Treaty Violation

by Anthony C. Patton

  “A few people are making decisions for Panama, and they seem to have a vision for the future,” he said. He was more impressed with Lina Castillo by the minute. “With time Panama will improve. No?”

  Lina shook her head. “Positive social change is the result of action, not of time. This is the problem with Panama. The rich believe the poor suffer from laziness, and the poor vote for the rich person who makes them the most promises.”

  “What hope is there for progress?”

  Lina smiled as if she’d led him into a trap. “The only hope for positive change is an elite class of people with a noble and selfless desire to build a prosperous nation.” She frowned. “Unfortunately, Panama lacks such a class of people.”

  Nicholas had studied Realpolitik, where the world was a violent sphere of nation states competing for power in a zero-sum game. Leaders manipulated populations to protect national security. Racial and ethnic groups with archetypal thought and behavior patterns competed for world supremacy. Lina, however, was telling him that flourishing societies were the result of selfless people with noble ambitions!

  “A toast,” Nicholas said and raised his glass, “to noble ambitions.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Nicholas down shifted the car and turned left as Lina gestured to a narrow street. The headlights showed the way as they entered a less affluent part of town.

  “I was thinking about our discussion the other night,” Lina said. “I heard Tyler was found killed in his car at Veracruz Beach. What I don’t understand is why he was there, because when he stopped by to see me earlier the same day—”

  “Tyler stopped by to see you?” Nicholas interrupted.

  “Yes,” she said, apparently surprised he was surprised, “to tell me he’d received a promotion and would be moving back to Washington.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” he said with a vague gesture, “were you and Tyler, you know, seeing each other again after Helena died?”

  Lina shook her head and looked down. “He was depressed after her death and needed someone to talk to.”

  Nicholas slowed to look both ways and glided through a red light. On the side of the road, a group of men stood around a roaring fire in a barrel.

  “Hey, what have you been writing these days? I’ve been reading your paper, but I haven’t seen your name on many stories.”

  Lina shrugged and looked ahead. “Different things.”

  “Like what?”

  Lina turned to him. “Mostly politics.”

  “Just curious, but did you write the editorial about the president’s campaign finances?”

  He knew the question would raise her antennas, but her reaction would probably be more valuable than her answer.

  Lina tilted her head and scrutinized him.

  “That was you through and through. Very impressive. No need to be modest.”

  Lina smiled cautiously and nodded.

  “That was a great piece, because if what you say is true—”

  “Of course it’s true,” she said. “Do you think I would write lies?”

  “No. I was only suggesting that you must have proof or something.”

  Lina gestured to a small apartment complex. Nicholas entered the parking lot and found an open space. Lina opened the door and then turned to him.

  “Of course I have proof, but Panama doesn’t enjoy freedom of the press in the way you are used to. I could lose my job or even go to jail if I’m not careful.”

  Lina set her keys on a table next to a copy of El Tiempo. The living room was sparsely furnished but it had a woman’s touch: a floral arrangement on the coffee table, plants hanging from the ceiling, and the smell of fragrant incense. However, the white cement walls needed painting and the kitchen counter was delaminated at the corners. Someone like Lina deserved much better.

  “Wait here,” she said. “I have to use the bathroom. You’re welcome to anything in the fridge,” she added.

  When the bathroom door locked, Nicholas glided into the bedroom. He fingered through the papers on the dresser, mostly press releases and news articles printed from the Internet. Years ago, stealing documents had been a form of meditation; now his heart raced as he scanned each page hoping to find the proof.

  The toilet flushed. He hurried out and stood by the fridge and waited for her.

  “Did you find anything?” she asked.

  “I’m fine, thanks,” he said, his heart still racing.

  She walked over and touched his arm. “Is something wrong?”

  “Of course not,” he said and smiled as they stared into each other’s eyes. “I hear there’s a classical music concert in a few days,” he said.

  “It’s a date,” she said and touched his hand.

