“Papa, Papa,” shouted Nicolas as he continued toward the ambassador, holding the straps of his backpack to keep it firm on his tiny back.
“Nicolas,” replied Marguilles as he took his hat off and waved it at his son. Soon Nicolas was at his side. The boy grasped his father’s legs as he hugged him.
“Papa, can we get some ice cream?” the boy entreated as he looked up at the tall ambassador.
“No, son, we have to go,” he said solemnly, but there was a twinkle in his eye.
“You always say no, Papa. Please.”
“Well, Nicolas, are you going to buy?” Marguilles teased.
“No, Papa, you buy!” replied Nicolas as he dragged Marguilles toward the ice cream truck.
“Well then, what are we getting today?”
“Passion fruit, Papa.”
“Okay, passion fruit it is,” replied Marguilles as he let Nicolas continue to drag him toward the ice cream truck.
Shabal noticed the ambassador approaching the ice cream truck. He smoothly detached himself from the crowd of children and began to walk calmly but deliberately away from the truck. Without looking back, he made his way to the school’s gate, which was now wide open as several other cars entered the school grounds — more parents picking up their kids at the end of the school day.
As Shabal crossed the street and turned the corner he slipped his right hand into his pocket, finding the remote transmitter. He did not need to remove the device. His fingers found the on/off rocker switch, then the activation button.
A low, buckling explosion shattered the calm day as a monstrous fireball engulfed the ice cream truck and a huge column of black smoke rolled upward. Moments later, ice cream bars mixed with small torsos and limbs rained down on the scene in a wide circle around what used to be the ice cream truck. Dozens were killed instantly, followed immediately by the piercing cries of wounded children. Ambassador Marguilles and Nicolas were nowhere to be seen; what was left of their bodies was part of the collective burning mass of flesh and twisted metal.
Shabal felt the pressure wave and heard the explosion. Yet he never looked back as he disappeared into the crowded city. It was not the first time he’d left burning and lacerated bodies in his wake.
TWO
As he surveyed the vast Pacific Ocean from his palatial mansion near the city of Puntarenas, Costa Rica, Christo had the world in the palm of his hand — for the moment. Perched on a mountaintop on more than twenty acres of pristine forest, the twelve-thousand-square-foot manse was far more than he needed for his small family — his wife, Dominga, and four-year-old daughter, Solana — but he had worked hard to get where he was, and he felt entitled to enjoy the fruits of his labor. There were, of course, close to a dozen servants and caretakers that Christo considered an extended part of his family. It was a part of his patron image.
“Daddy, jump in the pool and play with me,” Solana squealed as she frolicked in the 80-degree water of their Olympic-size, zero-level pool.
“In a moment,” he replied, holding the satellite phone away from his mouth. Then back to the caller, “So you are telling me that the ambassador is no longer with us… I see… and it was the work of our associate… Quite right, my friend. Well then, I guess that’s how it is… Yes, thank you for the call, good-bye.”
“Please, Daddy, please,” Solana pleaded.
“You’d better jump in soon,” Dominga encouraged him. “I’m almost finished preparing lunch, and I want you to eat it while it’s hot.”
“As you say, my love,” Christo replied.
He stood up and stripped off his shirt. He was vain enough to admire his own body — if only for a moment. At just under six feet and a well-muscled 185 pounds, Christo cut an imposing, athletic figure. He had jet-black hair that he allowed to grow to shoulder length, deep-set blue eyes, and dazzlingly white capped teeth. Only a narrow, prominent hawklike nose saved him from movie-star good looks. The hair and the nose gave him something of an academic bearing, on which he was quick to capitalize. Before entering the water, he took a moment to look around. He saw all that was his and realized, not for the first time, that he, in fact, did live the life as capo in this part of his adopted country. He dove into the pool, coming up directly underneath his daughter and giving Solana’s leg a gentle tug, bobbing her in the water.
“Daddy, Daddy, let me ride on your shoulders,” Solana shouted.
Christo obliged, taking big, monsterlike steps in the shallow end of the pool, giving Solana a ride up and down in and out of the water. Dominga looked on, seeing the genuine love he had for their daughter.
Christo reflected as he bobbed up and down, carrying the squealing Solana all around the shallow end of the pool. Yes, he had untold riches, close to a bi"-1llion U.S. dollars, gained in part from narco-trafficking and later in the even-more-lucrative arms-for-drug trade. But hadn’t he lavished his largesse on a range of worthy causes in his adopted country of Costa Rica? Were not the Catholic Church, medical clinics, schools, and other worthy undertakings he funded for the still-poor inhabitants of this coastal section of Costa Rica all the better because of his generosity?
He had certainly lined the pockets of local politicians, and they had, in turn, protected his estate and turned a blind eye to his illegal activities. But that was just how business was done in Central America — and everywhere else, for that matter. For the Wharton-trained Christo, it was, in fact, all business — nothing more. Whatever damage his dealings did, and he wasn’t convinced any of it really did any damage, he more than made up for it in the millions of dollars he gave back to the people — his people. In many ways, Christo saw himself as a modern-day Robin Hood. He took from the wealthy, drug-addicted Europeans and Norte Americanos, and gave back to the campesinos who lived at the subsistence level.
Yes, life was good, but good by his own initiative. But now they were closing in on him, and it was getting too risky — for him and for the fanatical elements with whom he now dealt. All he needed was one final score, and he would leave this life behind and escape with his small family. He had put the wheels in motion. Now he just needed it to play out. He had made it happen in the past; he would do it again — one more time. Let someone else take care of the less fortunate for a change, he told himself. It was time for him to take care of those closest to him. In the final analysis, they were his world.
It was Sunday, just before noon, when Dave Nolan arrived at Danny’s — Home of the Slamburger. Danny’s was one of the older, and some would say shabbier, burger joints on Coronado’s Orange Avenue, and yet it was a favorite among Team guys. The slamburger was indeed impressive — a third of a pound of very lean beef that came in a variety of configurations. Lieutenant Engel had asked Nolan to meet him for lunch, which in itself was strange. Engel and his wife were both avid surfers and could usually be found at the break in La Jolla on Sunday mornings. Nolan was there ahead of his platoon officer. He worked his way down the long bar, exchanging hellos with a few of the SEALs seated on barstools. Everyone knew Dave Nolan. In decades past, SEALs would be there to nurse hangovers. Now, after ten years of war, most of them were there for a late breakfast after a morning workout. Nolan found a booth in the rear. As he swung into the booth, the waitress set a mug of coffee in front of him. On the wall-mounted TV, CNN was replaying the graphic footage of a terror attack in Indonesia. “Ain’t it just awful what those bastards did to those kids,” the waitress said. “How can someone go out and blow up a bunch of kids?”