“The good life,” Daisy and Willie chorused.
Nicholas licked the salt and lifted the shot glass to his mouth. The tequila vapors cleared his sinuses as he poured the golden potion and leaned his head back. He endured the jitters before sinking his teeth into the lime. The citric acid neutralized the aftertaste as he licked his teeth. He felt the effect immediately: a mysterious adrenaline that drove men to test the boundaries of their tragic flaws.
“Shall we discuss business in our cabana?” Daisy asked.
Willie nodded and stood, still breathing heavily. He told a passing waiter to put the check on his room tab and led the way.
Daisy entered the cabana first and sat near the window. She removed a cell phone from her purse, dialed a number, and held it to her ear. The high-tech gadget clashed with her classical aura. “That’s wonderful,” she said and ended the call. “We’re in business. Your plane is circling and ready to make the drop.”
Daisy dialed a different number and pressed a sequence of numbers, as if playing a tune on a keyboard. “Five, zero, zero, zero…zero, zero, zero.” She looked at Nicholas as she pressed the send button. “Five million coming your way, love.”
Nicholas called the Enterprise Associates computer to verify receipt. “Got it,” he said.
The tequila had been a mere prelude to the rush he felt when the digital voice said, “five million dollars.”
THIRTY
Captain Price entered Colonel Dupree’s office the next morning. He’d followed the rules—in other words, he’d done his job—but the nine to five staff weenies would undoubtedly focus on the failed endgame, something beyond his control. He was disappointed, though, mostly because Nicholas never called.
“Have a seat,” Dupree said from his desk. “I only yell at people when they do stupid things or don’t follow orders.” He sipped his steaming coffee and leaned back. “I know you’re not stupid, so guess why you’re here.”
Price took a deep breath before speaking, but Dupree cut him off.
“The more I think about it, the more your decision was just plain stupid.”
Price decided not to comment. The boss obviously wanted to have a one-way conversation.
“The J2 called,” Dupree continued, referring to the Chief of Intelligence. “He asked why we didn’t respond to his tipper update last night. I told him I didn’t know. Fill me in.”
“Remember the shoot-down last Saturday?” Price asked. Dupree nodded. “We got a tipper two days ago for a plane leaving from the same place last night. We had a P-3 in the area and two A-37s on deck. I decided to play that game.”
“We’ll discuss the A-37s later,” Dupree said. “Tell me why you didn’t respond to the tipper update. I know that’s not exactly disobeying orders, but you were told the new tipper superseded the original one, were you not?”
“Sergeant Collins said they had a new tipper,” Price said, relieved he hadn’t disobeyed orders, “but he wouldn’t say anything about the source. How could I be sure? If we changed our plans every time the J2 gave us a new tipper, we would be doing somersaults. Besides, boats are outside of our area of operations.”
Dupree’s nod indicated that Price had a point. “Fair enough, but why did you have so much confidence in the original tipper?”
“The other night,” Price said, “I gave a tour to Nicholas Lowe.”
Dupree rubbed his hands as if shaping a lump of clay. “Nicholas Lowe?”
“We went out for a beer the other night,” Price continued. “I got the impression he was CIA or something because he knew so much about the operation.”
Dupree gestured for more and worked another lump of clay.
“He told me about the tipper, about how one of their sources might be talking to two people. The important part was he told me the shipment last night was a sure thing.”
“And you believed him?” Dupree asked.
Price cringed—the first question he didn’t want to hear. He couldn’t explain why he trusted Nicholas. Judging from Dupree’s tone, he clearly had made a mistake.
“He has a security clearance,” Price said. “He seemed for real.”
“Did you ask him for a job?” Dupree asked.
The second question Price didn’t want to hear. “No…I mean, he asked me. I faxed him my resume, but I don’t know what agency he works for.”
Dupree grabbed a fax from his in-box. “I received this from Dylan Dirk saying he would like to schedule an interview with you. Your friend Nicholas apparently works for the CIA.”
Price was relieved. He reached for the fax.
