Clint Faraday Collection C: Murder in Motion Collector's Edition (6 page)

It was time to stop wandering all over the
place with this. It wasn’t a game. He had to organize his thought
and stop doing the random facts bit. That wasn’t working.

They would have to be able to connect him to
something in the past to be worried about him in any way now. What
had happened in the past that they would worry about?

They weren’t shipping laundered cash out.
That was stupid to have ever contemplated. That was done every day
and easily. They weren’t ... the money was secondary or less.

That left the, as Dave called it, fuel. There
weren’t any reactors that produced plutonium in Panamá. Clint knew
enough about nuclears to know that. Those breeder reactors always
got international attention. That left, so far as Clint knew,
uranium. Maybe radium?

Clint didn’t know if there was any uranium in
Panamá. He went to the internet to check it out. Not in sufficient
quantity that had been located.

While he was there he checked on where it was
found and under what conditions. It was found in areas where there
were other heavy metals. Gold, silver, lead, thallium, mercury,
platinum.

There was some mercury in Panamá and a little
gold and more silver. Plenty of lead.

Clint had one case where a lode of lead was
found on the finca of a friend. There was a little silver there,
too. And zinc. Was there uranium? Had anyone even checked?

That was all he could think of that could tie
him into it.

Why would they believe he knew about it if
they found uranium there? Because he had made a show of knowing how
to read sonic mapping and mining procedures in that oil dome that
was actually sulfur?

That was just inside the line of a likely
wrong assumption.

How to bring them out?

He called Armakov. “Do you know what it’s
about? No more bullshit!”

“
Clint? I
... not really. They ... I don’t like the combination coming
together. Feinberg, missiles and a scientist. I find it to be
terribly disturbing that they reacted the way they did. I don’t
know why.”

“
Okay. I
know about Fandrev and Feinberg. What or who are the
others?”

“
Ghenkof
is a sort of shady fringe character in protection and security. He
protects thugs, for the most part. He’s one himself. KGB. Gregor
Ivan Niklev, I can’t figure, other than a possible money man. I
don’t know his background.”

“
I can
find it, I think. I have a source or two.”

“
What is
it about?”

“
I’m not
sure, but it’s very scary.”

“
Let me
know? Facts?”

“
Certainly.” He hung up. It was always abrupt with
Armakov.

Internet again. He knew enough to be able to
find something, he hoped. Gregor Ivan Niklev.

There were nine. Two were engineers, which
might be the basic connection. The others were in different
fields.

What kind of engineers?

Structural and extraction.

Extraction. Extract uranium.

Another search engine came up with seven
names, the extraction engineer not among them. The third and last
one he checked came up with the same seven. The only reason the one
he figured was on the first was his University of Moscow degree
listing. 1974. He would be around 55 years old. He hadn’t excelled
at anything to the point he was noted on the net.

There had to be another unless they found out
about the uranium by accident. Probably a lot of people went around
the areas where heavy metal deposits were found to check the area
with Geiger counters or something. If it was on private property
there was a good chance only one had searched for it wherever it
was found.

How to find out where the lode was?

Time to head for Puerto Armuelles. That would
certainly get someone’s attention!

So. Use a disguise.

What?

The older proper Spanish-looking man got off
the bus and stretched his back, swore mildly and limped around for
a few steps to get circulation going again in his legs. He asked,
in very proper Spanish, where there might be an acceptable hotel
and was directed to Central.

Clint had stayed there many times. This guy
had to be told where it was. A local man, Basilio, said it was the
building across the square. The man pointed his thin black cane at
the building and Basilio nodded. The man thanked him.

He went to the station and requested that
they hold his two large suitcases there until he found lodging.
They said that was the custom.

The man went into a local restaurant and sat
at a back table to take his folding reading glasses from their
leather case to read the menu in the card holder in the center of
the table. He decided to have the pescado aguisada with yuca and
lechuga. He snapped his fingers for the waitress, then apologized
when she came over, explaining that was the custom in Madeira.
Lana, who Clint knew well, said that it was no big deal. Different
people had different customs. He asked what the custom was here.
She said she looked around all the time. When she looked his way,
put his hand up. He thanked her.

The food here was good, as Clint knew. His
disguise was good if Lana or Basilio didn’t see through it. He ate
the meal, left a large propina, and went to the hotel to ask that
they send someone for his luggage, then went to his room. He was
liked for his proper pleasant manner and his obvious respect for
other people and was given one of the best rooms with a balcony
that looked over the parque to the Pacific.

Clint laid on the bed for about an hour, then
went to ask where he might find interest in the town. Jeraldo, at
the desk, said it would depend on what he was looking for. The
muelle was popular, there were the usual collection of bars, there
was a brothel, El Critico, just out of town that was popular and
higher class.

Clint knew the place. As an unaccompanied
Spaniard he would be expected to go to such places. A lot of
information could be gathered there as he knew from former
visits.

He walked out to the pier and chatted with
the very friendly people. He told them he was looking for a place
in Panamá to retire. He found it was a better place than Europe.
The people made the difference. Panamanians were, for the most
part, the most amiable people he had met in his travels over much
of the world. He wanted to live in a place where the people liked
and respected one another. Where the people had time to chat and
exchange experiences. He gave the name of Generoso Morales.

He spent some time on the pier, talking to
several people he knew well. One, Enrique Silva, an Indio from
Bocas, seemed to be interested more than the others in him. When
they were walking back toward the shore Clint asked why.

“
Because
I’m very sure you are a friend I know,” he said in Ngoberé, the
Indio language in Bocas del Toro.

“
I hope I
am a friend. I am honored that you would say so.”

“
Then you
are that friend.”

Clint smiled and nodded.

