Survival (6 page)

A male voice boomed over the water from the helo’s hailing system.

“Come to a full stop. Now. Prepare to be boarded for inspection.”

Juan Diego barked orders to his two crewmen, and they disappeared below as he moved to the wheel and eased the throttle back. When he’d slowed to a crawl, he put the transmission into neutral. The ancient diesel engine rumbled beneath his feet, and he stepped away from the helm, keeping his hands where the snipers in the helicopter could see them at all times.

His crewmen joined him moments later, also with their hands visible. They were longtime veterans of these waters and were used to the nocturnal stops by the Panamanian coast guard, usually working in conjunction with the American navy. As expected, he soon heard the roar of massive motors from offshore, and then the lights of a fast-moving American Oliver Hazard-Perry-class frigate came into view as he stood rocking in the swell, waiting for the inevitable hassling that went with working the waters of coastal Panama.

Juan Diego had long ago determined that the pittance he made as a fisherman wouldn’t keep him in the lifestyle he aspired to, and certainly wouldn’t support his wife, three children, and two mistresses. So he’d broadened his horizons and become a smuggler, which paid far better, and, like fishing, also involved spending much of his time at sea, which he’d always enjoyed – but carrying more valuable cargo than the haul of fish that served as his cover.

The frigate was moving at better than thirty knots, and Juan Diego and his men watched as it neared, the helicopter maintaining its distance as it did. They knew that a .50-caliber machine gun was trained on them from the aircraft the entire time, and they made no unexpected moves. The Caribbean coast from Colombia to Costa Rica was a primary drug-smuggling corridor, and it was an almost weekly occurrence for the inhabitants of the inhospitable jungle coastline to come across bundled kilos of pure cocaine washed up on the beaches, jettisoned by the triple-engine speedboats that ran the gauntlet north to Mexico. So common was it for locals to find drugs that there were even enterprising middlemen who would buy the discarded packages and sell them back to the Colombian producers. It was a thriving sideline that was little discussed, but had become an important source of windfall income for enterprising beachcombers.

When the big ship was several hundred yards from Juan Diego’s boat, a tender lowered into the water, and a dozen heavily armed marines accompanied by a Panamanian customs inspector and a Panamanian coast guard ensign trooped aboard. The craft cut across the water to Juan Diego, and the grim-faced men boarded his craft. Last on were the Panamanian authorities, who shook hands with Juan Diego as the marines performed a methodical search of the boat.

Panama was a relatively small country, where everyone knew each other if they traveled in the same circles, and Juan Diego had been plying the Caribbean waters for two decades. He was used to the searches and recognized both men, who stood apologetically by as the U.S. authorities went over the boat with a fine-toothed comb, inspecting every cabinet and cranny, even the waste, fuel, and water tanks, as well as the small engine compartment.

“When are you guys going to stop harassing me and focus on real criminals?” Juan Diego asked good-naturedly. He was well known to be engaged in more than harvesting the sea’s ample bounty, but nobody begrudged him his business – as long as he didn’t get caught. The U.S.’s desire to use all of Central America and Mexico as its extended border in order to keep drugs out of the hands of its population – the largest consumer of illegal drugs in the world – wasn’t Panama’s problem, even though politicians had made it the country’s by agreeing to cooperate with the U.S. The tiny country’s attitude of live and let live extended to most things, but everyone had to do their job. And just as the Panamanian authorities didn’t hold it against Juan Diego, neither did he hold a grudge against his official counterparts. It was all part of the absurd game of life.

“A good question. Nice to see you again, Juan Diego,” Humberto Gomez, the customs inspector, allowed.

“I wish I could say it was a pleasure, but I’m losing valuable fishing time with this nonsense,” Juan Diego chided.

“We all have our crosses to bear, don’t we?” the coast guard ensign said. Everyone knew Juan Diego was guilty as sin, but they could never catch him, so he’d earned a grudging respect, even to the point where he’d buy them a drink if he saw them in one of the seedy waterfront bars he frequented in Colón, Portobelo, and the improbably monikered Nombre de Dios.

