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  Frank called from the table, "What happened? Did…"

  He was cut off by his brother's glare. Even Frank knew not to push Duarte when he gave a look like that.

  His mother said, "No matter, your father and I waited for you. Frankie has work to do, so I let him go ahead and eat."

  Duarte plopped into the same chair in which he had sat for nearly thirty years. He looked up to see his father's boney hand on the banister as he came down from his study, which had been his and Frank's room before the elder Duarte had converted it, now that they had moved to the garage.

  "Hey, Pop," called both brothers in unison.

  César Duarte nodded, having felt he knew enough about the world after watching the NBC news and fifteen minutes of the Jim Lehrer report.

  He sat at the end of the table, lowering his narrow body into the chair like a king presiding over his court.

  Duarte's mother had the table set, and in a flash put a bowl of steaming shredded beef in the center to go with the rice and plantains that were already sitting there. No one dared ask her if they could help. His mother insisted on preparing the food and setting the table herself, even though he had been taught it was rude not to assist-one of the many confusing lessons he had been taught growing up in a household from Paraguay.

  They ate in relative silence as Frank explained to everyone how hard he had worked to sue some ill-prepared small businessman and how the judge was likely to commend him in open court for his efforts.

  César Duarte waited the proscribed amount of time before he looked at his younger son and asked, "Did you do good work today?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "What're you working on, Alex?"

  Duarte shrugged, his mind elsewhere.

  "Nothing new? I thought you and your friend from the DEA were on something big?"

  "We are. I'm sorry, Pop. I'm a little distracted."

  Frank chimed in with a grin, "Yeah, Pop. He's got women problems."

  Duarte knew the idiot would blab sooner or later, and they were no longer kids, so he couldn't just smack him. But he wanted to.

  His mother said, "Alex, you can tell us what's wrong?"

  "Nothin', Ma, really. I thought I might bring a young lady by for dinner, that's all."

  His mother smiled and sucked in air like she had just witnessed a miracle.

  Frank said, "C'mon, Ma. It's not like he's gay. He was bound to meet a woman sooner or later."

  Duarte said, "I'll bring her by, Ma."

  "When?"

  "As soon as I can."

  She seemed satisfied with that answer.

  His father came to the rescue. "What about the case?"

  Duarte relaxed a little and said, "Looks good. Félix is going to take the informant down to Panama and meet the main violator. I'm going to go to New Orleans and wait for the load. Should be interesting."

  César Duarte smiled and said, "That sounds like a good day's work." His highest compliment.

  ***

  The Panamanian looked out the bay window of his modest home, enjoying the vista of the mountains in the distance and the winding river that ran behind the house. It was all a sham, of course, so he could stay under everyone's radar. The house was large, but not a mansion. The wide area behind him looked like another parcel but was, in fact, owned by one of his corporations, so he knew no one would ever build a house on the surrounding forty-two acres. The small guesthouse at the front of his property housed security people in case he ever did have problems, but he didn't think he needed to worry. This house, his front, the quiet neighborhood so close to the capital, no one was smart enough ever to put it all together.

  His name, for instance: Ortíz. It had no meaning to anyone but him. Unlike with the Americans, who always gave their military operations or government agents code names that gave away the secret. He had taken his new name from a housekeeper his father had employed during his formative years. She had been his only warm, human contact as a child. His father had been consumed with his government position as a trade negotiator, and the only conversations they had shared had focused on his father's anger for the way the United States dealt with her friends to the south. His father had been so busy he had not even attended Ortíz's graduation from the University of Panama.

  His mother's death in childbirth had also added to his father's resentment.

  As a result, from the age of seven, he'd started to cling to the lovely María Ortíz. She had seen him to school and fed him a snack every afternoon. The broad-shouldered woman with the ample breasts had never talked about her own life growing up, but he had had the sense this was the first time she had not worried about where her next meal was coming from, and she had doted on him.

  When he had turned thirteen, he started to notice that the housekeeper was what many would consider a "handsome woman." He started to learn that the changes in his body were often directly related to María. He wanted to ask her what was happening to him, so one evening, while his father was staying overnight in the capital, he asked María questions a young teenager might have. The thirty-eight-year-old woman decided it might be better to demonstrate some of the interactions between men and women rather than explain them.

  This class in lovemaking lasted two years without anyone asking questions. Now, instead of a snack after school, María provided something more exciting. He had felt an attachment to the housekeeper that easily eclipsed his feelings for his father.

  Then, after a weeklong school trip to visit the ancient Aztec ruins at Chichén Itzá, he'd returned to find to his shock that his father had similar feelings for María. Hoping to surprise her, the boy had slipped into the house and then to her tiny bedroom off the kitchen. Without knocking, he'd burst through the door only to see his father's bald head and wrinkled bare ass between María's thick, smooth thighs.

  That day he learned that women were whores, and that employees were not to be trusted.

  Now, as Mr. Ortíz from Colombia, he felt confident he had confused the law enforcement authorities in both his home country and the United States. The DEA was always quick to believe that Colombians ran the rest of Latin America like lackeys. Just because Colombians had routed the Cubans in the Miami drug wars of the 1980s, the DEA believed they were tough, vicious kingpins.

