Treaty Violation

by Anthony C. Patton

  Nicholas nodded smartly and stood.

  “Any progress with the journalist?” Dirk asked.

  “We’re probably going out this week,” he said.

  Dirk leaned back and folded his arms.

  “I’ll make plans to see her tonight.”

  “Not looking like that,” Dirk said. “Get some sleep.”

  EIGHTEEN

  In his office, Minister Hernandez nestled his nose in Sheena’s cleavage and sniffed. “That perfume is superb,” he said and traced a figure eight with his nose.

  “Minister Hernandez,” Sheena said and leaned back, “thank you for the perfume, but I have an exam tonight. I can’t—”

  A knock on the door interrupted them.

  “Just a minute,” Hernandez called politely. He stood, tugged his lapels, walked to the door, and opened it to find a camouflage-uniformed soldier standing at attention. “Colonel Dupree,” he said. The colonel’s promptness was becoming a nuisance! “Glad you could make it,” he added and gestured to Sheena. “My assistant, Sheena, was just helping me with some administrative matters. We’ll finish our work later,” he said to her, careful not to caress her ass. He hated assuming the puritan ways of the Americans, but they were prone to pass moral judgment.

  Dupree gawked at Sheena’s swaying ass as she strutted out of the room.

  Hernandez cleared this throat and continued. “I wanted to discuss our operation.” The word operation rolled off his tongue effortlessly, just as he’d practiced. He couldn’t believe Dupree had had the audacity to wear a camouflage uniform to his office, but it looked good. He envisioned himself in camouflage—standing tall in combat boots, sleeves rolled up tight around his biceps, his cap brim casting a domineering shadow over his piercing stare. He would command respect, no doubt. A wry grin sprouted from his countenance as he folded his hands and cupped his knee. “Our first operation was a success,” he said.

  “We destroyed the son of a bitch,” Dupree said.

  Dupree apparently didn’t share his enthusiasm. Then again, soldiers were trained to do their jobs well, not to concern themselves with the strategic vision of the civilian leadership.

  “The information Manuel passed was right on,” Dupree continued. “The Colombians were slow to react, but luck was on our side.”

  Hernandez cocked his head, surprised. “Luck?”

  Dupree continued: “The pilot returned to Colombia before dropping the cocaine, so we got the airplane and the drugs.”

  Hernandez shrugged. “Why is that luck?”

  “We have to prevent the drugs from leaving Colombia,” Dupree said, undaunted. “My mission is to interdict Source Zone drugs, which means stopping the cocaine before it departs Colombia.”

  Hernandez nodded and imagined Dupree as his subordinate, briefing him, the covert action mastermind, about the battle results. His heart raced as disturbing questions gnawed at him. How would the CIA contact me again? Would they, or had Tyler’s death ended the relationship? Did Dupree know? Like a good spy, as Tyler had trained him, he would wait patiently, but the thought of his name in a CIA database frightened him. Would some historian disclose his misdeed and humiliate the family name?

  “Once a plane with cocaine departs Colombia,” Dupree said, “it falls under the control of a different unit in Key West. We break the mission down into areas of responsibility.” He apologized for his digression with a swipe of the hand, as if swatting at a fly. “The point is if my unit can’t stop the drugs inside Colombia and the unit in Key West does its job, then Washington might question the need for maintaining military bases in Panama. You see?”

  Hernandez nodded. “We were lucky because you got the plane and the drugs…in the Source Zone?” The Americans had an acronym or code word for everything. That’s why they were so effective on the battlefield: no one knew what they were doing or saying half of the time. Great leaders guide their subordinates with an invisible hand and make them believe they are responsible for the victory. “How can we remedy this situation?”

  “We need better information from Manuel,” Dupree said. “More lead time—where and when the drugs arrive in northern Colombia. We also need the name of the guy Cesar is working with now. Manuel thinks he’s American. In Colombia, Cesar’s men move quickly: twenty, thirty minutes and the planes are loaded, refueled, and gone. They fly the cocaine from southern Colombia to the Guajira Peninsula via Venezuelan airspace. We have to intercept that plane,” he said and planted his index finger on the desk, “not the one carrying the drugs north to the Caribbean drop site.”

  Hernandez didn’t appreciate Dupree’s tone, but he loved American military logic. Soldiers could tell their leaders how to achieve any objective with beautiful simplicity, ignoring all political or economic consequences.

  “Nip it in the bud,” he said with a grin.

  Dupree nodded, stone faced. “Nip it in the Source Zone.”

  One more try. “Or convince President Mendoza to approve the continuation of your military unit in Panama regardless of what happens,” Hernandez said slyly.

  Dupree finally smiled. “I appreciate your support, Minister Hernandez,” he said, “but let’s focus on results.”

  The nerve, Hernandez thought. “Results, of course.”

  NINETEEN

  With the exception of a few shouts at the NCO club, Howard Air Force base was quiet as the sun was setting. During the roughly three-mile drive from the front gate, Nicholas recalled many fond memories, mostly of trips to Central America to fight the communists. This return to the field triggered feelings his desk in Washington had stifled. He realized now just how much he missed those days, and how good he felt to be back.

