I knew better than to try and explain the complicated circumstances. “Long enough, sir.”
“You knew he was a murderer. Burned people alive because he likes it. You had a perfect opportunity”-Wilson was shouting now-“Killing him would have been easy for you. I’m aware of your skills. A zero signature professional. Yet you did nothing! Why?”
I hadn’t had time to process the implications of Lourdes’s involvement. Suddenly, I understood: If I had killed Lourdes when I had the chance, Wray Wilson would not have died in a burning plane. A different assassin might have been hired, but Wray would not have endured that horror.
“I have no excuse, sir. I’ve regretted it for many months. Never more than now.”
“What Praxcedes Lourdes did was the first bullet. You are the second bullet, Dr. Ford. This time, you will not leave that round in the chamber. There will be no more appeasement. Is that clear, mister ?”
I found myself standing straighter. “Very clear, sir.”
The president had his index finger in my face, leaning close enough so that I could feel the heat of his breath. “I want the heads of the people who did this. The ones who started it by putting a bounty on my head. And I want that twisted motherfucker.”
I demonstrated my allegiance by remaining calm. “Get me close, sir. Turn me loose. You will have him.”
“Good.” Wilson looked at the plane for several seconds as if letting the precision of its lines calm him. The plane was white aluminum with green trim. A four- or five-seat Maule mounted, like a trophy on ski-shaped pontoons. The plane looked new, but black grease was smeared over the ID numbers on its side.
“We leave at exactly zero-seven-thirty hours. Roust Mr. Tomlinson, and collect the gear you need. Weight is a problem on a small plane. We’re traveling light. Stress that. You have a little more than an hour.”
“The gear I need isn’t on the boat,” I said. “It’s hidden in my lab. That’s why I want to contact friends in the region. Trust me, Mr. President, I’ll do it in a way that’s discreet. I won’t implicate you. I’m… good at this.”
He wrestled with the idea before saying, “There’s a phone in the house, but don’t use it. This island’s owned by one of my oldest, most trusted supporters. He’s an invalid. Vue uses the place sometimes, and it’s possible Secret Service will make the connection. But there’s a computer. Vue’s. I think it’s hooked up for the Internet, but I’m not certain.”
“What’s our destination? I can give rendezvous points without spelling it out.”
“Are you certain?”
I said it again. “Trust me.”
He used the rag to polish a smudge off the plane’s silver propeller, before he said, “I want to visit the place where my wife died. It was on an island in Lake Nicaragua. Their government put a memorial there. I’ve never seen it.”
“The central part of the lake?”
“No. Far south, near the Costa Rican border.”
The Solentiname Islands. I’d been there during the Sandinista-Contra wars.
“After that, we go to Panama?”
Wilson nodded. “Officially, Panama’s Independence Day is the first of November, but they celebrate the end of Independence Week on November fifth. That’s when it was officially recognized as a sovereign nation.
“There’s a ceremony scheduled at the Canal Administration Building at noon. All the principals are expected-including the U.S. ambassador.”
Ambassador Donna Riggs Johnson was a brilliant woman, but unpopular for the stand she’d taken against leasing the canal to an Indonesian company.
Wilson was a historian. I suspected he mentioned Archduke Ferdinand for a reason.
I said, “Someone plans to assassinate her.” A statement.
“I believe so. I couldn’t warn her through regular channels-my source would’ve been put in danger. But I’ve made sure she knows. Ambassador Johnson’s not going to announce it publicly, but she won’t attend the ceremony.”
“Someone hired Lourdes to kill you. Will they be attending?” I was thinking of Thomas Farrish and the Islamic clerics he was associated with.
“We’ll discuss that at another time.” The president looked at the plane again. “The keys to the back door are under the mat. I still have my preflight to finish.”
As I was walking toward the house, Wilson stopped me, calling, “Doc? I do trust you.”
I sent three e-mails, two of them to men who spend extended periods in the jungle, so there was no guarantee they would get them in time. I knew several people in Panama City because of my recent consulting job, but they were scientists. These were the only two contacts who could provide the sort of assistance I needed.
One was to an American mercenary I’d met a couple of years ago, Curtis Tyner. Sergeant Curtis Tyner. Tyner is a little over five feet tall, has bristling orange muttonchops, carries a swagger stick, and collects shrunken heads as a hobby. He became wealthy as a jungle bounty hunter, and as a facilitator of small wars.
We were going after people inviting the Apocalypse? Curtis Tyner could provide them a personal introduction.
I wrote: Sergeant Tyner, I’m on a collecting trip, after a rare species of shark. Spoils may be significant. Can we discuss over a Chagares water amp; rum in a day or two? Sunset at the yacht club by the American Bridge, or I will be staying at a favorite hotel. Cdr. m Wf.
The Chagares River flows into the Panama Canal. A popular place to watch sunset is the Balboa Yacht Club, near the Bridge of the Americas, and the El Panama Hotel is a favorite of the CIA and Mossad.
Tyner would understand-but I gave the message some thought before sending it. Did I really want to return to Balboa? I’d witnessed a different sort of nightmare there.
It was an emotional reaction, I told myself. Avoiding the place was irrational.
I sent the message.
In Spanish, I wrote a second e-mail to Juan Rivera, the Castrostyle revolutionary who was Kal Wilson’s old adversary but also my old friend. Gen. Lanzador, I would be honored to join you for batting practice. I will soon be at the lake where we once fished for sharks. Unfortunately, it will be necessary for you to provide all equipment. Moe Berg
Lanzador is Spanish for “pitcher.” As in baseball. At one time, Rivera had been a good one, and he was still miffed that the major leagues had never drafted him. Moe Berg had been a professional baseball player in the 1930s and ’40s-and a spy for the OSS. I knew Rivera would get it.
I wrestled over how Wilson might react involving Rivera, a man he had every reason to despise. But it was true: I had no equipment.
I sent that e-mail as well.
Finally, I e-mailed my son, telling him Lourdes was on the loose, he was killing again, then added, “Please believe this: He is not your friend. He will murder you if he gets the chance.”
When I returned to No Mas to collect our gear, I asked Tomlinson, “Do you have your ball glove aboard?”
Tomlinson had been sleeping, but he was instantly interested. “Of course. Glove, spikes, and the bat Spaceman gave me.”
Wilson was concerned about weight on the amphib, so I said, “Leave the bat but bring the rest.”
I told him we were leaving for Yucatan, 7:30 sharp, by plane.
16
The reason we had to leave at exactly 7:30, Wilson told us, was because that’s when the downward-looking radar on nearby Cudjoe Key was scheduled to be lowered for maintenance.
“Fat Boy?” Tomlinson said. “The balloon, you mean.”
Yes, the balloon. It was a “Tethered Aerostat Radar Detection System,” a white, bovine-shaped inflatable attached to several thousand feet of cable. Day and night, it hovered above the Keys, tracking ships at sea and low-flying planes. Some, especially Tomlinson’s hemp-loving kindred, considered the balloon a malevolent icon, the all-seeing eye of Big Brother. They called it “Fat Boy” because of its shape, and as a sinister reference to another top secret government program.