  He had made a fortune from his import/export business. A fortune for which he had no use. No real vices, no one to share it with, nothing of interest to spend it on. Except revenge. That had crept into his consciousness over the past dozen years as he considered the indignity after indignity suffered by Panama at the hands of the United States. The invasion in 1989 had been only the most obvious blow. He still remembered the news story about Stealth bombers flying over undetected. The F-117A Nighthawk squadron based at Nellis Air Force Base in Nevada had been built with the Soviets in mind. Against a small country without even night-vision equipment, the jets were overkill.

  He knew all about the base near Route 6 outside the town of Tonopah, Nevada. He had imagined the pilots laughing at the Panamanians' futile attempts to stop their formidable weapons, and he imagined them laughing still. They didn't realize the war was not yet over.

  Now he had the means to strike back at the U.S. in a meaningful and terrible way. And using "Ike" Floyd would heighten the Americans' unease. Since 9/11 they had focused their suspicion on Middle Easterners. Having to shift their attention to one of their own citizens would create an atmosphere of distrust that could cripple the country. At least for a while.

  8

  ALEX DUARTE FELT HIS FRUSTRATION RISE AS HE AND FÉLIX attempted to get the assistant U.S. attorney to approve Gastlin's trip to Panama.

  The pudgy, dark-skinned man peered over his half-glasses and said, "Last week you guys told me to ask for 'no bond' because of how the guy ran. Now you want me to ask a judge to allow him to leave the country?" The Harvard-bred disdain in his voice never failed to annoy the agents who worked with him.

  "You understand perfectly," said Félix, containing a smi
le.

  "I don't see the humor in it."

  Duarte said, "Look, Larry, this is a big target. It's gonna take some extra effort on everyone's part to make the case. Otherwise we should give up on anything but the street-level dealers."

  The assistant U.S. attorney peered over at Duarte and said, "If you remove all the street dealers, then the problem is solved, because there is no outlet."

  Félix stood up. "Are you stupid? No, don't answer that; it was a referential question."

  The attorney sighed and said, "Rhetorical."

  "What?"

  "It's a rhetorical question."

  "What is?"

  "If I'm stupid."

  Félix said, "I'm glad you agree. Look, I know this is a pain and you have to work harder, but this is what needs to be done, brother."

  Duarte watched the young attorney shift in his seat. He was obviously not used to being bullied by agents. Duarte tried to ease his anxiety by adding, "I'll testify at the hearing that it was our idea and explain why we needed this extraordinary change in procedure."

  The assistant U.S. attorney leaned forward and said, "Didn't you let a prisoner escape a few months ago?"

  Duarte felt his face flush. "I did."

  "And what happened in that case?"

  "He was killed before being recaptured."

  "Gentlemen," the attorney said, leaning back in his seat. "I believe you have my answer."

  ***

  Duarte and Félix met up with Lina for dinner about six. Duarte had been simmering ever since they'd left the attorney's office. But all that was about to change.

  Lina, dressed in a simple blouse that showed her lean frame, smiled as she approached the table and handed Félix a sheet of paper. The DEA man looked at it and said, "She got us approval. Too bad we can't bring Gastlin."

  Lina said, "What happened?"

  Duarte sat back while Félix relayed the whole conversation with the assistant U.S. attorney.

  She calmly took out her phone and dialed a number. Duarte could see the first numbers were 202, so he knew it was Washington. She said, "We have a holdup in the U.S. attorney's office on Pale Girl." She paused and said to Félix, "What's the attorney's name?"

  "Larry Gandle."

  She repeated the name into the phone and said, "Thanks." She put the phone away and looked up at her dinner companions. "That should do it" was all she said, and Duarte knew better than to ask.

  ***

  William "Ike" Floyd had spent the better part of the day trying to reach the man that Mr. Jessup, the president of the National Army of White Americans, had provided to help at the ports. Ike didn't know the guy's job title, but his area code was 504, which was in Louisiana. He was calling from the pay phone and had to feed quarters into it every time he even left a message, which was to call him at the pay phone off Forty-second Street at eight o'clock. Two nights in a row he had hustled down to wait for the call. He had even missed American Idol one night, and now he was starting to doubt the man would ever call him back. Besides, he was sick of phones. It felt like he spent his every waking hour on them. He didn't mind his phone solicitation job; it paid okay, and they didn't expect him to do too much except call people who were too stupid to be on the national do-not-call list. Tomorrow he was calling about some vacation rental places for sale on the west coast of Florida. He liked the weather in Florida, but there were too many niggers for him to be happy. He'd stay in Nebraska a while longer until things got too hot and he had to move.

  Then, as he looked down the long, straight, empty street, he heard the phone ring. He picked it up on the second ring. "Yeah, this is Ike."

  "Good, good," came a man's gravelly voice. "I like someone who keeps to a schedule. Old Jessup said you'd be calling."

  "He say why?"

  "Only to help you at the port."

  "Can you help?"

  "All I need is a ship name and the date of arrival. If it comes into New Orleans, I can handle anything."

