Gabriella Canto made it as far as the checkpoint at Avenue B and San Pablo, behind SPI headquarters and directly adjacent to the presidential palace. Unlike the next street over, this entrance had no fixed gate. What it did have was a bevy of cameras and three dour men armed with long guns, two of them United States Secret Service agents, judging from the enamel five-pointed-star pins on their lapels. She pulled her bike up beside the movable metal barricade and lowered the side stand, prompting the uniformed SPI officer and one of the gringos to step toward her with arms outstretched, palms open, to stop her from coming any closer. The other gringo stood ready with his H&K submachine gun, looking ready, willing, and able to cut her to ribbons if the need arose. Her light jacket had hiked up during the ride and his eye immediately homed in on the pistol at her duty belt.
Straddling the motorcycle, she took off her helmet and planted both feet on the brick street.
“Major Gabriella Canto, Policía Nacional de Panamá,” she said. Then to the Secret Service agents, “National Police.”
“Credentials,” the agent in front said, eyeing her uniform. His partner stayed silent, finger tapping the trigger guard of his MP5.
She passed her ID card to the SPI officer, who studied it for a moment, then handed it back, assuring the Secret Service agents that she was who she said she was.
“Sorry, Major Canto,” the lead agent said. “But you could be the chief of the PNP and we couldn’t let you in this way. I’m sure you understand.”
“My boss is inside,” she said. “I need to speak with him. Perhaps someone could get him a message.”
The SPI officer gave her a quizzical look, nodding toward the ground. “You’re bleeding through your uniform . . . Hey, you’re the one who got attacked yesterday.”
“I am.” Canto gave a sheepish grin, keeping her face calm despite her churning gut.
“Eres una tía dura,” he said under his breath. He shot a glance at the Secret Service agent beside him. “Excuse me, but the major is badass.”
The agents both suddenly perked up, obviously getting some new information over their earpieces.
“Imminent arrival,” the one nearest Canto said for the benefit of the SPI officer. Then, “Sorry, Major. I’ll check on your issue in a moment.”
Canto smiled. “I’ll call him later,” she said. “Sorry to bother you guys. Keep up the good work.”
She replaced her helmet and pressed the ignition button on the bike, coaxing it to life with the throttle.
The SPI officer nodded at her leg again. “You should see a doctor.”
“I will,” she said, flipping down the visor of her helmet and heading west on Avenue B, resisting the urge to speed away too quickly.
The guns, the bombs, the maps to the Palacio de las Garzas, Guerra’s quick trigger when the man had mentioned LA PULGA, were all curious indeed—not to mention the attack on her life. Now the President of the United States was here. Ironically, Guerra himself had often warned her in that condescending way of his never to discount the blindingly obvious during an investigation.
But the President’s arrival was imminent. How would she explain all of that to agents of the Secret Service before it was too late?
She rolled on the throttle, ignoring the stabbing pain in her leg as she juked in and out of snarled traffic, narrowly avoiding a dark gray Chevy Suburban and waving at two SPI motor officers as she cut north in the narrow gap between cars and buildings on Eighth Street, intent on making it around the block before President Jack Ryan got out of his limo.
Sabine Gorshkova’s driver, a snake-hipped former Argentine naval officer named Francisco, slowed the dark gray Suburban to a crawl at the corner of Eighth Street and Avenue B, mere blocks from the Palacio de las Garzas. De Bruk sat beside Sabine on the left, behind Francisco. Uncle Hector lurked alone in the back row. A Toyota Land Cruiser filled to capacity with steady, well-armed men followed the Suburban, rarely on the bumper, but always keeping the boss in sight. Large vehicles were not the norm on the narrow streets and alleys of Panama City’s Casco Viejo, but today, dozens of dark SUVs swarmed the area, making the dark gray Suburban fit right in.
Unable to move forward, Francisco rolled down his window and leaned his head out, shouting a pleasant greeting to the uniformed SPI officers, who stood beside their Yamaha motorcycle in the shade of a thick ficus tree. The two officers stood together, a male and a female. Neither looked to be yet thirty. It was a common pairing for motorcycle police across Latin America, the larger officer driving the bike, while the smaller officer, in this case a female, rode pillion. Sabine had trudged the jungles with Colombian FARC and Peruvian Shining Path guerrillas and couldn’t help but think the two officers looked like children wearing costumes in their neatly pressed camouflage and polished boots.
As far as Sabine could see, neither was armed with anything more than the Glock pistols on their belts—which they would find woefully lacking if her men decided to play.
Right hand on the steering wheel, Francisco patted the door with his left, keeping both hands visible and putting the officers at ease as they approached. Sabine had chosen the slender Argentine for a driver because he had an easy smile and a soft demeanor that put people, especially police officers, at ease. He was a killer, the kind face notwithstanding. His propensity to violence was simply hidden beneath a boyish grin—like he was just bursting to tell you about the perfect present he’d picked out especially for you. His behavior bordered on flirtatious and sometimes took even Sabine off guard.
