Nicholas spotted Car Rental Form, gestured to the monitor, and pointed to ones named Document1, Document2, and Document3. “When you open a new file, the computer gives it a default name. You must have forgotten to save the file.”
Dirk shrugged indifferently.
“No big deal,” Nicholas said. “Decide which ones you want to keep and rename them.”
“I have a meeting at the embassy,” Dirk said. He hoisted two boxes onto the desk. “In the meantime, start reading Tyler’s files to get up to speed on the operation.”
Nicholas nodded calmly, but the sight of Tyler’s files made his stomach cringe.
“I’ll need you to attend a meeting there as well this afternoon. I don’t know whether K told you, but we terminated operation Delphi Justice, at least as far as the other agencies are concerned. No one knows you’re here to replace Tyler.”
Nicholas and Dirk endured a prolonged silence.
“I’ll start reading these.” Nicholas gestured to the boxes.
“Unfortunately,” Dirk said, “I can only offer you Tyler’s office. I feel uneasy going in there myself; it’s the next one down to the left.” He started to leave the office but stopped. “Nick,” he added, “good to have you back.”
“Thanks,” Nicholas said, suddenly conscious of the fact that he was in a position to help his career only because Tyler was dead. He observed a moment of silence before lifting the boxes and getting situated in Tyler’s old office. He was committed to studying every nuance of every word. What had Tyler done, thought, or observed? Who were his agents? What were their motivations for providing secrets? Had he found people willing to reveal secrets for ideological reasons, or did the almighty dollar sway them? What clues could he find about Tyler’s death that would help bring his murderer to justice?
Nicholas found Tyler’s insights brilliant. More important, they were uniquely his. “Feigning interest in his perverse habits is the foundation for bending his will,” he’d written on one page. On another page, he described one agent as “corpulent, yet elusive.”
Tyler’s agents ranged from a mid-level drug dealer, a private banker, to a third country diplomat. Of particular interest, he’d recruited Minister of Foreign Affairs Victor Hernandez, the father of his late fiancée, Helena Hernandez, to collect information on Panamanian political plans and intentions regarding the prospect of maintaining a U.S. military presence in Panama post-1999. The information Hernandez provided had been instrumental in setting the stage for operation Delphi Justice.
While Nicholas contemplated the clues surrounding the death of Tyler, it occurred to him it seemed like only yesterday the two of them were eager young case officers starting their new careers.
Their first stop was The Farm, the secret training base where they learned the arcane craft of espionage and the martial skills that would keep them alive in the field. The monastic seclusion hardened their bodies and minds and exposed their weaknesses, which they chiseled away day and night until they reached the smooth, rounded core of their essence. They were part of a team, a fortress of stones piled high defending their nation; and what unified them more than anything else was the feeling that destiny was leading them. Their next stop was the real world of espionage and covert action.
Central America during the eighties was like the Wild West. Military dictators and insurgent guerrillas were regular items on the menu, not to mention civil wars, drug trafficking, and weapons proliferation. The U.S. was in the thick of every Machiavellian plot. While some American citizens protested the covert operations, the majority selectively ignored the dirty work being done by their government in defense of their freedoms. Many names were forgotten—the Contras, the Sandinistas, the FMLN, the death squads—but they were forever etched in the lexicon of U.S. covert action.
Nicholas and Tyler were there, sometimes together, sometimes not. Ultimately, Tyler was a casualty of the Iran-Contra affair. Unfortunately, the generals and politicians had grabbed all the chairs before the music stopped, about the same time Nicholas quit the Directorate of Operations after the fiasco in El Salvador. Both were reassigned to Washington—Nicholas by choice, Tyler as a guest in purgatory.
Nicholas had admired the way Tyler took things in stride and worked diligently to prove he deserved a second chance. He’d ruffled some feathers and obliquely questioned the integrity of those persecuting him, but he didn’t let the bastards grind him down. Eventually, he was reassigned to the field, one successful mission after another, until he was selected for duty in Panama, until a bullet took his life at Veracruz Beach.
A loud knock on the door startled Nicholas as he scribbled some notes. He glanced at the clock and couldn’t believe it was already two-thirty. “Come in,” he said and stretched.
The secretary opened the door. “Excuse me, Mr. Dirk said the meeting at the embassy will begin in thirty minutes.”
