Gastlin only nodded while he drank the last of the water in Félix's glass.
***
Félix was escorted up to the colonel's office immediately by the officer with the thick beard. He liked the view and felt the national police had done a good job on the case. He briefed the colonel on everything Gastlin had told him.
Colonel Lázaro Staub leaned back in his chair. The tall, fit-looking man smoothed out his mustache and said in Spanish, "All is in order. My men and the DEA are still following the man who met with the informant. We are one step closer to finally identifying one of the country's most notorious drug traffickers."
Félix said, "Now we must figure out how to get the cargo to the U.S."
Colonel Staub nodded. "This will not be a problem. We can make all the arrangements with a legitimate shipper. They will not realize we are the police. They will transport anything if the price is right. There are many ships that travel back and forth."
Félix couldn't keep from smiling. The case was flowing right along. "You guys get things done."
Staub smiled. "We are a small country. Those of us that have been in public service tend to know each other. There is little red tape."
"How long have you been in this job?"
"Three years as the head of narcotics. Fifteen years with the national police and ten years with the defense force before that."
"Is that the Panamanian army?"
"Yes, just a small force. We, of course, rely on the U.S. for some level of protection." His left eye twitched slightly. "Are you of Cuban descent?"
Félix nodded. "I was born there and moved to the U.S. when I was six."
"How did you arrive in the U.S.?"
"My father was a coach for the national baseball team. He was able to bring us on an exhibition circuit through South America and defected in Venezuela. We moved to the U.S. the next year."
"Cuba could be so much more if Castro weren't a nut and the U.S. didn't hold a grudge."
"You don't like our policies?"
"You forget, we were on the receiving end of a policy shift. The 1989 invasion taught us that U.S. interests are everyone's interests."
Félix wasn't sure where to go with this conversation, so he changed back to the case. "What do we do now?"
The colonel thought about it and said, "It is now up to Ortíz. When they deliver the container, we can move forward. What's the plan once it arrives?"
Félix knew the plan had to be fluid. "Once we secure it in New Orleans, there are supposed to be three recipients of the extra marijuana. We'll keep everything quiet and see if we can deliver the pot and then arrest whoever accepts delivery. Our customs guys say we'll get the container through the port with no hassles."
"Excellent. I'd get some rest and be ready to move tonight." He came from behind the desk and said, "I'll walk you down." He placed his hand around Félix's shoulder.
The colonel was wearing a casual tan sport coat that covered a P-38-style automatic nine-millimeter in a black flap holster. He looked like an old-time Gestapo plainclothes officer. Félix bet that this guy's name was known to most of the cops in the country and that there wasn't any place he couldn't go. It also seemed likely he knew everything that went on. That was probably why this Ortíz character had gotten under his skin. He hated someone doing something he didn't know about.
Once they arrived in the lobby, Félix sensed the heightened alertness of the security personnel now that the boss was in the room. The door was opened by two men as they crossed into the Panamanian humidity and heat, even more oppressive than Florida's.
A block south of the office building, they stopped next to an alley.
The colonel lit a cigarette he dug from his coat pocket and said, "I need to be getting back, but I think I'll take advantage of the case to make the trip with you back to New Orleans." He looked at Félix and added, "If that would be all right with you, of course."
"We would be happy to have you as our guest. I'll make arrangements with the FBI legate here in Panama right now."
Staub smiled. "I love New Orleans. Besides, it'll be good to practice my English."
"You speak English?"
Staub took a second and switched languages. "I speak the English and the Spanish and the French," he said in a heavy accent. "I have been traveled to Miami and New York." He smiled.
"That's good. I speak English and Spanish, but nothing else."
Still in English, Staub said, "I will enjoy this break in my hobby."
"Hobby?"
"Job?"
Félix nodded.
"Excellent."
