Island Inferno Page 16

Michael regarded his rotund former West Point classmate, who looked somewhat rumpled in his standard black tuxedo. Then again he had never seen Gene Sanders wear anything else. Michael leaned closer and whispered, “How do you like your little side job, consulting for the National Imaging and Mapping Agency?”

  The judge almost choked on a mouthful of chicken. “Michael, it is my goal to someday understand how you get your information. That is supposed to be a secret.”

  “And it is, my friend.” He patted Sanders on the back. “It is. But still, it must be interesting work.”

  Sanders wiped his face with the napkin from his lap. “To tell you the truth, it’s quite disturbing. If you knew the level at which people can be monitored—from space, even—it would make you want to board up every window in your house.”

  Michael cocked an eyebrow at him. “Is that so? And you’re helping them wade through the legal ramifications of being able to spy on little old ladies in their bathrobes?”

  Sanders snorted. “Something like that. But really, I feel for the analysts there, who spend their days watching death and mayhem, via various methods, around the globe. It has to wear on a person to watch horrors like the killings in Sudan in real time on a television monitor, knowing there is nothing you can do to stop it.”

  Michael nodded. “That would be tough. But while I have your ear, let me ask you a favor, Gene.”

  “What’s that?”

  He pulled a card from his breast pocket with a single word scrawled on it. “If you get a chance, have one of those analysts of yours find me a recent aerial shot of this place.”

  Sanders took the card, pulling his glasses from a breast pocket. “You’re kidding, right? You want me to lose my job?”

  Michael shook his head. “No, no, no. I’m not asking you to task a satellite or anything. But NIMA has the best maps on the planet. I’m just looking for a good shot of a place where I may purchase some land. If you run across anything that could help me, I’d be very grateful.”

  Not to mention that I was instrumental in your judicial appointment …

  The big man frowned and pocketed the card. “I’ll see what I can do, Colonel, but don’t get your hopes up.”

  “I have faith in you.”

  “Well, don’t.”

  A few minutes later, Sanders rose and went again to the podium. The crowd quieted. “Ladies and gentlemen. I trust you are enjoying the food and fellowship. It is now time to present our Distinguished Member Award for this year.”

  He unfolded a piece of paper and adjusted his glasses. “To give you a bit of background on it, the West Point Society of the District of Columbia and the National Capital Region presents the Distinguished Member Award to West Point graduates who have made significant contributions …”

  Blah, blah blah. Michael surveyed the room. His assembled classmates might have gone on to careers in business, politics, or the military, but their time at the academy gave them all something in common—a penchant for success. Or perhaps West Point simply attracted those who had those qualities already. Maybe both. What disturbed him was that other thing the men before him had in common. They were all politicians, really. Their wives might have come along today for the food and the gossip, but the men were here for one reason only. In polite circles they called it networking. He called it “social espionage.”

  Sanders was still blathering on. “… with the qualities that West Point strives for in keeping with its motto: ‘Duty, Honor, Country’ while making significant contributions to West Point, to their class, our society, or their community …”

  It’s a wonder they’re all not facedown in their quiche by now.

  “This year’s candidate is a classmate of mine, who has gone on to great heights in both his personal and professional life. As founder and CEO of a large pharmaceutical empire, his company’s research has saved countless lives, and his generous donations as overseer of his company’s charitable foundation have improved the lives of many more.

  “He is heavily involved in lobbying for political reform here in Washington and has probably done more to encourage the government to increase benefits for our men and women in uniform than anyone in the last thirty years. He is also known to be the single largest contributor to the Wounded Warriors foundation, which provides aid to severely injured soldiers. Not only that, but I hear he plays a mean game of handball.”

  Laughter rippled through the crowd as Judge Sanders refolded the sheet of paper and took off his glasses. “I’m pleased to present to you this year’s Distinguished Member, my friend and fellow cadet from the West Point class of 1969, Colonel Michael LaFontaine.”

  The crowd roared in applause as Michael stepped to the podium, accepting Gene’s handshake with one hand and the engraved walnut plaque with the other.

  When the applause died down, Michael pulled his own set of notes from the pocket of his tuxedo jacket and cleared his throat.

  “Thank you, Gene, and thanks to the society for this great honor. I’d like to take a few minutes to talk to you about something that the judge alluded to just now. Something I am quite passionate about. That is, our armed forces and the situation in today’s continuing war on terror. Mostly because this is the only gathering of people in Washington DC who might actually agree with me on some of what I’m about to say.”

  Polite laughter arose from the crowd.

  “Last month, a Palestinian Muslim extremist walked into a World Bank meeting in Beirut, Lebanon. The diplomats were there to discuss ways to make that country better and to help it to continue the process of rebuilding after the long civil war that tore the country asunder. But the Palestinian extremist, by way of thanks, detonated a bomb that murdered twenty-six people and injured scores of others.

  “Many people ask what would possess someone to hate so deeply that he would perform such a despicable act, not upon the combatants of an opposing military, but upon peaceful civilians. I believe that this kind of activity is not the result of hate. It is the result of cowardice.”