  Nicholas gave her a polite kiss on the lips and gestured to the door. “I guess I’ll—”

  Lina pulled him closer and kissed him on the lips, then whispered in his ear. “Stay with me tonight.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Minister of Foreign Affairs Victor Hernandez accepted a scotch on the rocks from the bartender and walked to the patio to escape the crowd. Outside, the breeze was cool. The view of the city was fabulous.

  Despite the progress he’d made with the referendum and attacking Cesar Gomez, the pain in his heart remained. He could trace it back to that fateful event. He’d planned a family vacation to a beach resort, hoping to recharge his batteries before the campaign season. As a pleasant surprise, they’d met Dylan Dirk and his wife Ellen at the swimming pool. The trip was superb, until Dirk mentioned in private that he had reason to believe Helena was using cocaine and that Cesar Gomez was probably her supplier. Unfortunately, Dirk had been right. Hernandez found a stainless steel case filled with cocaine in Helena’s purse. She threw a tantrum when he confronted her, saying he didn’t respect her privacy, insisting she was only experimenting, but she agreed to flush the cocaine and quit.

  Like most fathers, he believed her, needed to believe her during the following hectic months. The party’s potential loss of the presidency and the imminent departure of the U.S. military were threatening Panama’s future. Only two things could save Panama: finding a candidate to win the next election and an agreement to maintain a U.S. military presence post-1999. No one seemed capable of helping the party accomplish those objectives, except the Americans. In hindsight, the sequence of events seemed orchestrated by the Americans, but Hernandez believed they offered the only hope. When a young diplomat named Tyler Broadman asked him to provide classified information to the U.S. government, he agreed.

  The word treason didn’t enter his vocabulary until weeks later, but he eventually realized he was an agent for the U.S. government—a spy, on the payroll of Uncle Sam. This awareness coincided with the second time he found Helena with cocaine. His unthinking reaction was to yell at her and cut off her allowance until she agreed to seek help. His wife, always the more insightful one, thought of a better solution and played Cupid. After a classical music concert, she introduced Tyler and Helena and practically planned their first date. She had no idea Tyler was a spy—to this day—but considered him a gentleman, which was what Helena needed.

  The plan worked, at least initially. They fell in love. Hernandez had never seen Helena so happy, which was why her rape and overdose came as such a shock. He and Tyler were having a discussion in the house when the news arrived. He blamed Cesar but eyewitnesses testified he had refused to give her cocaine and even killed the man who’d raped her. Helena had a miscarriage, Tyler’s child. The doctor said she probably would have died if Cesar hadn’t helped her. Nonetheless, Cesar was to blame for her addiction. Hernandez realized then that destroying him was more important than all his other plans.

  For all he could tell, things improved. Helena stopped using cocaine, or found cleverer ways to hide her addiction, and Tyler asked for her hand in marriage. Their formal announcement was one of the happiest days of his life. Helena was his little girl again; the sight of her laughing and crying with joy at
the engagement party was forever painted in his memory. Improving matters more, the Americans told him about a plan to arrest Cesar. He’d thought of ways to eliminate Cesar, but the American plan offered a better chance of success. He placed his trust in them. However, everything changed with the death of Tyler and the Americans’ decision to cancel the operation to arrest Cesar.

  “Welcome, Mr. President,” someone said in the club.

  Hernandez looked inside as a bevy of loyal supporters greeted President Mendoza. Hernandez finished his drink and waited outside, needing more time alone.

  He had no regrets about his plans for Panama; the means he’d employed, however, were biting his conscience. By accepting the post of minister, he’d sworn an oath to protect the people of Panama. No one had given him permission to pass secrets to the CIA.

