Never Bloodless

by Steve Richer

  He turned around on his chair and leaned toward the small counter where the telephone was located. He found what he was looking for and grabbed a pen and notepad. He scribbled some notes.

  “What I suggest,” Hewitt continued, “is opening a series of corporations in Panama and other Latin America countries to act as a cover. Then, we’ll open bank accounts in the Cayman Islands and the Bahamas to house this money.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  He pressed the beer bottle across his sweaty forehead. He then turned toward his newly acquired table fan and switched it on, being careful not to make the documents fly away from the table.

  “The next step will be to hire mercenaries to take over key roads, bridges, communication towers, that sort of thing, when the time comes.”

  “I know a guy,” Preston said. “Former Marine, he was a private contractor in Iraq with me. He told me he’s fought in Africa before, commanded a company in Sierra Leone, I think. I’m sure he could recruit for us.”

  Hewitt checked off an item on his list.

  “A company is all we need. Then, of course, we’ll need weapons and equipment. I have contacts in Europe for that.”

  “So that’s all there is know about overthrowing a country?”

  Preston finished his hoagie, wiped his hands on a napkin he found in the plastic bag, and wished he had ordered another sandwich.

  “Bloody hell no! You have to meet strict guidelines if you want the coup to succeed. You need a poor country with a low literacy rate, with citizens who never vote and don’t understand politics. You need a country without allies and with a centralized government.”

  “Okay,” Preston muttered, trying to put an end to what sounded like a patronizing lecture.

  “You need to seize communication axes such as roads, airports, TV and radio stations. You need to use propaganda for your cause. You need to have government officials and high-ranking military officers rally with you. Then maybe you’ll have a 30 percent chance of success.”

  He finally drank the last of his beverage.

  “You should have told me it was going to be that easy.”

  As Hewitt chuckled, there came a firm knock at the door.

  Chapter 11

  Preston stood up and answered the door to find a woman about his age and an older guy. She was quite pretty but instantly seemed to Preston like she had something wedged deeply into her ass.

  Cops, definitely.

  “Preston McSweeney?” the woman asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Special Agent Jasmine Needham, Immigration and Customs Enforcement. This is Special Agent Gervasi with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.”

  The two federal agents flashed their credentials and Preston took pride in having pegged them correctly right away.

  “Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives? Is that your job or are you offering?”

  The humor went wide over her head. “Could we come in please?”

  Preston moved aside to let the visitors in while behind him Hewitt stealthily covered the documents on the table with a nearby newspaper. Gervasi noticed fleetingly the concealment from the corner of his eye.

  “Can I help you guys with something?”

  “We’d like to ask about your whereabouts from last night.”

  “I was here,” Preston offered cryptically.

  “Alone?” the male federal agents inquired.

  “With the Discovery Channel, actually. Planet Earth marathon, very fascinating. What’s this all about anyway?”

  “Do you know someone called Pablo Rodriguez?”

  “Yeah, he’s a friend of mine.”

  The ICE woman produced a notepad and checked her information against her notes. “We found his body in the parking garage of the Bonaventure Hotel in the middle of the night.”

  Preston ran a hand through his hair and sat on the edge of the couch. He went rigid as he hadn’t anticipated this bend in the conversation.

  “Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “He's dead?”

  “Yes, murdered. This is news to you?” she asked.

  “I didn’t kill him if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “But you did see him recently, right?”

  “A couple of days ago,” Preston answered truthfully. There was no point in lying as he had nothing to hide. “He was meeting some people in LA and then going to Mexico.”

  “Do you know who he was meeting?”

  Preston shook his head, still absorbing the news that his friend was dead.

  The ATF guy was obviously letting her handle the questioning but he pitched in, “You know what it was about?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “We found your fingerprints on a weapon recovered at the crime scene.” The woman’s tone was definitely accusatory.

  “He showed me his new toy, that submachine gun. I checked it out to be polite but that’s it.”

  The ICE lady wrote that down in her notebook and then asked, “Did you know he was using a fake passport?”

  “No.”

  “Was he in contact with any terrorist organizations?”

  “I hear that the Knights of Columbus can throw a shit fit like nobody’s business.”

  In the background, Hewitt could barely contain a snicker and had to bite into his sandwich to muffle the sound.

  “Mr. McSweeney...” the lady whined.

  “No, I don’t know if he was into anything illegal. I hadn’t seen him in two years.”

  Gervasi pointed to Hewitt. “Who’s your friend?”

  Hewitt smiled at him and replied, “Just that, a friend.”

  “It’s hot in here, isn’t it?”

  The ATF man stepped forward, took hold of the fan, and proceeded to aim it directly into his face. But as he moved it, it displaced the LA Times covering the documents on the table.

  Hewitt’s hand shot out to keep the newspaper down but it wasn’t quickly enough and Gervasi noticed the tourism brochure.

  “Ah, that’s refreshing,” Gervasi said, closing his eyes as the air blew into his face.

  Hewitt couldn’t help thinking the man had done that on purpose.

