The auntie who raised Felix Moncada had often called him a dreamer, describing him as the kind of boy who liked to dress up in costumes and pretend he was someone great.
Now he had a chance to actually be great.
Moncada told his secretary he would be available on his mobile, then put the device on silent and left it in his desk drawer. If things did not go as planned, there would surely be an inquiry after the fact. He saw no point in providing investigators with a detailed map of all his comings and goings.
He’d left his Mercedes S 580 sedan at home, opting for a Ford F-150, which was still shiny and new, but much less conspicuous than a Kalahari-gold sedan. He headed north into Curundú, a rough, poverty-stricken neighborhood where he’d lived with one auntie after the Americans murdered his parents. That auntie had eventually shipped him off to live with her sister on a pineapple plantation west of the city. She’d said it was for his own good, but she’d likely grown tired of him. Even as a child he was self-aware enough to realize he was prone to fits of nervous energy. Still, he went back frequently to visit her and considered the crumbling back alleys and potholed one-way streets of Curundú as much his home as anywhere.
Now he used them to make certain he wasn’t being followed, frequently checking his rearview mirror as he drove. He stopped at a fuel station long enough to change into a loose cotton shirt and linen slacks. It would be much too hot for a business suit where he was going.
The pickup had turned into an oven during the time it took him to change clothes and he cranked up the air conditioner as he worked his way to Highway 1, bypassing Casco Viejo, and then exiting near the stadium. He could not help but smile at the high fences and concertina wire of the Ministry of Public Security on his left.
It would do them little good . . .
Moncada wound his way past the Panama Convention Center, whipping quickly into the parking lot of the Biomuseo to check for surveilling vehicles. He released a pent-up sigh when he saw he was free from any tail and committed himself to the Amador Causeway.
Made with the rubble dug from the eight-mile portion of the Panama Canal known as the Culebra Cut, the causeway connected three small islands to the mainland. Other than the way he’d come in, there was no way off except by boat. Oil tankers, container transports, and cruise ships loomed to his left, anchored on a glassy sea, shimmering in mirages of heat as they waited for their appointed time in the canal or dropping off tourists. A flock of what must have been fifty gray pelicans winged along beside him in formation over the water, their grace in the air belying the ungainliness of their great beaks.
Moncada checked his mirrors once again. Sun dazzled the windshields of two dozen cars in the marina parking lot. Heat shimmered off the pavement. Antennas, masts, and radars bristled from motor- and sailboats moored in Flamenco Marina, many of them owned by rich North American expats who came to take advantage of the tax benefits and cheap healthcare in a country they’d once invaded. Moncada shook off the thought and got out of his pickup. Stifling humidity grabbed his lungs and soaked his shirt as soon as he left the comfort of the truck’s air-conditioning.
He used the key fob to lock the Ford over his shoulder, hearing the comforting honk of the horn as he made his way toward the harbor. He kept a fifteen-foot Boston Whaler Montauk here under an assumed name. A ball cap and dark sunglasses helped to hide his identity from any passersby. He needn’t have worried. Voting was compulsory in Panama, but few could probably identify the president out of context, let alone members of his cabinet or staff.
The 60-horsepower Mercury outboard started on the first crank, and Moncada soon had the little Whaler up on step and flying across the water toward a forty-foot Jeanneau sailboat named the Bambina, which was anchored off the point on Bahia Flamenco.
It was a slack tide with no wind, and the Bambina’s anchor dropped straight down from her bowsprit, disappearing into the chocolate-brown waters of Panama Bay. Moncada took the Whaler around the sailboat once, slowly, so as not to cause a wake—looking for any signs of trouble.
A shadow passed over him as a large frigate bird flew between him and the sun.
A giant of a man with sandy hair and a week’s worth of facial scruff stuck his head up from below and eyed Moncada’s approach. He looked as though he could have picked up the Boston Whaler and snapped it in half. Moncada had never met Ian Doyle, all he had was the man’s description. Thick about covered it. Camarilla operators were camera shy to the extreme. Their leader was rumored to have killed an entire family on vacation in Lagoa, Portugal, for posting vacation photos that had inadvertently captured the shadowy recluse in the background.
Having made the terrifying acquaintance of the Spaniard, Moncada had no doubt that the story was true—and probably softened the details up a bit.
Doyle was expecting his arrival, but the walnut grip of a Browning Hi-Power pistol stuck from his waistband nonetheless. Moncada put the motor in idle and went forward to toss him the bowline.
“Welcome to Panama,” he said, wiping sea spray off his hands on to the front of his slacks. “I hope your trip was good.”
Doyle said nothing at first, scanning the horizon, not as if he were prey, but like a predator on the lookout for rival killers. He shielded his eyes from the sun with the flat of his hand and looked up at the frigate bird.
“Big son of a bitch,” he said, more grunt than words. Moncada hadn’t expected the Irish accent.
Seemingly satisfied that they were alone, Doyle secured the bowline to a cleat on the Bambina’s rail and then turned toward the companionway.
