Treaty Violation

by Anthony C. Patton

  Alfredo nodded. “I have a friend in Puerto Obaldia. What size boat?”

  “About thirty-five feet, capable of twenty-five knots and holding at least a ton of goods,” Nicholas said, defining the ideal speedboat for the Caribbean.

  Alfredo arched his eyebrows knowingly.

  “When can we leave?” Nicholas asked.

  “Ready when you are, jefe,” he said and stood.

  “I’ll also need you to fly some goods for me tomorrow evening,” Nicholas added.

  Alfredo sat and cleared his throat. “Goods?”

  Nicholas removed a stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and set it on the desk. “That’s five thousand dollars for the flight today. You’ll get fifty thousand tomorrow and fifty thousand more upon delivery.”

  Alfredo fingered the cash and nodded. He didn’t ask what he would be delivering, in the event Nicholas was wearing a wire. His silence was concurrence.

  Alfredo tightened the last bolts and they climbed into the cockpit. Nicholas watched everything Alfredo did to get the plane airborne—knobs, rudders, switches, throttle, etc., recalling his own flying experience.

  The flight was smooth and comfortable. At 7,000 feet, Nicholas could see the Atlantic and Pacific coasts. Grasping the width of Panama in his field of vision helped him appreciate the creation of the Panama Canal. Below was the land the Spanish had traversed during their conquest of the New World. Before genius and technology made the Canal a reality, the Spanish had built a mule trail, El Camino Real, to cross the isthmus between old Panama City and Portobelo. Geography was Panama’s destiny.

  Alfredo gave Nicholas the controls. His flight lessons during college were a distant memory, but it was like riding a bike. A feeling of freedom accompanied flying. He tested the stick and rudder to assimilate the plane and soon felt the thrill of the open air. From this perch, the green solitude below looked majestic, a lost world untouched by the forces of history. The mountainous terrain extended to the eastern horizon. Roads and villages spotted the landscape, but there were few signs of human existence. Soon they were over Darien, the forgotten region of Panama, and closing in on San Blas. Alfredo pointed to a coastal village and took the controls. Nicholas prepared for a bumpy landing, but Alfredo managed only minor jerks and pulls as the plane slowed and taxied.

  Nicholas hopped out of the plane and fanned the dust from his face. Puerto Obaldia wasn’t civilization, more like something from a pirate movie, or one of the many villages he’d visited during the eighties throughout Central America. He half expected to see frantic chickens running loose or burly Spanish conquistadors drinking rum and fighting for the right to sail the next gold-laden ship home.

  Reality was less dramatic, however. Swarthy men, the kind who could make a living only in a place like this, did inhabit the place, but no gold bullion or Spanish galleons. He cleaned his sunglasses and surveyed the area.

  Alfredo led Nicholas to an open air cantina near the beach, where they ordered two beers. Nicholas handed the bartender a twenty-dollar bill. The bartender smiled and grabbed two dripping bottles of beer from an ice filled cooler and whacked a fly with a towel. His Jamaican laugh bellowed. Nicholas turned when he felt the weight of many eyes. Caught staring, the stolid customers looked away and returned to their drinks.

  “Is your friend here?” Nicholas asked.

  Alfredo gestured to the beach. “He’s sitting over there.”

  Alfredo swigged his beer and strolled to the dock. The bartender grabbed some crumpled bills from a cigar box and set them on the bar. Nicholas grabbed the change and left a generous tip. The bartender laughed again and pocketed the money.

  Alfredo whistled and waved him over. Nicholas gave the bartender five dollars for three more beers and walked to the dock.

  I’ll be damned, Nicholas thought when he saw Charlie. His old friend was sitting under a palm tree near the pristine white sand and turquoise water. He wore a pair of knee-length denim cutoffs, no shirt, no shoes. His black hair was wavy, his teeth white as polished ivory, his body toned. Charlie hadn’t changed in ten years.

  “Charlie!” Nicholas said and waved.

  Charlie shielded his eyes from the sun and rushed over when he recognized him. “Mr. Nicholas, yesiree!” he said and embraced him. “Long time no see!”

  “Too long,” Nicholas said. “I hear you have a boat.”