  A two-star general in the front row raised his glass. “Here, here!”

  Michael acknowledged the general with a nod. “This was the act of radical Islamists. This group of people hates everything about us—they hate our very way of life. They say they are a peace-loving people, but that’s only partially true. They believe in a peace that is accomplished at the end of the sword, by force. But if theirs is a worldview of peace, it is not one of love. They have no love for anyone, including themselves.

  “Fortunately, in every era there have been brave and good men who were willing to do the dirty work necessary to keep evil men at bay. Make no mistake—this has never been, nor will it ever be anything less than a gruesome task. Since evil men understand no language other than violence, good men must open the dialogue and finish the argument in that language.”

  A few spouses looked somewhat uncomfortable by this kind of talk, but Michael could tell that, for the most part, his audience was hanging on his every word.

  “Since its founding, our country has been populated by men who weren’t too squeamish to do this dirty work. It’s something that has caused other countries, even our allies, at times to consider us to be slightly less than civilized. But there’s no denying the fact that because America has been willing to roll up its sleeves and get its fists bloody now and then, the world is a better place today.”

  Several men, including the general in the front row, looked like they were about to start shouting in agreement.

  “I’m concerned by the trend in this country toward pacifism. Perhaps it’s a natural result of a postmodern consumerist culture, which is always trying to sell us the notion that we deserve a safe, comfortable life in order to sell us something designed to reduce the stress of our existence.

  “What does this have to do with terrorism? Because our culture is no longer willing to entertain the distasteful business of war, which requires copious amounts of dirt, sweat, and blood, we are not winning the war
on terror. We are, at best, holding the dogs at bay. But if we were willing to meet them on the field of battle instead of simply keeping them outside the walls of our comfortable society, we could destroy them once and for all.

  “If our country wants to be rid of the terrorist threat, we must be willing to pay the price to accomplish that. You don’t stop a fanatical coward with conciliatory half measures. You must be willing to pull out all the stops, to pay whatever price necessary to win. Anything less is not only inefficient and counterproductive, it’s a slap in the face to those brave boys and girls we send into harm’s way.”

  The crowd roared its applause. Michael stood quietly until the clapping had died down.

  “My godson, John Cooper, is one of those boys. Last month he and his team almost lost their lives, not because of a tactical failure on their part, but because of bureaucratic cowardice. And that is a travesty. As leaders ourselves, we must commit to each other that we will pursue the course of honor and encourage our elected representatives to do the same.”

  He folded his notes and paused, looking at the faces in the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, I pledge to you, I will continue to do everything within my power to keep our elected officials’ collective eyes on the ball. We must win this war. There is no possibility of appeasement. Thank you.”

  Michael stepped away from the podium and took his seat, paying very little attention to the standing ovation he was receiving. His mind was already on to other things.

  Some people craved applause. He craved change. Now that he had accomplished what he came to do at this banquet, it was time to leave.

  Judge Sanders was back at the podium making some sort of yada-yada remarks, and shortly the band began playing again, which Michael took as his cue to head for his limo. But getting there required running the gauntlet of congratulatory well-wishers between the head table and the doorway at the back of the hall. Reluctantly, he pasted on his best smile and waded into the backslapping, handshaking throng, shrugging off questions from several people about whether or not he would be chosen as the next ambassador to Russia or perhaps some country in South America.

  Gene caught up with him in the foyer. “Leaving already, Michael?”

  “I’m sorry about that, old friend, but duty calls.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? What are you up to now?”

  “I’ve an important meeting this afternoon, that’s all.” He winked at the judge. “I have to get some facts in order so I can pretend to know what I’m talking about.”

  Sanders laughed as they descended the outside stairs to where Michael’s black stretch limo was waiting. “I suppose so. But I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You’re known as a pretty die-hard conservative. But I saw where you gave a hundred forty thousand to various liberal democrats last year. How does that square with what you’re trying to accomplish?”

  Michael put a hand on the limo’s door handle and turned back to his friend. “That’s simple, Gene. If you want people to listen to you, you must make it worth their while to do so.”

  Panama City. Panama. 2200 hours

  THE FLAME FROM the expensive nickel-plated Zippo lighter disappeared with a decisive flick of the wrist and a click, plunging Oswardo’s face back into shadow.

  He leaned back in the booth in the darkened poolside café, causing the torn and faded patent leather to groan with his weight, and took a long pull on the Cuban cigar. He exhaled. The café was nearly empty. It must have been a nice place at one time, long ago, but not now.

  Still, vestiges of its former glory remained. Twin eight-foot swordfish statues, their paint now faded, spouted water into the murky pool that he wouldn’t have swum in on a bet. A mural of gaudy mermaids swam along the walls on either side of the pool, probably added sometime during the era when the hotel catered mostly to American GIs and their paid escorts. The AIDS epidemic had ruined that business even before the United States left Panama.

  Good riddance.

