Beneath a Panamanian Moon (2 page)

Snelling laughed, too loud and too long.

“So, what's up? Why call me in from the field?” Smith hated aimless chitchat, which made him a great soldier, I guessed, but I couldn't imagine it was a good thing in a spy. But then, he was a different kind of spy.

I heard the smack of papers land on a tabletop. “We have a situation,” Snelling said.

There was silence. I assumed Smith was reading whatever Snelling had tossed his way. After a moment Smith said, “I know both of them. This one's good. That Silver Star should have been a Medal of Honor, and would have been under another commanding officer. The other one, I'm glad the son of a bitch is out of the service. He got good men killed for no good reason.”

“He's in Panama.”

“Really? Great. Nice place for him to die. Maybe something painful.”

“He's managing a resort hotel.”

“Civilian?”

Snelling laughed. “On the outside. But the place is crawling with mercs.”

“So what do we know about the place?”

“We think the hotel is the headquarters for a new private military corporation, a PMC.”

“They're popping up all over the globe, offering so much money for the right skills that it's getting tough keeping the special ops guys in uniform. But what's in Panama?”

“They're training bodyguards and security forces for wealthy Latin American families. That's what we know.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But recently we had a boy come home in a bag.”

“From Panama? Jesus Christ, he die from the clap?”

I heard the scrape of a chair. I looked up from the car and saw a man standing in the third-floor window. It was Snelling, looking down. I hoped he didn't recognize me. He said, “It's a mess down there, Jim. You know things are bad in Colombia.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“With the rebels kidnapping an oil man every goddamn week, the drug war blossoming into a shooting war, and the normal fucked-up politics of the place, we don't need a band of well-armed adrenaline junkies stirring shit up.”

“What with all the terrorist threats, the Canal's got to be a real sphincter tuck for the administration.”

“Roger that. All it would take is a good C-4 charge against one of the locks and we've got nothing but a big goddamn mud bowl.”

“So how does this tie in with the hotel?”

“We don't know. And we'd like to know. Jim, you remember a boy named Winstead?”

“John Winstead? Yeah. I served with him in the Balkans. Boy's a great shot up close, not much for long distances. Perfect for the jungle. Why? He looking for a job?”

“He was the boy in the bag.”

There was a very long stretch of silence. When Smith did speak it was barely loud enough to be picked up. “I didn't want to hear that,” he said.

“He was killed with his own shotgun. What's that sound like to you?”

“He wouldn't let an enemy get close enough,” Smith said. “So I'd look real hard at his friends.”

“That's what we thought.”

“I liked that boy. What can I do?”

“This whole crew is on a long leash. We need you to find out what's up so we can rein the bastards in. There's chatter on some of the South American lines about something big coming on New Year's, but we don't know what and we don't know where. We think it might be Panama. We'd like to rule these guys out if we can, friend or foe.”

“That only gives us eight days. Why not call on some old friends in the area? I'm sure we have a few down there who still have teeth.”

“We're working that end,” Snelling said, “but we need an independent source. Someone on the ground.”

“So you don't trust our old Latin American friends.”

“I didn't say that.”

“But you want the place shut down?”

“I didn't say that, either. All we want is information. Then maybe with a change in management we can turn this op to our advantage.”

I heard Smith light another cigarette. It was his way of stalling, giving himself time to think. “Is Langley behind this?”

“They swear they're not, Jim, and we're inclined to believe them.”

“And you want someone from my crew, someone who's outside the normal channels.”

“Exactly.”

“Do you want someone to gather intelligence,” Smith said, “or someone proficient in wet work?”

There was a long pause.

“I need to know,” said Smith.

“Intelligence is what we need. We're on the other thing.”

“I'm flattered, but why my network?”

“You have someone who's been contacted by this PMC.”

A private military corporation was a relatively new example of American entrepreneurial spirit. In places all over the globe, PMCs were marketing themselves as experts in security. Their personnel were drawn, usually through a personal recommendation, from the ranks of former special ops or psy ops military. Back in the day, you could become a mercenary just by answering an ad in a magazine. Now, you needed a solid résumé and references. Corporations had taken over guns for hire.

I had been hit on twice by PMCs, one recently, but the thought of sleeping in mud and eating animals I normally see in zoos held absolutely no interest for me. I'd turned down both without a second thought.

“And this op of mine, what happened when the PMC made its offer?”

“Said he wasn't interested.” I heard rustling papers. Snelling said, “This is one of yours?”

Smith was silent for a moment and I knew he was looking at the papers. And then he laughed. “This is priceless,” he said. “Just fucking priceless.”

A D.C. cop tapped my window and I just about jumped out of my skin. The cop, a look of deep, existential boredom on his face, spun his hand in a lazy loop, telling me either to roll down my window or that he'd mastered a few very small rope tricks. I took a guess and rolled down the window. “Yes, Officer?”

“You can't park here,” he said.

“I'm waiting for my boss.” I reached into my jacket, slowly, not wanting to spook him, and pulled out my White House credentials. They were phony, of course, but there wasn't a cop in the city that could tell them from the real thing, even side by side.

The cop looked at the ID, and then my face, matching the photo to the flesh. “Who's your boss?”

“I'm sorry, Officer, but that's classified.”

Right away I knew it was the wrong thing to say. Some cops actually get off on that secret stuff. They want to think they're strapping on a firearm every morning and stepping into a city peopled with Sidney Greenstreets and Mata Haris. But a lot of cops resent it, too, because it makes them feel locked out of the big game, and it's tough to figure which ones will play along and which ones won't until you pull it on them.

This one had never heard of Sidney Greenstreet. “Sir, if you don't move your vehicle I'm going to have it towed.”