  Charlie nodded and pointed to a swank speedboat moored to the dock.

  “How would you like to work for me again?” he asked and clapped him on the shoulder.

  “Charlie always ready to work for old friend.”

  Nicholas paused and shook his head in disbelief. Of all the places in the world, he met an old friend here—Charlie, no less. He’d been reliable, cheap, and took risks, the perfect person to help the CIA. He couldn’t believe more than ten years had passed.

  “How are you keeping busy these days?” Nicholas asked.

  Charlie pointed at a wooden crate covered with an olive tarp. “I have my own transportation business,” he said and led the way. He lifted the tarp and slapped the crate, then grabbed a crowbar and pried open the lid. “These look familiar, no?” He removed an AK-47 from the protective wood shavings.

  Nicholas inspected the rifle. “I’ll be damned,” he said, recognizing the AK-47s from the eighties. Weapons had been cached throughout Central America during the wars. Charlie would have known where to find them. Now he was selling them in Colombia, probably to the leftist guerrillas—not exactly a desirable recipient, but not something Nicholas could concern himself with now. “You’re delivering these today?” he asked. Charlie nodded. “Any chance you could bring back some goods for me?”

  “Charlie ready to work. But Charlie not cheap like before.”

  Nicholas handed him a map. “My men will be here,” he said and pointed at the “X” northeast of Riohacha. “After they load your boat, return here and give the goods to Alfredo.”

  Charlie looked at Alfredo and nodded. “I return tomorrow.”

  Nicholas handed Charlie $5,000 in hundred-dollar bills. “That’s for the trip today. You’ll get ten thousand more tomorrow when you deliver the goods.”

  Charlie looked at Alfredo.

  “Don’t load his plane until you get paid,” Nicholas added.

  “I’ll give him the money,” Alfredo protested.

  “And then Charlie will give you the goods,” Nicholas said. Trust everyone, but always cut the deck—honor among thieves. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Deal,” Charlie said. He led Nicholas and Alfredo back to the cantina and slapped the bar. “A special drink for my friend,” he said.

  The Jamaican laugh returned as the bartender grabbed a corked ceramic jug.

  “Do you remember the wacky juice?” Charlie asked.

  Nicholas nodded, unable to restrain a grin. He and Charlie had imbibed many moonshine recipes throughout Central America. Each recipe had induced a unique buzz and hangover sequence worthy of tall tales.

  “My friend has a special blend,” Charlie continued and set one hundred dollars on the bar. “Nothing like you’ve ever tasted.”

  The bartender uncorked the jug and filled three glasses with the urine colored hooch. They toasted to old times. Nicholas downed the drink and looked out at the Caribbean Sea as the alcohol burned his throat. The effect was immediate, a tranquil buzz as the hooch rushed to his brain. He embraced Charlie. For the first time since his arrival in Panama, he really felt like he was back in the game.

  The bartender snatched the cash and laughed before refilling the three glasses. Charlie grabbed the jug and led the way to the beach. Nicholas sat under a palm tree. The wacky juice was spectacular, embodying the heat of the glazed pottery and slippery on his tongue.

  Nicholas laughed as his ego absorbed the alcohol. A feeling of power, long sublimated, energized him as he thought about working for K again, about the certain success of operation Delphi Justice, about his membership to The Order. Of course he want
ed to be a member! He was tired of sitting at a desk all day and narrating world events to the senior leadership. He wanted to be a player, to have a piece of the action. This was his opportunity.

  Nicholas filled his glass again and walked to the shore alone. He blinked to focus and stood in awe before the mighty body of water. White capped waves crashed toward him like monsters in a nightmare. The salty air roused his nose. The rhythmic waves calmed him. He closed his eyes and felt the wind blowing in his hair and the soft cotton of his T-shirt caressing his skin. He reached down, scooped up a pile of hot powdery sand, and felt the grains trickling between his fingers. A cool, swirling breeze chilled his skin as he turned and admired the sun descending on the silhouetted jungle. He dropped to his knees and dug deeper, to the cool, moist sand, and shuddered as he experienced the direct flow of sensory data. He lay down, humbly, reverently, amid the flurry of raw sensations. A tear trickled down his cheek as he fathomed his new lease on life. Slowly, he rose and opened his eyes. He finished his drink and walked back toward Charlie and Alfredo, who were sitting under the palm tree.

