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 Panama. 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."
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.
After dressing and hiding his valuables from the sporadic cleaning crew, he decided he could walk to the library about six blocks from the hotel. The big U-Haul truck attracted too much attention and was difficult to navigate through the narrow Louisiana streets. With summer over, the temperatures were nice, and the sun was out. Sleeping or working during the day had given him a complexion like a vampire. The sun would give him a little color. He needed to look as mainstream as possible. His hair was already there. For the first time in several years, he had had to run a comb through it when he woke up.
Years earlier he had shaved his head so the Hammerskins would look at him more favorably. The working-class party of white people had proven to be an active, solid organization. Too bad they got an idea of some of his interests. Too much beer one night had made him show one of the longtime Hammerskin veterans the wrong website, and, after splitting his lip with a quick right hand, the man had informed him that he should not now or in the future claim membership in the Hammerskins.
Before that he had been in the National Alliance, but they were too concerned with race purity. They were looking for a holy war that Ike knew wouldn't come, and if it did he didn't really want to fight it. He'd be content to stop immigration and have the country take a serious look at people from outside the borders. Besides, the National Alliance expected a lot of work out of its members. He had a job. He didn't need a second one.
He had met up with some members of the Phineas Priesthood, but quickly realized crazy was crazy no matter what race you were. The members of the priesthood were just too extreme and expected everyone who joined to be the same way. They might really do something to make people notice one day, but he knew what it would take to change things.
He entered the small library and looked over to the round table with six computers available for library patron use. He had already used the computer to check for messages three times. The library only required him to use his first name on the log and only then if there was a waiting list. This morning, things looked pretty quiet. The reference librarian just pointed to an empty computer as he walked up. He nodded and smiled at her.
He typed in Yahoo.com and then tracked his way to Yahoo mail. He entered his user name and password. His name was a variation of World-changer, and the password was freedom. He was not the only one in possession of these phrases. Since it had been widely reported that messages passed over the Internet could be monitored, he shared the account with the president, Mr. Jessup, and the beaner, Mr. Ortíz. He would enter the account, then check messages that had been saved but not sent. That way no one ever looked at the messages, and they were absolutely secure. Only the three men knew it. The process was foolproof.
He found one message. It simply said "On the way. Ship-Flame of Panama-O."
Now things would get interesting.