Dupree yanked it back. “You had no business playing spy. I don’t know whether you want to work for these guys, but they have their own agenda. To be honest, I’m pissed off they talked to you. I understand if you want to help them, but this is over your head.”
“Yes, sir,” Price said. Dupree’s domineering attitude seemed less threatening now that he’d decided to quit. From this perspective, he realized how dedicated and patriotic Dupree was. His harsh comments were never personal.
“Something else,” Dupree said. “I talked to the J2. The source we have is well placed and very reliable. Trust me on this one. I’ll tell the J2 what this Nicholas fellow said, but in the future, respond accordingly when you get a new tipper. Got it?”
Price nodded.
“As you know, the tipper update was correct. A plane departed Panama and made a successful drop in the Bahamas. The bad news is the Coast Guard vessel could not arrive on time. The drugs weren’t seized. I’m not blaming you, but we could have improved our chances of success if you had responded to the tipper.”
“Yes, sir,” Price said solemnly. He accepted some blame, but he also knew that if the tipper update had been bogus, the staff weenies would have criticized him for responding to it.
“Hey,” Dupree said. Price looked up. “If you want to work for these guys, I’ll give Mr. Dirk my recommendation.”
“I’d appreciate that, sir,” Price said and accepted the fax. The short memo requesting the interview lifted his spirits.
“Out of curiosity,” Dupree said, “did this guy—Nicholas Lowe, right?—say anything about an operation to arrest Cesar Gomez?”
Priced jogged his memory and shook his head. “He only said something about one of their sources talking to two agencies. Why, what’s going on?”
Dupree stared in the distance, sipped his coffee, and shook his head. “Nothing. They canceled an important operation last week, that’s all.”
Price stood, ready for some sleep. “Sir, unless—”
“Sit down,” Dupree said. “We have another issue to discuss. I understand you told the A-37s to delay taking off.”
“No, sir, not even close. Colonel Vasquez told me guerrillas were in the area. I asked the Customs guys to conduct surveillance of the area while the A-37s were en route.”
“What if they had found guerrillas?” Dupree asked.
Price hadn’t considered that scenario. “I would have told Colonel Vasquez. The Colombians make the final decision to engage the aircraft. I thought those were the rules.”
“Listen up,” Dupree said. “Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but the Colombians don’t exactly give a damn if some poor American is addicted to cocaine. We give them money, equipment, and training. The least they can do is return the favor. The war on drugs is only one piece of the puzzle. The big picture is to help these countries eliminate corruption, to professionalize their militaries, and to strengthen democracy and capitalism.”
“Do you think the drug war will achieve those objectives?”
Dupree nodded and squeezed another lump of clay. “By managing the violence, we can foster progress. That’s why we have to pressure the Colombians to fight this war. They might not know it, but it’s for their own good. As long as drugs exist, corruption will reign, and the guerrillas will have a source of revenue. Eliminate the drugs, eliminate the problem. Next time, pressure them to launch, or call me and
I’ll raise hell.”
“Yes, sir,” Price said. He suddenly felt nostalgic for the Air Force. One of life’s ironies was that you learned the most important lessons only after it was time to move on.
“If you doubt me,” Dupree said, “ask your friend Nicholas. They work in the real world, too, and they succeed because they bend peoples’ wills. The world ain’t a village, and all the players ain’t equal. Do you think you can manipulate people in the name of national security?” He leaned closer. “Do you think you’re ready for the big leagues, Captain Price?”
Price looked Dupree in the eyes. “Yes, sir, I am.”
Dupree grinned. “Good. Dismissed, Captain Price.”
THIRTY-ONE
Nicholas Lowe grabbed a copy of El Tiempo and sat on the couch in Dylan Dirk’s office. The headline story title wasn’t ambiguous: PRESIDENT ACCEPTS DRUG MONEY. The frenzied media were covering both angles of the story, each side accusing the other of conspiring to manipulate the referendum. El Tiempo was demanding an audit of the President Mendoza’s campaign finances. The government was discrediting the story and threatening to press charges. Lina’s expression on television gave her away, though: she didn’t have the proof.
