Treaty Violation (6 page)

“That must be Manuel,” Cesar said. “Tell him to meet me in the study.”

Eddy gulped his drink and hustled to the entrance.

“Come here, ladies,” Cesar said. “We have a guest.” Adriana and Maria slipped on translucent blouses and walked over. “Who do you love?” he asked.

They kissed either cheek and escorted him to the penthouse. The touch of their hands sent a chill up his spine. Unfortunately, the scent of the coconut tanning oil coating their divine bodies diluted his ardor.

Helena Hernandez had smelled of coconut oil the day she died.

“Ladies,” Cesar continued, “you remember I told you I was looking for a house? I think I found the perfect place in the interior—quiet, tranquil, just the three of us. What do you think?”

The ladies looked at each other and shrugged.

“Make it a Monday,” Maria said. “We don’t want to miss any fun here in the city.” She tugged Cesar’s arm. “And bring some cocaine. If we’re going to be locked up in the middle of nowhere, I want to be high.”

“That’s for sure,” Adriana seconded. “And don’t forget—our daily rate is higher for vacations.”

Cesar laughed to himself. His ladies were always angling for an increase in their allowance!

“I don’t think you two understand,” Cesar said. “I was thinking we could move there, for good, just the three of us.”

“No way,” Maria scoffed. “We’d die of boredom.”

“Yeah,” Adriana agreed, “no thanks.”

“I’d never let you two get bored,” Cesar assured them. “We’ll go for a few days. If you don’t like it, we’ll come back.”

Women thought the world revolved around their happiness, which was why they needed men, like Cesar, to keep them in line. They would fall in love with the house after one weekend, he was sure of it. He reached down and
slapped their shapely asses.

“Take a shower and get some sleep so we can party tonight.”

“Actually,” Maria said, “we’re going out with some friends. Remember?”

Cesar had taken them away from the world of topless dancing, but they sometimes had reunions with their old friends.

“We’ll stop by tomorrow,” she continued. “You promised to take us shopping.”

Adriana kissed his cheek. “We saw some beautiful clothes today,”
she said, adding seductively, “very sexy clothes.”

Cesar didn’t remember making any promises. He couldn’t remember everything. Who could?

“I have a meeting tonight anyway. Big business.” He squeezed their asses.

Adriana rubbed his shoulder. “We’re a little short on cash.”

Cesar laughed. Women had no fiscal discipline: give them money, and it was gone before you could say blowjob! He reached into his pocket and removed a wad of twenties. He handed half to Maria, because she seemed the more disciplined one. Adriana grabbed the other half. “Ah, yeah, have a good time.”

“Bye,” they said in unison and strolled into the penthouse. Maria apparently told Adriana a joke because they laughed hysterically.

Cesar entered the study
and admired his vast library, mostly books with the word “revolution” in the title. He’d read all of them—well, almost—the seeds of his brilliant philosophy. Unlike most revolutionary theories, his wasn’t based on intangible dialectical social forces. No, his was the result of an ingenious insight.

Throughout the centuries, geniuses had discovered different facets of the Truth. Their primary error had been confusing physical evolution for mental evolution. Good materialists all, they’d assumed the Spirit of their philosophical system represented flesh and blood people in space and time. However, as Cesar had discovered, the Spirit
represented the evolving inner world of individuals, not the external world of social organizations. Therefore, the material manifestation of the other system—civilization—had to be destroyed so the individual could return to his roots and express himself naturally. Cesar’s destiny was to reveal this Truth and save humanity—from itself.

He sat in the leather chair behind his desk and gazed at the rifle hanging on the wall, the one he’d fought with in the jungles of Colombia. The Truth had set him free. He understood the masses had no reason to feel ashamed for being poor. Cruel and systematic exploitation by corrupt groups was the cause of poverty. For centuries, the exploiters perpetuated the lie that a person’s lot in life was the result of a natural hierarchy. He saw through this conspiracy. Vicious groups like The Order enslaved the masses and created unjust social systems that perpetuated their grip on power. Armed with this knowledge, Cesar joined the leftist revolutionary forces. Initially, despite the violence, the war was glorious. Eventually, however, he learned a dark truth: many revolutionary leaders had transmogrified into the power-hungry despots he originally had set out to destroy.

