Treaty Violation (2 page)

This lighthearted chitchat couldn’t change the fact that he was trembling inside, wondering why K had requested his presence.

“He’s waiting,” she said and covered her mouth to hide her sprouting smile.

Nicholas rested his hands on the desk. “If I were ten years younger, I might have a chance with you, and this new guy—”

“Oh stop it, Nickie!” she said and burst out laughing.

Nicholas shrugged with defeat as he entered K’s office. He eased the oak door shut until the brass latch clicked. Books from Aristotle to Zen lined the left wall. A world map hung on the right wall behind a large globe flanked by two burgundy leather chairs. A Persian rug lay before K’s desk.

K folded his
Wall Street Journal
and slammed it on the desk.

“Damned markets,” he groaned and looked up. “Nick,” he said and walked around the desk. They met with a firm embrace. “Good to see you.” He gestured to the two chairs.

“Do I have you to thank for the recent hires?” Nicholas asked as they sat. The aroma of single malt scotch and Cuban cigars on the coffee table blended luxuriously with the smell of the leather chairs. “I just met Mitzi.”

“Got a sharp mind,” K said; “knows the language and the culture.”

K wore a tailored navy blue suit with a starched white shirt, crimson tie, and cufflinks. His graying hair was cropped around his ears, and the lower rim of his glasses rested in the wrinkles under his eyes. His posture, his composure, and the confident tilt of his head when he spoke radiated a regal air. He was a complete man of an aristocratic cast who feared insignificance more than death. Today, however, Nicholas sensed something was wrong.

“How are things?” K asked.

Nicholas shrugged. “I can’t complain, but I had the bad luck of being assigned to the Peru-Ecuador Crisis Action Team.”

“Sorry to hear that,” K said and took a deep breath. “Not sure how to say this, so I’ll just get to the point.” He looked up as if asking the heavens for strength. “Tyler is dead.”

Nicholas shook his head in disbelief, speechless.

“Murdered Saturday night in Panama,” K added.

Nicholas suddenly felt ill. “That’s impossible! I just spoke with him last week.”

“We suspect the drug cartels,” K said. “Tyler was running a sensitive operation.”

“I can’t believe they killed him.” Nicholas stood and paced, lifting his hands in disbelief. “Do the cartels think we won’t retaliate? Have they lost their minds?”

“Information must have leaked,” K said and stood. “We work in dangerous situations. Have you forgotten? To make matters worse, his fiancée, Helena Hernandez, died last week. Suicide, we think.”

“I know,” Nicholas said. “He told me.” He’d lost some friends in the eighties during the guerrilla wars in Central America, but no one since. “Christ,” he continued, pacing. “All right, what’s the plan? How do we strike back?”

“We regroup; we plan; we do the mission,” K said.

Nicholas continued pacing. “Fine. What’s the plan?”

“Working on it,” K said.

“We have to act now,” Nicholas said, pacing. “Who’s in place to—”

K grabbed Nicholas’ shoulders. “We have a plan.”

Nicholas glared at him and stepped back, waiting for an answer.

“They’ve selected you to assume control of the operation.”

The answer came as a shock to Nicholas, but his intuition launched into overdrive as he began assembling the pieces of the puzzle. “They?”

K removed a folded piece of linen stationary from his suit coat and handed it to him.
Nicholas unfolded it carefully. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the ornate letterhead for The Order. The brief letter requested his participation in operation Delphi Justice and said his membership would be approved upon successful completion of “the said” operation.

“The Order wants you to hit these guys hard for killing Tyler,” K said. “They’re even offering full membership. This is the chance you’ve been waiting for.”

Nicholas read the letter again. He was thrilled but couldn’t believe his eyes. “Is this a joke? Do they really expect me to help them after what they did to me in El Salvador?”

“A joke? No, this is no joke,” K said, surprised. “Look, the El Salvador mission was a raw deal. The operation was poorly planned, and you got caught in the crossfire, but it was your decision to hide out here in Washington during the past ten years.”

Nicholas threw his hands up in disgust. “If you’re suggesting my work here during the past ten years has been a waste of time—”

“Not suggesting any such thing,” K said. “Everyone has good things to say about your work. You’ve had success climbing the bureaucratic ladder, but I’m talking about you as a person. Ever since the El Salvador mission, working for the Agency has become a mere job for you, not a higher calling.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Nicholas said, “you can save your higher calling speech for the new recruits. El Salvador made it painfully clear to me that this Agency—and probably the whole government—serves the interests of a few powerful families.”

“Nick,” K said, shaking his head, “it wasn’t like that, and you know it. The Order exists to sustain our great Republic.”

“Why did they reject my membership?”

“Because you refused to follow orders,” K replied.

“It was a suicide mission!” Nicholas took a deep breath. “The only reason they agreed to approve my membership was because they knew I’d get killed during the operation.”

K shook his head. “An independent panel approved your membership prior to the operation, and there was no reason to believe things were going to turn out the way they did. Things got political after the fallout, for sure, and the rest is history. I understand your frustration—I’m still pissed about what happened—but why not take advantage of this opportunity? I pulled a lot of strings to make this happen. All I ask is that you do it for the right reasons. Do it for Tyler. Do it for the Agency. Do it for your country.”

“Promotion?” Nicholas asked.

“Of course,” K said.

“A command position in the field?” Nicholas added cautiously.

“I’ll see what I can do,” K said and folded his arms.

“I have to make up for ten lost years. It’s the least you can do for me.”

K nodded reluctantly.

“Then I think we have a deal,” Nicholas said.

