Treaty Violation (24 page)

“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.”

“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!

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.”

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.

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.