ALEX DUARTE COULD HAVE EASILY IDENTIFIED HIMSELF AND entered the port through the main gate. He still had an ID tag from the day before, but he didn't want any official record of his entry into the Port of New Orleans. He found a low section of chain-link fence, quickly scampered up the outside and dropped to the ground on the inside. He left the day-old badge on his collar. His plan was to stay away from everyone's attention, leave minimal evidence of reconnaissance. The fewer people who knew you were around the better. This was based on one of the many lessons he had learned in Bosnia, both in limited combat and from backing up the navy SEALs who had come into the country to capture war criminals. They had conducted several successful operations and used Duarte for a few minor booby traps and demolition jobs because of his duties with the combat engineers. It was these same SEALs who had shown Duarte the power of an "aggressive interrogation." It was a simple concept Duarte tried not to abuse. In the right circumstances, with proper justification and an individual who deserved it, fear and pain were excellent motivators. Duarte had been very careful in his use of the concept. It certainly was not approved of by the Department of Justice.
Duarte had used it only in vital and dangerous situations, but he considered almost being killed by robbers vital and serious. He didn't believe that seeing the first officer of the Flame of Panama before being accosted was a coincidence. He had some questions to ask, and if the man was not open to the interview, he might end up with another scar on the other side of his hairy face.
Duarte navigated the big port. He had thought about finding this Cal Linley while he was here but decided the man's house would be more appropriate and less public.
He finally found the dock where the Flame of Panama had been moored.
There was a large open space on the dock where the ship had been.
Duarte nodded to a man in a small, three-wheeled security cart. The patch on the man's dark polyester shirt read "W Security."
The older black man's eyes went immediately to the identification badge on Duarte's shirt, then he smiled and said, "How can I help you?"
"I was wondering if you knew when the Flame of Panama pulled out?"
"Sure, I had just come on duty. It left at six this morning."
"With everyone on board?"
"I assume so. They didn't make any fuss like they do when someone isn't back from leave. They had the pilot guide them out, and were out of sight before the sun was all the way up."
"Thanks," mumbled Duarte, wondering how he had seen the first mate at nine o'clock if the ship had left at six. He was certain he had seen him.
The old security guard said, "Have a good day, son."
Duarte looked up and nodded absently.
This might be a long day.
Lázaro Staub stood in front of the seated Pelly, looking down at him like he might strike the young man. The twenty-nine-year-old from the town of Yavisa, near the Darien Gap, had felt the heat before. As a child he had seen Colombian drug runners take over his grandfather's small farm and treat the old man like a slave. When he was fifteen, Pelly had killed two of the drug runners with a hatchet. He had managed to keep his identity secret for two weeks as the drug runners tried to find out who had butchered their men. If it were not for a newly appointed narcotics officer named Staub who had led a raid into the town, Pelly would have been found out. Staub had stood up to the Colombians and given Pelly someone to admire. Four years later, Staub helped Pelly get on with the national police.
It was only after a few years of working with the colonel that Pelly realized his righteous outrage wasn't about drugs, but about foreigners coming into Panama. Staub was crazy about others making trouble in his country. If he hadn't been seduced by money, Staub may have really helped the country. At least Pelly used to think he had a chance.
Now, in the café, Staub had allowed his voice to raise because he didn't believe, even if any of the people in the kitchen spoke Spanish, they would have any idea what he was talking about.
Staub stopped and faced Pelly. "I told you this son of a bitch, Duarte, was sharp, didn't I?"
Pelly nodded, trying to look bored.
"I also told you to hire good men. You knew someone here in New Orleans."
"I do."
"Those idiots? They couldn't handle a child. Duarte escaped like it was a classroom exercise."
"You're right, boss. He was tough. The boys said he was fast, too. They said he knew karate and surprised them."
"That's what we pay men like that for-surprises."
"I know, boss."
"You know, you know…You don't know anything." Saliva started to spray as he got angrier and angrier.
Although he wanted to smile at his boss's unraveling, Pelly remained still and silent. He occasionally saw the colonel get mad like this. Usually someone died when he got this crazy. Pelly knew he wouldn't do anything to him, but he also knew this guy Duarte wouldn't last until the weekend.
Staub said, "Now you have to make it look like an accident. After a robbery attempt, a second violent crime will arouse too much suspicion."
"How do I arrange it?"
"I'll call you when we're going out. Use a stolen car. Make certain you hit him dead on. I don't care if you have to back over him to be sure."
Pelly nodded, then said, "And how do I get back to Panama after I'm through?"
"What do you mean?"
"The Flame of Panama left this morning. I have no papers with me."
"We'll work it out when it's time. I may need you on the main job, too. This man William Floyd has not impressed me."
"I thought you needed an American to complete the assignment."
"I need an American to take the blame. Anyone can complete the mission."
Pelly realized he'd be in the U.S. for a while. He'd try and improve his English during the visit. He finally said, "I'll take care of Duarte if you need me to, but I'm not sure what he could do to hurt us."
"That's why you're not in charge. He is determined and smart, and that worries me when we have such big plans. You need to ask fewer questions and take more action."
Pelly glared at his boss. He had no idea what kind of action he might take if he got the chance. This whole mission was crazy and, more important, didn't earn them any money. He did not share his boss's sense of vengeance. He did, however, share his view of how helpful the right killing could be.
Ike looked over his shoulder into the noonday sun and saw how the light hit Craig's brown hair. Ike knew he should keep his mouth and the truck shut, but he had been bursting to tell someone what he was up to and what he had been entrusted to transport.
As the door slid up, Craig said, "You got this whole truck for that one crate?"
"I wasn't sure how big it was gonna be. It had to be covered, too. It might not have fit in a pickup with a cover."
Craig hopped up into the truck.
Ike took a second to look at the muscular young man's backside as he made the jump, then followed him inside. There were six pine two-by-four pieces of lumber he had thrown in the truck in case he needed them to stabilize the crate. He hadn't known it would be so heavy, and once they had it on the truck's wooden floor the crate had bit in and he could tell it wasn't going to budge. The lumber, all between four and six feet, lay in a small stack next to the wall of the truck bed.
Ike watched as Craig kneeled next to the crate and poked a finger between the boards. He was pleased to see the interest in the young man. Maybe he'd even have a companion for the trip to Houston.
Craig turned and said, "Okay, I give up. What is it?"
Ike smiled. "You sure you want to know? Once you hear it, you won't be able to forget it." He smiled, still sucking in the little gut he had developed just after turning thirty.
"I wouldn't have come in here if I wasn't ready for a surprise. Maybe if I hear a surprise, I'll give one, too." His smile and green eyes made Ike's knees go weak.
Ike squatted next to him and pulled on the one board that was loose. He figured he'd tease him a little more by showing him the metal casing and some of the wires he'd be able to see through the crate. "See if this gives you any idea." He worked on the board as Craig scooted to the side to give Ike room to work.
Ike pulled the board loose easily, his heart pounding and sending blood through his ears like a bass drum. Once he was done, he said, "Lookie here. What'd ya think?"
As Ike turned to see Craig's reaction, he felt a stinging pain in his shoulder and heard a loud slapping sound. He reached up and grabbed at his left shoulder and turned to see what had happened. He froze, seeing Craig with one of the shorter two-by-fours in his hands, his arms cocked like Barry Bonds at the plate.
All Ike got out was "Wait…" when he saw the pine board rush toward his face and Craig's young, muscular body twist on his swing.
His vision went blurry, then dark. He felt like he was in an empty, dark hallway.