Piranha Assignment (24 page)

Morgan slid his Browning Hi-power out of its shoulder holster. He switched the gun to his left hand, driving with his right. To hell with plots, conspiracies, the Central Intelligence Agency, and the United States Navy. It was time for the direct approach.

He would take out a tire. He could trust Herrera to bring the Land Rover to a safe stop. Then he would simply coast past and sign them off. Two bullets, two kills. This was Panama, after all. That was how things were done here, had been for decades. America would just have to do without Bastidas' genius, and only an idiot would get into a fair fight with Herrera anyway.

Morgan was not quite close enough for a shot when the white vehicle entered a long right hand curve. Morgan clenched his teeth and gave his four-wheeler a little more gas. Sweat was running down his forehead and the windshield was fogging up, but he could not spare a hand to wipe either of them. He held the gun out, planning to shoot as soon as he came out of the curve.

Up ahead, Morgan saw Bastidas' arm dart out, pointing
left in front of Herrera. He saw the wagon, heaped high with bunches of green bananas, coming slowly in the left lane. One rider, driving one horse. He had time to think “aw, shit!” before Herrera sideswiped the wagon's rear wheel with the Land Rover and drove on. There was a crunch like a box of dry kindling being stepped on. The rear of the wagon spun forward as it turned onto its side. The rider fell behind it. The horse fell in front of it. The mountain of bananas on their long stalks spilled across the road.

It was Morgan's definition of the null option. He was traveling at high speed in a driving rain on a completely blocked dirt road. In five seconds he would crash into the horse, probably killing them both. He could steer off the right side of the road, but that was a sure way to end life as a crash and burn like the MG driver behind him. There was only one survivable choice. Maybe.

Mud-clogged tires screamed in defiance when Morgan locked the steering wheel to the left. The steel beast moved a few feet left before the rear tires broke loose and the whole vehicle turned to slide sideways on the road. Morgan kept his bearings just long enough to reverse the wheel, halting the spin. Then, passenger side first, the Land Rover crashed into the banana mound and almost through the wagon. Morgan's head smacked the dashboard and exploded with pain. The world spun briefly and a black curtain descended over his mind.

With consciousness came nausea. Morgan's teeth clenched against the rising bile. Probable just a mild concussion, he thought. Keeping his eyes closed, he mentally probed for injuries. He found a few minor bruises and some soreness in his right shoulder. He had been lucky. It could easily have been a broken neck.

The room was quiet but for the pacing of a pair of shoes on the deep pile carpet. Smoke from a familiar cigar hung in the air. He tried a slight experimental movement. Nothing. He was immobilized with his arms crossed, hugging himself. He was sitting up against a wall with his legs straight out in front of him, held together. An icy wave rolled up his spine.

Herrera's voice said “He's awake” so Morgan opened his eyes. He was leaning back against the wall in the smoking room. Through the far window he could see the sun high in an overcast sky. It was the next day. The nausea must be from drugs used to keep him asleep all night.

Beside him, Felicity bore a look of controlled anger on her face. Barton sat beyond her, wearing a bored expression. Like Morgan, they were tied in straight jackets, their legs strapped together with duct tape. Morgan imitated Barton's face, looking up at his captors in a way that made it clear he was not impressed.

Bastidas had pulled a wicker chair over and turned it backwards. He sat straddling it, leaning on the back of the
chair. A fat cigar hung from his mouth. Herrera stood behind him with his arms crossed. Bastidas smiled his mad smile, and the sunlight made the burns on his face stand out in sharp relief.

“So. All the courageous spies are awake.”

“Where's my gun?” As intended, Morgan's question threw Bastidas off balance, but he recovered quickly.

“Is that your question? Not ‘how did you ferret us out' or ‘will you kill us now?' All right. Your knives are upstairs with your other effects. As for your gun, who knows? It flew into the jungle when you executed that spectacular sideways crash into,” here he chuckled, “into all those defenseless bananas.”

Morgan maintained his attitude. “Do you know how many battles that Browning's been through with me?”

“Don't worry,” Bastidas said, blowing a huge cloud of smoke at him. “It was with you in your last.”