  Tyler had been clear: he wanted nonpublic information about the Panamanian political calculus. Who supported maintaining a U.S. military presence in Panama post-1999? Who was opposed? Who was willing to change the 1977 treaties? With the departure of President Mendoza, the party was battling within to find a candidate before the next election. The opposition wasn’t open to renegotiating the 1977 treaties. Hernandez had considered the situation hopeless, but Tyler showed his brilliance by recommending that the president change the constitution to run for a second term in office. The president would sign any deal in exchange for reelection. The referendum would unify the party and guarantee victory in the election.

  Mr. Dirk and his boss, a most distinguished gentleman named K, arranged for a meeting to discuss the idea. Hernandez attended the meeting with President Mendoza and acted surprised by the proposal, to keep his relationship with the CIA a secret. Mendoza, a true leader of men, analyzed the idea from many angles before agreeing to the terms. He used prudent skepticism to weigh the proposal against Panama’s long-term security objectives. However, the possibility of reelection undoubtedly weighed on his decision. The plan was good for Panama, but Hernandez felt like a traitor the day he manipulated the president’s decision. After that, his meetings with Tyler were less frequent. For the first time, he felt used; but the guilt subsided when the plan went into effect with immediate results. The inflow of money initiated an advertising campaign that pushed the polls above fifty percent. Now only time would tell.

  “Why aren’t you enjoying the party?”

  Hernandez turned to see President Mendoza. “Hello, Mr. President.” He looked up at the stars. “Just getting a breath of fresh air.”

  Mendoza stood next to him and set his drink on the ledge. “We’re making good progress in the polls,” he said and inspected a cigar.

  “Allow me, Mr. President,” Hernandez said and lit the cigar. The dancing flame forged a bond between them that double-breasted suits never could.

  Mendoza puffed a rapid succession of gray smoke clouds. “Thanks,” he said and inhaled deeply. “I spoke with Mr. Dirk earlier. He said the next payment would be delayed a few days. Not sure what happened.”

  “Should I call to see what the problem is?” Hernandez asked. As the architect of this plan, he would assume full responsibility.

  Mendoza shook his head and inspected the glowing coal. “We have enough funds for a few days.” He offered a cheerful wink. “This advertising campaign for reelection was brilliant.”

  Hernandez stood tall. “Panama will be fortunate to have you in office for five more years, Mr. President.”

  Mendoza rested his hand on Hernandez’s shoulder. “You’ve always been a great source of wisdom for me. I look forward to serving with you again. Would you do me the honor of being my Minister of Foreign Affairs?”

  Hernandez nodded. “It would be my honor, Mr. President.”

  Mendoza gestured inside. “The Minister of Government and Justice briefed me earlier. We’re closer to a final agreement regarding how to change the 1977 treaties. Convincing the others to approve it will be an uphill battle, but we’re on the right track.”

  “I’m right behind you,” Hernandez said.

  Typically, the club would be empty this early in the week, but the president had taken advantage of a lull in his schedule to hold a fundraiser. This type of event usually attracted established families with disposable income and a charitable bent. Now, mostly because of upward mobility, the club was flooded with nouveau riche who loved to network.

  Speak of the devil, Hernandez thought as First Vice President Antonio Romero entered with three cronies. Romero was a commoner par excellence who had received instant social status from the election. Hernandez gestured to the bartender for another drink.

  “Mr. President, Minister Hernandez,” Romero said jovially, obviously drunk, “what a turnout!” He gestured to his three cronies. “I think I’ve convinced a few old friends to make a nice contribution.”

  “Excellent,” Mendoza said. “We need all the help we can get.”

  Hernandez focused on the men and recognized them as lacking wealth and political clout. In fact, one was Romero’s ally from his leftist activist days in college.

  “How much have they pledged?” Hernandez asked.

  “That depends on how well we treat them,” Romero said as if nudging fraternity brothers. “That’s what I wanted to talk about. With all this money flowing in, I thought maybe I could take a small advance. The more I wine and dine them, the more they’ll give.”