***
Byron Gastlin sat for about ten minutes, then decided that, since there was no way in hell he'd ever come back to this godforsaken place, he'd take a few minutes to explore. Maybe he'd meet Félix at police headquarters instead of here. He walked past several shops that sold what was purported to be native jewelry and handmade blankets. He stopped at one place and thought about buying some dolls for his niece in Sarasota. He was tired all of a sudden. He walked, thinking he was on the right street for the police building, but then saw he was a block off-the top floor of the office building popped over the lower roofs of the businesses and apartments. He picked up the pace, pushing his stubby legs along as fast as he could without exerting himself.
Finally, he found an alley that crossed onto the next street and discovered that his worn topsiders gave him little traction on the slight incline of the alley's bricklike surface. There were doors to apartments along the narrow street and the occasional moped or bicycle, but no cars would dare make it down the roadway. It curved slightly, giving Gastlin a partial view of traffic on the next street: old, beat-up American cars traveling as fast as they could, white, nasty exhaust pouring from their tailpipes.
As Gastlin stepped onto the main street, he paused on the sidewalk to get his bearings, and a man almost bumped into him. It took the American a second to realize who it was.
He fumbled for the words, then finally said, "Hello, sir. I just finished talking with your man."
The taller man smiled, but with no warmth. "That's funny," he said in almost unaccented English. "I thought you just finished talking with a U.S. drug agent."
Gastlin froze. He knew the man was connected, but not this well. Gastlin had to think fast. "No, no. I was speaking to a distributor from the states. He's another smuggler like me. He couldn't be with the DEA."
Mr. Ortíz stared at him and said, "You flew into Panama with him."
Gastlin didn't know how to answer. The DEA had a bad leak in it.
Flustered, Gastlin said, "I, um, did see him on the plane."
"And an FBI agent met you both."
Gastlin stared at him. He finally said, "If you knew all that, why did you have your man meet with me?"
"I had my reasons." He smiled and arched his eyebrows.
It gave Gastlin a chill. He suddenly realized that his business partner might be completely insane.
Gastlin felt his usual sweat kick into high gear, and the cloth below his underarms looked like he had peed in his shirt. His stomach gurgled as he fought the urge to be sick. This was why things had gone so smoothly. Mr. Ortíz really did control the cops. He wanted to run, but now regretted all the Twinkies and making fun of runners because he knew he'd never leave this alley.
12
ALEX DUARTE STOOD ON A BALCONY OF THE ADMINISTRATIVE offices for the Port of New Orleans, looking out over the busy water operations of the Napoleon container terminal as he listened to Félix Baez on his cell phone.
"Are you sure he isn't just out for a while?" asked Duarte. "You know, sightseeing or something."
"C'mon, Rocket. It's been over twenty-four hours. I'm tellin' ya, Gastlin got cold feet. He was afraid the U.S. attorney wasn't gonna give him credit, and he skipped."
"But you got the load?"
"Yeah, they dropped it near Colón over on the east coast. Staub's men got it through the port and on an old tub named Flame of P
anama. It left late last night."
"When are you coming back?"
"I fly out this afternoon. Colonel Staub is coming with me. He's been a huge help. They been looking for Gastlin, too."
"And you don't think the bad guys got him?"
"I thought about it, but the cops were watching the guy he met when he disappeared. They delivered the pot just like they said, too. If there was a problem, they wouldn't have dropped off the container."
Duarte thought about it and added, "Just seems strange. The guy didn't impress me as a runner. I thought he was too shaky to do something like that."
"Me, too. I got a few more hours to find his fat ass. Maybe he's chasing transvestites over in the central district."
Duarte considered this and remained silent. He knew the DEA man was masking how he really felt. He was quiet so long, Félix said, "You still there?"
Duarte said, "Uh-huh."
"Where's Lina? She missing me?"
"She's here with the FBI guys. I get the feeling they're interested in someone other than Ortíz."
"Who?"
"I'm just listening and learning."
"I'll get her to open up when I fly in."
Duarte remained silent, even though he doubted Félix's ability to loosen up the FBI agent.
Félix said, "I'll call if we round up that tub of lard."
"Good luck."
"See you tonight."
Duarte shut the phone and looked up to see Lina coming toward him on the balcony, the wind whipping her short hair to the side. In jeans and a simple T-shirt, her athletic body stood out. "What's up, Alex?"
