Treaty Violation (9 page)

Willie nodded. Daisy licked her lips and winked.

“Once my pilot is circling over your boat, you’ll wire five million to my account, at which time I’ll instruct my pilot to drop the well-wrapped bundles that float.”

Willie nodded again. Daisy tugged her scarf.

Nicholas stood to leave. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time. I’ll call you—”

“Mr. Lowe,” Willie said, “are you an adventurous man?”

Nicholas sat. “I like a good adventure now and then.”

“That’s good,” Willie said, deep in thought. “Tyler didn’t seem the adventurous type.” He looked at Daisy for her opinion.

Daisy exhaled a cloud of smoke and shook her head. “Mr. Broadman was a very serious man. Unlike you, Mr. Lowe, you seem the adventurous type.”

“Tyler was under a lot of stress,” Nicholas said.

“He wasn’t Helena’s type, either,” Willie said.

Daisy concurred. “We come to Panama frequently, you see. We knew Helena before she met Tyler. She lived on the wild side.”

“Perhaps she decided to settle down,” Nicholas said.

Willie shook his head. “Not Helena. She kept partying, even after the overdose and rape. I guess they were just too different. She was from a different social stratum.”

Nicholas didn’t like the sound of that. “Tyler was a successful guy,” he said. “I’m sure they were perfect for each other.”

“He had to work for it,” Daisy said. “She didn’t. The Hernandez family is loaded. That was the difference. If you ask me, Helena was with Tyler because he didn’t try to control her, unlike her rich Latino boyfriends.”

Nicholas mechanically checked his watch, not pleased with where the conversation was going. “It’s been a pleasure, but I really should be going. I’ll see you on Saturday.”

Minister of Foreign Affairs Victor Hernandez sat on
the chair facing away from the hotel window, legs crossed, ready for the decisive moment. “Gentlemen,” he murmured, gesturing to the empty sofa, envisioning his two recruits, “before I outline my plan, let me offer you a drink.” He stood and adjusted the bottle of scotch, the bucket of ice, and the three tumblers, and then slapped the surface of the wet bar. Everything was perfect. He walked to the window and rested his hands on the ledge as he looked outside. The unsuspecting citizens of Panama had no idea he was about to make history—here, inside a hotel suite.

“Damn!” he yelled and closed the curtains to prevent anyone from seeing him. He’d made no mistakes up to this point. He’d paid cash for the room. No credit cards, no trace. He’d scheduled a meeting with the Peruvian ambassador in the lobby bar to establish an alibi. He then took the elevator to the twelfth floor and walked down the stairs to the eighth floor.

“Damn!” He dropped to his knees and felt under the furniture. He’d forgotten to check for bugs! Tyler wouldn’t have been pleased with his oversights. He might have made a serious mistake, but at least the spies
listening in couldn’t record the meeting if he found the bug now. “Ouch!” he cried when his fingers slid across an exposed staple under the couch.

Sheena, his gorgeous assistant, stepped out of the bathroom wearing a skintight cantaloupe colored dress. “What are you doing?”

He jumped to his feet. “Nothing. I dropped my…watch.” He followed her eyes down to his finger and grabbed his handkerchief to absorb the blood. “Just a scratch,” he said.

Sheena looked bewildered and approached him. Her eyes seduced him as she hugged him and kissed his neck.

“You should go now.” He led her to the door. “Remember, this is our secret.”

“Of course, Minister Hernandez,” she said, “I never tell anyone about our sex life. Your wife would get very upset.”

Hernandez shook his head in amusement. He looked at the disheveled sheets in the bedroom and pulled the door shut. The plan also had been a perfect opportunity for an afternoon tryst. “I mean being in this room with me.” He held her and looked into her eyes. “Listen to me carefully,” he said. “We weren’t here today, understand?”

Sheena nodded nervously.

He kissed her forehead. “Good, now—”

Two knocks interrupted him.

“Listen to me carefully,” he whispered to her, “you’re my assistant. You’re here helping me with some important business matters.”

Sheena nodded knowingly, probably because it was true.

