Reasonable. And comforting. The president’s logic, by including us all, cleared us all.
The “Angel Tracker” chip in the president’s shoulder had been the size of a rice grain. It would have been easy to hide a transmitter anywhere in the plane. Perhaps in one of the containers that we’d transferred to Vue’s SUV.
But who?
I was replaying the linkage, still puzzled, as Rivera said, “Thank God, no matter how it happened. My great worry was that you were at my camp, Mr. President. I have not explained why. The avion company is owned by extranjeros. It is a word we use.”
The general looked at me for help.
I said, “The charter company is owned by foreigners? I don’t understand. Almost everything in Panama is owned by foreigners.”
“They are Muslims. But not Latin Muslims. You see? They are foreigners. Brought here by Dr. Thomas Bashir Farrish, that cabrone. If the famous Danson knew your location, then the foreigners would also know because it is their helicopter. They might sell the information to other journalists. Or even give it to someone who wants to kill you.”
Wilson stopped pacing as the implications crystallized. “Islamicists own that charter company?”
“The same people, Mr. President, who offered money for your head. That is why I am overjoyed you are safe. With such men, the way their brains work; killing civilians, children-they are foreign in that way, also. They are malvados. Capable of anything.”
Malvados. Evildoers.
I said, “Farrish is behind all this?”
“He’s a main player,” Wilson replied.
“Because of politics? Or religion?” Change the political makeup of Central America and Panama could cancel the Indonesian company’s lease.
His expression severe, Wilson said, “Both. Islamicists consider me a prize. I’m a symbol. The cleric who offered the reward is Altif Halibi, an Indonesian. Halibi is a disciple of the cleric who converted the billionaire playboy into a billionaire Islamicist.”
Meaning Thomas Farrish.
“Halibi visits Farrish in Panama often. Either one of them-or their lieutenants-could’ve hired Praxcedes Lourdes, along with a dozen other psychopaths, to kill me. Halibi doesn’t have a million dollars to pay as a reward. Farrish does.”
Four days with Kal Wilson and I finally understood why he wanted to be at Panama’s Independence Day ceremony. All the “principals” would be there, he had said.
I was picturing it, imagining what my role would be, as Wilson told Rivera, “If Farrish’s people believe I’m at your camp, they could send someone after me. We’ve got to warn Vue. Is there a way to contact them, General?”
Rivera appeared embarrassed. “All winter, at that place, we had a generator and a telephone line. Even the Internet and a hot tub. But then the rainy season arrived, and after so many storms-” He shrugged. They were all out of service.
I suggested, “Morse code?”
Wilson said, “I can try. Vue and I are supposed to make contact at nine and again at eleven. But maybe he’s already hooked up.” As the president jogged toward the bedroom, where he’d placed his bag, he called, “Does your camp have an airstrip? Or a lake?”
“No, I am sorry. Besides, it will soon be too dark for your plane to land.”
Through the office window, beyond the helicopter, the orange rim of the Pacific was fading. It was twenty to seven, and I was thinking of Tomlinson. He’d had a rough day, finding the bodies, and then driving hours to a remote farm. He would be in a marijuana-and-rum stupor by now-maybe for the best.
“General Rivera,” I said as I opened my duffel, “I need to borrow your helicopter. And a weapon.”
“Of course. I will come with you. But”-Rivera looked toward the bedroom where Wilson had disappeared-“but it is very important that the president and I are in Panama tomorrow morning-”
I interrupted. “That’s why you’re staying here. The president’s security-and your security, General-that’s primary. All I need is your pilot.”
Wilson reappeared at the door. “I am not going off and abandoning Vue, goddamn it! You can shit-can that nonsense right now, mister.”
I said patiently, “You’re not abandoning him, sir. You’re sending me. Our bargain was that I get you here and then back home safely. Let me do my job… Sam.”
Rivera said, “Sam? Who is this Sam?”
I had my shirt off, pulling on a black wool watch sweater. I would need it in the helicopter. My jungle boots were in the duffel, too, worn soft but glassy with wax. “Mr. President, if you have plans for Panama now’s the time to share the details. I’ll get to the Canal Zone tomorrow, but I may be late.”
“But what if Danson’s still at the general’s camp? He’ll recognize you from Key West.”
“I’ll offer him a drink and wait for Shana Waters to show up, then-” I paused. My sarcasm had produced an accidental clarity.
I was kneeling, tying my boots. I looked up. “Shana Waters’s tape recorder-the one Danson gave her. Where is it?”
Wilson stepped from the bedroom toward me, then began to nod. “That damn digital recorder. ”
I said, “I listened to it on the flight from Key West, then gave it back to you.”
Wilson was still nodding. “And I put it in the box with the things we didn’t need. Vue took it. The bug’s in her damn digital recorder!”
It made sense. Danson had tracked the signal to Lake Nicaragua, then either followed the Land Rover until he realized he needed a helicopter or maybe until his pilot decided he’d had enough and dumped the crew in Panama City.
Wilson said, “Danson, that shrewd old bastard. He gave Shana a recorder bugged with a telemetry chip. Maybe to blackmail her or just to keep track of where she was. That clever bastard.”
An expensive recorder. Something she wouldn’t throw in a drawer.
But Waters was now tracking Danson. How?
The president said, “Maybe they had exchanged gifts at Christmas.”
I thought about it and nearly smiled. “Yeah.” Two of a kind.
I was no longer concerned about TV reporters.
I was picturing my friend alone on a farm-a place with pigs, most likely-and Praxcedes Lourdes outside, watching from the darkness, accessing Tomlinson’s facial qualities.
The two had met, once, in a Florida courthouse.
Lourdes would remember.
20
Five miles out, the helicopter pilot said “Fire” as if he wanted me to pick up a weapon and open fire. A moment later, though, he said, “Something’s on fire,” and I knew he was talking about Rivera’s camp.
I was in the cargo hold and couldn’t see what the pilot was seeing. He said it in such a flat, indifferent tone, I doubted the seriousness.
The man was hard to read. When we lifted off from the cattle ranch, I had asked if he was going to use conventional lights or night-vision gear to land. It was dark by that time. He had replied, “Neither. I’ve landed in that field at least five times. Why would I want to see it again?”
Pilots.
Rivera’s camp was farther than I remembered. We were in the air more than an hour. I sat alone near the open door as we flew over jungle, the forest canopy awash in mist. Occasionally, I saw pockets of light: isolated villages, fires burning, the night strongholds of rural people linked by darkness, strung like pearls, bright and incremental, from a thousand feet.
Ahead, a half-moon was rising, white as hoarfrost in the tropic night. Its surface was pocked by geologic cataclysm and a wisp of earth shadow.
At a hundred twenty knots, there was the illusion that the moon was pulling us as if we were waterborne, suctioned by tide ever deeper into darkness. The thrumming of helicopter blades echoed in the lunar silence. The silence allowed me to think, to visualize.
I’d been to this camp before, but Rivera had drawn a rough map, anyway, and I memorized it.
It also gave me time to assemble, then dry-fire the weapons the president had unexpectedly provided-they were in the boxes Vue had loaded onto the plane. There were five to choose from: a rifle, two handguns, a shotgun, and a submachine gun.