‘It may, but their demand and requirements for oil reserves are so desperate, I think concessions can be agreed upon.’
Even though the DSS had swept the suite for any listening devices, they had not anticipated that one of the men from the Development Agency would deposit a device. Albert Perfidy called his boss, ‘Device in place sir, reception satisfactory?’
The metallic voice responded, ‘Yes that will be all.’
The young man returned to his waiting vehicle, re-holstered his weapon from the glove compartment.
SIXTEEN
Enzi’s contact brought his Leica Ultravid binoculars to bear on his target, gently altering the focus from his vantage point; he could see every detail in brilliant colour, despite the range. He would have told someone what he had seen, but today but only the owner was present; the usual throng of people absent from the observation deck ninety feet up in the tropical jungle canopy. He was observing the beautiful Blue Continga or Continga nattererii, the vibrant blue plumage matched the exterior walls of his accommodation.
‘You never told me how you got this place?’
The owner sat down on the canvas chair, ‘The Canopy Tower is an old US radar station, built in 1965 by the United States Air Force to assist in the defence of the Panama Canal. It received a new assignment in 1988 when it was reactivated as part of the Caribbean Basin Radar network, used by the US government to detect airplanes suspected of drug smuggling.
It was finally closed in June 1995, and then when control of the area was handed over to the Panama authorities, transformed into an observation platform.’ Standing in thirty-five acres of rainforest within Soberania National Park the aqua blue octagonal tower reached up over ninety feet into the canopy, topped by a gold geotangent dome.
You know when I approached by helicopter, you can just see the top floor and observation deck with the central dome peeking from the jungle. A golden pearl in a leafy green sea.’
Normally he would come here alone, anonymous, just an ornithologist, sitting up on the observation deck, looking down, rather than at ground level straining his neck. The variety of wildlife here stunned him, from howler monkeys greeting the dawn; to Blue-crowned Manakin, a true gem of a bird, to seven different species of humming bird. They were his favourite; he did not need binoculars to view them. The feeders placed on the tower meant he could just sit and watch them feed. The delicate constant vibration of their wings on the air, soothed his senses, entranced him.
He had started his day walking down from Semaphore Hill just before dawn, the early morning light sparking a cacophony of calls from the resident Howler monkeys. Even though the monkeys were only a few feet tall, you would think they were the size of gorillas from the volume. He could not see all of the animals in the forest, but he knew he was walking amongst tapirs, anteaters, armadillos, ocelots and innumerable birds above. He had walked down the Old Gamboa road to Summit Gardens and observed Capped Heron fishing in the early light. Then he slowly walked back, seeing the helicopter he had sent to carry Enzi, arriving at the pad fifteen minutes away. He had hired the tower for two days; no other visitors were expected, or wanted. When Enzi’s party had arrived and been shown to their rooms, he had returned to the dining room, enjoying the extensive selection available for breakfast. The dining hall and library were on the third floor, just below the observation deck, a polished wooden floor allowing reflecting light from the panoramic windows. The wrap-around sofa just off centre was an excellent reading spot, and Enzi’s contact was brushing up from the carefully selected library on rare birds. As usual, despite the environment Enzi was dressed in an immaculate suit, as were his four associates. Mr Jones and Mr Smith were edgy, indicating to their subordinates to inspect the area.
‘There is no need for a security sweep, my men have already conducted one, and we are quite isolated from the outside world.’
Enzi waved them to take the bags to the rooms, dismissing them all, even a hesitant Mr Jones. Enzi walked over to the sofa, glancing out at the jungle trees at eye level, ‘Well General Mastasson, you have selected a fine location, it is truly idyllic.’
‘Thank you Enzi, now can you tell me what the bloody hell is going on!’
Archer had arrived in Panama some hours before Enzi’s party; their delay at airport security was beneficial. He did not have the meeting place, but after checking with local helicopter charters, he found out only one aligned with his arrival time and number in party. Archer needed to get to this rendezvous, but without using air transport, the location remote, and he may be observed arriving. He left Tocumen International by taxi, heading for somewhere he could hire a motorbike, something cheap but effective off-road. He collected it and made for a warehouse near the railroad station, an old contact with hidden assets.
His friend had security on the door, a large tanned man with a shaved head, more tattoos showing on his forearms than skin, hesitant to allow an American access. Archer called out, ‘Benito, do you want me to tell your friend here, how you really got that scar on your stomach?’ After a short pause and a few heavy running footsteps, Benito arrived slightly breathless. With a glance outside from habit, Benito gestured to the office in the back, a brick building with windows on two sides, and one open door. The warehouse was filled with a variety of pallets, machine parts, DVD players, motorbikes and a small plane, partially disassembled in a corner.
Archer sat down on a comfortable leather armchair, the smell of Cuban tobacco lingering. Benito came in, sat down, and recovered his cigar from the ashtray, then realised, ‘Do you want one Archer, best Fidel has to offer?’
‘No thanks Benito, could you put that thing out, polluting the place.’
‘I don’t know, you never call or write, come into my place, don’t want cigars.’
Archer’s face broke into a broad smile, something he had not had cause to do since meeting Khan some days before. ‘I am sorry to be abrupt, but I need some supplies.’
‘And I suppose payment will not be forthcoming?’
‘Do you take credit cards?’
‘My friend do I look like I trust banks? What do you need, and how soon?’
‘I need a sniper rifle, ammunition and in about the next five minutes please.’
‘You do not want much, as always; I think I may have just the thing.’
Benito hauled his sizable bulk from the chair, short legs straining under his oversize stomach, too many good meals from his mother, and fifteen years without exercise. He waddled over to the centre of the warehouse, lifted up a wooden pallet, underneath it a keypad in the centre of a steel trapdoor. ‘This is my Aladdin’s cave.’
He keyed in the code, and the hatch opened, internal lights revealing steps to the space below. Inside displayed a fine array of weapons, machine guns, pistols, sniper rifles, rockets, enough weapons to supply a small country rebellion.
‘Well Benito, you have remodelled since I last visited.’
‘My friend you have to impress the clients, cutthroat market.’
Benito scratched his stubble encased chin, knowing better than to ask Archers intent. Archer saw what he wanted, ‘I will take that one please Benito.’
‘Good choice my friend, a Barrett XM 109 Sniper rifle. This is a beautiful piece of work, got them last year, US Army issue. Short recoil only thirty-three pounds in weight, twenty-five millimetre ammunition in five round magazine containing high explosive dual-purpose ammunition. You can blow holes in nearly inch and a-half armour plating. Range in the right hands, like yours, up to two and a half kilometres.’