The first indication of this unfortunate transition was the alliance with the drug cartels. Cesar wasn’t opposed to this on principle—as long as the imperialists snorted the cocaine and the profits supported the revolution—but he opposed targeting local villagers, the people they were supposed to be liberating. Once-beautiful Colombian women had resorted to prostitution to support their disgraceful habit. The second indication was the attacks on innocent villages. People who didn’t pay enough “taxes” to the cause were killed or forced to live like slaves. Their dead bodies were shown to the media and made to look like the work of the rightwing paramilitaries. Cesar’s career in the jungle ended when he refused to wipe out a village. He couldn’t kill his own people.

Shattered and heartbroken, he started his own revolution. Keeping in mind the Anglo-Saxon fear of mind-altering substances, he began transporting cocaine to the United States and Europe in the hope of unraveling the social fabric of those oppressive cultures. Thus began his world crusade. The rifle now hung on his wall as a reminder that he was always willing to fight for a just cause, if one should ever present itself.

A knock on the door eased Cesar back to reality.

“Anyone home?” Manuel Espinosa asked. He wore a white linen shirt—the top three buttons undone, with enough chest hair to mow—and tan slacks. He sat and lit a cigarette with an attitude so typical of someone from wealth. He exhaled the smoke and posed dramatically, like someone from television.

“I saw Adriana and Maria,” he said with a smirk. “They looked joyful.”

“Of course,” Cesar said confidently. “They were with me,” he added, not pleased with Manuel’s tone. He hated to associate with the local capitalists, but Manuel was a great source of information, although he never would have survived in the jungles of Colombia. Wealth had made Manuel lazy. He had broad shoulders and a face that women raved about, but money had chipped away his moral convictions.

Cesar offered a glass of Aguardiente.

Manuel nodded approvingly. “Any word on your next shipment?”

Cesar nodded assuredly. “I have a meeting tonight.” Manuel didn’t
know about his special deal with the Americans.

“What’s his name?” Manuel asked. “I’ll check him out.”

“Not necessary,” Cesar said.

Manuel set his cigarette down and sipped his drink. “The word on the street is you ordered the hit on Tyler Broadman.”

Cesar leaned back. He expected that rumor to surface eventually. He respected Tyler and stood to gain nothing by killing him. No one would believe it, of course, so he’d become the prime suspect. “I had nothing to do with that.”

“They’re saying he wanted to kill you for what you did to Helena
Hernandez,” Manuel said. “The
DEA
—”

“Fuck the
DEA
!” Cesar yelled and pounded his fists. How dare anyone accuse him of killing Helena! He could never do such a thing. Anyone who knew him could attest to that. He jabbed an accusing finger. “I’m untouchable, you hear? No one fucks with Cesar Gomez. And who the hell is this
they
you keep referring to?”

“I have friends,” Manuel said calmly and refilled his glass. “That’s what you pay me for—information, no?”

Cesar mumbled an apology.

“I’m watching out for you.” Manuel crushed his cigarette in the
ashtray. “You should invest some money in legitimate businesses. I have a few ideas if you’re willing to listen.”

“Legitimate?” Cesar scoffed. “You’d better think twice if you think Cesar Gomez is going to join this consumer culture in its prolonged state of adolescence.”

Manuel lit another cigarette and took a deep puff, not phased. “You can’t live like this forever. First, you pay for your women.”

Cesar restrained himself. Paying beautiful women an allowance
was normal. Husbands did it all the time.