The inspection took almost an hour, and Juan Diego chatted with his uninvited guests while the marines completed their task. When they’d finished, with nothing found, he waved as they disembarked and headed back to the mother ship, the men obviously disappointed but not surprised. Once they’d cast off, he put the boat back in gear and resumed his slow journey north as the frigate hoisted the tender in place and the helicopter continued on its way in search of easier prey.

Juan Diego grinned at the two crewmen and looked at his watch. “You’d think they would have learned by now that I’m an innocent man,” he said, which drew a laugh from them both. Juan Diego joined in, life’s ironies not lost on him.

Twenty feet below the surface, the small submersible he was towing with a steel cable attached to a steel eyelet glided through the deep. Its payload of two hundred kilos of cocaine was relatively small, but enough to make the trip a lucrative one once he met up with a Costa Rican sports fisher thirty miles from Bocas del Toro and handed off his cargo.

Chapter 8

Pacific Ocean, 45 miles west of Colombia

Igor’s eyes blazed with anger as he faced the captain, for whom fatigue was settling in now that the adrenaline from the search had drained from his system.

“You will tell me everything you know about these two, or I’ll systematically cut your mate here to pieces in front of you, then start with your fingers. Do you understand?”

The captain shifted nervously in his seat. “There’s nothing to tell. We took them aboard in San Antonio, and we’re supposed to transport them to Panama.”

“Who are they?”

“They kept to themselves. A gringo and a toddler. What’s to know?”

“What names did they use?”

The captain’s eyes flitted sideways. “It wasn’t that kind of a trip. I didn’t ask.”

“Ah. Now we’re getting somewhere.” Igor paced in front of the windows as streaks of pink and purple streaked the sky, the sun finally rising over the jungle almost a hundred miles away. “I know about the fishing boat,” he said quietly, as though discussing the weather. He slowly turned to face the captain. “The rendezvous.”

The captain’s look was defiant. “Then why are you asking me? I’m just providing taxi service. I get paid to take cargo from point A to point B. That’s all I’m doing. Like with those containers – I don’t care what’s in them. It’s none of my business.”

“It’s your business today. What time do you meet the fishing boat, and how is this supposed to happen?”

“At two o’clock this afternoon. We’re to rendezvous en route to Balboa, thirty miles south of Punta Coco. The boat takes the passengers aboard and that’s it – I’m out of it from that point.”

“Does the fishing boat know who to expect?”

“How would I know? They’re probably like me. Someone gives them money, they pick up whoever, and the whoever walks off once they’re docked. It’s a simple transaction.”

“Where were they taking the passengers?”

“I have no idea. I get them on that boat, collect a paycheck, move on.”

Igor exhaled in frustration. “It sounds straightforward.”

“Why do you care?”

“None of your business.” Igor didn’t share with him that the supposedly sinking boat they’d left was in fine shape, or that its captain was tailing them at a safe distance with instructions to pick them up once they’d accomplished their mission. But now that their quarry had thrown a monkey wrench into the works, a different plan was forming in his mind.

He reached into the side pocket of his pants and withdrew a small sat phone ensconced in a plastic ziplock bag to prevent it from getting damaged during the storm. He powered it on and then went outside on the small bridge side deck. The service indicator showed several bars, and he dialed Fernanda’s number.

When she answered, she sounded tired. “How did it go?”

“We had a problem.” Igor told her about the lifeboat, and that the woman they were after hadn’t been on the ship in the first place.

“Damn. So they escaped,” she said.

“Yes. But an idea occurred to me.”

“Which is?”

“Those two were obviously the two we heard about when we were looking for her, right?”

“Looks that way.”

“Then what are the odds that she was going to meet them when they arrived in Panama?”

“I don’t know.”

“Probably pretty good, I’d say.”

“That’s a guess,” Fernanda cautioned.

“It’s an educated one. If the little girl is, as I think, her daughter, of course she will.”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

“Again, it fits.”

Fernanda’s voice sounded frayed from lack of sleep. “What do you want to do?”