The most important fact of this poker game was that the story was true, but Lina hadn’t presented her proof, and the president couldn’t take legal action until he was sure she was bluffing. To make matters more interesting, the president himself didn’t know the origin of the money, which meant the charges probably had come as a genuine shock. Lina obviously hadn’t made copies of the original documents, and she was probably requesting an audit to redirect the debate. To her credit, the story was articulate, but she was too progressive for Panama: relying on objective facts to argue her point. She could have achieved similar results by wafting bromides about corrupt politicians while pursuing the audit option. Either way, Nicholas took pride in his deft manipulation of a small nation.
“Hello, Nick,” Dirk said. “I got your message.”
Nicholas slapped the front page. “Lina has made quite a stir.”
Dirk checked his watch. “Her luck just ran out. She had until noon to present her evidence. President Mendoza negotiated with El Tiempo to retract her story in exchange for no fines. Lina, of course, will lose her job and could face criminal charges.”
Nicholas didn’t like the idea of being responsible for Lina going to jail, but the pursuit of truth wasn’t immune from consequences. Besides, international free speech groups would demand her release after the referendum.
“Let’s hope the president’s approval rating bounces back,” Nicholas said. “The good news is the shipment got through last night and we got our five million dollars.”
“It got through, all right,” Dirk said and rested his knuckles on his desk. “The Coast Guard couldn’t pre-position a vessel last night on time; the drugs were never seized.”
Nicholas groaned. “Seizing the drugs was supposed to be the easy part. So we just transported five hundred kilos of cocaine to the United States?”
“Technically, the Bahamas,” Dirk said. “DEA and Customs know about it—they can’t trace it back to us, of course—and with any luck, they’ll find it and seize it soon.”
“Any word on Tyler’s death?” Nicholas asked. Dirk shook his head. “I have some vacation time saved up. I thought I’d stick around after this operation to help. I’m no detective, but I feel like I owe it to him and his family.”
Dirk drummed his fingers on his desk and pressed his fingertips as if playing a solemn chord on a church organ. He slid a videocassette into the VCR and sat behind his desk. A black-and-white picture appeared after a few seconds of static.
“You probably recognize this place,” Dirk said, “the lobby of Cesar’s building.” He pressed the fast-forward button. “This is the recording from the security camera the day Helena died.” He hit the play button and pointed. “That’s Helena entering the building. Notice she’s wearing the pearl necklace Tyler gave her.”
Nicholas was intrigued to see Helena. Her class shone through the black-and-white image as she walked to the elevator.
“The security guard greets her as she passes by,” Dirk continued. “Little known fact was Helena was fucking Cesar Gomez to support her cocaine addition.”
Nicholas shook his head in disgust. Unfortunately, a painful conclusion began forming in his mind.
Dirk pressed the fast-forward button until a man appeared on the screen. “That’s Cesar leaving the building to go to a bar. As the timestamp at the bottom indicates, Helena has about two hours to live. Numerous third parties corroborated Cesar’s alibi. We’re confident he wasn’t there when she fell.”
“One of his goons did it,” Nicholas said, unable to deny that the image coming into focus in his mind was of Tyler. He cursed himself for thinking such a thought. “Perhaps she committed suicide. She was an addict. She might have—”
“Possible,” Dirk said, “but Helena’s throat had fresh scratches. She obviously had a struggle with someone.” He looked at Nicholas grimly. “Her pearl necklace was missing.”
“Cesar could have choked her and left,” Nicholas said and looked at the video, hoping for the facts to prove him wrong.
Dirk shook his head. “The coroner said the scratches were fresh when she died. The police verified the apartment was empty.” He lifted a finger before Nicholas could speak. “Up to this point, we can’t make sense of what happened. As you said, she could have jumped, end of story. But the tape gets more interesting.” He fast-forwarded the tape and suddenly hit the play button. “Did you see that?”
Nicholas leaned forward and shook his head.