  “Charlie, this stuff is amazing!” Nicholas yelled and returned for more. When the soft sand under his feet gave way to the hardened ground near the palm tree roots, the piercing sound of an incoming rocket propelled grenade alerted him to dive for cover.

  “Take cover!” Charlie yelled. He grabbed Nicholas and Alfredo and pulled them closer to the wooden crate as sand rained on them from the explosion.

  A uniformed soldier standing in the bow of the boat lifted his weapon and fired another rocket-propelled grenade.

  “Incoming!” Nicholas yelled and huddled with Charlie and Alfredo. The explosion hit the cantina. The villagers fled in all directions.

  Nicholas grabbed Charlie. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “The Colombian paramilitary doesn’t like Charlie’s customers,” he said and handed each of them a rifle. “Here,” he added and dispensed loaded magazines.

  Nicholas slammed the clip in and loaded the chamber. “You two swing around back,” he said and gestured. “I’ll cover this side.”

  Charlie nodded confidently. Alfredo kissed his crucifix. Nicholas slapped them on the back. They hustled away.

  Nicholas took cover behind the crate. The boat’s engine stopped as the aluminum hull scraped the sand. Boots splashed in the water as militants ran ashore, chasing and firing at the fleeing residents. The sound of gunfire echoed in Nicholas’ mind as he gripped his AK-47. His refusal to launch a preemptive attack in El Salvador had resulted in the deaths of many of his soldiers, but he would fight this battle. He wouldn’t let his men die this time. He pivoted from behind the crate and aimed. A militant spotted him and raised his weapon, but not before Nicholas fired two shots, hitting him square in the chest. Bullets sprayed from his automatic weapon as he fell to the ground.

  The remaining militants took cover behind a jeep. Every few seconds one exposed himself to fire at Charlie and Alfredo, who were firing back from behind the cantina. Charlie and Alfredo probably didn’t have enough ammunition to fight much longer. Nicholas aimed at one of the militants and fired a head shot. The militant next to him turned and lifted his weapon to shoot, but not before Nicholas fired two rounds into his chest. The remaining two, aware of Nicholas, dashed toward the cantina and fired back at him.

  Nicholas pursued them along the cantina wall, swinging his weapon in both directions. Behind the cantina, the militants were yelling at Charlie and Alfredo, vowing to kill anyone who helped the leftist terrorists in Colombia. When the militants loaded the chambers of their weapons, Charlie and Alfredo begged for their lives. Nicholas quickened his pace and stopped at the back corner. After a mental count of three, he pivoted and unleashed hell. The two militants fell dead, but blood was oozing from Nicholas’ left arm. A warm sensation permeated his body. He struggled to stay conscious, but the world slowly turned black as he collapsed.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Nicholas opened his eyes to see Lina on top of him, moaning ecstatically. The flickering candles cast shadows on her smooth, delicate skin. Her passion spent, she collapsed and kissed his chest, gasping for air. “That was amazing.”

  “You were amazing,” Nicholas said, bathing in the afterglow. He kissed her forehead and surveyed the room as she pulled the white sheet over their bodies and nestled her cheek against his chest. To conceal his snooping, he pointed at a travel agency poster of Anguilla on the wall. “Have you been there?”

  “A friend took a vacation there last year—heaven on earth. What about you?”

  “No, but I’ve been to the Caribbean,” he said. “Looks beautiful,” he added. “Maybe we can take a weekend trip there sometime.”

  She nodded and kissed him on the lips.

  Nicholas kissed her back. “We could hang out on the beach and sip some rum.”

  “That sounds nice,” she said with a smile.

  Lina amazed him—no bitterness against “the system,” yet probably struggling each day to make ends meet, refusing to sell out.

  Hoping to expedite his egress, he glanced at the clock. “I’m sorry we missed the concert.”

  “I’m glad we missed the concert,” she said and sat up. “Guess what?” she asked enthusiastically and slapped him on the arm.

  He cringed and held his arm as his stomach churned and his vision blurred. The bullet wound was still raw.