"That was Félix. He's flying in tonight. Everything is on schedule."
"That's great. I wanna see who the other distributors for the pot are."
"You think they'll be threats to national security, too?"
She looked at him, trying to decide if he was being sarcastic, then said, "It's our job to find out."
Duarte liked that attitude of taking responsibility and not shying away from duty. But he didn't like not knowing what the story was as his case started to go. He felt like maybe now he had a need to know.
"Why Ortíz and his contacts?"
"Why what?"
"Why are they a threat to security?"
Lina looked at him. Her dark eyes set in that crooked face. He could see the intelligence in them, but also that famous FBI arrogance. She didn't say a word.
Duarte said, "I'm curious…You really think I'd let something slip?"
She kept that hard gaze on him. He returned it. A stare not learned from police work or four years in the army, but a natural one that God had given him instead of the ability to relax around people. When other teenagers were going to parties and learning about life, he had decided to learn karate and push himself to the limit in sports, completing the Disney marathon in Orlando at eighteen. Lina Cirillo could try and stare him down now, but she'd be in for a shock if she did.
Finally, after a full minute, longer than Duarte thought she could hold out, she said, "It's not that I don't trust you, but there are some things that I'm not supposed to talk about, and this source is one of them. You should just be happy that we were able to move things along." She leaned back against the rail on the balcony and said, "One way to look at it is that all drugs are a form of terrorism toward the U.S."
Duarte changed his stare. "Marijuana? C'mon, don't treat me like an idiot."
She smiled, her white teeth forming the only symmetrical feature on her face, but the overall effect was attractive. She sighed and said, "One of Ortíz's contacts here has been involved in some pretty serious stuff. We think he's one of the guys getting the pot."
"I assume the FBI doesn't consider dealing pot a threat to national security."
"No, but it's not like this guy. We think he might be using the pot to finance something worse."
"What sort of serious stuff has he been involved in?"
She hesitated and then leveled her gaze on him. "Let's just say, if it weren't for 9/11, this guy would be associated with our worst attack."
Duarte wanted to hear more, but realized he had already gotten more than Lina was authorized to tell him.
***
The man known as Ortíz looked out of the cracked, grimy windowpane above the Avenida Quarto de Julio. The second-floor apartment was one of several apartments that he and his associates owned throughout the capital city. It was vital that Ortíz not be seen meeting with certain people.
Ortíz felt his left eye twitch; it ocurred whenever he was agitated. Right now it was because, as he looked out on the city, he recalled the battles fought against the Americans in 1989. He often passed the former location of the national police, which the Americans had destroyed early in the conflict. He would let the burn zone left by the bombs fuel his anger. It sustained him.
His position in the elite 2,000th Battalion at the start of hostilities had given him a front-row seat to the rout of the Panamanian Defense Force. The use of the then ultrasecret F-117A Stealth Fighter had been more like a training run for the Americans. Panama had had no defense for such technology. Then an AC-130 Spectre gunship had pounded Fort Cimarron. He was lucky to get out alive. Now he intended to make the U.S. feel the same way: hopeless. And he had the perfect target: military, symbolic and vital to the United States.
A moan turned his attention from the second-story window back to the room.
In the middle of the sparse living room, Byron Gastlin sat with his torso and legs secured to a wooden chair. Pelly, Ortíz's most effective assistant, gave the tubby American a sip of water. They weren't ready for him to die yet. It had only been an hour. They had to make certain of the information.
Ortíz looked at the bloody mark on his left hand where Gastlin had grabbed him, begging for mercy and then scratching him when he removed his hand. Without thinking, Ortíz had snatched a butcher knife from the kitchen and severed the three middle fingers on his right hand. He wouldn't be grabbing anyone else for the time he had left on Earth.
Ortíz had cringed slightly when Pelly had then used the same knife to cut a sandwich in half. He'd wiped it, but then still he'd declined when Pelly offered him half.
Ortíz said, "You're sure no one was following him?"
"Yes, boss. Our men called me to say they were breaking off, and I saw the Americans follow them out of the business district. Héctor called me ten minutes later to confirm that he was alone."