  Building 705, known as the Pizza Hut building because of the shape of the roof, had earth toned semicircular roof tiles and white plaster walls, the architectural standard for the base. At the front door, Nicholas picked up the phone, dialed the posted number, and waited patiently. Captain Tony Price said he was on his way out. Boot marks about knee high smudged the wall where soldiers leaned back for smoke breaks. A security camera stood 24-hour watch. A sign warned that the use of deadly force was authorized.

  “Welcome,” Price said as he held the door open.

  They shook hands, a firm professional grip. Captain Price looked fit and disciplined in his camouflage uniform.

  “I’m here for the tour,” Nicholas said and followed Price’s lead. Nicholas handed his ID card to Price, resisting the urge to tell him he wasn’t really a computer guy.

  Price opened a three-ring binder and flipped to a fax sent by the embassy security office. He rested his finger on “Nicholas Lowe” and slid it across the social security number to his security clearance, “TS-SCI,” the highest security clearance granted by the U.S. government. Nicholas was cleared for other special access programs, but that fact was classified.

  Price pressed a sequence of buttons on the cipher lock and pushed the door open to the operations floor. It was about the size of a three-car garage, inversely proportional to its impact on the war on drugs. The room was cold enough to protect the computers from the tropical weather and to engender a Protestant work ethic. The raised tile floor hid the tangled web of cables below. Maps of Latin American countries and photographs of airplanes covered the walls. A black-and-white photograph of a destroyed aircraft was taped to one of the computer monitors—Nicholas’ plane, no doubt, along with his five million dollars. Three NCOs stopped typing on their computers and stood at attention.

  “I heard you guys got one last night,” Nicholas said and gestured for them to sit.

  Price nodded as the sergeants returned to their computers. “We got confirmation that a Colombian A-37 shot down the aircraft,” he said.

  “Are shoot downs common?” Nicholas asked.

  Price shrugged. “The Colombians normally strafe the planes after they land, but this time we were tipped off.”

  “Tipped off?” Nicholas asked innocently.

  “We get tippers al
l the time,” Price said. “I ignore most of them because they rarely amount to anything. Last night, however, we got an exact takeoff time and location. Luckily, we had two Citations in Barranquilla ready to launch.”

  “Luckily?” Nicholas asked.

  “The aircraft returned to Colombia when the P-3 got radar lock, prior to making the drop in the Bahamas,” Price said. “They must have gotten scared. I don’t know. If we hadn’t launched when we did, the aircraft probably would have landed and disappeared in one of the many covert airstrips on the Guajira Peninsula.”

  “Interesting,” Nicholas said, relieved that Elliot and Sammy’s fate had been the edict of misfortune. Luck, however, favored the well prepared. It was time to learn how to avoid a repeat for the next shipment. “Why don’t you tell me about your mission?”

  Price clicked the mouse for a Power Point slide.

  The drug trade began in Bolivia, Peru, and Colombia, where most of the world’s coca leaves grew. From there, the cocaine was transported, mostly to the United States and Europe, in general aviation aircraft, speedboats, commercial ships, or over land. Different federal law enforcement and intelligence agencies disrupted different transportation modes, but one of the most effective ways to attack the problem, in theory, at least, was eradication. Nationalists and farmers protested against the eradication programs as a violation of national sovereignty.

  “You’re responsible for the airspace over Panama and South America?” Nicholas asked. “That’s a large area to cover. What do you consider your strong and weak areas?”

  Price stepped away from the computer. “Based on the location of our air and maritime assets, our strength is the north coast of Colombia. Our friends in Key West, however, are positioned to disrupt drug shipments in different areas.”

  Nicholas nodded, impressed with Price, but he wasn’t pleased to hear his first shipment’s profile had matched the military’s competitive advantage.

  “Our mission often overlaps with Key West’s,” Price continued. “We control the land and they control the water, but airplanes fly over both land and water.”

  Nicholas made a mental note as Price pointed at a map.

  “The coastal waters between Colombia and Panama are difficult to monitor,” Price said with a sweeping motion.

  “Drugs are moving through there?” Nicholas said.

  Price nodded confidently. “The Colombian Navy and the Panamanian National Maritime Service have a limited ability to patrol those waters.” He pointed at Colon, the city at the northern end of the Panama Canal. “Drugs move along the northern coast of Panama and are often shipped out of the Colon Free Zone in containers.”

  “Do many drug shipments depart Panama by air?”

  “That we don’t know,” Price said and shrugged. “If I were a drug dealer, that’s how I’d move the stuff.”

  “I could probably create a database to track shipments and monitor trends,” Nicholas said, deciding to play his role.

  Price nodded knowingly. “We have a dozen databases from a dozen different agencies. If you could make one database that everyone agreed to use, you might be on to something.”

  “I’ll look into it,” Nicholas said and checked his watch. “Captain Price, I’d like to thank you for your time.” He gestured to the others. “Have a good evening, gentlemen, and congratulations on your endgame last night.”

  The sergeants slapped high fives.

