"Burn Zone" - читать интересную книгу автора (Born James O.)

3

THE PANAMANIAN LOOKED AT THE CALLER ID ON HIS CELL phone and smiled. The phone was virtually untraceable, and only five people had the number. He had been waiting for this call. The idiot from Florida would do nicely, but before he agreed to the deal, he'd have to hear how the fat man was going to get the load into the U.S. How tight would customs be? How long would it take? Where would he cross? He couldn't use a go-fast boat. That's why he wanted to make the load of pot too big for a speed boat. He would need a freighter.

This might be the one. He'd waited too long to pay back the Americans. Since Christmas of 1989, he had put up with their arrogance and their rationalizations for why they invaded such a small country. He knew Noriega was a crook and a bastard, but he was their bastard. Now, after all these years, the American public would be reminded of their mistake.

Duarte sat at the dinner table with a plate of thin, pressed steak that some people called palomilla steak, a pile of sweet plantains and a salad. He hadn't eaten much, but his brother had gobbled down mountains of his mother's cooking.

She looked at him from the same seat from which she had looked at him for nearly thirty years and said almost the same thing. "You're not eating enough. Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, Ma. Just got a lot going on right now."

His father, César Duarte, looked over and asked his same questions. "Did you do good work today, boys?"

"Yes, Pop," both grown men said at the same time.

Their father looked at Frank, the older by eighteen months. "What did you do?"

"Worked on a brief to have a suit dismissed against the Toyota dealer accused of selling cars that weren't roadworthy."

"The one who was cheating people with the warranty service?"

"Cheating is relative, Pop. I think they were just good businessmen, and people are jealous."

"Is the poor woman who can't feed her kids over on Tamarind Avenue jealous? That dealer is crooked."

Frank smiled that politician smile of his and said, "A crook maybe, but entitled to a lawyer at two hundred bucks an hour, absolutely."

Alex Duarte caught his father trying to contain himself. Plumbers have little use for services that don't help people. He had made it clear he didn't see how lawyers ever helped anyone.

The older man looked at his youngest son. "And Alex, what did you do today?"

"Just follow-up on our arrest."

Frank cut in. "Hey, you think the lady whose house you destroyed has an attorney?"

Both Alex and César ignored him. Alex Duarte had to smile, realizing just how much of his father's attitude he had adopted. "We might be able to work the case up the line to someone big."

César nodded, keeping his glare on Frank to ensure he had no more comments. Then he said, "Excellent. Will this case lead to a promotion?"

"Don't know, Pop. They may not be too happy with me turning down the last one."

His mother said, "But that would've taken you so far away."

Duarte just nodded, though Washington wasn't the reason he hadn't taken it; it was the case he had become involved in. He had allowed a prisoner to escape, and that had led to a series of horrific events, including the death of a young boy, Héctor Tannza, killed by a booby trap. Duarte had pursued the case across the country, all the way into the heart of a conspiracy that made him question whom he could trust. He had had to see the case through-but it had cost him the supervisor's job. He still had no regrets. Now he realized that a promotion would come when it came. He loved his parents, and even his brother, but if he had to move it wouldn't bother him. He had spent almost two years in the Balkans. The only one he would really miss if he moved was Alice. If she was still speaking to him.

Pelly drove the Cadillac SUV behind the older Dodge pickup truck on the uneven, narrow road that cut over toward the area near Colón on the east coast of Panama. The typical, bumpy, Panamanian mountain path was often called the Cocaine Highway, for obvious reasons.

Pelly said, "You really think that following those men in a separate vehicle is wise?"

His boss smiled as he looked out at the passing tropical foliage. "No, but my days of lifting and moving are over. These two have sat with it in the warehouse for a week. I want to keep the knowledge of the crate's contents as quiet as possible."

"What if Gastlin is working with the authorities? What if they find the package?"

"Pelly, I hope he is working with the DEA or customs. That means they'll be looking for drugs and nothing else. If they somehow discover our little present, then we'll be as hard to find as ever. We'll just wait and buy another. I have the feeling it's a buyer's market." He chuckled.