Ortíz looked at Pelly. "And what about you?"
"I came way around and then through the Barrio Chorillo to get here. No way anyone but one of us gets through there without gunfire."
Ortíz looked at Gastlin. "Very good. Let's finish up." He stepped over to the trembling American. "Now, Mr. Gastlin, you are certain no one knows me?"
Gastlin shook his head, his eyes darting down to his mutilated hand every few seconds.
"Did you hear anyone talk of Ortíz?"
"Like in the office?"
"Exactly."
"Yeah, they all wanted to identify Ortíz. No one knew who you were."
Ortíz took out a ballpoint pen and made a few notes on a steno pad sitting on the counter that separated the small kitchen from the living room. He turned back to Gastlin and leaned down. "You're certain?"
Gastlin, panting, said, "Yeah, yeah."
Ortíz set the end of the pen on one of Gastlin's stubs where his index finger had been a few minutes before. He pressed the end of the pen into the open wound.
Gastlin sucked in air and said, "I swear, I swear." He started to wail.
Ortíz let up pressure. He looked at Pelly. "Unzip his pants."
Pelly moved like a cat and had his hairy fingers in Gastlin's lap and the zipper started before the smuggler could even say, "Please, don't."
Then, after catching his breath, the dope dealer said, "I swear I won't say anything if you let me go. I swear to God."
Ortíz smiled. "Mr. Gastlin, I know you won't say anything."
&nbs
p; Gastlin's eyes widened. "No. I meant if you let me go."
"I see. I'm sorry you cannot be accommodated. We could have used an individual like you in the U.S."
"Use me, use me."
Ortíz picked up the knife from the inside counter.
Gastlin said, "No. Think about it. You need me for the load."
"The load is already on the way."
"They'll miss me."
He chuckled. "I doubt it. Your friends at the DEA might miss you, but they'll never know what happened."
He held up the eight-inch knife. It was pointy but not sharp.
Pelly said, "Boss, I gotta clean up, would you avoid cutting anything else off? I can throw the fingers in a bag, but anything else might be messy."
Gastlin looked between the two men, obviously terrified to hear anyone discuss him like a cow ready for butchering.
Ortíz said, "You want it clean?"
"If possible."
Ortíz saw his assistant's point, but he didn't like it. This man had plenty of appendages that could be trimmed. Instead, he stepped over into the kitchen, opened a cupboard and pulled out a loop of heavy, coarse twine, the same kind they had used to bind Gastlin.
He pulled the loop until he had enough string to double between his hands. He casually stepped behind Gastlin and placed the rough twine around Gastlin's neck.
The heavyset American started to weep and shift in his seat. He had to know it was coming. What a terrifying idea, imminent death.
Gastlin said, "Wait, wait. Why?" and just babbled on.
As he tightened the string, Ortíz said, "Because we are not a colony of the United States." He rubbed the twine back and forth across the flabby flesh of Gastlin's neck as he tightened. He smiled at the erection he felt as Gastlin gulped for air that was not going to come.
***
Ike sat up in his bed in the little hotel room in Metairie, outside New Orleans. He had wandered through the town for three days now and felt like he had seen all he wanted to see. The place turned his stomach as far as the people who lived here. There were beggars on every corner. Drunken foreigners staggering around Bourbon Street. It seemed like every chick had some kind of colored boyfriend. But he had kept his mouth shut. It all went back to why the country needed to shut its borders and end immigration. They couldn't depend on the Minutemen to do it all. Those poor guys were wearing themselves out on the border between Arizona and Mexico. Once the country saw the problems with immigration, then maybe they could deal with the lowlifes that were already here. Send back a few Jamaicans and a trainload of Mexicans, and maybe crime would drop. He didn't feel it too much in Omaha, but he knew it was a problem in the rest of the country. They had already lost California. The Mexicans were bragging that they had won it back without a fight. Florida might be a lost cause, too. It wasn't so bad with just Cubans, but now it seemed like every form of beaner had taken up residence in the Sunshine State. Ike didn't even think they had that many Jews anymore.
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