  “I’m sorry!” she said and kissed his arm.

  Nicholas opened his eyes slowly and took a deep breath. There were only a few stitches and the doctor had done a good job cleaning him up, so he had opted not to tell her the truth about the bullet wound.

  “Guess what?” she asked and kissed his chest. “I wrote the story today, the one about President Mendoza receiving drug money. Can you believe it?”

  Nicholas sat up abruptly.

  “I decided my proof was sufficient,” she continued. “I wanted to write the story before the referendum. Isn’t that great?”

  He hugged her to hide his lack of enthusiasm.

  She leaned back and looked at him with the same enthusiastic smile. “The story will be on the front page tomorrow!”

  “I thought you were worried about getting in trouble?” he said.

  “Not anymore,” Lina said. “At a minimum, the president will have to make an explanation. Just the possibility of corruption will ruin his chance of winning the referendum.”

  Nicholas groaned conspicuously and rubbed his temples.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He sighed as if reluctant to be honest. “I get the impression you want the president to lose this referendum regardless of the truth.” At this point, arguing the reporters’ creed was his last hope. “I thought journalists were supposed to report the facts and let the people decide. Aren’t you manipulating public opinion?”

  “I have evidence,” she said defensively. “The people deserve to know the truth, especially before the referendum this Sunday.”

  Journalists believe people deserved things, like the truth.

  “Have you given the president a chance to comment in private?” he asked. He kissed her before she could respond. “I’m happy for you, but I’m also worried about how much trust you’re placing in this so-called proof. Are you willing to risk your career?”

  Lina suddenly looked concerned.

  “He is the president. You can publish the story on Friday or Saturday after you have more proof. Even better, you can publish it after the referendum. That way, you’ll have more time to do research to back your claims, and he’ll lose the election.” He touched her cheek. “As your friend, I think you should consider canceling the story—tonight.”

  Lina pursed her lips and shook her head. “I can’t do that. The proof I have is sufficient.” She smiled and nodded confidently. “The story will hit the streets tomorrow.”

  The decision was probably irreversible, anyway. The El Tiempo editors were probably sipping champagne as the story rolled through the printer.<
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  “Are you hungry?” he asked. She nodded. “Let’s get something to eat.” He spanked her playfully. “You take a shower, and I’ll call for a reservation.”

  Lina wrapped herself in a sheet and left the room. She stopped in the doorway and looked back. The hallway light cast a resplendent glow on her curves. “Perhaps we can take that vacation to Anguilla after I’m famous,” she said with a wink.

  “It’s a date,” Nicholas said with a smile, uneasy about what he knew he had to do. She could always rescue her career or find a new job, but this was the last chance the U.S. government had to maintain a military presence in Panama post-1999.

  Lina started the shower. Nicholas dressed quickly and rummaged through the dresser, the bookshelf, and the closet, where he found a folder under a pile of jeans. The contents surprised him. The pages had specific names: Gomez, Mendoza, and the offshore company Enterprise Associates. Fortunately, there was nothing on the documents linking the financial transactions to the CIA. The documents must have come from Enterprise Associates at the World Trade Center. Lina had sufficient proof all right: wire transfers connecting all three parties. This evidence would torpedo operation Delphi Justice. If she learned the identity of Enterprise Associates, all hell would break lose.

  Nicholas dialed Dirk’s cell phone number and told him to meet him downtown—ASAP.

  “Lina,” he said, “I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

  The shower curtain slid along the steel rod. “Is something wrong? Where are you going?”

  “A computer emergency, sorry,” he said. “I’ll call you later.”

  He imagined Lina standing under the warm water without a negative thought in her mind as he tucked the folder under his arm and left the apartment.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Nicholas parked outside El Pavo Real, an English pub in the banking district between Via España and Calle 50. Dirk was leaning against the driver’s door of his maroon Mercedes puffing a cigarette to orange brilliance. Nicholas grabbed the folder and stepped outside. The old eighties thrill returned as he waved the folder and walked briskly toward Dirk. Music escaped from the bar when the front door opened, but the dead end street was quiet, and the evening air had dropped to the pleasant low seventies.