I didn't want him calling me in. This particular identity was good but, like congressional integrity, it was a mile wide and an inch deep. So I thanked him, rolled around the block, cursing the traffic. Once back in range I heard Smith say, “What happens if things get rough?”

“Can your boy handle himself?”

Smith snorted. “In a roomful of
chicas,
maybe.”

It was suddenly very hot inside the car. I cracked a window.

“Listen, we'll expedite whatever needs to be done,” Snelling said. “The administration is committed to democracy in Latin America, but if the president sees anything even remotely resembling a wild-hair freelance militia, even if most of them are all-American, he'll send in the marines to cut some heads.”

“Déjà vu, huh, Snelling?”

Snelling muttered something I couldn't make out. Then he said, “I appreciate this, Jim, I do.”

“Yeah. Can I go back to work now?”

“Why don't you take a few days, go see Mildred. It's Christmas, Jim.”

“I can't, Mack. I don't have time.”

“At least let me buy you dinner.”

“Thanks, but I've got plans.”

After a short silence, Snelling said, “Okay. But keep in touch, Jim, and let me know. I've got one of my own on the ground who can watch your boy's back, just in case. He's not so good at intel, but there's nobody better if things break ugly.”

“You think it'll get rough?”

Snelling sighed, long and hard. “That depends on your boy.”

CHAPTER TWO

A resort hotel in Panama is looking for an employee with a military background and special skills. My guess is they don't mean busboys who can sew, or chambermaids who can yodel. When Smith got back into the car he said, “So, did you hear?”

I said I did.

“Are you ready?”

“Ready for what? Lunch?” I pulled into traffic, heading east.

“To go.”

“Go where?”

“Where do you think?”

A cab nearly sideswiped us as I pulled up to the light. “I don't know,” I said. “Where?”

“I thought you said you heard?” Smith was starting to get irritated, but not the entertaining kind of irritated.

“I did hear,” I said, “just not everything.” I told him about the cop, and the time it took to circle the block.

“Well, you missed some important stuff, son.”

“I guess I did.”

“A PMC is looking for a former soldier, possibly one with special ops training, who also plays the piano well enough to entertain very important people. Do you have any idea how rare a bird you are, Harper?”

I didn't say anything. I could see where this was going. First he'd appeal to my patriotism. Then he'd haul out that mentor bullshit. Then he'd threaten me.

“Why didn't you tell me you were recruited by a PMC?”

“At the risk of repeating myself, sir, I'm retired. I don't do that stuff anymore.”

“You still should have told me. But all that's beside the point. You'll contact the PMC today and tell them you've reconsidered.”

“But I haven't reconsidered.”

“Look, this is no time to be coy. Your country needs you.”

I got stuck behind another SUV, which sat through most of a green light before I tapped the horn. “Like before? You mean like when they needed me so much they left me treading water in the Mediterranean?”

“That's water over the bridge,” Smith said. “It was a different situation. No boats this time. This time you're going to Panama.”

I shook my head, certain I was hearing things. “You're kidding, right, sir? I heard Snelling say he needed someone with special skills. Now, I may have, at one time, had special skills, but I've let them fall away, sir, to the point where I no longer have those skills. In fact, if the truth were known, I am stunningly unskilled.”

“You play the piano,” Smith said.

“Okay, yes, I play the piano. That is my one skill.”

“Lucky for you, that's the one we need.”

“Who needs?” I turned onto Massachusetts and dodged a dump truck pulling out of the convention center site.

“The hotel in Panama. They are suddenly in need of a piano player. Their last one was…” Smith glanced out his window, mumbling something.

“What?”

Smith sighed, and looked me straight in the mirror. “I said their last piano player was eaten by a shark.”

I swerved around two lobbyists.

“Why don't you pull over somewhere, son. I don't want you to run over anyone influential.”

I ignored a cab honking behind me and pulled to the curb next to more construction. Gray dust settled over the car. Hard hats stared for a moment, but soon returned to standing around a slab that had been freshly poured over historical dirt.

I turned around so I could see Smith straight on, and said, “It's funny how a mirror can distort things. I thought you said their last piano player was eaten by a shark.”

“I did.”

“You're not talking metaphorically, as in ‘his critics were vicious.'”

“No.”

“You're talking about an actual shark, with fins and teeth and the title role in a popular film.”

“Yes, a real shark,” Smith said. He was exceedingly calm, considering the topic.

“Oh,” I said. “Was this an accident?”

“No.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And they have a party planned for New Year's Eve so, of course, they need a piano player. Because the old one was, well—”

“Eaten,” I said.

“Yes. That's where you come in. You have the proper combat arms credentials plus you play piano. Apparently, that is a rare combination.”

“We've established that,” I said. In all the years I've known Smith, I've never heard him dance around an assignment like this, so I started to sweat a bit, and that made me cranky. “Okay,” I said, “I play piano. Yes. But not in Panama. Gracias, but no gracias, Mr. Smith. I'm quite happy here. And, as you may have heard, I'm retired. Now, if you have something in Paris, or New York, that would be different. But Panama, no.”

“It's only for a few days,” Smith said. “Everything goes right, you do your job, you'll be home in two weeks. It'll be more like a vacation, Harper, a Christmas vacation. Panama is very warm this time of year.”

“It's the heat that I'm worried about.” I put the car into gear and pulled back into traffic.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm taking you to your hotel. Then I'm getting ready for a gig.”

“So you refuse to help your country in a time of need, to work at the pleasure of the president?”

“It'll be a disappointment,” I said, “but he'll get over it.”

“Consider your future, son, before you make a decision.”

“Are you saying I can't say no?”

“Not at all,” Smith said. His voice rose half an octave, telling me he was angry. “It's not like we're the mob. We're the goddamn government, boy.”