Treaty Violation
A Novel
Anthony C. Patton
The World
as Story
For Doranellys, Daniel, Anthony & Alex
Copyright © 2012 by Anthony C. Patton
All rights reserved.
Published by The World as Story
Revised edition.
First edition published in 2002 as Delphi Justice by Atreus Publishing.
Second edition published in 2007 as Treaty Violation by The World as Story.
Treaty Violation
ONE
Panama City, Panama, 1999
Tyler Broadman gripped the steering wheel as his silver BMW zipped across the Bridge of the Americas. Below, buoys lit the entrance of the Panama Canal like a runway. Impatient with the static on the radio, he poked the buttons until he found a merengue song and glanced in the rearview mirror to scrutinize the empty road behind him.
Tyler wiped the sweat off his forehead, turned up the air conditioner another notch, and took the first exit for Veracruz Beach. The tires spit up gravel as he compensated for taking the turn too fast. According to the digital clock on the dashboard, the meeting was only minutes away. He was never late, even now. Once off the ramp, the streetlights ended, and the road plunged into darkness. He blinked repeatedly to prime his night vision and slalomed the potholes along the winding road.
He maneuvered a sharp corner as the Pacific Ocean came into view, then dimmed the headlights and slowed the car. The tires sank into the sand as he pulled off the road and parked in front of a thatched roof hut with a rusted Coca-Cola sign hanging awry. He flashed the headlights, turned off the radio, and lowered the window. The purr of the engine and the lapping waves summoned him to sleep. From his shirt pocket, he removed a photograph of his late fiancée, Helena Hernandez, held it up to his nose, and smelled the lingering fragrance of violet scented perfume. Her radiant face smiled back at him, her beauty captured for eternity.
A man finally emerged from the shadows of the hut and walked to the car. Tyler leaned his head out the window. “Does this road go to the international airport?”
“No, but there are many beach resorts,” the man replied.
Right answer.
Nestor, a lanky Panamanian wearing jeans and a Yankees jersey, scanned the area as if looking for someone hidden in the shadows. His eyes slewed left to right as he leaned over to look inside the car. “Do you have the money?”
“You said your plane was ready,” Tyler said.
Nestor stood up and shook his head, breathing rapidly. “I need five thousand dollars to fix my plane, or, or I can’t fly tomorrow!”
“Calm down,” Tyler said. “I want you to fly this shipment. You’re my best pilot.”
Nestor flashed a reluctant smile.
“Promise me your plane will be ready to fly tomorrow.”
Nestor nodded and looked inside the car, a cold flame flickering in his eyes.
“Where’s the money?” he asked.
Tyler leaned over and removed a stack of cash from the glove box. Before he could lean back, Nestor dropped a folded piece of paper onto his lap.
“What’s this?” Tyler set the money on the passenger seat, then unfolded the piece of paper and turned on the dome light to read:
You murdered Helena!
You murdered Helena!
You murdered Helena!
You murdered Helena!
You murdered Helena!
Tyler swallowed hard when he heard the distinct click of a cocked revolver behind his head. He instinctively reached for the gun under the front seat, but leaned back when he found that only emptiness resided in his heart.
He looked at the photograph of Helena with tears in his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he said and closed his eyes as Nestor fired a bullet into his head.
TWO
Washington, D.C., 1999
Nicholas Lowe groaned when he saw a manila folder stamped “Top Secret” with his name printed on it. The memo on his desk had said to report to a Crisis Action Team meeting ASAP, not what he wanted to deal with on a Monday morning with deadlines and a bad cup of coffee from the CIA cafeteria. He’d adjusted nicely to his job at the Office of Russian and European Analysis, but the CIA had a fetish for spies with regional experience and had reassigned him “temporarily” to the Office of Asian Pacific, Latin American, and African Analysis—the rice and beans division. Latin America was one part of the world he wanted to forget, but the tide was strong.
Nicholas raised an inquisitive eyebrow and admired the dozen red roses resting in a crystal vase as the secretary hung up the phone. He couldn’t hold back a grin when she presented a cordial smile and folded her hands.
“Good morning, Ms. Peterson,” he said and slapped the folder. “This would be mine, I assume?”
That twinkle in her eyes was reminiscent of his mother’s—or of a widowed aristocrat with a fancy for young men. Her red dress with white polka dots exuded more youth than her frosted hair, but her spirit was forever young, especially among the SUV Beltway Bureaucrats.
“There’s only one Nicholas Lowe,” she said, “and it does have your name on it.”
Bad news: someone had taken the time to print his name on the folder, which meant this assignment might not be so “temporary” after all.
She looked at the roses and blushed.
“Please call me Louise, Mr. Lowe. I insist.”
Nicholas admired her distinguished air and smelled the fragrant flowers.
“Your Italian lover must be in town,” he said and teasingly reached for the card.
Louise snatched it and gestured to the group of people in the corner cubicle. “The team is waiting for you, Mr. Lowe.”
Nicholas glanced at his watch. “This should be entertaining.” A good cup of coffee really would have helped. “Thank you,” he added and grabbed the folder. “I’ll make myself at home.” He started walking and glanced back. “Please call me Nicholas, Ms. Peterson,” he added with a wink. “I insist.”
