“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.”
EIGHT
“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.
“That must be Manuel,” Cesar said. “Tell him to meet me in the study.”
Eddy gulped his drink and hustled to the entrance.
“Come here, ladies,” Cesar said. “We have a guest.” Adriana and Maria slipped on translucent blouses and walked over. “Who do you love?” he asked.
They kissed either cheek and escorted him to the penthouse. The touch of their hands sent a chill up his spine. Unfortunately, the scent of the coconut tanning oil coating their divine bodies diluted his ardor.
Helena Hernandez had smelled of coconut oil the day she died.
“Ladies,” Cesar continued, “you remember I told you I was looking for a house? I think I found the perfect place in the interior—quiet, tranquil, just the three of us. What do you think?”
The ladies looked at each other and shrugged.
“Make it a Monday,” Maria said. “We don’t want to miss any fun here in the city.” She tugged Cesar’s arm. “And bring some cocaine. If we’re going to be locked up in the middle of nowhere, I want to be high.”
“That’s for sure,” Adriana seconded. “And don’t forget—our daily rate is higher for vacations.”
Cesar laughed to himself. His ladies were always angling for an increase in their allowance!
“I don’t think you two understand,” Cesar said. “I was thinking we could move there, for good, just the three of us.”
“No way,” Maria scoffed. “We’d die of boredom.”
“Yeah,” Adriana agreed, “no thanks.”
“I’d never let you two get bored,” Cesar assured them. “We’ll go for a few days. If you don’t like it, we’ll come back.”
Women thought the world revolved around their happiness, which was why they needed men, like Cesar, to keep them in line. They would fall in love with the house after one weekend, he was sure of it. He reached down and slapped their shapely asses.
“Take a shower and get some sleep so we can party tonight.”
“Actually,” Maria said, “we’re going out with some friends. Remember?”
Cesar had taken them away from the world of topless dancing, but they sometimes had reunions with their old friends.
“We’ll stop by tomorrow,” she continued. “You promised to take us shopping.”
Adriana kissed his cheek. “We saw some beautiful clothes today,” she said, adding seductively, “very sexy clothes.”
Cesar didn’t remember making any promises. He couldn’t remember everything. Who could?
“I have a meeting tonight anyway. Big business.” He squeezed their asses.
Adriana rubbed his shoulder. “We’re a little short on cash.”
Cesar laughed. Women had no fiscal discipline: give them money, and it was gone before you could say blowjob! He reached into his pocket and removed a wad of twenties. He handed half to Maria, because she seemed the more disciplined one. Adriana grabbed the other half. “Ah, yeah, have a good time.”
“Bye,” they said in unison and strolled into the penthouse. Maria apparently told Adriana a joke because they laughed hysterically.
NINE
Cesar entered the study and admired his vast library, mostly books with the word “revolution” in the title. He’d read all of them—well, almost—the seeds of his brilliant philosophy. Unlike most revolutionary theories, his wasn’t based on intangible dialectical social forces. No, his was the result of an ingenious insight.
Throughout the centuries, geniuses had discovered different facets of the Truth. Their primary error had been confusing physical evolution for mental evolution. Good materialists all, they’d assumed the Spirit of their philosophical system represented flesh and blood people in space and time. However, as Cesar had discovered, the Spirit represented the evolving inner world of individuals, not the external world of social organizations. Therefore, the material manifestation of the other system—civilization—had to be destroyed so the individual could return to his roots and express himself naturally. Cesar’s destiny was to reveal this Truth and save humanity—from itself.
He sat in the leather chair behind his desk and gazed at the rifle hanging on the wall, the one he’d fought with in the jungles of Colombia. The Truth had set him free. He understood the masses had no reason to feel ashamed for being poor. Cruel and systematic exploitation by corrupt groups was the cause of poverty. For centuries, the exploiters perpetuated the lie that a person’s lot in life was the result of a natural hierarchy. He saw through this conspiracy. Vicious groups like The Order enslaved the masses and created unjust social systems that perpetuated their grip on power. Armed with this knowledge, Cesar joined the leftist revolutionary forces. Initially, despite the violence, the war was glorious. Eventually, however, he learned a dark truth: many revolutionary leaders had transmogrified into the power-hungry despots he originally had set out to destroy.
The first indication of this unfortunate transition was the alliance with the drug cartels. Cesar wasn’t opposed to this on principle—as long as the imperialists snorted the cocaine and the profits supported the revolution—but he opposed targeting local villagers, the people they were supposed to be liberating. Once-beautiful Colombian women had resorted to prostitution to support their disgraceful habit. The second indication was the attacks on innocent villages. People who didn’t pay enough “taxes” to the cause were killed or forced to live like slaves. Their dead bodies were shown to the media and made to look like the work of the rightwing paramilitaries. Cesar’s career in the jungle ended when he refused to wipe out a village. He couldn’t kill his own people.
Shattered and heartbroken, he started his own revolution. Keeping in mind the Anglo-Saxon fear of mind-altering substances, he began transporting cocaine to the United States and Europe in the hope of unraveling the social fabric of those oppressive cultures. Thus began his world crusade.
The rifle now hung on his wall as a reminder that he was always willing to fight for a just cause, if one should ever present itself.
A knock on the door eased Cesar back to reality.
“Anyone home?” Manuel Espinosa asked. He wore a white linen shirt—the top three buttons undone, with enough chest hair to mow—and tan slacks. He sat and lit a cigarette with an attitude so typical of someone from wealth. He exhaled the smoke and posed dramatically, like someone from television.
“I saw Adriana and Maria,” he said with a smirk. “They looked joyful.”
“Of course,” Cesar said confidently. “They were with me,” he added, not pleased with Manuel’s tone. He hated to associate with the local capitalists, but Manuel was a great source of information, although he never would have survived in the jungles of Colombia. Wealth had made Manuel lazy. He had broad shoulders and a face that women raved about, but money had chipped away his moral convictions.
Cesar offered a glass of Aguardiente.
Manuel nodded approvingly. “Any word on your next shipment?”
Cesar nodded assuredly. “I have a meeting tonight.” Manuel didn’t know about his special deal with the Americans.
“What’s his name?” Manuel asked. “I’ll check him out.”
“Not necessary,” Cesar said.
Manuel set his cigarette down and sipped his drink. “The word on the street is you ordered the hit on Tyler Broadman.”
Cesar leaned back. He expected that rumor to surface eventually. He respected Tyler and stood to gain nothing by killing him. No one would believe it, of course, so he’d become the prime suspect. “I had nothing to do with that.”
“They’re saying he wanted to kill you for what you did to Helena Hernandez,” Manuel said. “The DEA—”
“Fuck the DEA!” Cesar yelled and pounded his fists. How dare anyone accuse him of killing Helena! He could never do such a thing. Anyone who knew him could attest to that. He jabbed an accusing finger. “I’m untouchable, you hear? No one fucks with Cesar Gomez. And who the hell is this they you keep referring to?”
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