Morgan shrugged, speaking to Bastidas but locking eyes with Herrerea. “So that's it, huh? Now you just kill us while we're sitting here helpless.” Then he shook his head and sighed, expressing disappointment.

“Oh, I won't have you killed now,” Bastidas said, also glancing at Herrera. “No, I've decided that you've all earned the right to be on The Piranha's maiden voyage.”

“You can't be serious,” Morgan said. “Some maid's probably already wandered into my hotel room and found what's left of Varilla. It won't be long before this place is crawling with DENI.” Morgan turned to Felicity. “The National Department of Investigation.”

“It is too bad about Varilla,” Bastidas said without even a hint of sincerity. “Still, the Panamanians will have days of red tape to get through, provided primarily by the Americans. And in about twelve hours, we'll be gone.”

“Going to sail us all over to Fidel?” Barton asked.

“Sure.” Felicity smiled at Bastidas. “Matthews spotted the Cuban observers on that island out his window, didn't he? They were making sure the work was progressing on schedule. That's why you had one of your flunkies set him up and kill him in a bar brawl. You couldn't trust your man to resist questioning, so you told that ape to ambush him outside the bar. One quick chop to the neck, eh Herrera?”

“Very good,” Bastidas said, strutting in front of his captive audience. “I wondered if anyone would recognize Herrera's work. I was amused that the Americans bought that thin cover story so readily. I suppose it was because they wanted to believe. But no, Mister Barton, I won't give the sub to the bearded one, although I have accepted a great deal of money and assistance from him.”

Felicity groaned and swung her head backward into the wall. “Of course. Whatever your plans, you could never be keeping a conspiracy of this magnitude a secret from a labor force as big as yours. Not all the scientists, the sailors, the guards.” When she paused, Bastidas waved his hands toward himself, palm up, prompting her to continue. “None of them has any loyalty to the U.S. or Panama, because they're all Cubans.”

“Fantastic, isn't it?” Bastidas grinned like an idiot. “The grand con, and perfectly executed.”

“No,” Felicity said, trying to flip her hair out of her eyes. “The misdirection was good, I'll give you that. The con itself was sloppy. Once you get looking the clues are everywhere. Your people all move with military discipline because they're all military men. And their hair is long for the most obvious reason. To make them all less recognizable. And your core team, all of them with names taken out of Panamanian history. Way too much of a coincidence. They didn't even know anything about Panama City, for God's sake. Torrijos even told me he was
allergic to something around here. I'm betting that's because he's not from around here.”

“Man, I feel like an idiot,” Morgan told Felicity. “You wanted to know why they drank so much rum. I wondered where they got the great cigars. It all seems pretty obvious now.”

“The big giveaway was language,” Felicity continued. “It didn't make sense that everybody here is always speaking English. But they had to, because nobody would be mistaking the Cuban Spanish dialect for a Panamanian accent.”

Barton stared unfocused into space, his mouth open in disbelief. “And that's why they needed me. If they were talking to Panamanians all the time the accent would've given them away. Sure, and I'll bet my cover wasn't even blown when they tried to blow up the boat. They just wanted to be rid of me because I'm not really a member of the team.” Then he looked at Bastidas. “You fucking bastard.”

“I still don't get it,” Morgan said. “How could any loyal, patriotic American soldier get so turned around as to go to work for the Cubans? We may not be at war with them or anything, but damn, they're still commies.”

“He's no patriotic American,” Felicity said softly. She shivered as if ice water had been poured down her spine, her brow furrowed and she looked at Morgan. He saw fear widen her eyes and then fade. “You know, I've been living day in and day out with an American military man. After all these years out of uniform you've never shaken the style, the posture, the walk, even the haircut.”

Felicity faced Bastidas who was pacing before them. “You were never an American officer, ‘Captain'. How could you be the dedicated man with the promising future we were told about, who volunteered to serve his country?”
She leaned forward as far as she could, glaring into that crooked smile. “You're not Francisco Bastidas at all, are you?”

“Very good.” Bastidas smiled, in sharp contrast to the shock on Morgan's and Barton's faces. Bastidas put his foot on the chair and leaned an elbow on his knee. “You're right. I'm not.”

