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.
4
PELLY FINISHED A WHOLE ROASTED CHICKEN WITH SOME VEGETABLES at an outside table where he and the drivers could keep an eye on the vehicles. The boss was on the phone to someone in the capital and seemed preoccupied.
The older of the two drivers said, "Pelly, you ever gonna tell us what's in the crate?"
Pelly just shook his head. The man had been around long enough to know that he didn't like to answer the same question twice.
A truck with laborers pulled into the lot next to the cantina and four men piled out of the back to crowd the window of the smaller, much cheaper café next door. Three men scooted out of the truck's cab. All the men were grimy from manual labor under the unrelenting sun of Panama. The largest of the men, a giant of six-foot-three and well over three hundred pounds, stretched his thick arms, then arched his back. He had a belly, but not much of one. He glanced over at Pelly and the drivers.
In a booming voice, he slapped one of his companions on the back and said, "José, look at that guy. He looks like a monkey."
Pelly felt his stomach tighten. Why did a man he didn't even know have to make a comment? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two drivers sitting with him slowly creep back. They had seen confrontations like this before.
The giant man yelled to one of the men at the café's window, "Get an extra banana for this boy. He looks hungry." He laughed, then watched Pelly stand to his full five-feet-eight, which made him only laugh some more, the others joining in.
Pelly's head started to spin. He had an H &K MP-5 in the car but didn't see a need for the submachine gun. A firearm was overkill.
The giant looked at him and said, "Hey, Monkey Boy, you forget to comb your face this morning?"
Pelly slowly advanced on the big man. His friends must've thought he didn't need any help against someone so much smaller, but Pelly noted who was laughing.
"Sir," Pelly said slowly, "you like to make fun of people you don't know?"
"Look, it can speak!" The friends' laughter had slowed. They realized this was dangerous country and that taunting the wrong man could result in gunfire.
Pelly thought about explaining hypertrichosis and its genetic origins, but doubted it would enlighten any of these bullies. He gave a good glare to the others and saw that all but two were backing away. He approached the three remaining men slowly, keeping his eyes on the big man in the middle but aware of exactly how the other two were standing. He stopped about three feet from them, just outside the long reach of the big man, looked up into his face and set his left leg back as if he were going to kick him.
Now the man looked a little uneasy, like most bullies when their bluff is called.
Pelly said, "I don't like people making fun of me." He let his eyes slip to the right to check the man there, and then to the left. "I think you owe me…" But he didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he launched a vicious front kick with his poised left leg to the man on the left side, connecting directly on his hip girder and feeling the man's leg pop out of its socket. Before the man could collapse to the ground, screaming, Pelly had his left foot planted and his right twisting into a round kick, shattering the other man's ribs. He waited until both men were clearly down and out of the fight and the others had moved back even farther.