Two more knocks made his heart race. He cleared his throat. “Be right there,” he called. He reached for the doorknob and smiled at Sheena until she smiled back.

“Welcome, Colonel Dupree,” Hernandez said, impressed to see the military man wearing a gray business suit, although it could have used some tailoring. “Come in,” he said and gestured to Sheena. “My assistant, Sheena, was just on her way out.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Sheena,” Dupree said, assessing her body with a grin.

Hernandez gestured to the couch. “Have a seat, Colonel.”

“Mind if I use your bathroom?” Dupree asked.

“Of course,” Hernandez said and gestured to the door. “I’ll call you later,” he whispered to Sheena with a wink and closed the door. “I’m glad you could make it, Colonel—oh, wait!”

Dupree lifted his hand from the doorknob. “What?”

“The bathroom,” Hernandez said, “is over here.” He opened the other door and gestured inside. “I’ll pour us a drink,” he added.

Hernandez waited for the bathroom door to close before hustling into the bedroom. An American was involved, so he had to run things differently. The gringos didn’t understand the mistress concept. Two knocks interrupted him as he pulled the sheets flat.

“Is somebody here?” Dupree asked from the bathroom.

Hernandez scurried to the front door. He pulled Manuel Espinosa
inside without a greeting and looked both ways to ensure no one had followed him.

“Good to see you, too,” Manuel said sarcastically and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “I hope this is important.”

Hernandez gestured to the couch. “Please, have a seat.” He took a deep breath to calm his nerves as Manuel sat and lit a cigarette. He focused his thoughts on the meeting, but the opening of the bathroom door broke his concentration.

Dupree looked at Manuel. His eyes narrowed as he finished drying his hands. “Who the hell invited him?”

“Please,” Hernandez said, “have a seat, Colonel.”

Dupree sat on the couch, leaving an empty cushion between him and Manuel.

Hernandez sat in his chair, which he’d positioned strategically to control the meeting, and crossed his legs. “Gentlemen, you’re probably wondering why I called you here today.” The plan was under way. He was the Minister of Foreign Affairs. His confidence returned. “Have you ever heard the expression, my enemy’s enemy is my friend?”

The recruits nodded.

“We have a common enemy,” Hernandez continued, “someone we can each profit from destroying.”

“I doubt he and I have anything in common,” Dupree said, looking down his nose at his couch companion.

Manuel shook his head in disgust. “Cowboy.”

Unfazed, Hernandez gestured to the wet bar. “Let me offer you a
drink.” He’d expected animosity, but the plan would unify them. He filled the tumblers with ice and scotch. Dupree and Manuel joined his silent toast.

Manuel set his drink down. “What’s this all about?”

“Cesar Gomez,” Hernandez said, enunciating both names.

Dupree nodded knowingly and lifted his drink.

Manuel didn’t look convinced.

“I don’t have to tell you what he’s done to my life,” Hernandez continued. Two people he’d loved dearly, Helena and Tyler—dead. “I know you want him behind bars,” he said to Dupree.

“I want him in an electric chair,” Dupree clarified.

“I also know your views on Panama,” Hernandez said. “We’re pragmatic men. We believe in order and stability. We know that—”

“What the hell is this about?” Manuel interrupted.

“You, however,” Hernandez said to Manuel confidently, unfazed, “probably don’t consider Cesar an enemy. In fact, I know you work for him.”

Manuel scoffed. “I’m a business consultant,” he said, then looked at Dupree and shook his head in disgust. “I don’t deal drugs.”

“You work for a cocaine trafficker,” Dupree said

“Gentlemen,” Hernandez said, “allow me to patch up your differences. Colonel Dupree, can you confirm that the operation to arrest Cesar Gomez was put on hold?”

Dupree groaned. “They called it off after Tyler Broadman was murdered. No offense,” he said apologetically, with a deferential gesture to Hernandez, “but his murder should make us turn up the heat, not cancel the damn operation.”

Manual leaned forward. “What operation?”

