Félix shrugged and turned to Gastlin. "He says only cops can go up. Wait here."
"How'd he know I wasn't a cop?"
Félix almost turned to ask the guard, but looking at Gastlin's gut and ratty boat shoes, he decided it was obvious. "He just knows. Now wait here, and I'll be back soon."
He followed a guard to the bank of elevators, and they rode up together six floors. Another security checkpoint outside the elevator slowed them briefly, then Félix was led to an office with a separate sentry.
The guard spoke to the sentry and then opened the double doors wide, and Félix walked in to a panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean.
A tall man with a full mustache rose from behind a giant desk and smiled. Speaking Spanish, he said, "Welcome to Panama. I am Lázaro Staub, and together we'll finally get this bastard Ortíz."
Félix already liked how this guy thought.
Ortíz looked over at his best boat captain and said, "Just agree with what this idiot wants after a little haggling. We need a big load. Make it look good."
"Yes, boss," said the young man with the rough skin.
Pelly, standing to the side, frowned.
"What is it, Pelly?" asked the boss, his tone not hiding any annoyance.
"I thought the whole idea was for us to make money. Even if we have other plans, it wouldn't hurt to get some cash up front."
"Pelly, there is more to life than money."
"Not if you're poor."
"You're not poor now."
"But I remember what it was like."
The boss sighed and said, "But we have to allow the Americans to think they're in charge,"
"But they are."
"Not forever."
Lina Cirillo smiled as she watched Alex Duarte eat a muffuletta in a little deli off Canal Street. She had heard a lot about the young ATF agent when she'd been briefed on the case. They said he was known as the "Rocket" because of his focus and drive-and that one Department of Justice official had learned that at his peril. He'd tried to use Duarte to his advantage only to learn the ATF man was really more of a guided missile, capable of not only zeroing in on a lead but changing direction if necessary.
Lina wouldn't make the same mistake. Although she had been told to keep a low profile and involve only one other FBI agent in the case, she knew that both Duarte and the DEA man had no ulterior motives. The poor, uninformed grunts were trying to make a drug-and-gun case. Lina had other fish to fry.
Byron "B.L." Gastlin sat in the open courtyard of a small restaurant just outside the downtown section of Panama City. A tape recorder was carefully secured under the table, squirreled away by the national police without anyone noticing. Gastlin knew there were DEA guys and at least one FBI agent, besides Félix and several national police all, watching him and waiting to see who showed up. He was scared. Not like when he was as a kid watching The Wizard of Oz, but like he was about to go into combat for he first time. "Terrified" didn't even cover how he was feeling. He was so scared he had not even eaten the pastries in front of him.
He had followed the instructions left for him by someone in the Ortíz organization. It was how they had worked in the past. He'd call a number and ask for Ortíz. Usually he got Pelly or one of the other guys. Last night he had been told by someone where to meet at nine in the morning. That was a businessman. Nine in the morning instead of ten at night at some strip bar, which was what happened when he sold the shit in Florida. Everyone wanted a long, expensive night at Rachel's or one of the other high-end strip clubs. He wondered if it was some kind of tax write-off for them.
He used the napkin on the table to wipe the sweat from his forehead and face, then ran it under his arms as well. He lifted his polo shirt and decided he had too much hair on his belly to try and keep dry.
He had been here in Panama five other times to negotiate a deal, usually a load for someone else in Florida, and he'd take his cut. He brought in one hundred kilos of cocaine in a sailboat once, the years of sailing lessons his parents paid for finally put to use. Once he drove a camper loaded with marijuana across the Mexican border into Texas. Twice he had just arranged the loads and had local smugglers from Panama deliver them to him in a fishing boat just off the coast of Key West. He had never come close to being caught and never felt half this scared. He realized he could've been killed in the other deals and that having the cops around him was safer than being alone, but he'd had always had the impression that as long as it was business and he paid his bills, he was in no danger.
He looked up again, surprised his eyes burned from sweat already. He was out of napkins. He glanced around his table and then jerked the cloth that covered two bread rolls in a small basket. The cloth soaked up his facial sweat, but he didn't worry about his arms this time. He didn't have time anyway. He could see a young, fit man, like all the ones that hung out with Mr. Ortíz, walking down the small street toward him. Gastlin's eyes involuntarily darted round checking for the drug agents. He couldn't see any, but realized that meant they were doing their job. He was sorry Mr. Ortíz had not come himself, but relieved he didn't have to look at the tall man's imposing face.
The young man nodded as he entered the gate.
It was showtime.
11
DUARTE LISTENED TO ALICE'S VOICE ON HIS SMALL NEXTEL CELL phone. Even on the cheap piece of electronics, she sounded like music to him. He smiled, despite the fact that he was using his personal line and she was racking up his prime-time minutes.
After filling him in on a case where she had discovered a fingerprint which had linked a local veterinarian to the baseball-bat beating and attempted murder of his estranged wife, she said, almost without a breath, "So how's New Orleans?"
"Fine."
"Is that the telephonic equivalent of a shrug?"
He smiled as he settled into the chair at the local FBI office, where he was waiting while Lina briefed the local special agent in charge. He realized Lina would be telling him more about the source they called Pale Girl but didn't care. It was on a need-to-know basis, and the army had taught him not to ask about things that were not important to him for an operation.
As Alice started to tell him about her workout that morning, he heard a beep on his phone, and he said, "I'm sorry, I have a call. It might be about the case."
"I understand."
She started to say something else, but he was already switching lines, hoping he wasn't getting himself into trouble again. He realized he hadn't come as far as he'd thought in dealing with women. "Yes?"
"Rocket, it's Félix."
"How's it going down there?"
"We're all set. We're a go."
Félix sat at a table in a family chicken place not far from the national police headquarters. Gastlin had needed a few minutes to compose himself after the man from Ortíz's organization had left the little café. The dried sweat on Gastlin's shirt was a testament to the trial the meeting had been. Félix spoke to him alone because he knew Gastlin would be more comfortable that way. It also freed up the others to try and follow the man who'd met with him. If they could find a permanent location for the man, they might be able to better identify Ortíz. It was all pretty standard.