Treaty Violation (5 page)

“The point is,” Dirk continued, “we have to stop the rumors. If we don’t have enough evidence, we’ll turn up the heat and deliver the knockout punch.”

“In the meantime,” Dupree said, “I’m going to track his shipments and convince the Colombians to shoot them out of the sky. That son of a bitch won’t get another kilogram of cocaine out of Colombia, not as long as I have anything to say about it.”

“I’ll talk to some of my banking friends to see whether Cesar is moving funds out of the country,” Rendall said.

“I appreciate that, Thomas,” Dirk said, “but please lay low until
after the referendum. If Cesar gets word we’re after him, he might flee to a country without extradition, as you pointed out. Rest assured, we’ll have him behind bars soon enough.”

The stage was set for operation Delphi Justice to continue. Dirk had directed his orchestra to an impressive end.

“Speaking of the referendum,” Rendall said, “did any of you read the editorial today in
El Tiempo
?” No one responded, which wasn’t a good sign. “It suggested President Mendoza was funding his referendum campaign with drug money.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” Dirk said calmly.
“
Who wrote that editorial?” he added and slid his pen into his shirt pocket.

Rendall looked at the paper and shrugged. “It’s anonymous. No direct accusations, only references to offshore funds and the paper’s intent to investigate the story.”

“Most campaign contributions in Panama have cocaine residue on them, if you know what I mean,” Dirk said. “Probably just a bitter journalist spreading a nasty rumor.”

“But a potentially devastating rumor,” Rendall said.

“Interesting meeting,” Nicholas said as he and Dirk entered their office and sat on Dirk’s couch to take a load off.

“Welcome to the past,” Dirk said. He rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “State has utopian hopes for human nature and the military thinks the world can be ruled only by an iron fist. What was it that guy said? If things are going to stay the same, things are going to have to change.”

“Some Italian guy,” Nicholas said, noticing that Dirk looked upset. “What do you make of the anonymous editorial? Do you think someone has proof we’re funneling money to President Mendoza?”

“I don’t know how they could. The money is untraceable, but it’s worth investigating.” He drummed his fingers on the desk.

“What’s our take on Panama?” Nicholas asked, trying to break Dirk’s code. “I’ve been out of Latin America for a few years.”

“Panama is an unusual case,” Dirk said. “We don’t care about Panama per se, although the Panamanians seem oblivious to that fact. Their economy is too small to concern us as a trading partner and political instability here wouldn’t affect regional stability. As Rendall said, we want Panama to be more capitalistic, but only to keep the Canal and the ports running. As Colonel Dupree said, we want political stability, but only to prevent exploitation by drug traffickers or organized crime.”

“What about our plan to keep military bases here?”

“That’s bigger than Panama as well,” Dirk said. “Drugs transit Panama, but we have military and law enforcement units working with the Panamanian Public Forces to make seizures and arrests. We want to maintain a military base for counterdrug operations, mostly in Colombia, but it is absolutely critical we make this happen.”

“Why is The Order involved?” Nicholas asked, to his surprise. He’d intended to avoid the subject, but he couldn’t resist.

Dirk’s eyes narrowed. “Did K tell you that?” he asked calmly.

Nicholas nodded and surrendered to a visceral urge to reveal more.

“He said my membership would be approved after I complete this operation.” The thought of gaining membership to The Order suddenly didn’t seem like such a bad thing.

Dirk looked surprised but pleased. “Congratulations.”

Nicholas expected less enthusiasm. He considered membership a vindication of his actions in El Salvador. Dirk was smiling, but something was bothering him, and it had nothing to do with his pending membership to The Order.

“To answer your question,” Dirk said, “The Order is involved for the same reasons. The Canal is good for world trade. Having military bases will help us achieve our objectives in Latin America. We want to extricate drugs and corruption from Latin America to convert these
countries into robust trading partners that will buy our products, but first we have a lot of work to do in the trenches.”