  Hernandez cleared his throat. “Funds are limited for the moment.” He waited for Mendoza’s nod. Romero obviously wanted some party cash to burn on his friends. “I’m sure their donation will more than cover your expenses. In fact, just keep what they give you.”

  Romero gritted his teeth. “You know I can’t afford to entertain people. My salary is all I have, unlike you two.”

  “We were expecting a large sum of money yesterday,” Hernandez said, “but for right now we’re strapped. You understand.”

  The bulging vein on Romero’s temples indicated he was about to make a scene. President Mendoza cleared his throat and gestured to Hernandez. He took a deep breath, removed the wallet from his coat pocket, and handed a small stack of hundred dollar bills to Romero.

  Romero, surprised, slid the money into his coat pocket and nodded respectfully before returning to his friends.

  President Mendoza leaned closer to Hernandez. “I know you don’t like him—no one does—but he’s got us by the balls. If his party doesn’t support us, we’ll never win reelection. Just keep him happy.”

  “Of course, Mr. President,” Hernandez said. He agreed that avoiding conflict was prudent, but to what extent would the party dilute the leadership with people like Romero? They were sadly approaching a day when they would choose candidates and a platform that reflected not the party’s traditional values, but the whims of the masses.

  Hernandez sat at the bar. Sheena, sitting on the opposite side, gazed at him seductively. She ate a maraschino cherry and tossed the stem behind her like a piece of discarded lingerie.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Minister Hernandez eased the front door shut. The lights were out. He breathed a sigh of relief, set the keys on the table, and walked to the kitchen to pour a drink.

  “How was the party?” his wife, Ivonne, asked from the living room.

  Hernandez’s eyes bulged as he turned. She was sitting on the couch in a bathrobe looking at a photograph by candlelight.

  “I thought you were sleeping.” He finished his drink and approached her cautiously.

  She set the photo aside and stood to hug him, and then immediately backed off. “I was right. The perfume you bought was for her,” she said coldly and walked away.

  He smelled his suit coat and followed her to the kitchen. “Honey, I was at a fundraiser tonight greeting many people.”

  She turned on the light and looked at him. “Do the people you greet normally leave lipstick on your neck?”

  He touched his neck and looked at the oily red smudge on his fingers. “I can explain—”

  “You don’t have
to explain,” she said, rubbing her temples. “I know about Sheena. Everyone does. You’d make a terrible spy.” She almost smiled but instead shook her head sadly. “Just the other day, my friends asked me about the perfume you bought for me, the bottle they saw you buy at the department store.”

  He reached for her, but she stepped away.

  “I bought a bottle for myself so no one would gossip,” she continued and looked at him. “I come from a respectable family, but you seem intent on making a fool of me.”

  “Honey, I never meant…I swear, I’ll never—”

  “Save your promises,” she said and tugged his lapels. “Sheena’s a beautiful woman. You would be crazy not to want her.”

  He was unsure how to respond. Was she giving him approval? Was she setting a trap? “I’ve acted like a child, a total—”

  “No,” she said and forced a smiled. “You’ve been acting like a healthy man. I’m happy to see you looking so virile.” She looked away and took a deep breath. “I only wish I still aroused those passions in you.” Her facelift was obvious, but she was still gorgeous.

  He rested his hands on her shoulders. “You’re the only woman I love,” he said and wiped her tears. “The only one.”

  “Am I not beautiful anymore?”

  He melted when he gazed into the eyes he’d fallen in love with so many years ago. “My God, you’re more beautiful than ever.” He kissed her gently on the lips. “I’ve been a disgraceful fool. You deserve better.”

  She smiled and kissed him back. “Perhaps you can act like a disgraceful fool with me sometime. You don’t know how jealous I’ve been. I want us to be happy again.”

  They embraced. Hernandez thanked God for his blessings. “What do you say we take a romantic vacation after the referendum? Just the two of us—”

  A pain shot through his heart. Without Helena, life would never be the same. Her death couldn’t have been more tragic.