"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
"Someone tried to rob me, and this is from a shattered window."
"Just now?"
"Five minutes ago."
"What shattered the glass?"
"A bullet."
Now she raised her voice. "The robber shot at you?"
"Sounds unbelievable, doesn't it?"
"How can you stay so calm?"
"What should I do? It's over."
"I don't know, but if someone shot at me, I'd be upset."
"I did cut my run short. What else should I do?"
"Call the police?"
"Won't help. The guys are gone. I messed up one's arm."
"Maybe they can find him at a hospital."
Duarte thought about it and shook his head. "No. It'll just be a distraction. We have enough to worry about."
"So that's it?"
"I didn't say that. I'm wondering how random a target I was."
"Why?"
"Who robs joggers?"
William "Ike" Floyd could not believe how lucky he was. He had Craig in the cab of the rental truck talking about what they liked to do and feeling the interest the young man had in him. Now Ike wished he had shaved this morning before he left the Motel 8. He and Craig had shared lunch and a few beers, and Ike didn't give a damn about his schedule right now.
Craig brushed back his neat light brown hair. "So you're on your way to Houston."
"Yeah."
"When you supposed to be there?"
"I'm the boss. I decide. Why, you got something in mind?" He smiled and edged closer on the big bench seat.
Craig smiled, too. "Don't know, but I don't meet a lot of guys like you in Lafayette."
"What kind of guy am I?"
"Funny, good-looking."
Ike's heart rate started to rise. He felt some sweat on his forehead. "You have someplace we can go?"
"What about the back of the truck?"
"This truck?"
"Sure. What are you carrying?"
Ike wanted to tell him. He wanted to impress the young man and share his glory. He thought about the consequences of telling him the truth or just saying it was a crate. He looked into the young man's eyes. "Can you keep a secret?"
"For you, I know I could."
"C'mon." Ike slid back past the steering wheel and fished his keys out of his pocket. He walked to the rear of the truck, arriving at the tailgate at the same time as Craig.
He paused at the locked truck door. "Now, this is big. Big enough that it'll make you look at things different."
"Does it fill the whole truck? We still will have room for us, right?"
Ike was disappointed in the boy's attitude and at the same time happy he was so eager.
"There's room. I was just trying to show you I'm not a regular truck driver. I'm a visionary."
"What's that?"
"A person who can see the future."
"No shit. Like, can you tell me the Lotto numbers?"
"No, not that kind of seeing the future." Ike paused to gather his thoughts. "Like seeing how each of us can affect the future. I want to save the country."
"From what?"
"From what it's becoming."
Craig seemed satisfied with that. He also seemed eager to get in the truck with Ike.
Ike unlocked the door and then turned to the young man. "You have to give me your word of honor not to tell anyone about what you see."
Craig solemnly said, "I give you my word." Then he gave Ike a sly smile.
Ike threw the door so it slid into the slot in the roof of the truck. His heart felt like it was going to shoot out of his chest.
22
ALEX DUARTE COULD HAVE EASILY IDENTIFIED HIMSELF AND entered the port through the main gate. He still had an ID tag from the day before, but he didn't want any official record of his entry into the Port of New Orleans. He found a low section of chain-link fence, quickly scampered up the outside and dropped to the ground on the inside. He left the day-old badge on his collar. His plan was to stay away from everyone's attention, leave minimal evidence of reconnaissance. The fewer people who knew you were around the better. This was based on one of the many lessons he had learned in Bosnia, both in limited combat and from backing up the navy SEALs who had come into the country to capture war criminals. They had conducted several successful operations and used Duarte for a few minor booby traps and demolition jobs because of his duties with the combat engineers. It was these same SEALs who had shown Duarte the power of an "aggressive interrogation." It was a simple concept Duarte tried not to abuse. In the right circumstances, with proper justification and an individual who deserved it, fear and pain were excellent motivators. Duarte had been very careful in his use of the concept. It certainly was not approved of by the Department of Justice.
Duarte had used it only in vital and dangerous situations, but he considered almost being killed by robbers vital and serious. He didn't believe that seeing the first officer of the Flame of Panama before being accosted was a coincidence. He had some questions to ask, and if the man was not open to the interview, he might end up with another scar on the other side of his hairy face.
Duarte navigated the big port. He had thought about finding this Cal Linley while he was here but decided the man's house would be more appropriate and less public.
He finally found the dock where the Flame of Panama had been moored.
There was a large open space on the dock where the ship had been.
Duarte nodded to a man in a small, three-wheeled security cart. The patch on the man's dark polyester shirt read "W Security."
The older black man's eyes went immediately to the identification badge on Duarte's shirt, then he smiled and said, "How can I help you?"
"I was wondering if you knew when the Flame of Panama pulled out?"
"Sure, I had just come on duty. It left at six this morning."
"With everyone on board?"
"I assume so. They didn't make any fuss like they do when someone isn't back from leave. They had the pilot guide them out, and were out of sight before the sun was all the way up."
"Thanks," mumbled Duarte, wondering how he had seen the first mate at nine o'clock if the ship had left at six. He was certain he had seen him.
The old security guard said, "Have a good day, son."
Duarte looked up and nodded absently.
This might be a long day.
Lázaro Staub stood in front of the seated Pelly, looking down at him like he might strike the young man. The twenty-nine-year-old from the town of Yavisa, near the Darien Gap, had felt the heat before. As a child he had seen Colombian drug runners take over his grandfather's small farm and treat the old man like a slave. When he was fifteen, Pelly had killed two of the drug runners with a hatchet. He had managed to keep his identity secret for two weeks as the drug runners tried to find out who had butchered their men. If it were not for a newly appointed narcotics officer named Staub who had led a raid into the town, Pelly would have been found out. Staub had stood up to the Colombians and given Pelly someone to admire. Four years later, Staub helped Pelly get on with the national police.
It was only after a few years of working with the colonel that Pelly realized his righteous outrage wasn't about drugs, but about foreigners coming into Panama. Staub was crazy about others making trouble in his country. If he hadn't been seduced by money, Staub may have really helped the country. At least Pelly used to think he had a chance.