what I did to others.”

  “I’m so glad you feel that way,” Felicity said, offering her own glittering smile. “I brought this by way of a peace offering.” From her pocket she produced a coin and flipped it through space. Bastidas plucked it out of the air. It was his own Brasher’s doubloon. As soon as he recognized it, he threw back his head and laughed hard.

  “This does indeed close the book on that episode,” Bastidas said. “Now, we all have things to do, but you must come with me to witness the afternoon entertainment. My personal bodyguard will give a demonstration of his skills.”

  “Not that clown we met in the hotel room?” Morgan asked, drawing a cautioning look from Felicity.

  “Varilla? No, he has a talent for hurting people b
ut he is the second string, as you Americans say. Now Mister Herrera, he is something special. Come to the back of the house. You will see why my person is never really in danger.”

  -9-

  The arena was a horseshoe shaped pit carved out of the shore, open to the Atlantic Ocean. A mild but detectible odor of decay made Felicity crinkle her nose. She imagined water must seep in at high tide, making it a bog right beside the house. The semicircle, nearly forty feet across, had sides about six feet high. Felicity counted nearly sixty men in fatigues sitting around the arena’s edge, trying to get in a position to see down into it. She and Morgan found a spot on the spongy earth and sat. A flunky placed a folding chair at the center of the horseshoe’s curve for Bastidas. It was the best spot for observation.

  “Any idea what’s going on?” Felicity asked.

  “None,” Morgan said. “I see a pretty big cage down there and a round wicker basket. Maybe this Herrera does magic.”

  As Morgan spoke, the crowd hushed. A figure stepped to the arena’s edge and dropped inside. To Felicity, the man was a caricature, from head to toe. His head was square, although it bore the same Latin features as the others around her. He wore his straight black hair fairly short and slicked back with grease. This was in contrast to the men around her, who all seemed to grow their hair long. He wore a thick mustache which went straight across his upper lip, then arced down on either side of his mouth almost to his chin. His skin seemed a little ruddier than the others there, and his dark brown eyes were bloodshot.

  The man in the pit moved with an arrogant stride. He was as big as a professional football halfback, maybe bigger. He wore a simple, natural color polo shirt that looked more like an additional layer of skin someone had painted on him. His pants were leopard skin and tight enough to leave no doubt about his gender. They came down to mid calf, where the thongs of his sandals met them, only they were not really sandals, but more like moccasins with straps. He looked incredibly muscular, and in that outfit, an ounce of fat would stand out.