Treaty Violation (17 page)

The cold beer hit the spot, but Nicholas’ thoughts changed to more important matters when Adriana and Maria ascended the stairs dressed in delectable bikinis.

“Not now,” Cesar said. “We’re discussing important business.”

Adriana and Maria glowered and turned.

“Come on,” Manuel prompted, “let them stay.”

The women stopped and looked back with hopeful expressions.

“I’m tired of looking at your pretty face,” Manuel added with a smirk.

The women sobered when Cesar snapped his fingers. “You’ll look at my pretty face when we discuss business,” he told Manuel. “Understood?” He snapped again and gestured for the women to go below.

Deciding it wasn’t politic to come between a man and his women, Nicholas got back to business. “Shall we say same size shipment and same price?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cesar said in a tone indicating the details were clear. “Why did you choose this line of work?”

Nicholas set his beer down. Assuming “work” meant cocaine trafficking, not spying, he concluded that Cesar hadn’t disclosed his name to Manuel. The good news was he’d successfully planted the misinformation with Manuel; the shipment would not depart at the same time and place. “Easy money, I suppose,” he said and looked at Manuel, who was chuckling. “Perhaps I missed the humor.”

“I’m sorry,” Manuel said, now laughing. “That was Cesar’s way of saying he wants to tell you his theory of drugs.”

“I look forward to being entertained,” Nicholas said.

“My apologies,”
Manuel said to Cesar. “Go ahead, tell him.”

Cesar looked at Nicholas calmly. “My theory stems from the premise that a genetic mutation long ago severed our link with the subconscious and created certain tribes who enslaved other tribes through violence and oppression.”

Nicholas leaned back and prepared for the worst.

“The problem was the people who maintained the link were unwilling to submit to the authority of the violent tribes,” Cesar said. “They were bad citizens.”

“I thought you said the link was severed,” Nicholas said.

Cesar shifted in his chair. “The genetic mutation affected some tribes
more than others. Some people maintained the link, mostly through the use of meditation, chanting, or mind-altering substances.”

Nicholas sipped his beer and gestured for Cesar to continue.

“The diseased and corrupted tribes who raped and pillaged to build empires prohibited any drugs that allowed the masses to fuse the link with the subconscious. They also discovered that other drugs were conducive to good citizenship, such as alcohol, caffeine, nicotine, and sugar. These drugs turned the masses into docile, slavish citizens.”

“I would argue that governments should promote a strong work
ethic among the citizenry,” Nicholas said. “Lazy nations tend to die out or become enslaved.”

“As a means of national survival,” Cesar said, ignoring Nicholas, “the program was effective, despite the negative effects on the human psyche. Once nations matured, however, the leaders decided to profit by selling the bad drugs to the lowest stratum. They made fortunes and created a dependent class of drug addicts.”

“Why do you sell drugs if they’re harmful?” Nicholas asked.

Cesar chuckled. “I’m beating the corrupt bastards at their own game,” he said. “A nation addicted to bad drugs can’t survive. With a bunch of drug addicts, the rich bastards won’t have anyone to work in their factories. Their fortunes will shrivel, civilization will crumble, and people will return to their natural state.” He smiled and sipped his drink. “By destroying civilization, I’m saving humanity.”

Nicholas nodded as if intrigued. “Out of curiosity, how many innocent people are you willing to sacrifice for your cause?”

Cesar’s eyes narrowed. He lifted a finger to speak but Maria poked her head out.

“Can we come out now?” she asked sternly.

Cesar groaned. “Fine, but stay up front. I don’t want to smell any of that coconut shit.”

“I like the coconut shit,” Manuel said and winked at Nicholas.

Cesar looked at Nicholas.

“I don’t mind coconuts,” Nicholas said, without a wink.

Cesar threw up his hands in defeat. “Fine, take a seat, ladies.”