“Welcome home, Nick,” she said with a sigh.
Tom Langford and three lovely ladies stood when Nicholas entered the conference room. Tom wore a gray suit with black polished shoes, the professional analyst look—but not stiff, as his Hispanic roots could attest. As a case officer, Nicholas could get away with khaki slacks and a navy blue sport coat, tie optional.
“I hope you’re not standing for me,” Nicholas said and gestured for the ladies to sit. He set the manila folder on the desk and passed his gaze over Tom as if he were a stranger. “Just kidding,” he added and stood to hug his dumbfounded amigo. “How the hell are you?”
“Hanging in there,” Tom said. “For those of you who don’t know, Nicholas and I go way back. He’s a regional expert, which is why I selected him for this team.”
“So I have you to blame for this?” Nicholas smiled as they sat, but he was serious. Tom was a nice guy, but he shouldn’t have used his senior executive pay grade status to have him assigned to this team, not without giving him the chance to decline.
Pleasantly enough, the three ladies, probably recent college graduates, wore silk blouses, skirts, and nylons. The Latina to his left exuded femininity. The East Coast Ivy League type next to her probably attenuated her IQ to appease insecure men. Finally, the Asian’s elegant posture belied her cold, analytical stare. The alchemy of their perfumes induced an oriental rhythm in his heart. Things were looking up.
Tom cleared his throat. “I wanted to begin by saying welcome, at least to those of you who are on the team. Some of you are new to the world of analysis; this experience will probably be baptism by fire hose. The Peru-Ecuador border dispute is hot again. We were tasked by the Director of Intelligence, the DI, t
o provide daily assessments.” He gestured to Nicholas. “We’re here until they sign a peace treaty, and that’s that.”
Nicholas checked his watch. “Yes, well, that’s that often turns into budget planning for the next fiscal year.” He focused his attention on the attractive ladies. “Peru and Ecuador have been involved in this silly border dispute for decades.” He leaned back and shrugged. “This should prove to be a long and boring spectacle.”
“If that’s really your assessment,” Tom said, surprised, “we look forward to hearing your rationale. I, for one, think the situation is more complex than it used to be.”
Nicholas acknowledged Tom’s comment with a nod. He hadn’t analyzed the region for years, but even though he considered the border dispute a relatively trivial issue in the big picture, he regretted his revealing sarcasm. Never show your cards.
“Personally,” Nicholas said in the same lighthearted tone, gesturing to the ladies, “I think we should send a few suits down there to lay down the law. We make the terms and impose a solution. Problem solved.”
Tom smiled, but it was clear he didn’t concur with Nicholas’ assessment. “Why don’t we humor ourselves for now and see whether we can find a lasting solution that takes into consideration the broader historical context.”
Nicholas acknowledged Tom as silence set in.
“We were told you’re a case officer,” the lovely Latina to his left broke the silence with a submissive arch of the eyebrows.
Nicholas nodded nonchalantly.
“What can you tell us about working in the field?” Ivy League asked enthusiastically.
Tom cleared his throat impatiently. “I’m sure Nicholas would be glad to discuss his field work later.” He tapped his pen and smirked. “Besides, what’s it been, ten years?”
Nicholas leaned forward to whisper to the ladies. “I’ll tell you some stories later if Peru and Ecuador drag this thing out. It looks like we’ll be getting cozy.”
“Actually,” the Latina said, “I only stopped by to visit.”
“We were advised to meet people from operations,” the Asian said. “Our team has only four people.” She gestured to Ivy League and Tom. “The folder you have includes all the relevant background information.”
Nicholas stood with the Latina. This assignment was getting worse by the minute.
“Pleasure to meet you,” the Latina said and shook hands with Nicholas. “I’m Mitzi. Stop by the Central America desk any time. I’d love to hear more about your work in the field.”
“Come back and bother us anytime,” Nicholas said as she departed, perfect ass and all.
Louise entered the conference room.
“Did you receive more flowers, Ms. Peterson?” Nicholas asked.
“Are we blending in nicely, Mr. Lowe?” she asked.
“Just another day at the sweatshop.”
“Perhaps not,” Louise said and handed him a yellow sticky. “Janette called. K would like to see you, at your soonest convenience.”
Nicholas’ heart raced. The oriental rhythm dissipated. The name K stirred a reservoir of dormant emotions. His mentor, the Deputy Director for Operations (DDO), was requesting his presence. Why? He resisted a temptation to answer that question, then reached deep within to sculpt a mask of indifference.
“This shouldn’t take long,” he told Tom.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Louise said as he passed by.
THREE
“Hello, Nickie,” Janette said with her famous raspy voice as he approached the desk. The paternalistic federal smokeless policy had forced her to “step out of the office for a minute” when temptation humbled her best intentions.
“Good morning, Janette,” Nicholas said. “The rumor is you found a new man.”
She spoke into the intercom and looked up, guilty as charged.
“K will see you now.”
Nicholas stood tall. “You must tell me who he is, or I’ll be torn by jealousy.”
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.”
“Can’t tell you how sorry I am,” K said.
Nicholas rubbed his temples. “How?”
“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.
<
br /> “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.”
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