Dirk played the event again in slow motion and hit the pause button when Tyler’s face appeared on the screen, starring into the security camera. “As you can see,” he said, “Tyler’s arrival about fifteen minutes before Helena’s death sheds new light on the case.”
Nicholas closed his eyes and tried to erase the image in his mind of Tyler. He felt disbelief and anger—disbelief that Tyler could commit such an act, and anger that he had. How could he kill Helena? “This doesn’t make sense,” he said.
“It makes perfect sense,” Dirk said. “Tyler gets engaged to the most desired women in Panama only to learn she’s fucking Cesar Gomez. He knew she used cocaine—I reminded him many times—but he did nothing to help her. Tyler had the motive to kill her, and Cesar, for that matter. He took the pearl necklace he’d given her at their engagement party—forcefully, if the scratches on her neck were any indication.”
Nicholas was speechless. How does someone judge a crime of passion, especially when the accused was a friend?
Dirk opened the drawer and handed Nicholas a piece of paper. “We knew Helena used cocaine. When I noticed Tyler was acting strange, I arranged for a urine sample, taken from the bathroom without his knowledge. As you can see,” he said, pointing at the paper, “he tested positive for cocaine. Helena must have given him hits from what she got from Cesar.”
Nicholas dropped the paper on the desk. “This is unbelievable.”
“No one gave Helena money to buy drugs,” Dirk said, “not even her father. The problem was no one had the courage to help her quit.” He inhaled deeply and leaned back. “I’m going to tell you something I hope you can keep secret.”
Nicholas nodded.
“The primary reason I chose Cesar for operation Delphi Justice was because of his relationship with Helena. I wanted Cesar behind bars so Tyler and Helena could get on with their lives. This operation allowed us to collect evidence against Cesar. I know rumors have spread about my failed Linear operation, but I was only doing what I thought was best.”
“I’ll admit,” Nicholas said, “I had my suspicions.” One question remained unanswered, however. “How do you explain Tyler’s death?”
“You forgot one fact,” Dirk said: “Cesar loved Helena.” He handed Nicholas a clear plastic bag containing a piece of paper. Nicholas removed the pa
per and unfolded it to read:
You murdered Helena!
You murdered Helena!
You murdered Helena!
You murdered Helena!
You murdered Helena!
Blood splotches stained the paper. Flakes of dry blood fell onto his hands and dissolved when he rubbed his sweaty fingers together.
“That’s the letter we found with Tyler,” Dirk said.
Nicholas looked at the paper again. Nestor didn’t work for Cesar. Something wasn’t adding up. “Why would Nestor kill Tyler?”
“Nestor is dead. The police found his body the next day. Cesar obviously had him killed to cover his tracks.”
Nicholas folded his arms, following the logic.
“Regarding why,” Dirk continued, “we have to consider Tyler. He wasn’t discreet about his plan to arrest Cesar. He even made overt threats to kill him.”
“Cesar paid Nestor to kill Tyler?” Nicholas asked.
Dirk nodded as if that fact were only too obvious.
“How did Cesar know Nestor? He was our agent. And what about this letter, which clearly shows that revenge was the motivation?”
“Exactly. Cesar loved Helena.” Dirk said. “He must have known that Tyler killed her—eye witnesses, security cameras, who knows? Revenge wasn’t the only factor.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Tyler accepted the mission only after I convinced him he could put Cesar behind bars for life. He had to have known about Helena and Cesar. I thought he would work hard to ensure the operation succeeded.”
“Tyler kills Helena?” Nicholas asked. “Doesn’t make sense.”
“He found her at Cesar’s apartment,” Dirk said, then pointed at the TV and stopped the tape. “At the time of her death, Helena was wearing Cesar’s robe…with no clothes on underneath. Perhaps Tyler only intended to confront her, but he must have lost control and killed her, perhaps accidentally. The point is,” he continued, “the day after Helena died, Tyler went on a rampage. He planned a slipshod operation to arrest Cesar, but the lawyers said they needed more time. The next day, he decided to kill Cesar.”
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