Adriana and Maria, topless, strutted up the stairs and posed beside
two lounge chairs. Their hands caressed their firm bodies with suntan oil until their bronzed skin glistened with the smell of coconut. Pierced bellybuttons adorned their taut abs. Maria’s ribs protruded ever so slightly as she inhaled and pulled her silky black hair back in a ponytail. Adriana ran her fingers along the inside of her leopard skin g-string and snapped it into place, tight up into her ass and riding the curve of her hips. As if orchestrating their moves, they
slid on sunglasses and sat. Adriana arched her back and shifted her buns to get comfortable. Maria looked up at the sun, adjusted her angle, picked up a copy of
Cosmopolitan
, and flipped through the pages. In unison, they grabbed their tropical drinks in perspiring glasses, wrapped their lips around the straws, and sucked. The men sat silently and sipped their beers.

“My feet are sore,” Adriana pouted and wiggled her toes.

“What do you want me to do about it?” Cesar asked.

“You could rub her feet, asshole,” Maria retorted. She sipped her drink and returned to her magazine.

“Watch how you speak to me!” Cesar yelled.

They flipped him off in unison.

“You know I love you,” he said nervously. “You’re the loves of my life!”

“You aren’t going to rub my feet?” Adriana asked.

Cesar shook his head.

“I’m sure Nicholas wouldn’t mind,” Adriana added. She lowered her sunglasses with an inviting smile.

Hello
, Nicholas thought and looked at Cesar with indifference.

Cesar frowned and gestured to Manuel. “What do I care? We have business to discuss, away from that damned coconut smell!”

Nicholas waited for Cesar and Manuel to move to the front of the boat before sliding his chair closer to Adriana. She cast another inviting smile as he approached. He didn’t want to appear excited or prudish, rather as someone who treated rubbing the feet of beautiful women as a fine art.

“Finally, a real man,” Maria said and hid behind her magazine.

Nicholas rubbed oil on his hands and worked his fingers firmly
along Adriana’s feet, rubbing out knots as beads of sweat dripped down her thighs. She closed her eyes and moaned with clenched fists. Maria lowered her magazine to watch. He rubbed harder with long, firm, smooth strokes. Adriana flinched with pain.

“Behave, Nicholas,” Maria said lasciviously.

Cesar glanced back, once, twice, and finally the stare that said Nicholas had crossed the line.

Nicholas arrived at Paitilla Airport
. The afternoon tropical heat and humidity had blended for a steam room effect. Exhaust sputtering from bumper-to-bumper traffic permeated the air and fed the smog obscuring the skyline.

Nicholas entered the terminal. A young woman with chocolate skin
and cherry red lipstick looked up. Her highlighted hair was combed strait and her baby blue uniform was ragged but her eyes attempted to seduce him with the allure of a Hawaiian Tropic model. He asked her about a pilot named Alfredo, a name he’d obtained from a reliable insider. She gestured outside to a hangar. He grabbed two ice cold beers from the cooler and left a five dollar bill.

Outside, passengers boarded a small plane as sweating men tossed luggage into the storage bins. A plane sped down the runway. Heat expelled from the baked concrete and simmered the turbid air. Nicholas stopped at the hanger where a man was working on an aircraft engine. A wrench slipped loose and clanked the side of the plane.

“
Carajo!
”

“Sounds like you could use a beer,” Nicholas said.

Alfredo slid from under the engine and wiped his brow with a rag. “Thanks,” he said and took a swig. “Alfredo,” he added and looked at his grimy hands. His cropped hair, manicured hands, and gold crucifix didn’t suggest working class.

Nicholas admired the twin-engine aircraft. He’d consulted experts from the
DEA
and U.S. Customs Service to
plan this mission. He’d considered the obvious aircraft variables—speed, range, reliability, and so on—but he’d also asked for a pilot with the best reputation.

“That’s a beautiful plane,” Nicholas said.

Alfredo slapped the wing. “She’s a beauty.”

Nicholas gestured to the hangar. “Perhaps we could talk inside?”

Alfredo wiped his hands on the rag and led the way.