Nicholas decided not to drag this out. “I was reading Tyler’s files and couldn’t find any clues about his death.”

Dirk cocked his head, surprised. “You’re not here to investigate his death. Tyler did some fantastic work, but you have to focus your efforts on completing this operation.”

“Tyler’s murder is relevant,” Nicholas said, “to my life, anyway. If Cesar killed Tyler, what’s to stop him from killing me?”

Dirk shrugged to suggest Nicholas might have a point. “In that case, you’d better watch him like a hawk. We’re working with him, but you can’t trust him.”

Nicholas gestured for more.

“We never told Cesar about our plan to arrest him, obviously. The lead information we are collecting from this operation is being used to build a legal case against him. He’s giving us the rope to hang him.”

“We don’t have any hard evidence that Cesar killed Tyler?”

Dirk shook his head. “The only thing we know for sure is that Tyler went to Veracruz Beach on Saturday night to give his agent Nestor money to fix his plane before the third shipment. When Tyler didn’t check in with me after the meeting, I went to look for him.” He leaned back and exhaled. “I found him in his car.”

Nicholas cringed when he imagined Tyler dead in his car. “I suppose that makes Nestor the prime suspect.” He paused to think. “How much money did Tyler have in the car?”

“Five thousand dollars,” Dirk said, “a fraction of what Nestor stood to gain by flying the third shipment the next day. It doesn’t make sense. The police found Nestor’s body the next day, which suggests someone had paid him to kill Tyler and then had him killed. Cesar is the only person with that kind of money and reach.”

Nicholas concluded that Dirk’s analysis wasn’t too far off track.

“Rest assured, we have people investigating the case,” Dirk said.
“The bottom line is everyone thinks operation Delphi Justice has
been put on hold. The referendum is less than two weeks away. We have to raise more money to close the deal.” He handed Nicholas a yellow sticky. “The number on top is Cesar Gomez’s cell phone. Call him to plan the next shipment.” Dirk gestured. “The other number is for the buyers.”

“Forgive my asking,” Nicholas said, “but how do I run cocaine shipments?”

“You’re a middleman,” Dirk said, humored. “Find a pilot to fly the stuff, bring the seller and the buyer together, and get the right information to the right people so that the drugs can be seized after we collect the profits. Tyler should have information in his files.” He opened a drawer. “Here, Tyler was using this.”

Nicholas grabbed the satellite phone. His heart pounded when he sensed Tyler’s energy, probably old memories surfacing.

“Tyler used these to talk to his pilots,” Dirk continued. “I suggest you buy more for the same purpose. He set a stack of greenbacks on the desk. That’s ten thousand dollars.” He handed Nicholas a business card for a company called Enterprise Associates. “This company will handle the finances. You can use the phone for wire transfers.”

Nicholas looked at the card. “A stack of cash and a satellite phone and I can start my own drug cartel. I guess I have everything I need.”

Dirk seemed to appreciate the humor.

“If you don’t mind,” Nicholas continued, “I’d like to finish reading Tyler’s files.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to read,” Dirk said and gestured outside. “Drive around town. Practice your Spanish on unsuspecting women. Most importantly, call Cesar.”

Outside, Nicholas inhaled the
humid air and observed his old stomping ground. To his surprise, he saw Tyler’s silver
BMW
parked in the corner of the covered parking lot. He approached it and apprehensively opened the driver’s door. Steamy, putrid air stung his nose and dissipated, but a chemical odor remained. The smell was a blend of detergent and whatever it had cleaned, probably Tyler’s blood. He held the door open as a gentle breeze stirred the air and then sat in the driver’s seat. He gripped the steering wheel, imagining what Tyler’s last thoughts might have been. A horrible image flashed in his mind of Tyler struggling for his life as Nestor shot him.
Unmistakable blood splotches stained the passenger seat and the
top. Nicholas felt ill as beads of sweat dripped down his neck. The sound of a security guard tapping the glass with his nightstick jolted him back to reality.