  The interview over, Jasmine gave Preston her business card.

  “Please get in touch with me if you can think of anything that could help us catch the people responsible.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Preston’s world had been shaken in the last few days what with his friends’ visit, quitting his job, and his employment as a mercenary. Learning that Rodriguez was dead – murdered, for Christ sakes – was as unexpected as it was troubling.

  He’d never known anyone who’d ever been murdered before. Sure, from the way he had been talking about it, Rodriguez was into some illegal shit and you had to expect an untimely death when you traveled in those circles.

  But for the cops to come talking to him about it was disconcerting. He couldn’t allow anything to interfere with the Katoga operation.

  As he waited for the federal agents’ car to drive away, he finished his beer, letting the cold brew calm his nerves and cool his body. He then went back to the kitchen where he got two fresh bottles.

  Hewitt opened his beer but didn’t touch it.

  “Does that Rodriguez lad compromise our plan?” he asked soberly.

  “No, he was just a friend from my old life.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Preston stared back at him defiantly. This old guy was more perceptive than he would’ve given him credit for.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  On their way back south to Long Beach in the government sedan, both Jasmine and Gervasi kept silent for the first five minutes, each thinking about the interview.

  Gervasi finally spoke. “These guys couldn’t have been more suspicious if they’d had blood-soaked pajamas.”

  “Oh yeah,” she agreed. “We definitely need to find out more about that McSweeney guy.”

  Chapter 12

  It was raining pro
fusely in Panama City. It wasn’t just curtains of rain either, it was a genuine blanket. Preston and Hewitt, merely walking from the airport door to their taxi, got instantly wet. Their driver noticed their condition and winced at the prospect of having to dry the backseat before picking up his next fare.

  “Radisson Decapolis,” Hewitt told the driver.

  It wasn’t the first time in this small Central American country for either of them. Preston had been here in his Army days for jungle warfare training, although he had never gotten to sample the local civilian lifestyle. For his part, Hewitt had come to Panama for the same reason they were here now: to set up a corporate shell game.

  Going downtown, Hewitt couldn’t help noticing how much the city – the country – had changed over the years. The United States had backed Panama’s independence in the early 20th century with the caveat that a huge parcel of land be exclusively controlled by the US government. This zone became the Panama Canal upon its completion in 1914.

  For the next 50 years, various governments ruled the country but it was always looking out for the commercial interests of only a few companies. In the 1960s, the military began to challenge the leadership. Subsequently the Panama Defense Forces controlled the government, explicitly at first and then through civilian proxies.

  Corruption began to set in until it became overwhelming. General Manuel Noriega, whose nefarious relationship with the CIA afforded him a certain leeway, began to openly traffic drugs and launder money.

  The DEA indicted him in 1989 and the US government suspected him of not only being a key player in the Medellin Cartel but also selling information to Cuba. Following economic sanctions and various incidents of civilian intimidation, the US military invaded Panama in December 1989, ousting Noriega and restoring democracy.

  Billions of dollars of aid came pouring in and the country embraced a capitalist rebirth. The Canal was handed over to Panamanian authorities in 2000, construction spiked, and the service sector was now booming, especially the banking industry.

  Hewitt was overwhelmed by the number of high-rises in the city. It was reminiscent of Hong Kong. The problem was that the city had not been designed for such quick growth and the streets overflowed with cars.

  Because the city was sandwiched between the Pacific Ocean to the south and protected parks to the north, Panama City had taken the shape of a funnel.

  Once upon a time, Hewitt reflected, Panama had been the hub of killers, drug lords, and other foul villains. Now that democracy was back and that companies were legitimate, Panama moved up in the world and was a favorite with spies and white-collar criminals. Same shit, different smell.

  It was getting late when they reached the hotel. Their connected rooms overlooked the Bay of Panama where the sun would be setting if it hadn’t been covered with thick clouds. They gave each other 15 minutes to settle in and freshen up after which Hewitt joined Preston in his room.

  “You want to go out for dinner, lad?”

  “I’d rather stay here, order up some room service.”

  The hotel was connected to the Multicentro, the largest shopping mall in Central America. There were shops, restaurants, arcades, and even a casino. Preston was sure that he would find something that would suit his palate should the room service menu be inadequate.

  “Nonsense,” Hewitt protested. “The Panamanians love to party. They’re rather much like us Brits minus our mandatory stuffiness. Come on, let’s go.”

  The older man tugged on Preston’s sleeve and the mercenary could see the battle was already lost. The truth was Preston was tired, as he always was after a long flight. He hated flying, especially commercial when there wasn’t a parachute strapped to his back.

  “Fine,” he reluctantly agreed.

  They secured their passports, documents, credit cards, and $5 million check into Preston’s in-room safe, only keeping cash in their pockets. They went down to the street and were glad it wasn’t raining cats and dogs now. Just cats.

  Hewitt remembered a particular spot he had visited. The place was located in the business district and was called El Pavo Real. It was an authentic British pub with pool table and dartboard. They served pints of Guinness and fish and chips served in a cone made from newspaper.