Pelly knew his employer's arrogance could get him killed, but he had proven to be a brilliant businessman in the past. He probably did know how to push things.

"You'll see, Pelly. This will be a great thing for Panama."

Pelly let his head bob to the bounces of the Cadillac. Maybe his boss would take it as a sign of agreement without Pelly actually having to agree with any part of this crazy plan.

His boss said, "I need some lunch. Pull ahead and have them follow us to the cantina near Gamboa."

Pelly heard the second line on his boss's cell phone ring with a distinctive tone. He always answered that one formally.

Alex Duarte liked the fact that the West Palm Beach office of the DEA had a secure room for placing special phone calls. His own ATF office, while in a much nicer building, was still cramped even with about a quarter as many agents. Because of the nature of their work, the DEA agents had to make undercover and overseas phone calls all the time. He sat back in the comfortable swivel chair while his friend, Félix Baez, continued to speak in Spanish on the phone. As Duarte listened, catching about a third of the words, he couldn't help but think of his parents and relatives telling him to learn Spanish. It couldn't hurt.

They were in the small room with the door open because this wasn't an undercover call. Félix was speaking to a police administrator in Panama the DEA office in Panama had set him up with. He was the head of some Panamanian narcotics enforcement unit.

Listening to the call, Duarte realized his mind was drifting to his conversation with Alice Brainard. She had pushed him to define his relationship with her, and he had not been able to answer. Since she had walked away from him at the gym, he had been surprised to realize how much he missed her. This was an entirely new experience for Duarte. He had always been close with his family, even if his brother annoyed him more than encouraged him, but outside of them he had been extremely self-reliant. Between the army and his job, he had not had time for much of a personal life. It wasn't until his relationship with Caren Larsen, the Department of Justice attorney on his last case, that he had realized women could be so distracting. Before the case of the serial bomber, he had laid awake at night, troubled by nightmares about some of his actions in Bosnia. The bomber case had exorcized some of those demons and eased his insomnia, but now he found he lay awake from time to time thinking of Caren. She had left the DOJ and was now in Ohio and dating an old college boyfriend, but he still felt the connection between them. He had been surprised when he had started to sleep better, but he still had restless periods when he'd have to read or even work out in the hours before sunrise. The increased sleep had not seemed to make him feel more rested or alert, but he knew it had to be having an effect. If nothing else, he didn't feel like striking his brother Frank every morning at breakfast when the attorney complained about his life.

Félix hung up the phone. "He was pretty helpful."

Duarte watched him, the dark eyes set in the angular face, the skin pitted with craters from a youth spent with acne.

Félix said, "Rocket? You telepathic? Is that why you never say anything?"

Duarte kept a straight face and just stared at him.

"Funny," said Félix. "I heard you had no sense of humor."

"Most people aren't funny." Duarte cracked a smile mainly to let Félix know he could move on with a summary of the call.

The DEA man looked at his notes. "Our office says we can work with this dude and they'll back us up on anything we need."

"What's his name?"

"Colonel Lázaro Staub."

"That's an odd Latin name."

Félix shrugged. "Who knows where these Central Americans's come from. Panama attracts all kinds."

"Is he aware of this Mr. Ortíz?"

"Oh yeah. He says they've been trying to identify him for years. They think he might be a Colombian. He's bought up a lot of cops and has a bunch of lower-echelon guys who insulate him from everyone."

"So Gastlin may be the only link to him?"

"Looks like."

"And this really is a big deal case?"

"Think so." Félix leaned back in his own chair. "Looks like we got a lot of paperwork to do so we can take a trip to Panama."

Duarte thought about it. "Won't we need someone here to take care of the load if you get it sent to the U.S.?"

Félix nodded. "Yeah, I guess."

"I could do that. I've been to Panama before, for training. I don't mind staying here."

"That could make things a lot easier. Why, you don't wanna leave that fine squeeze you got?"

Duarte didn't answer.

"C'mon, you can admit it."

Duarte said, "I like hanging out with her, that's all. She's funny and smart."

"And hot."

"I know. I know."

"But you can't call her your girlfriend, can you?"

"No. I don't know why."

"Because you're a dude. We avoid labels like that."

Duarte had to smile.