They shook hands. K gestured to the leather chairs. They sat.

“Need you down there
ASAP
,” K said, getting down to business. “You’ll be going under cover as a computer contractor to provide technical support to our office.”

“Do we have time for a drink?” Nicholas asked.

K poured two drinks and handed a cigar to
Nicholas. They toasted.
Nicholas savored the smooth single malt scotch and tucked the cigar into his breast pocket.

“How the hell are things in Panama?”

“A mess—situation normal,” K said. “In accordance with the
1977
Carter-Torrijos treaties,” he added indignantly, “we’re making plans to remove our military and hand over the Canal to the Panamanians. The narcos are gaining influence.”

“Drug shipments? Money laundering?” Nicholas asked.

“And weapons smuggling,” K said. “The narcos are turning it up. They’re probably testing Panama’s resolve as our troops prepare to pull out. Christ, they killed Tyler. Need you down there
ASAP
to turn this thing around.”

“That’s it? Take out some drug dealers?”

K shook his head and gestured to the letter Nicholas was holding.
“Are you familiar with operation Delphi Justice?”

Nicholas glanced at the letter and shook his head.

“Delphi Justice, on paper,” K said, “is a sting operation against the Linear target Cesar Gomez.” The
CIA
and the
DEA
, among other federal law enforcement and intelligence agencies, nominated “Linear” targets to focus the efforts of the federal government on eliminating drug kingpins rather than petty dealers—cutting off the head, so to speak.

“Cesar Gomez,” Nicholas said, rubbing his chin. “Wasn’t he that leftist guerrilla leader in Colombia back in the day?”

K nodded. “Now he’s running cocaine to the U.S. and Europe, mostly air shipments from the northern coast of Colombia. Tyler was working with him.”

“With him?”

K arched his eyebrows and sipped his drink. “Unofficially, Delphi Justice is a covert action program to maintain a U.S. military presence in Panama post-
1999
. To do that, we’re helping President Mendoza in Panama win a referendum in two weeks that will allow him to run for reelection. The current constitution allows him to serve only one term. In return for accepting our help, he has agreed to allow us to keep some military bases in Panama, even if it means violating the
1977
treaties.” He leaned closer. “Here’s the sensitive part.”

Nicholas leaned closer.

K’s eyes narrowed. “We’re running controlled cocaine shipments with Cesar Gomez and using the profits to fund President Mendoza’s campaign. Congress wouldn’t fund the operation, so we found another way. Sound familiar? The first two shipments were successful—the Coast Guard seized the drugs after we collected the profits—and the president is moving up in the polls. Aside from the U.S. president, no one knows we’re funneling money to President Mendoza—State, Defense,
DEA
, Congress, no one.”

“Got it,” Nicholas said.

“We’re telling the other agencies the operation was canceled because of Tyler’s death,” K said and tilted his head suggestively.

“Understood,” Nicholas said. “I’ll fix some computers and see what I can do.”

“The stakes are high,” K said. “If you fail, if we fail, the consequences will be devastating—from losing our ability to move naval vessels through the Panama Canal to the Chinese taking control of Canal operations. Dylan will give you more details when you arrive.”

“Dylan…Dirk?” Nicholas said derisively.

“I know what you’re thinking,” K said. “He was stained by the El Salvador mission, but he’s doing solid work. Focus on the mission. Everything will work out this time. Trust me.”

Nicholas finished his drink. “I have to take care of a few things before I leave tomorrow. What about this Peru-Ecuador Crisis Action Team?”

“I’ll take care of it,” K said as they embraced. “Good to have you back, Nick.”

“Good to be back,” Nicholas said, unable to restrain a smile as they left the office.

“Janette, please give Nicholas his airline ticket,” K said.

Nicholas looked at his name printed on the ticket.

“You made reservations? You knew I’d say—”

“I knew you’d say yes,” K said.

Nicholas shook K’s hand.

“Welcome home, Nickie,” Janette said.

She was right. He was home.

Panamanian Minister of Foreign Affairs Victor Hernandez splashed
cold water on his face and looked in the mirror. Outside the bathroom, applause thundered in the hotel conference room. Hernandez, late fifties and balding, but tall and handsome in his tuxedo, exuded the refinement of a gentleman, but inside the pain had become unbearable. Tears welled in his eyes as he removed a photograph of his daughter Helena from his pocket. He raised the photograph and smelled the lingering fragrance of violet scented
perfume. He dried his eyes and returned to his seat in the front row of the conference room. The pain of Helena’s death was something he would simply have to live with.

“Panamanian sovereignty at last!” President Alex Mendoza said and pounded his fist on the podium. The audience burst into applause. The stout president wore a navy blue suit, French blue shirt, and a patterned yellow silk tie. He stood with aplomb under the bright lights, with sweat shining on his rounded, pinkish face.

Hernandez groaned—that damned phrase. Unfortunately, so-called social progress had destabilized the regime and forced him and the president to pander to public sentiment with phrases like
Panamanian sovereignty
. Democracy wasn’t bad in principle, but it assumed the masses were intelligent enough to make wise decisions, which any civilized man knew simply wasn’t the case.

“With the Canal, Panama’s greatest natural resource,” Mendoza continued, “we manifested our destiny. Today we stand before the next millennium awaiting our third freedom.” He sipped his water and acknowledged the crowd’s applause.

Hernandez hated the cliché third freedom, but the audiences loved it. The president was referring to independence from Spain in
1821
, Colombia in
1903
, and, though only symbolically, the future independence from the United States of America on December
31
,
1999
.