  They found space at the bar and Preston was again astonished by how fast Hewitt could swallow a beverage. Even though he claimed he wasn’t a fan of beer, he ordered a Guinness to celebrate his British heritage and chased it down with a double Smirnoff vodka.

  The fish and chip dish wasn’t bad and Preston instantly felt rejuvenated. He was a bit disconcerted by the fact that more English was spoken than Spanish.

  “Lots of ex-pats in Panama,” Hewitt explained. “Some working for the banks, retirees and pensioners. They need a taste of home, I suppose.”

  Preston didn’t say anything for fear of betraying himself. He made a show of being bored but he was actually starting to enjoy himself. One beer turned into three and he let himself be talked into a game of darts with a young Canadian couple on their honeymoon.

  An hour later, Preston was feeling no pain and when the Canadians offered to move the party to a livelier club, he didn’t object. They went down Calle Uruguay to a place called Guru Clubbing Cult, some exclusive Vegas-style venue with neons, fog machines, and beautiful people.

  The Canadians seemed well off. Preston noticed the husband give a few bills to the doorman and they were promptly let in. They stuck together for the first few drinks, talking about inane things such as commercial deficits and foreign trade – the man was an investment banker – but soon, as they went dancing, they lost track of each other.

  Hewitt also ventured down to the dance floor. His moves were stuck in 1983 but his insouciance was his salvation. Instead of being mocked, he was being admired and some clubgoers joined in.

  After a few more cocktails, Preston, celibate for too long, allowed himself to approach the young women, some of which were the most beautiful he’d ever seen.

  They all seemed having been cut from the same mold: black hair, bronze skin, shapely figures, and revealing clothing. If heaven had an earthly branch it was Panama City.

  After midnight, he found he was unable to tear himself away from one such lady. Her name was Rosalita and of all the angels in the club she had to be the most striking. Her low-cut silk blouse left her back completely bare and her miniskirt showed off her magnificently polished legs.

  She told him she was 19 and the age difference didn’t matter to him, not tonight. By their third dance they were holding hands and 10 minutes later they were making out like teenagers.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  It was the banging on the door that woke up Preston.

  He opened his eyes, painfully at first. He knew it wasn’t just the brightness of a brand-new day that was making things difficult. It was a full-blown hangover. He wiped spittle from his chin and rubbed his eyes.

  He was alone in the room but he could see the bed was disheveled as if two people had slept in it. Lifting the sheets, he noticed he was stark naked. Then he remembered.

  Shortly after midnight he had brought Rosalita back to the hotel where she finally allowed him to see what her skimpy garments were hiding. She’d been the most enthusiastic lover he’d ever had.

  There was more banging on the door.

  “Yeah, I’m coming.”

  He planted his feet on the carpeted floor and pulled on his briefs. Then something occurred to him and his heart lurched. He remembered Army lectures about sleeping with native girls. He leaned forward and grabbed his pants. He found his wallet and quickly pulled it out, hurriedly opening it.

  Empty.

  “Fuck,” he almost shouted.

  “Is everything all right, lad?”

  Preston got off the bed, opened the door connecting the two rooms, and without missing a beat went to his in-room safe. He punched in the code and scanned the inventory. Credit card, passports, documents, the check, everything was accounted for.

  �
��What’s going on?” Hewitt asked.

  “Bitch stole my money.”

  “She got the check?”

  Preston turned back toward the old man and sat on the floor, rubbing his face.

  “No, just the cash in my wallet. Had like $300 in there.”

  Hewitt burst into laughter. “The folly of youth!”

  “Rub it in, why don’t you.”

  “Perhaps I should have warned you that the club was crawling with ladies of the night.” When he saw the look of confusion on Preston’s face he added, “Escorts. It is a possibility she didn’t rob you but rather collected her fee while you were asleep. Personally, I paid mine while I was still conscious.”

  He burst into laughter again at Preston’s dismay.

  Preston had never paid for sex before and felt embarrassed. Mostly, he was feeling ashamed about a 19-year-old getting the drop on him. He was beginning a significant operation meant to topple an African government. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by sex and women. He vowed right then and there never to be seduced again.

  Women mean trouble, get your head on straight.

  “Get ready,” Hewitt ordered. “We have some business to attend to.”

  The main reason they were in Panama was to establish an international business company. Aside from having the advantage of being tax-free and without administrative hassles, the main benefit of an offshore company was its confidentiality measures. Jurisdictions offering these advantages had laws prohibiting the divulgation of private information.

  As Hewitt had explained that coup d’états were a big gray area in international relations, their most important task was to ensure their anonymity. It was paramount that no one learned who had sponsored the Katogan government’s overthrow.

  The establishment of IBCs was a cottage industry in Panama and there were numerous companies which especially catered to this market. Preston and Hewitt were on their way to such a firm. Once their company was set up they’d be able to open a bank account in this company’s name.

  After that was done, their plan was to travel around the Caribbean and open more offshore companies and bank accounts, creating a convoluted organizational network which would scramble any trail their operation might leave behind.