He explained his thinking. When he was done, she exhaled loudly, as she did when she was mulling over new information. “So you’re going to take the fishing boat in?”

“There’s a good chance they don’t know who they’re picking up. Just two people.”

“Okay. But what does that buy us?”

“I’ll find out where they’re headed, and then I was hoping you could arrange with our Panamanian friend to have a welcoming committee waiting when we arrive.”

“I see.” If the woman was going to meet the boat, they could spot her and take her out when she appeared. “I’ll come up to Panama and supervise.”

“If you like, but there’s also the lifeboat. We lost it off Colombia. I think we should pursue that angle, too, just in case I’m wrong.”

“We don’t have anyone in Colombia.”

“No, but our contact in Panama probably does.”

“Good thinking. I’ll ask.”

Igor gave her the rough coordinates of the
Seylene
’s location around the time he estimated the lifeboat had launched. He heard her fingers flying over computer keys and then another long exhalation. “That’s a pretty barren stretch of coast. There’s nothing there after Buenaventura, which is a long way south.”

“Which would mean that wherever they land, they’ll have a hard time getting to civilization. And I’d think a white man and a little girl would be pretty easy to spot in rural Colombia, no?”

“Okay. I’ll work this side, you work the Panama side. Hopefully you get lucky.”

“It hasn’t played that way so far, but today’s a new day. Just make sure whoever they send to meet us is good. Remember this woman’s MO. She’s pro, so she’ll spot them if they aren’t careful.” Igor paused. “The guy probably is too. Who would launch a lifeboat from a moving ship in the middle of a storm?”

“What’s done is done. The only reason we care about them is to get to her. I’m beginning to warm up to the idea that she might meet the fishing boat wherever its port is. That feels right.”

“It won’t be in Balboa, I don’t think. It’ll be somewhere relatively remote. Somewhere nobody will ask any questions about who gets on or off.”

“Call me once you know.”

“I will.”

“Oh, and Igor? What about the ship? The crew? They’ve seen your faces.”

“I know. I’ll leave a couple of guys to handle it. The boat’s expecting two passengers, so that will work well.”

Fernanda paused. “I miss you already. It was a long night.”

Igor watched as traces of gold flickered off the surface of the water, the sun rising to starboard. A pelican flapped in the sky to his right, sleek in the air but ungainly on land. His gaze followed it as it rose and banked in a slow circle, and then folded its wings and dove at high speed at the water, having spotted its breakfast from an impossible height.

“Tell me about it.”

Chapter 9

Panama City, Panama

The flight from Madrid dropped through scattered clouds on approach to Tocumen International Airport, passing over the tall skyscrapers that jutted into the late-morning sky like steel and glass teeth surrounding Panama Bay. Jet peered out the window at the city in the near distance, surprised by how developed it was – she could have been landing in Hong Kong, if she hadn’t known better.

The plane jolted as it hit an air pocket, a warm updraft meeting the cooler thermal layer above the city, and then the landing gear groaned from beneath the wings and their descent steepened. She took a final look around her area and handed the flight attendant her empty coffee cup as the crew prepared for landing, and resumed watching through the window as the plane made a steep bank on final approach.

Jet bounced as the wheels hit the tarmac and pressed forward against her seat belt as the engines reversed thrust, slowing the plane from several hundred miles per hour to thirty in a matter of seconds. Then they were taxiing for the terminal, the pilot’s sonorous voice thanking them over the public address system and cautioning them to remain in their seats till the aircraft came to a full stop.

There was a line at immigration due to another flight landing at the same time, and only three officers were working to process hundreds of passengers. When it was finally her turn, she presented her Belgian passport, one of several she cycled through. It was clean, never having been used operationally. Better still, it was a genuine document and would show up as such in the computers – tribute to the Mossad’s ingenuity and pull.

The immigration official glanced at her photograph and then gave her a hard look, comparing the snapshot to Jet in the flesh. The passport was four and a half years old, only used twice before in her recent travels, and Jet willed her heartbeat to remain slow and steady as he scrutinized her.

“What is the purpose of your trip to Panama?” he asked curtly.