“I agree,” Hernandez said, putting Manuel on hold. “I propose we continue the operation.” He gestured to them with a circular motion, then leaned forward and looked them in the eyes. “Are you with me?”

There, he’d said it—no turning back. Tyler had asked him a similar question almost one year before when he asked him to spy for the
CIA
. With hindsight, his acceptance had been hasty. He would have said
yes eventually, but Tyler had made him feel it was now or never. This time, however, he was the spy, and this was his operation.

“The operation might have been put on hold,” Dupree said, “but I’ve dedicated every asset I have to interdict Cesar’s cocaine shipments.”

Hernandez grinned. “With the right information, Colonel, you won’t have to search for them.” He looked at Manuel. “We’ll know where they are. Isn’t that right?”

Manual lifted his hands defensively. “Wait a minute. Cesar doesn’t tell me that kind of information. You’re out of your mind.”

“But you could get that kind of information,” Dupree said, warming to the idea. He gulped his drink and grinned like a cat with a mouse under its paw.

“I’m sure he could,” Hernandez said confidently. Dupree certainly had intelligence sources but probably no one like Manuel.

“No way,” Manuel said. “If he suspects anything, he’ll kill me. He doesn’t fuck around.” He leaned back and folded his arms. “Why should I risk my life for you two?”

Hernandez chuckled to himself. He’d anticipated Manuel’s response! Panama wasn’t a player on the world stage, and his position as Minister of Foreign Affairs up to this point had been a pathetic string of compromises. For once, though, he was going to dictate the rules. A surge of energy rushed through him as he prepared to make a man bend against his will. The sensation of power was euphoric!

“Manuel,” Hernandez said, “your rice business relies on tariffs to prevent competition from imports.”

Manuel shook his head in disbelief.

“I wonder what would happen if those tariffs were reduced,” Hernandez added and rubbed his chin, “or even eliminated?”

Manuel jabbed an accusing finger at Hernandez. “I employ thousands of people in Panama. If you destroy me, you’ll destroy them. That would be political suicide.”

“The issue is on the agenda for the next economic summit,” Hernandez said, proud of the perfect timing. “I’m sure the panel will weigh my opinion heavily.”

“Look on the bright side,” Dupree said with a grin. “Consider it an opportunity to eliminate a corrupt Colombian piece of shit from your country.”

“He’ll kill me,” Manuel said and puffed his cigarette nervously.

“Listen to my plan,” Hernandez said. “We’ll destroy a few of his cocaine shipments and wipe him out financially. Without money, he can’t manipulate the legal system.”

“Or we kill the son of a bitch,” Dupree said. “Our people will protect you,” he promised Manuel, “at least until Cesar is behind bars or dead. We’ll even put you on our payroll.”

Hernandez tensed up. Manuel was a millionaire who loathed cowboy Americans. Dupree shouldn’t have spoken without doing his homework.

“Only a scum would spy for the Americans,” Manuel said.

Hernandez gulped his scotch. He didn’t consider himself a scum
for spying for the Americans. He didn’t feel patriotic, but the calculus of his decision was complex. “Well then, consider yourself my employee.”

“I’ll consider that,” Manuel said, “but I won’t be a CIA spy.”

“I don’t work for the
CIA
,” Dupree said.

“Keep your money,” Manuel said and lit another cigarette.

“I’ll accept that as a yes,” Hernandez said authoritatively.

Manuel exhaled a smoke cloud and rubbed his forehead. “Cesar is getting to be a pain in the ass.” He looked up. “Why not? Let’s get him.”

“You’re doing the right thing,” Hernandez said and lifted his glass. “Colonel Dupree, Manuel, here’s to a good team.”

“No more bullshit about rice tariffs,” Manuel said.

Hernandez shook his head assuredly.

Manuel leaned forward to speak, suddenly a team player. “Cesar’s next shipment is leaving tomorrow night.”

“When?” Hernandez asked. This was too good to be true!

“I don’t know,” Manuel said, “but I’ll find out tomorrow. He’s working with a new guy, but I didn’t get his name.”