“No sit in car,” the security guard said.

Nicholas nodded and exited the covered parking lot. Outside, he took a deep breath and looked around. He pulled the cell phone off his belt, reflected for a moment, and then dialed a number. A man answered on the second ring.

“Hello,” Nicholas said, “Cesar Gomez, please.”

“Shake that ass!” Cesar Gomez yelled over the blaring
merengue. He stroked his mustache and admired his ladies’ tanned bodies. Adriana, the topless blonde wearing a leopard skin thong, kicked pool water at him and flipped him the bird. Maria, the brunette wearing a mauve bikini, lowered her copy of
Cosmopolitan
and imitated her friend’s playful gesture. His body once had been something to admire, but what dignified man didn’t gain a few pounds before middle age? Cesar loved these feisty beauties, though. They were the perfect ornaments for his penthouse, the loves of his life. He had big plans for the three of them, including a peaceful home away from hectic Panama City.

Tyler Broadman’s death and the canceled cocaine shipment had turned his world upside down, though. He’d completed two of the agreed upon five shipments but the Americans hadn’t yet called to explain the next step. Dirk had said he would take him off the Linear list after five shipments, but the Americans had no idea they were freeing him to pursue his revolution in new and exciting ways.

Cesar finished his dose of Aguardiente, a savory Colombian anise liquor, and set the glass down. “I don’t know why I put up with their shit,” he joked and nudged his assistant Eddy.

Eddy snatched the bottle of Aguardiente and filled Cesar’s glass. A short wiry Caribbean man, he looked like someone who might serve exotic drinks at a beach resort.

“Because they’ll demand more money?” Eddy said innocently.

Cesar threatened Eddy with the back of his hand. Eddy—Eduardo Antonio De La Cruz Santa Rosa was a mouthful—must have overheard a conversation and taken things out of context. He didn’t know any better, so he didn’t deserve a beating, not in front of the ladies.

“What do you know about women?” he asked. “Besides, they love me. Don’t you love me?” he said to the ladies and lifted his arms as if to hug them.

Both blew kisses.

“You see?” Cesar asked, relieved. “They love me.”

The cell phone rang. Eddy greeted the caller and covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “Sounds like an American.”

Cesar breathed a sigh of relief and set his drink down. “Give me that!” he demanded. “Hello?” He nodded. “Yes, Mr. Lowe, we should meet soon.” He was back in business! “Perhaps we can meet at my office. Are you familiar with Josephine’s Elite?” He laughed. “You have an office there as well? In that case, see you at eleven.”

Cesar hung up the phone. “Funny guy,” he said and thought about the familiar name. “Eddy,” he said, “I need you to check my records and find all the information you can on a guy named Nicholas Lowe.”

A rhythmic bass riff heralded the next merengue song. Adriana flung her hips in motion.

Cesar whistled. “Now that’s shaking your ass!”

Adriana blew him a kiss and lifted her hands into the air, weaving them with the grace of a flamenco dancer. Maria rose and danced with her.

“This is better than a beer commercial!” Cesar yelled and clapped to the beat.

Cesar leaned over to nudge Eddy, who was intently reading a worn copy of
The Communist Manifesto
. He looked confused.

“Why are you reading that crap?” Cesar asked.

“You’re always talking about the revolution,” Eddy said defensively, still focused on the book. “I want to learn,” he added and stiffly sat up straight.

Cesar scoffed. “Marx was an idiot! That so-called manifesto is capitalist propaganda to enslave the workers! You have to read between the lines, of course.” He sipped his Aguardiente and admired the
ladies. “To understand the revolution, Eddy, you must listen to my words and imitate my actions.”

Eddy tossed the book aside like an old newspaper.

Cesar smiled at his trusted friend. “Here, Eddy.” He poured a jigger of Aguardiente. Eddy looked surprised. “Don’t get slobbering drunk, though. Someone here ought to be sober.”

The buzzer from the lobby sounded. Eddy leaped to his feet.