  Outside, as the humid air warmed his skin, Nicholas realized what he liked about Price: he was a younger version of himself. K always said all case officers were responsible for recruiting the next generation.

  “Is the Air Force treating you well?”

  “No complaints,” Price said, “but I’m getting out in a few months. I’ve decided to move on to bigger and better things.”

  “Have you got something lined up?” Nicholas asked.

  “Not yet, but I have some time.”

  “Perhaps we can grab a beer some time and discuss work opportunities?”

  Price nodded and extended his hand.

  TWENTY

  Nicholas stood when Lina Castillo approached the poolside table under the stars at the El Panama hotel. She was reasonably late and walked with the beat of the salsa band.

  “I love this place,” she said and kissed his cheek.

  He felt her lips fully, not an air kiss from a professional acquaintance. Her perfume smelled fresh, a hint of alcohol not yet diluted by the natural oils of her skin. Her hair was held up with pins, but she wasn’t wearing the intellectual glasses.

  “Work was crazy,” she continued. “I was rushing to finish my story but the computer crashed. Luckily, I’d saved my work. Too bad you weren’t there to help.”

  Based on his research, mostly from her student visa application, Lina was a walking success story. Born into the lower stratum, she’d excelled in school and graduated from the University of Panama with honors. Her studies included a one-year scholarship program in Washington, D.C., which explained her superb English.

  A local newspaper, El Tiempo, famous for its critical reporting during the Noriega regime, hired her after graduation. She was soon writing headline stories. Unlike most single women in Panama, she could probably support herself. Nicholas laughed to himself when he recalled a recent story about how President Mendoza had proposed decreasing university student funding for women—not for men, mind you—because, he claimed, women attended college to earn an “Mrs.” degree. Political correctness had no friend in Panama.

  Lina’s coffee-colored eyes scanned the menu. Nicholas admired the way her French manicure was polished with delicate precision, the way she sat with the posture of a princess. However, a defensive shield surrounded her.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Nicholas asked as the waiter stood tapping his pen on a pad of paper.

  “Let’s see,” she said, pointing at the wines.

  “A glass of the house cabernet, please,” Nicholas said.

  Lina set her menu down. “I’ll have the same.”

  “Una botella, por favor,” Nicholas added.

  The waiter frowned as if being asked a favor and walked away.

  “The president is moving up in the polls,” Nicholas said.

  “Can you believe it?” Lina said, flustered. “He’s flooding the streets with posters, and the stupid people are changing their vote. Give a taxi driver a T-shirt and he’ll vote for you.”

  “Lot’s of campaigning,” he said, “lots of money, I’m sure.”

  “No kidding,” she said. “I wonder who’s funding him.”

  “No kidding,” he said. “Poster and T-shirt prices are outrageous these days.”

  Lina smiled. “I’m sure he’ll lose,” she said. “I can’t wait to see him out of office. He’s destroying the country.”

  “Destroying the country?” he asked. “Is Panama worse off now than it was when he started four years ago?”

  “He and his little friends are making the rich richer and the poor poorer.”

  Nicholas interpreted “little friends” as old Caucasian men.

  “Did you know annual economic growth has dropped to less than three percent?” she asked. “After the invasion, the rate of growth was closer to eight percent. Things are getting worse.”

  “I heard the growth rate after the 1989 invasion lasted until the economy had returned to its pre-invasion size, the result of filling a void, not of actual growth.” He shrugged as if it wasn’t an important detail.

  “Other countries are growing at eight percent,” she said.

  “You blame the president for that?” he asked.

  She nodded. He was impressed she defended her ideas with numbers, not emotions, although she obviously had strong feelings about this issue.

  The waiter set two glasses down and poured a sample of the wine. Nicholas touched the moist burgundy end of the cork and lifted his glass. He swirled the wine under his nose and whiffed the bouquet. “Politicians are like ancient pr
iests who punished the masses for preordained seasonal changes.” He sipped the wine and nodded for more. “I think economic forces are more powerful than any one man.”

  “That’s because you live in a developed economy,” Lina said matter-of-factly. “Panama has potential,” she added, “but we have to make structural changes.”

  Nicholas gestured in an offhand way. “The president favors democracy and trade. That sounds like positive change to me.”

  “So he says, but he’s only helping himself and his little friends. He doesn’t want to help the poor or fund any social programs.”

  Panama, like many developing countries with “little friends,” was a sinking boat—constantly bailing, never sailing purposefully.

  “What in particular?” he asked.

  “They could spend more on education,” she said.

  “Why do Panamanians vote for these guys?” he asked.

  “Because they’re uneducated,” she said with a raised eyebrow.

  Nicholas raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “You obviously don’t think too highly of your citizens. I thought the ideal was to let the people govern themselves.”

  “Only when they’re ready,” she said.

  Nicholas feigned confusion. “The U.S. was a democracy from the beginning.”

  Lina laughed. “Is that what they taught you? I’m sorry,” she laughed apologetically. “Your country was created by a small group of men with a vision for the future. The president’s plans for change—to include keeping U.S. troops here and liberalizing trade without protecting labor—won’t work.”