“Second, you’re a loner and you extort people. Why don’t you settle down with a nice wife and have some little Cesars?” He grimaced with amusement. “Maybe not.”

Cesar glared at him. He would settle down and start a family, but he would continue his revolution in new and exciting ways. He had yet to define what that meant, but he had confidence in himself and in his vision for the future.

“Cesar Gomez knows what he’s doing,” he said. “I’ll run drugs, hookers, whatever it takes to smear the capitalists in their own slime. Do you think I left the glorious revolution in the jungles of Colombia to become a vulgar bourgeois? No offense, my friend, but you live a boring life running your little businesses.”

Manuel puffed his cigarette. “I’m worried about you, that’s all.”

“Cesar Gomez is in control. I’ll continue to live this life, doing my
part to destroy the imperialists. See if you can get that word on the street!” He stood and gestured to the door. “Thank you for stopping by. I should have a shipment ready in a few days. Get me all the information you can on what air and maritime assets the Americans and Colombians will have available.”

“Sure thing,” Manuel said with a wink.

Cesar couldn’t hold back a smile as he strolled outside to the patio. He could have won an Oscar for that performance. Three more cocaine shipments and his life would change forever—a numbered Swiss account and a private beach house on a Caribbean island.

His elation ended, however, when he rested his hands on the ledge and looked down at the busy street below, where Helena had fallen to
her death. The last thing he remembered, she’d agreed to stop using cocaine—right here, on his patio, face to face with him on that fateful day. He removed the photograph of Helena from his shirt pocket, admired it, and raised it to his nose to smell the lingering violet scented perfume.

Eddy approached from behind, tapped him on the shoulder, and handed him a stack of papers. “I got the information you asked for about Mr. Nicholas Lowe.”

Cesar cleared his throat and examined the pages. “Let’s see…El Salvador…yes, yes…well, well, well.” He looked at Eddy and smiled. “Good work, Eddy. It seems the famous Nicholas Lowe is back in the game.”

Nicholas Lowe departed the El Panama hotel
. The night air was perfect. The enlisted hangout, My Place, was still active. The bar had been bombed in
1989
after masses of Panamanian women started dating the gringos who’d invaded their country, ushering in a saga of broken promises and single mothers.

An ethnic medley of taxi drivers with surprisingly colloquial English—“Hey, man, you want a beautiful girl?”—offered free trips to the gentlemen’s clubs, and undoubtedly charged gringos twice the regular fare for respectable destinations. Nicholas assured them he didn’t require their services. He wanted to enjoy the walk, to acclimate himself.

Garbage littered the street where an elderly woman was cooking shish kebobs on a tinfoil-lined hibachi. The coals weren’t glowing and
the marinated beef was still raw, but the gray smoke acted as a perfume for the city’s stink. By three in the morning, she’d be one of the most popular women on the street.

Past adventures flashed in his mind as he waited for the traffic to clear on Via España. He was amazed more than ten years had passed. He hadn’t honed his case officer skills during that time, but he’d learned a lot by watching the key players use his intelligence reports to construct geopolitical strategies that shaped world events. When the traffic finally cleared, he dashed across the street, strolled past the Citibank building, and turned left on the next road leading up to Josephine’s Elite.

Nicholas stood below the purple and pink neon lights. Many agents had divulged secrets in exchange for bombshells with insatiable lusts for carnal pleasures. He’d used sexual currency on many occasions to satisfy his agents’ peccadilloes. Paying for dancers and hookers was cheaper than wiring money to numbered Swiss bank accounts.

The bouncer frisked him and wished him well. Inside, two beauties rattling promises of sensual satisfaction escorted him to a chair. The white lace lingerie contrasted nicely with their cinnamon skin. He sat in a chair two rows from the stage and opened his arms as they slithered onto his lap. Their perfumes enveloped him, inducing an oriental rhythm in his heart.

“
Si, papi,
” they purred and kissed him on the cheek.

“Two drink minimum,” a waiter said.