Treaty Violation

Treaty Violation

A Novel

Anthony C. Patton

T
he World

as Story

For Doranellys, Daniel, Anthony & Alex

Copyright © 2012 by Anthony C. Patton

All rights reserved.

Published by The World as Story

Revised edition.

First edition published in 2002 as Delphi Justice by Atreus Publishing.

Second edition published in 2007 as Treaty Violation by The World as Story.

Treaty Violation

Panama City, Panama, 1999

Tyler Broadman gripped the steering wheel
as his silver
BMW
zipped across the Bridge of the Americas. Below, buoys lit the entrance of the Panama Canal like a runway. Impatient with the static on the radio, he poked the buttons until he found a merengue song and glanced in the rearview mirror to scrutinize the empty road behind him.

Tyler wiped the sweat off his forehead, turned up the air conditioner another notch, and took the first exit for Veracruz Beach. The tires spit up gravel as he compensated for taking the turn too fast. According to the digital clock on the dashboard, the meeting was only minutes away. He was never late, even now. Once off the ramp, the streetlights ended, and the road plunged into darkness. He blinked repeatedly to prime his night vision and slalomed the potholes along the winding road.

He maneuvered a sharp corner as the Pacific Ocean came into view, then dimmed the headlights and slowed the car. The tires sank into the sand as he pulled off the road and parked in front of a thatched roof hut with a rusted Coca-Cola sign hanging awry. He flashed the headlights, turned off the radio, and lowered the window. The purr of the engine and the lapping waves summoned him to sleep. From his shirt pocket, he removed a photograph of his late fiancée, Helena Hernandez, held it up to his nose, and smelled the lingering fragrance of violet scented perfume. Her radiant face smiled back at him, her beauty captured for eternity.

A man finally emerged from the shadows of the hut and walked to the car. Tyler leaned his head out the window. “Does this road go to the international airport?”

“No, but there are many beach resorts,” the man replied.

Right answer.

Nestor, a lanky Panamanian wearing jeans and a Yankees jersey, scanned the area as if looking for someone hidden in the shadows. His eyes slewed left to right as he leaned over to look inside the car. “Do you have the money?”

“You said your plane was ready,” Tyler said.

Nestor stood up and shook his head, breathing rapidly. “I need five thousand dollars to fix my plane, or, or I can’t fly tomorrow!”

“Calm down,” Tyler said. “I want you to fly this shipment. You’re my best pilot.”

Nestor flashed a reluctant smile.

“Promise me your plane will be ready to fly tomorrow.”

Nestor nodded and looked inside the car, a cold flame flickering in his eyes.

“Where’s the money?” he asked.

Tyler leaned over and removed a stack of cash from the glove box. Before he could lean back, Nestor dropped a folded piece of paper onto his lap.

“What’s this?” Tyler set the money on the passenger seat, then unfolded the piece of paper and turned on the dome light to read:

You murdered Helena!

You murdered Helena!

You murdered Helena!

You murdered Helena!

You murdered Helena!

Tyler swallowed hard when he heard the distinct click of a cocked revolver behind his head. He instinctively reached for the gun under the front seat, but leaned back when he found that only emptiness resided in his heart.

He looked at the photograph of Helena with tears in his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he said and closed his eyes as Nestor fired a bullet into his head.

Washington, D.C., 1999

Nicholas Lowe groaned when he saw a manila folder
stamped “
Top Secret
” with his name printed on it. The memo on his desk had said to report to a Crisis Action Team meeting ASAP, not what he wanted to deal with on a Monday morning with deadlines and a bad cup of coffee from the CIA cafeteria. He’d adjusted nicely to his job at the Office of Russian and European Analysis, but the
CIA
had a fetish for spies with regional experience and had reassigned him “temporarily” to the Office of Asian Pacific, Latin American, and African Analysis—the rice and beans division.
Latin America was one part of the world he wanted to forget, but
the tide was strong.

Nicholas raised an inquisitive eyebrow and admired the dozen red roses resting in a crystal vase as the secretary hung up the phone. He couldn’t hold back a grin when she presented a cordial smile and folded her hands.

“Good morning, Ms. Peterson,” he said and slapped the folder. “This would be mine, I assume?”

That twinkle in her eyes was reminiscent of his mother’s—or of a widowed aristocrat with a fancy for young men.
Her red dress with white polka dots exuded more youth than her frosted hair, but her spirit was forever young, especially among the
SUV
Beltway Bureaucrats.

“There’s only one Nicholas Lowe,” she said, “and it does have your name on it.”

Bad news: someone had taken the time to print his name on the folder, which meant this assignment might not be so “temporary” after all.

She looked at the roses and blushed.

“Please call me Louise, Mr. Lowe. I insist.”

Nicholas admired her distinguished air and smelled the fragrant flowers.

“Your Italian lover must be in town,” he said and teasingly reached for the card.

Louise snatched it and gestured to the group of people in the corner cubicle. “The team is waiting for you, Mr. Lowe.”

Nicholas glanced at his watch. “This should be entertaining.” A good cup of coffee really would have helped. “Thank you,” he added and grabbed the folder. “I’ll make myself at home.” He started walking and glanced back. “Please call me Nicholas, Ms. Peterson,” he added with a wink. “I insist.”

