At the same moment Mary Pat Foley was speaking to her husband, Major Gabriella Canto of the Policía Nacional de Panamá lay facedown on the clinic exam table, one leg of her camouflage uniform pants rolled up to her knee, when her phone chimed. She ignored the call at first, gripping the paper table cover with both fists, gritting her teeth as the doctor examined the knife wound in her calf. The hospital had wanted to admit her the night before and explore the possibility of skin grafts. She told the doctor to make do with stitches, assuring him she did not care if she had a scar “the size of a mango.”
The ER doctor had discharged her, but made her promise to visit her family practitioner the following day. He also made her promise to stop riding her motorcycle. She ignored the latter and thought of ignoring the former as well, but her wound had become angry and red, probably infected, considering the filthy fish knife had sliced nearly to the bone.
She apologized to the doctor and rolled on her side to dig the phone out of her pocket, grateful for the reprieve from all the poking and prodding at the inflamed stitches. The doctor smiled and busied himself preparing a hypodermic needle of antibiotic. He’d known Gabriella since she was a child, so the Glock 19 on her duty belt did not bother or impress him—which was good because, after the previous night, she was not likely to leave home without it. Commissioner Guerra had ordered her to stay home and rest, but he seemed far more interested in having her out of his way than he was concerned about her well-being. She’d decided to put on her uniform and go to work for half a day.
She looked at the number before answering. It was her driver, Fredi Perez.
“Where are you, patrona?” He sounded breathless, as if he’d been running.
“The clinic near my mother’s.”
“In El Chorrillo?”
“Yes . . . Why?”
“Have you not heard? The President of the United States has just arrived in Panama.”
Canto sat up abruptly and swung her legs off the table, drawing a concerned scowl from her doctor.
“And we were not notified?”
“I just heard from my friend at headquarters,” Perez said. “He flew into Albrook on a small plane . . . under cover. His trip was apparently kept secret until the very last minute. Which means—”
Canto finished his sentence. “Which means he will have much less security. Where is he now?”
“Vice President Carré greeted him at the airport,” Perez said. “I assume they are going to the Palacio de las Garzas.”
She stood, wincing the moment she put weight on her leg. The doctor shook his head and held up the needle, pointing to her hip just below her belt.
She put the phone on speaker and unfastened her duty belt, leaning over the exam table and supporting the weight of her Glock with one hand while she lowered her pants with the other, just enough to get the shot.
“Where are you?” she asked through clenched teeth, more from the tedium of it all than the pain of the needle or the embarrassment of the doctor seeing her ass cheek. She had things to do.
“San Miguelito Station,” Perez said.
“And Guerra?”
Perez gave a grim sigh. “Palacio de las Garzas,” he said. “Pinto is with him.”
Canto stood and fastened her belt.
“Of course he would be there at this moment . . . I’m minutes away.”
“Should we call ahead? Warn someone?”
“Warn them of what?” Canto said. “That the commissioner has come to see the U.S. President? No. Not yet. This may boil down to nothing but the fact that we do not respect our boss.”
“But you are going?”
“I am absolutely going,” Canto said. “Meet me there as soon as you can. If I see anything of substance, you can be sure I will sound the alarm loud and long.”
She ended the call and dropped the phone in her pocket, using both hands to adjust her gun belt so it rode more comfortably on her hips. The doctor tossed the used hypodermic into the “sharps” can and clucked softly, warning that she was about to find herself in a situation that would put her entre la espada y la pared.
Literally “between the sword and the wall.”
She smiled softly and turned away, speaking over her shoulder as she limped quickly toward the door and her waiting motorcycle.
“I’ll be careful with the leg,” she said, knowing full well that the wound was not the situation the doctor was worried about.