  The majority of the restaurant’s patrons had already retired for the night. Only one other man remained, and his attention was on the attractive young waitress bustling about the kitchen, her black hair pinned loosely atop her head with a pencil. She looked bored with the young man’s attempts to woo her as she busied herself with cleaning up the area behind the bar.

  She saw Oswardo watching her from across the room and pursed her lips at him, a decidedly Panamanian way of asking if he wanted something. He shook his head and took another drag on his cigar.

  The cell phone on the table in front of him began playing the ridiculous American rap song that his son had programmed into it several months ago, the last time he was home. He almost never came home from college anymore unless he wanted money. And he never called.

  Ah, well … it is your own fault. You were always too busy to pay much attention to him.

  He snatched it up, annoyed, and pushed the button. “¿Mande?”

  “Oswardo! I am here at the hotel. Where are you?”

  “By the pool. Hurry up, idiota. I have been waiting almost an hour.”

  “Be right there.”

  Young Remi was his most valuable asset in the city government, someone he could always rely on to get the job done and who was just as reliably late to every occasion. But the light-skinned mulatto’s position in the Panamanian Ministry of the Interior virtually guaranteed that he would show up eventually, because Oswardo had enough incriminating evidence on the mid-level civil servant to put him in prison for life. It was the best kind of relationship to have with a government official.

  The dirty glass door to the hotel lobby burst open, and Remi entered, looking very out of place in his finely pressed pinstripe suit. As usual, he was furiously chewing a small wad of gum. Most uncouth in the circles where Remi worked, but one supposed it was in lieu of other, more harmful vices. He spotted Oswardo immediately and bustled past the waitress and her admirer to take a seat opposite him in the booth.

  “You couldn’t find a nicer meeting place than this? I’ll be lucky if my car is still outside when I return!”

  Oswardo eyed him coolly. “Would any of your friends come here?”

  “Are you kidding? Never.”

  “Exactly.”

  Remi ran a mottled hand over his close-cropped black hair and chewed even faster. “You have a point.”

  “Then please—” the older man laid his palms on the grimy table—“tell me what you have found. I must return to Colón tonight to meet another shipment that arrives tomorrow morning. I have found a buyer willing to pay handsomely for the full remainder of my product, and I have much to do to prepare my lab before the shipment arrives.”

  Remi nodded. “I learned this evening that our special police forces raided a warehouse in the Zona Libre and found items that were on the Invincible. The products were apparently flown there from Isla Coiba.

  Oswardo tapped the ashes from the end of his cigar. “Isla Coiba? Are you sure?”

  “I am only telling you what I was told.”

  He took another long drag, thinking. “Where is the closest port to the island?”

  “Santa Catalina. But it is not a port, just a fishing village.”

  “Do you have anyone who can find me some men with weapons and boats there?”

  Remi shook his head. “I might be able to get boats. Don’t you have your own men?”

  “Yes, but they will be busy with this new shipment. I cannot afford to spare them.”

  The younger man nervously rubbed his hands together. “I have a man in Puerto Mutis who owes me a favor. Perhaps he can recruit some men there. Many of the fishermen used to be guards on Coiba. I will see what I can do, but it will be very expensive. And they will need arms.”

  Oswardo stubbed out his cigar. “Arms are not a problem, of course. You find the men; I will find the money. Call me when you have something. We will need at least twenty who know how to use a gun.”

 
; Remi swallowed hard. “There will be great risk. Are you sure there isn’t someone else—”

  Oswardo stopped him midsentence with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You know how to keep yourself distanced from these things. Besides.” He pulled from his coat pocket a device made of black plastic, no larger than a raisin, and rolled it across the table to Remi.

  “What is it?” Remi peered at it in the half-light emanating from the pool.

  “My latest invention. What does it look like?”

  “Like the cap that one removes to put air in one’s tire.”

  Oswardo nodded. “Very good. Except this cap contains just enough explosive to give a car a blowout when triggered by a remote detonator. A perfect way to make someone’s death look like an accident, no?”

  Remi swallowed his gum.

  Oswardo picked up the device and rose to leave when Remi put a sweaty hand on his arm. “Amigo, don’t forget that the policía have this information, and there is something else. I have reason to believe that the American intelligence people have taken an interest in this too. It’s very possible that they are mounting an operation as well.”

  Oswardo bent and gave him a steely look. “Then you had better get busy. I want my shipment back.”

  Isla Coiba. 2300 hours

  Pain shot up Fernanda’s left leg as she tripped over yet another log. The vines and ferns and thorny bushes seemed to reach for her in the darkness, and she flailed her arms to try to fight them off.

  She reached down to rub her tender shin, and something alive scuttled across her hand, causing her to add her own squeak to the cacophony of noises from animals and bugs that had emerged once the sunlight disappeared.

  It was insane to be moving at night, but she couldn’t bear the thought of bedding down here in the swamp. Not only was the ground spongy and wet, but there were too many creepy-crawlies, like the one she’d just encountered.

  But despite being in the lowlands, she had been unable to find another source of running water since she left the stream. And her thirst was becoming all-consuming.