“
I know
there is a reason for this so I will never let anyone
know.”

Clint nodded again. They were getting close
to a group who were standing near the entrance. Enrique said he was
pleased to have met Sr. Morales and hoped they would meet soon
again and went up the road to the right. Clint nodded and said,
“Buenos!” to the group and headed back toward the hotel.

He strolled around town a bit more, went to
his room and cleaned up and put on another suit, went to the
brothel, El Critico, for a delicious meal and to talk to a number
of the locals. The women there were mostly from Colombia and Clint
paid the forty dollars to spend an hour with one beautiful girl in
the cabins out back, as would be expected of anyone from the
culture in Spain. He was able to learn there were a few Russian
people in town a week or so ago. One of them stayed at a rented
house near the beach. She had gone there once, but didn’t like the
way the man, Ivan, treated her. She wasn’t a dog or cow to be
ordered in and out as her master chose. The girls didn’t like him,
but he paid well.

He went back to the hotel and asked Jeraldo
if he could have a taxi there in the morning early, say 8:30, to
take him around the nearby countryside so he could learn more of
the place. He liked Puerto Armuelles very much. Perhaps he would
retire in the area. A man could do far worse.

No
Bluff

The taxi driver said there wasn’t much along
the road toward Costa Rica other than some fincas and a silver
mine. No one was allowed on the silver mine. The Indio who owned
the property was a very friendly sort who did a lot to help the
locals with medical and education. Everyone called him “amigo.” The
whole family were liked.

Clint said he would like to meet such a
person. Few were of such a nature as to garner praise from the
local transportation suppliers!

“
Oh,
they’re just very good people. Most of the Indios aren’t, but when
you get a good one they’re easily the best people in the world!”
Julio replied.

Clint bit back a reply. That was better than
the usual attitude of many of the Spanish toward the Indios. The
blacks were always denigrating toward them, even when they shared
close family connections.

Clint went in to be introduced to Orlando
Ruiz and family, who he knew very well. They chatted for a few
minutes and told Clint they had a deal with the one operating the
mine that would allow them to do things for the community, which
was part of the Indio culture. They had little personal ownership
and were responsible for the rest of their community simply because
they were part of it. That is what a man’s reason to exist was
about. That was an enormous difference in other cultures that most
couldn’t see. The Indios are part of a community, not someone who
lives in a community.

Clint had made the arrangements with a big
mobster, Paulo Lariez, who ran the mine for these people. He was
now accepted and part of that community. That gave him a real sense
of pride.

The next drive was on out the road and over
almost to Costa Rica, then return to Puerto Armuelles. He didn’t
see anything more that got his interest, though he looked at two
properties the taxi driver said were for sale to stay in
character.

They returned to the town a bit before dark.
Clint made arrangements for the taxi to meet him the following
morning to take him out another road, then went in, cleaned up, had
a good meal at Yola’s, bought a few small items from the vendors
along the street and went back to the brothel.

There were a lot of people at the place.
Gina, a girl Clint knew, came to talk a bit and to offer her
services, but Clint said, at his age, last night made it good for
the week. He bought her a drink and chatted a few minutes. He said
the girl the night before had said that some Russian came in a lot
and that he wanted to treat the girls like slaves so she didn’t
like him. Was that the one she was talking about? Ivan?

He pointed to a large slightly loud stocky
man with longish dirty blonde hair and a moustache. He was smoking
a cigar, which is against the law in Panamá inside a building where
others were present. She made a sour face and said that was Ivan!
She didn’t like him, either – but he paid. Very well. He refused to
abide by the rules. That cigar was enough to make her want to
puke!

Clint grinned and stood. He went to Ivan, who
was trying to pull a girl into his lap.

“
Sir,
take your hands off the lady – and put out that offensive
cigar.”

“
WHAT?!
Who the HELL do you think you are?”

“
I am a
customer who has made an objection to your manner and to that
cigar. There is a law here that says you may not smoke inside a
building that is occupied by other persons. Put it out and conduct
yourself like a human being, not like a pig!”

“
I’ll
wipe the floor with your stupid ass! You don’t tell me what to
do!”

“
Anytime
you feel you may survive such an attempt, feel free to make that
attempt. Meanwhile, you will put out the cigar.”

People were both amused and nervous. This was
some old man confronting a younger and much bigger man Ivan jumped
up and reached to grab Clint – and found a sword cane blade against
his throat. “I’m quite capable of defending myself against
riff-raff of your type. Sit down, put out the cigar and keep your
hands off the employees here.”

He looked uncertain. Clint slightly increased
the pressure on the blade, drawing a drop of blood.

Ivan sat. He put out the cigar. Clint sat
opposite him and studied him.

“
So. Now
we understand one another. We may act like we’re
civilized.

“
I spent
many years in Europe and in the field of protection of certain
parts of the population. I met many of our type there. I learned
how to act like I am also civilized. I managed to retain the skills
such occupation requires. I have had more confrontations than I
care to remember where only one was able to walk away. I am still
here.

“
You are
Czeck?”

“
Siberia.”

“
Ah! A
very cold and forbidding place. I was there only three ... four
times. Some years ago. It is a hard life there.”

Ivan cocked his head to the said. “I can’t
figure you at all! Who sent you? Taylor?”

“
I know
no Taylor. I am merely here on a small vacation and am looking for
a place to retire. I wish to establish a reputation, for the first
time in my life, of being a good person to know and one who is
sensitive to others. You are merely a convenient person to use in
that pursuit. It isn’t personal. I do feel I am, at last, gaining a
more reasonable perspective on life. I find that I actually like
some of the people here. I have never liked anyone before. It is a
confusing and good feeling.”