“And when you talk about your loyalty to your country, you're talking about Panama every time, right?”

“You have an astounding mind.”

“The old false flag gambit,” Morgan said. “I got suckered by the oldest trick in the business.”

“But how is it you were able to pull this off?” Felicity asked. For a moment, Morgan thought Bastidas would walk out, but the smirk on his face meant his ego wouldn't let him. He gave them an appraising look and tapped ash from his cigar onto the floor.

“I suppose you've earned the right to know my story before you die.”

Morgan wished he could fidget. His rear end was getting numb. He wanted to move, but the green duct tape, what he had called hundred-mile-an-hour tape in the Army, held his legs tight. The straight jacket completely immobilized his upper body. Frustrated, he glanced at Felicity, thinking how much worse this must feel for a person with breasts. She didn't seem concerned about it. Her attention was all on Bastidas.

He had one booted foot up on his chair again. He took the fat Cuban cigar out of his mouth and blew a thick cloud of smoke at his captives. His smile nearly drowned the rest of his face and two maniacal eyes glowed above his ravaged cheeks.

“As the little chica has guessed, I was not always Francisco Bastidas,” he began. “I was born Juan Fernando Garcia. I lived within thirty miles of this spot all my life until the change. I grew up a patriot just as you did, Mister Stark, except that you grew up in a free nation. Mine has been captive all its life. First enslaved under the Spanish. Then yoked by the Colombians. Then, when you needed the damned canal, the United States controlled us.”

“Hey, it's not like Panama's some puppet state for the USA,” Morgan said. “Not today.”

“Nonsense!” Bastidas stood over Morgan now, looking down at him. “Your hold on our politicians is so deeply rooted that you no longer need to keep your army here. I
grew up hating you all. As a youth I joined a group that realized action was the only way to secure our national pride and identity. There were several competing factions in those days, all well meaning, some just misguided. Some demonstrated against Yankee control of our canal. Some started riots.”

“Your boys were into killing, I take it,” Barton said.

“We took action!” Bastidas said, raising a fist before his face. “Much of what we did was credited to others. I was but a child but I rose quickly through the informal ranks because I was quick, and strong, and daring. I could get into enemy camps when no one else could. That was my strength. I was known as El Escuchador.”

“The Listener,” Felicity said.

“Yes, and what I was able to find out was valuable. With what I learned I was able to make contact with the Cubans, who I knew could eventually bring the revolution to my country. But in nineteen seventy-two my life changed.”

Bastidas paced around the chair, past Herrera's larger form. The cigar hung loose in his mouth. His voice seemed even squeakier than usual. “I was spying on a group of our national guard. Unexpectedly, a group of American soldiers practically wandered right into their camp. There I was, caught in the middle of a fire fight. The Americans were massacred of course. They aren't warriors. But in all the action, I was captured. Naturally, the National Guard took everything from the Yankees. Weapons, uniforms, everything. And they took me with them to their new camp.”

“Now I get it,” Morgan said, nodding his head. “I know these people tend to torture symbolically and I just couldn't square the story we got with what happened to you. They probably just beat you the first three or four days, huh?”

“They left me naked,” Bastidas said through clenched
teeth. “They kicked me and beat me for days. No food. Little water. They wanted to know where my people were. I gave them nothing.”

“Right,” Morgan said. “So then they decided to mark you as a spy.”

“My own knife,” Bastidas said, hatred curling his lip. “They heated my own knife red hot and pressed it into my face. Here! And Here!” He held his hair back, pointing to his face. From his expression it was clear the pain was still very much present and real.

“Then they must have figured out who you were,” Morgan said, prodding him. “There was only one thing to do, huh? Only one punishment appropriate for The Listener.”

“Yes! Yes! They did this!” Bastidas pulled his hair back on both sides with his thumbs. Felicity averted her eyes from the raw, angry open holes on either side of his head. “They did this to me, the greatest patriot of the nation. They did this with a dull knife while I sat strapped to a chair.” His eyes became vacant, far away. “The pain was…it went on forever and there was no way to escape it. I screamed. Oh I screamed. I screamed for them to kill me. The pain nearly drove me…I had only my hate and my anger to keep me going.”