He looked up again, surprised his eyes burned from sweat already. He was out of napkins. He glanced around his table and then jerked the cloth that covered two bread rolls in a small basket. The cloth soaked up his facial sweat, but he didn't worry about his arms this time. He didn't have time anyway. He could see a young, fit man, like all the ones that hung out with Mr. Ortíz, walking down the small street toward him. Gastlin's eyes involuntarily darted round checking for the drug agents. He couldn't see any, but realized that meant they were doing their job. He was sorry Mr. Ortíz had not come himself, but relieved he didn't have to look at the tall man's imposing face.
The young man nodded as he entered the gate.
It was showtime.
11
DUARTE LISTENED TO ALICE'S VOICE ON HIS SMALL NEXTEL CELL phone. Even on the cheap piece of electronics, she sounded like music to him. He smiled, despite the fact that he was using his personal line and she was racking up his prime-time minutes.
After filling him in on a case where she had discovered a fingerprint which had linked a local veterinarian to the baseball-bat beating and attempted murder of his estranged wife, she said, almost without a breath, "So how's New Orleans?"
"Fine."
"Is that the telephonic equivalent of a shrug?"
He smiled as he settled into the chair at the local FBI office, where he was waiting while Lina briefed the local special agent in charge. He realized Lina would be telling him more about the source they called Pale Girl but didn't care. It was on a need-to-know basis, and the army had taught him not to ask about things that were not important to him for an operation.
As Alice started to tell him about her workout that morning, he heard a beep on his phone, and he said, "I'm sorry, I have a call. It might be about the case."
"I understand."
She started to say something else, but he was already switching lines, hoping he wasn't getting himself into trouble again. He realized he hadn't come as far as he'd thought in dealing with women. "Yes?"
"Rocket, it's Félix."
"How's it going down there?"
"We're all set. We're a go."
Félix sat at a table in a family chicken place not far from the national police headquarters. Gastlin had needed a few minutes to compose himself after the man from Ortíz's organization had left the little café. The dried sweat on Gastlin's shirt was a testament to the trial the meeting had been. Félix spoke to him alone because he knew Gastlin would be more comfortable that way. It also freed up the others to try and follow the man who'd met with him. If they could find a permanent location for the man, they might be able to better identify Ortíz. It was all pretty standard.
Gastlin took a deep breath and then gulped down a glass of water.
Félix said, "You okay?"
Gastlin nodded, panting a little now.
"Sounded like it went well," said Félix. He'd listened to the tape but wanted Gastlin's interpretation of events.
"Real easy." He grabbed Félix's water glass. "Don't even have to front any money."
"That unusual?"
"Not really. If I bring in extra for someone else, they usually let me send the money later or have someone come up and collect. I've never been late."
"How will they deliver the load?"
"They'll get a legitimate shipper to transport the container and deliver it to the port at Colón."
"And the load is only pot?"
"Yeah, but a lot of it. Twenty thousand pounds. That should be enough for you guys. Enough to get me out from under the charges."
Félix smiled. This guy had worked too hard and been under too much stress to let him hang. "Yeah, my guess is they'll let you walk."
Gastlin let out a huge sigh and then had to wipe his eyes.
Félix said, "They'll even deliver it to the port in Colón?"
"Yeah, they always do that. They deliver it to the boat or truck. Once they brought it all the way into Mexico so I could drive it over the border into Texas. That's nothin' new. But doing it tonight. That's fast. Even for these guys."
"You did good, Byron. How's it coming?"
"One container. A twenty-footer. They lift it right off the trailer."
"Shit. So far this whole case has been easy." Félix stood up and said, "I gotta brief the colonel to see if he can trace it from the trucker." He thought about what to do with Gastlin, then said, "Meet me back here in two hours."
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.