“How about you run down what you need me to do,” he said over his shoulder as he disappeared into the bowels of the boat. His pleasant Irish accent belied the hateful look in his green eyes.
Moncada hauled himself over the lifelines and onto the deck. He followed the sandy-haired giant below, wondering if he was about to be murdered. Doyle found a spot on the settee where he could stretch out his legs. Moncada took his customary spot at the polished teak table. The Jeanneau was a beamy boat, well-appointed with fine wood and soft leatherette cushions. Another man might have been tempted to bring his secretary out here. Not Moncada. He needed an out-of-the-way place for meetings such as this. Besides, his secretary was perfectly happy with their meetings at any of the mid-level tourist hotels downtown.
“I was told you can build the devices we need,” he said.
Doyle gave a grunting yawn. “I can,” he said. “Provided you have the components.”
“That will not be a problem,” Moncada said. “Everything in the world comes through Panama.” He took a small notebook out of his shirt pocket and slid it and a pen across the table. “Tell me what you need for five devices large enough to, say, destroy a passenger car.”
Doyle took the notepad and began to scribble in it. “Five . . .”
“The remainder of your team is—”
“I have that handled,” Doyle said. “I understand most are staying near the Ciudad del Saber—formerly Fort Clayton.”
“That is correct.”
“Very well,” Doyle said. “I’ll meet them after you and I are done here.”
“They know the locations where we want the devices,” Moncada said.
“Bombs,” Doyle said. “Hell, call them what they are.”
“Of course,” Moncada said. This man spoke with such force Moncada had to concentrate to keep from blinking at his every word. “B-bombs. They do not have to be very large, just enough to cause panic.”
“Ah,” Doyle said. “Panic they will cause. I promise that.”
“Good,” Moncada said. “So, you have been briefed on the basics of JAMAICA?”
The Irishman leaned back and took a deep breath. “It seems a bit complicated if you think on it too long—”
Moncada started to argue, but Doyle plowed on. “Blow a ship in the canal, set off a series of smaller explosions along with two strategically placed large ones. Throw in a couple of assassinations and some random gunfire. Civilized men will go apeshit and think they are under attack from all sides at once. I understand that when the shooting is over there will be a couple of very important vacancies within your government. Ruskies just happen to be here to smooth the transition to the new flavor-of-the-day government.”
Moncada nodded. He didn’t like talking so openly about the specifics of the operation.
“Who exactly blows the devices?”
“I will,” Moncada said. “To ensure that I am far enough away when they go off.”
“That’s wise,” Doyle said.
Moncada couldn’t tell if the man was making fun of him or not. In the end, it didn’t matter as long as he did his job. “I can do it by phone, correct?”
“You can,” the Irishman said. “I understand the device on the ship is different.”
“Ah,” Moncada said. “That one is already in place. Your predecessor was concerned about a random radio wave detonating it too soon. He set the GPS so the device will arm when it transits north to south through the first gate of the Cocoli Locks.”
“The canal expansion project?”
“Correct,” Moncada said. “Once armed, it will blow when it passes through the second set of gates into the middle lock.”
“Obliterating any nearby boat pilots,” Doyle mused. “As well as any poor gobshites assisting in the transit. What’s left of the ship will sink into the locks, blocking that portion of the canal.”
“Is this a problem?”
“The body count?” Doyle gave a sardonic chuckle. “I don’t give a damn about that.” He tapped the ink pen on the table, clicking it while he thought. “Just making sure I have your plan right in my head. There’s a hell of a lot of moving parts.”
“And fail-safes,” Moncada said. His face flushed, unaccustomed to explaining his plan. “Not so difficult. Only a matter of timing and communications.”
Doyle laughed out loud at that. “Señor,” he said. “Timing and communications are the two elements of any op that are most likely to turn to shit.”
“Your boss assured—”
Doyle raised a hand, still chuckling. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. We will do what needs to be done.” He cocked his head. “I do have a question about that Chinese container ship. Your country gets a great deal of its revenue from the canal. Blocking it with wreckage seems like a good way to cut off your nose to spite your face.”
“Miraflores Locks will remain open for traffic.” Moncada had to bite his lip to keep it from trembling. Doyle was not the sort of man to whom you wanted to show weakness. “Do your part and this will work out perfectly.”
Mercifully, Doyle didn’t appear to respect him enough to take offense.
“I get it,” Doyle said. “You take your country apart and then your new Russian friends will help you put it back together, better than it was. That’s about the size of it, eh?” Finished with the list of required items, he slid the notepad back across the table, looking Moncada straight in the eye. “If there’s anything else I should know, you need to tell me now.”
“Maybe,” Moncada said. He looked away, staring up and out the companionway, slowly shaking his head as a flock of pelicans winged past. “I can’t put a finger on it.”
Doyle rapped his knuckles on the teak table. “Hey, we’re not going to have another raid by that local policía señorita are we?”
“Oh, no,” Moncada said. “She won’t be a problem. That is being taken care of as we speak.”