  "Excellent." Ike considered this new asset.

  The man said, "Ike ain't your real name, is it?"

  "No. I'd rather not use my real name."

  "Just wonderin' because my pa loved Dwight Eisenhower and always called him Ike. Till the day the old general died, my pa called him Ike, like they was old friends or something. That who you're named for?"

  "Nah, just a nickname one of my mom's lame friends gave me. Had something to do with a musician in Chicago, I think."

  "Good name just the same. Now what will you need me to do at the port?"

  "Just unload part of one container. One item I'm told will be under a thousand pounds and about seven feet long."

  "I can do that. And you want it quiet, right?"

  "Yeah, no one can know."

  "No problem."

  Ike said, "Is it dangerous?"

  "I don't know what's coming in exactly, but, yeah, of course it's dangerous. Financing a revolution is always risky. But it'll be worth it when we're written about in textbooks one day."

  "President Jessup didn't give you the details?"

  "Just to help. He said there was money and benefit to the Cause in it."

  Ike considered this and how it might sound to a cop. "You sure your phone is safe?"

  "This is a pay phone, and you're at a pay phone. I'd say it's safe."

  "So you can help?"

  "To save my country? You bet your sweet ass I can."

  For the first time, William "Ike" Floyd thought this might work. He had thought that about other plans to spark a revolution and once he'd even been right. Too bad he hadn't been able to take any credit. Maybe he was better off. He'd either be dead or in jail if he hadn't had that special arrangement with the government. And this time they had much bigger goals than a truck bomb. As he slowly walked back to his apartment, a shiver ran down his back. He had never thought of textbooks before. He hoped they used his real name.

  This was gonna be big.

  ***

  Duarte knocked on the door to the town house north of the airport near West Palm. He felt a little like a fool, standing there at eight o'clock at night with some flowers he had just bought at Publix, but he felt as if he needed to apologize to Alice…even though he wasn't sure what he had to apologize for.

  He stood, staring at the front door, until finally he heard a voice inside. "Who is it?"

  "Alex?"

  The door opened quickly. Alice, in a sweatshirt and shorts, immediately smiled. "You're not a jerk, are you?"

  "Is that a referential question?" He smiled at his own joke as she ushered him inside.

  9

  THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED TAUGHT DUARTE THE MEANING OF government bureaucracy. If it weren't for Lina Cirillo cutting through all the red tape, they might not ever have been able to pursue the case. The most amazing incident occurred when Duarte and Félix went back to the assistant U.S. attorney who had denied their request in the first place. As they walked into his office, he looked over his half-glasses and reached to his desk.

  "Here, and I'm sorry if you misunderstood me." He handed them a single court order.

  Duarte looked at it, then up at the attorney.

  "All charges dropped?"

  "For freedom of travel. We can indict him if it doesn't work out. But for now he's a free man."

  "I thought you weren't going to budge."

  "I didn't know the kind of people that were interested in the case. Now I do."

  Duarte started to ask more questions when Félix pulled at his arm. "Let it go."

  ***

  Duarte and Lina left for New Orleans a few hours after Félix and Gastlin boarded their flight for Panama. Since Gastlin was at least temporarily off the hook on the charges, the DEA didn't need to send a pack of agents to guard him. Like any frugal federal agency, they were content to have Félix and the agents in Panama handle it.

  Duarte settled into his seat, with Lina in the seat next to him. Her short hair seemed to know just how to fall behind her ears, and
she instantly relaxed. Closing her eyes, she turned her face toward Duarte.

  She had a peaceful look, and Duarte found he could study her face for a moment without feeling self-conscious. He realized how pretty she was, even with the nose that had been knocked one way then the other. Her dark Italian features gave her face sharp lines accentuated by her high level of fitness. She looked like a lean, satisfied lioness.

  She opened her eyes suddenly, almost startling him. As she smiled, she patted him on his hand and said, "Maybe now that I have you cornered, you'll have to talk to me."

  "I've talked to you."

  "You shrug and use the occasional word, but you haven't really spoken with me."

  Duarte felt vaguely like he'd been trapped in an interrogation. Although he couldn't picture a nicer-smelling interrogator.

  "Is this your career case, like Félix says it is for him?" she asked.

  "I hope to have a long career."

  "You know how the DEA guys talk. They want the big score. Then they can either move up the ladder or coast on it for years."

  "I don't see many DEA agents coasting."

  She let out a little laugh and said, "Yeah, the agency doesn't seem to have a long memory. I hear a lot of guys say it's 'what have you done today.'"

  "They're a tough bunch. I like working with them."

  "You don't like the FBI?"

  He looked at her and was about to shrug, then said, "I like FBI agents. I'm not sure about the agency. An FBI agent saved my life once."

  "You mean Tom Colgan?"

  Duarte shifted in his seat so he could look at her face-to-face. "How'd you know that?"

  "When one of our agents is killed in the line of duty, we all know about it. You didn't have anything to do with his death." She paused. "I thought you caught the killer."

  "He wasn't technically captured." His dark eyes focused on her. "But he was brought to justice."