Tools and aircraft parts cluttered the hangar. Alfredo’s cordoned-off spot was modestly organized. An expired calendar hung on the wall, and the digital clock was a few hours behind. Perhaps the g-string-clad Brazilian twins showering under a jungle waterfall from June

1994
had altered his sense of time.
Alfredo shoved some papers and folders aside and gestured for
Nicholas to sit.

“Do you know anyone with a speedboat on the north coast?” Nicholas asked.

Alfredo nodded. “I have a friend in Puerto Obaldia. What size boat?”

“About thirty-five feet, capable of twenty-five knots and holding at least a ton of goods,” Nicholas said, defining the ideal speedboat for the Caribbean.

Alfredo arched his eyebrows knowingly.

“When can we leave?” Nicholas asked.

“Ready when you are,
jefe
,” he said and stood.

“I’ll also need you to fly some goods for me tomorrow evening,” Nicholas added.

Alfredo sat and cleared his throat. “Goods?”

Nicholas removed a stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and set it on the desk. “That’s five thousand dollars for the
flight today. You’ll get fifty thousand tomorrow and fifty thousand more upon delivery.”

Alfredo fingered the cash and nodded. He didn’t ask what he would be delivering, in the event Nicholas was wearing a wire. His silence was concurrence.

Alfredo tightened the last bolts and they climbed into the cockpit. Nicholas watched everything Alfredo did to get the plane airborne—knobs, rudders, switches, throttle, etc., recalling his own flying experience.

The flight was smooth and comfortable. At
7,000
feet, Nicholas could see the Atlantic and Pacific coasts. Grasping the width of Panama in his field of vision helped him appreciate the creation of the Panama Canal. Below was the land the Spanish had traversed during their conquest of the New World. Before genius and technology made the Canal a reality, the Spanish had built a mule trail,
El Camino Real
, to cross the isthmus between old Panama City and Portobelo. Geography was Panama’s destiny.

Alfredo gave Nicholas the controls. His flight lessons during college were a distant memory, but it was like riding a bike. A feeling of freedom accompanied flying. He tested the stick and rudder to assimilate the plane and soon felt the thrill of the open air. From this perch, the green solitude below looked majestic, a lost world untouched by the forces of history. The mountainous terrain extended to the eastern horizon. Roads and villages spotted the landscape, but there were few signs of human existence. Soon they were over Darien, the forgotten region of Panama, and closing in on San Blas. Alfredo pointed to a coastal village and took the controls. Nicholas prepared for a bumpy landing, but Alfredo managed only minor jerks and pulls as the plane slowed and taxied.

Nicholas hopped out of the plane and fanned the dust from his face. Puerto Obaldia wasn’t civilization, more like something from a pirate movie, or one of the many villages he’d visited during the eighties throughout Central America. He half expected to see frantic chickens running loose or burly Spanish conquistadors drinking rum and fighting for the right to sail the next gold-laden ship home.

Reality was less dramatic, however. Swarthy men, the kind who could make a living only in a place like this, did inhabit the place, but no gold bullion or Spanish galleons. He cleaned his sunglasses and surveyed the area.

Alfredo led Nicholas to an open air cantina near the beach, where they ordered two beers. Nicholas handed the bartender a twenty-dollar bill. The bartender smiled and grabbed two dripping bottles of beer from an ice filled cooler and whacked a fly with a towel. His Jamaican laugh bellowed. Nicholas turned when he felt the weight of many eyes. Caught staring, the stolid customers looked away and returned to their drinks.

“Is your friend here?” Nicholas asked.

Alfredo gestured to the beach. “He’s sitting over there.”

Alfredo swigged his beer and strolled to the dock. The bartender grabbed some crumpled bills from a cigar box and set them on the bar. Nicholas grabbed the change and left a generous tip. The bartender laughed again and pocketed the money.

Alfredo whistled and waved him over. Nicholas gave the bartender five dollars for three more beers and walked to the dock.