SIX
Nicholas made the trek to the embassy through the chaotic traffic. A strange combination of intuition and memory kicked in as he wove through the one-way streets, swerving to miss cars that were seemingly oblivious to the traffic laws or the other cars on the road. At Avenida Balboa, he drove along the Pacific Ocean until he arrived at the embassy. A tall black iron fence surrounded the embassy compound. A prominent U.S. flag flapped in the wind. After finding a parking spot, he stepped out of the car and started the short walk to the front gate.
Street vendors pushed wobbly carts around honking cars as people stepped off colorful buses and walked busily. Blue Si and red No signs were plastered on the walls—“Si” favoring the referendum for the president, “No” opposed. A lone policeman stood below a broken traffic light directing cars with broad hand gestures. The place was loco but full of life. Qué Panamá!
“Idiota!” a man in a rusted Datsun yelled and slammed his horn when a shiny red Toyota Corolla taxi cut him off. At the traffic light, cars blocked the intersection, exacerbating the traffic jam for a desired shortsighted gain, which turned into a maddening wait for everyone. When the traffic started moving, a gorgeous Latina with flowing black hair and Gucci sunglasses lowered the passenger window of a midnight blue Mitsubishi Montero and released the Panamanian reggae blasting on the radio.
At the front gate, the U.S. Marine verified his name on the embassy visitor list, handed him a badge, and wished him well.
Nicholas knocked on the conference room door. An Air Force major wearing an olive green flight suit opened the door. “I’m Nicholas Lowe,” he said to the gatekeeper. “I was told to attend this meeting.”
Dirk voiced his approval in the background. The major stepped aside. Nicholas entered a room kept frigid by a noisy air conditioner. The gaze of everyone settled on him—12 men seated around a large rectangular table and 30 or so mostly military personnel seated around the perimeter. The Department of Defense usually invoked the principle of mass for routine meetings.
Dirk stood at the head of the table and gestured for Nicholas to sit. “Gentlemen, this is Nicholas Lowe. He’s here to assist with the presentation.” He gestured to the computer.
Nicholas approached the computer. Power Point wasn’t rocket science but giving this public performance was the only way for him to attend the meeting. Good thinking on Dirk’s part. He got comfortable in his chair, opened the file, and turned on the color projector after someone dimmed the lights.
Dirk gestured to the screen illuminated with a welcome slide. “The purpose of this meeting is twofold. First, the ambassador requested our ideas regarding Panama and the Canal post-1999, from an intelligence perspective. Second, I wanted to discuss operation Delphi Justice.”
Dirk gestured to the bald, stocky officer sitting to his right, the only one in the group wearing camouflage. “Colonel, would you do us the honor of going first.”
Colonel Lance Dupree, U.S. Air Force, walked to the podium and nodded to Nicholas. Dupree looked battle hardened, as if he’d gripped the enemy’s throat with his bare hands.
“Despi
te the reduction of U.S. forces in Panama,” Dupree began, “the war on drugs continues full throttle, make no mistake about it. Although corruption and poor training often prevent the Colombians and Panamanians from making drug seizures, we’ve had many successes this quarter—seven planes destroyed. Next slide.”
Nicholas clicked the mouse and observed the audience. Dupree’s authoritative tone had everyone’s attention.
“Panama is facing an uncertain future,” Dupree continued. “Political stability is absolutely necessary when Panama assumes control of the Canal. One of the greatest threats to stability is the influence of drug traffickers. Drugs destabilize nations, and the associated problems like addiction and corruption tear apart the social fabric. For this reason, we must maintain military bases in Panama post-1999—to continue fighting this war, despite what the 1977 treaties say. Hell, if I had it my way, we’d keep the Canal; but since that ain’t going to happen, we should do this at a minimum.”
Dupree continued: “In addition to stabilizing Panama, maintaining military bases will have other advantages.” He listed items such as geography, logistics, the looming threat of China, and the capability to deploy assets in support of “other operations” in Latin America, which was a euphemism for covert action.
Dupree finished and returned to his seat—no polite comments, no thanking the audience for their time. Nicholas liked his style: to the point and no bullshit. Once the leadership had made a decision, he was the kind of guy you wanted on your team.
Thomas Rendall walked to the podium next. He was the State Department Political Counselor, a New England liberal with a condescending smirk. He wore Continental wire rimmed glasses, and his gray suit couldn’t disguise his frail frame.
