Treaty Violation by Anthony C. Patton Page A

rubbed his chin, “or even eliminated?”
    Manuel jabbed an accusing finger at Hernandez. “I employ thousands of people in Panama. If you destroy me, you’ll destroy them. That would be political suicide.”
    “The issue is on the agenda for the next economic summit,” Hernandez said, proud of the perfect timing. “I’m sure the panel will weigh my opinion heavily.”
    “Look on the bright side,” Dupree said with a grin. “Consider it an opportunity to eliminate a corrupt Colombian piece of shit from your country.”
    “He’ll kill me,” Manuel said and puffed his cigarette nervously.
    “Listen to my plan,” Hernandez said. “We’ll destroy a few of his cocaine shipments and wipe him out financially. Without money, he can’t manipulate the legal system.”
    “Or we kill the son of a bitch,” Dupree said. “Our people will protect you,” he promised Manuel, “at least until Cesar is behind bars or dead. We’ll even put you on our payroll.”
    Hernandez tensed up. Manuel was a millionaire who loathed cowboy Americans. Dupree shouldn’t have spoken without doing his homework.
    “Only a scum would spy for the Americans,” Manuel said.
    Hernandez gulped his scotch. He didn’t consider himself a scum for spying for the Americans. He didn’t feel patriotic, but the calculus of his decision was complex. “Well then, consider yourself my employee.”
    “I’ll consider that,” Manuel said, “but I won’t be a CIA spy.”
    “I don’t work for the CIA ,” Dupree said.
    “Keep your money,” Manuel said and lit another cigarette.
    “I’ll accept that as a yes,” Hernandez said authoritatively.
    Manuel exhaled a smoke cloud and rubbed his forehead. “Cesar is getting to be a pain in the ass.” He looked up. “Why not? Let’s get him.”
    “You’re doing the right thing,” Hernandez said and lifted his glass. “Colonel Dupree, Manuel, here’s to a good team.”
    “No more bullshit about rice tariffs,” Manuel said.
    Hernandez shook his head assuredly.
    Manuel leaned forward to speak, suddenly a team player. “Cesar’s next shipment is leaving tomorrow night.”
    “When?” Hernandez asked. This was too good to be true!
    “I don’t know,” Manuel said, “but I’ll find out tomorrow. He’s working with a new guy, but I didn’t get his name.”
    Hernandez looked at Dupree. “Will your men be ready?”
    “You bet your ass,” Dupree said and grabbed the bottle of scotch.
    Hernandez leaned back and smiled. He would prove them wrong, all those who thought he cared only about his own wealth and power. His motivation for destroying Cesar was personal, no doubt, but eliminating that cancer would make Panama a better place for everyone.
    An image of Helena flashed in his mind. Her radiant smile sent a shudder through his body.
    “Minister Hernandez?” Dupree said.
    Hernandez, startled, looked at Dupree, who was holding the bottle of scotch. “Yes, of course,” he said and accepted another drink.
    They raised their glasses again and toasted. For the first time in a long time, he was doing the right thing.

FOURTEEN
     
    Nicholas Lowe entered the Radisson hotel reception room and spotted Dylan Dirk near the buffet table. A banner welcomed the guests to the “Economic Summit.” Journalists with camera crews were stopping attendees to ask questions and conduct interviews.
    Nicholas accepted a glass of red wine from a passing waiter and strolled along the buffet table toward Dirk. The food line offered more for the senses: a tropical fruit salad, ham and turkey cuts with dinner rolls, chicken wings and meatballs, and finger desserts. A portly chef at the end sliced a large roast under the amber glow of a heat lamp.
    “Good evening,” Nicholas said.
    “Hey, Nick,” Dirk said and turned to his wife, Ellen. “Honey, look who’s here.”
    “Oh my, Nicholas Lowe,” Ellen said and hugged him with a firm kiss on the cheek. Her sandy blonde hair smelled of strawberries, and her black