“Welcome home, Nick,” she said with a sigh.

Tom Langford and three
lovely ladies stood when Nicholas entered the conference room. Tom wore a gray suit with black polished shoes, the professional analyst look—but not stiff, as his Hispanic roots could attest. As a case officer, Nicholas could get away with khaki slacks and a navy blue sport coat, tie optional.

“I hope you’re not standing for me,” Nicholas said and gestured for the ladies to sit. He set the manila folder on the desk and passed his gaze over Tom as if he were a stranger. “Just kidding,” he added and stood to hug his dumbfounded amigo. “How the hell are you?”

“Hanging in there,” Tom said. “For those of you who don’t know, Nicholas and I go way back. He’s a regional expert, which is why I selected him for this team.”

“So I have you to blame for this?” Nicholas smiled as they sat, but he was serious. Tom was a nice guy, but he shouldn’t have used his senior executive pay grade status to have him assigned to this team, not without giving him the chance to decline.

Pleasantly enough, the three ladies, probably recent college
graduates
, wore silk blouses, skirts, and nylons. The Latina to his left exuded femininity. The East Coast Ivy League type next to her probably attenuated her
IQ
to appease insecure men. Finally, the Asian’s elegant posture belied her cold, analytical stare. The alchemy of their perfumes induced an oriental rhythm in his heart. Things were looking up.

Tom cleared his throat. “I wanted to begin by saying welcome, at least to those of you who are on the team. Some of you are new to the world of analysis; this experience will probably be baptism by fire hose. The Peru-Ecuador border dispute is hot again. We were tasked by the Director of Intelligence, the DI, to provide daily assessments.” He gestured to Nicholas. “We’re here until they sign a peace treaty, and that’s that.”

Nicholas checked his watch. “Yes, well,
that’s that
often turns into budget planning for the next fiscal year.” He focused his attention on the attractive ladies. “Peru and Ecuador have been involved in this silly border dispute for decades.” He leaned back and shrugged. “This should prove to be a long and boring spectacle.”

“If that’s really your assessment,” Tom said, surprised, “we look forward to hearing your rationale. I, for one, think the situation is more complex than it used to be.”

Nicholas acknowledged Tom’s comment with a nod. He hadn’t
analyzed the region for years, but even though he considered the border dispute a relatively trivial issue in the big picture, he regretted his revealing sarcasm. Never show your cards.

“Personally,” Nicholas said in the same lighthearted tone, gesturing to the ladies, “I think we should send a few suits down there to lay down the law. We make the terms and impose a solution. Problem solved.”

Tom smiled, but it was clear he didn’t concur with Nicholas’ assessment. “Why don’t we humor ourselves for now and see whether we can find a lasting solution that takes into consideration the broader historical context.”

Nicholas acknowledged Tom as silence set in.

“We were told you’re a case officer,” the lovely Latina to his
left broke the silence with a submissive arch of the eyebrows.

Nicholas nodded nonchalantly.

“What can you tell us about working in the field?” Ivy League asked enthusiastically.

Tom cleared his throat impatiently. “I’m sure Nicholas would be glad to discuss his field work later.” He tapped his pen and smirked. “Besides, what’s it been, ten years?”

Nicholas leaned forward to whisper to the ladies. “I’ll tell you some stories later if Peru and Ecuador drag this thing out. It looks like we’ll be getting cozy.”

“Actually,” the Latina said, “I only stopped by to visit.”

“We were advised to meet people from operations,” the Asian said. “Our team has only four people.” She gestured to Ivy League and Tom. “The folder you have includes all the relevant background information.”

Nicholas stood with the Latina. This assignment was getting worse by the minute.

“Pleasure to meet you,” the Latina said and shook hands with Nicholas. “I’m Mitzi. Stop by the Central America desk any time. I’d love to hear more about your work in the field.”

“Come back and bother us anytime,” Nicholas said as she departed, perfect ass and all.

Louise entered the conference room.

“Did you receive more flowers, Ms. Peterson?” Nicholas asked.

“Are we blending in nicely, Mr. Lowe?” she asked.

“Just another day at the sweatshop.”

“Perhaps not,” Louise said and handed him a yellow sticky. “Janette called. K would like to see you, at your soonest convenience.”

Nicholas’ heart raced. The oriental rhythm dissipated. The name K stirred a reservoir of dormant emotions. His mentor, the Deputy Director for Operations (
DDO
), was requesting his presence.
Why?
He resisted a temptation to answer that question, then reached deep within to sculpt a mask of indifference.

“This shouldn’t take long,” he told Tom.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Louise said as he passed by.

“Hello, Nickie,”
Janette said with her famous raspy voice as he approached the desk. The paternalistic federal smokeless policy had forced her to “step out of the office for a minute” when temptation humbled her best intentions.

“Good morning, Janette,” Nicholas said. “The rumor is you found a new man.”

She spoke into the intercom and looked up, guilty as charged.

“K
will see you now.”

Nicholas stood tall. “You must tell me who he is, or I’ll be torn by jealousy.”