“Those were some compelling points,” Rendall said, “but reality is less propitious. Although funding for counterdrug operations shows no signs of waning, the key to Panama’s future, including the Canal’s, is economic reform. Next slide, please.”
Nicholas clicked the mouse, impressed by Rendall’s slides.
“About fourteen thousand ships transit the Canal annually,” Rendall said. “Recent profits have been low. Because shipping companies have other options, Panama won’t have the luxury of increasing tolls significantly. Only reduced costs and increased efficiency will make the Canal profitable during the next century.”
Rendall continued: “Being shielded from economic competition has fostered Panama’s oligarchic, monopolistic culture; income disparity is at a dangerous level. Economic reform is required to promote a level playing field and to transform Panama into an entrepreneurial culture with a strong middle class. The only way to achieve this is by promoting competition and by moving toward compliance with World Trade Organization standards. As a final word, I must stress that any attempt to violate the 1977 treaties, to include keeping military bases here post-1999, would have disastrous consequences for U.S. foreign policy in Latin America and the rest of the world. The world is watching. If we violate this treaty, we’ll lose credibility, which will hurt our ability to sign other treaties in the future.” Rendall thanked everyone and sat.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Dirk said. “I selected you to present two sides of the issue because Panama’s future will be determined by political and economic factors.”
“He’s living in a fantasy world,” Dupree said, indicating Rendall. “This is the third world. Panama occupies a strategic location. Our concern should be security and stability, not building an entrepreneurial culture.”
Rendall laughed condescendingly. “In case you didn’t hear, Colonel, the 1977 Carter-Torrijos treaties require our military to leave Panama by December 31st this year. Does the concept of national sovereignty mean anything to you?”
“Not if it interferes with U.S. interests,” Dupree said bluntly.
“Besides,” Rendall said, unscathed, “even if political stability were the primary goal, we can’t provide that. The biggest problem in Panama is income disparity. Economic reform will create a middle class and promote the stability you are looking for.”
Dupree’s gaze shifted around the room. “That could take decades. In the process, Panama might collapse, which would threaten the Canal. It’s not worth the risk.”
“Gentlemen,” Dirk interjected, “as we can see, the issue is complex. Please give me a copy of your presentations. I’ll include them in my report. From what I understand, the White House is watching this issue closely.”
Dupree and Rendall nodded.
“Let’s move on to the second item.” Dirk gestured for the next slide. Nicholas clicked the mouse. “Operation Delphi Justice, for those of you who don’t know, was a sting operation to arrest Cesar Gomez. We’ve had—”
“What do you mean was?” Dupree asked.
Dirk raised a finger to put the colonel on hold. “Most of you know that Tyler Broadman was murdered Saturday night. What most of you don’t know is we received information indicating his death might have been related to this operation, perhaps retaliation.” Dirk couldn’t admit Tyler was running the operation, but the odds were everyone in the room had figured it out. “The most likely suspect is Cesar Gomez, but we don’t have any—”
“Who else did it?” Dupree asked. “Communist China?”
“We don’t know,” Dirk said, playing the fool. “The bottom line is the operation is on hold until we get more information.”
“That’s not a good idea,” Rendall said. “Cesar might flee the country with his money.”
“Now he wants to get his hands dirty,” Dupree said, gesturing to Rendall.
Rendall glared at Dupree. “Mr. Broadman was a good friend, Colonel.”
Dupree leaned back and lifted his hands defensively. “Please forgive me for that. I was out of line,” he said. Rendall accepted the apology.
Nicholas watched the drama unfold with the comfort of knowing operation Delphi Justice was still in full force. Dirk was doing crowd control, spreading a rumor that would soon be larger than life.
“Cesar’s most recent activity provided us a lot of evidence we can use against him,” Dirk said. “Our plan is to let the dust settle and determine whether the lawyers have enough evidence to indict him.”
“You were right to keep Cesar as a Linear target,” Dupree said. “I knew that son of a bitch never stopped dealing cocaine.”
“Guys like that never do,” Dirk said.
Some people had questioned Dirk’s decision to make Cesar a Linear target, primarily because Tyler himself had received information from a reliable source indicating that Cesar had stopped selling cocaine. Declaring him a Linear target had translated into the allocation of additional tax dollars to put him behind bars, but the operation hadn’t resulted in an arrest, and some people were beginning to reevaluate the funding, but most people were reluctant to question the judgment of a veteran like Dirk.
“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.
SEVEN
“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.”
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