Francisco leaned his head farther out the window and flicked his hand disarmingly as he chatted with the officers, both blissfully unaware of the FN Five-seveN hidden under his right thigh, loaded with twenty-one rounds of 5.7x28-millimeter ammo that would cut through their ballistic vests like they were not even there.
Sabine couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying from her spot in the backseat beside De Bruk, but she got the gist of it.
“Let me guess,” she said when the SPI kids had walked and Francisco rolled up the window. “The American Secret Service says we shall not pass.”
“Correct, patrona,” Francisco said. “They say it isn’t up to them.” He tapped the steering wheel with his thumbs, listening to some silent song inside his head. Of all the men in her employ, Francisco was the only one who put her on edge. He did not try to look handsome or tough or violent. He just was. Sabine liked that. She would probably choose him when she tired of De Bruk.
She pushed the thoughts out of her mind—for now. “Who do we have inside?” she asked, waiting to see who would answer first.
Hector began to rattle off names. “Vega, Gordo, Genovese, DePalma . . .”
De Bruk took out his phone, ready to make a call at her order.
“Gordo,” Sabine said. “Tell him I need a situation report.”
She’d just thumb-typed the number to Moncada’s newest burner, when her phone buzzed with an incoming call.
It was Guerra.
The PNP commissioner worked for Moncada and was technically not in the Camarilla chain of command. Still, he was smart enough to see who was really in charge—no matter who was paying the bills.
“Speak to me, Javier,” Sabine said.
“Ryan is no more than two minutes out.”
Her response erupted on the heels of a rumbling growl. “And you waited to call me why?”
“I did not wait,” Guerra said. “The airport is four miles away. I called as soon as I had the report from my man.”
She snorted, unconvinced. “Are you with Moncada?”
“Pinto and I are with him in his office.”
“Give him the phone!”
Moncada came on a half second later, tentative, a cowering puppy waiting to be scolded.
“Felix Moncada,” she said in a brassy, accusatory timbre that was known to make people shit themselves. She didn’t bother with any unnecessary pleasantries, but let her voice grow in a steady crescendo with each sharply enunciated word. “I am sitting on my ass two blocks away from you. Are you or are you not an economic adviser to the president? I was under the impression you held some sort of sway around here.”
“I . . . The Americans . . . They are everywhere. They do not even want us using our mobile phones. I am told Ryan is minutes away.”
“So I hear,” she snapped. “And what of Mary Pat Foley?”
“Who?” Moncada said.
“Their director of national intelligence,” Sabine chided. “What is wrong with you? Did you not have anyone at the airport?”
“Wait . . . Guerra did mention a woman who arrived on the Gulfstream with Ryan. Attractive, nicely dressed. Salt-and-pepper hair—”
“I am not interested in how well she is dressed.”
“Of course,” Moncada said. “She apparently split off in a Dodge Charger with a small security team of her own.”
“Split off?” Sabine snapped her fingers to get her driver’s attention. “Mary Pat Foley and her security team have split from the motorcade . . . and gone where?”
“I do not know,” Moncada said. “Guerra’s man was focused on Ryan, but did say the silver-haired woman went in another direction with her own security—”
Beside Sabine, De Bruk ended his call and held his mobile between them as if it were heavy with news.
“Just a minute,” she snapped at Moncada, raising her hand to shush him, even though he could not see the gestures on the other end of the call. It was not a plea, but an unequivocal order. She curled her fingers at De Bruk, beckoning him to be out with the information. “What is it?”
“I just spoke with Gordo, patrona,” he said. “Ryan’s motorcade is turning onto Eloy Alfaro Avenue as we speak.”
Sabine’s jaw clenched until she thought her teeth might shatter. Her plan had been to watch and learn how the Americans handled Foley’s security, follow her to Argentina, and then make a move when she was outside the President’s protective bubble. Sabine didn’t have an exact notion of how she planned to do it, but trusted something delicious would come to her when she put eyes on the bitch.
Her heart began to drum in anticipation. She could feel the hammer in her fist. She would face the woman who murdered her brother today.
She pounded her leg in thought, cursing her own stupidity as the answer became clear.
“The top intelligence officer of the United States would not waste time visiting the president of Panama,” she said. “She would meet officials with cockroach spies of her same stripe. The CIA.”
Francisco glanced in the rearview mirror, meeting Sabine’s gaze. “She is going to the U.S. embassy.” His hand hovered over the gearshift, eyes still filling the mirror. “Shall I take you there?”
Uncle Hector spoke up from the backseat. “Ryan will only be here for a short time. He came in under a ruse in a small, unmarked aircraft. His security apparatus wanted to keep his visit a secret. Now that his secret is out, that same security apparatus will push him to finish what he came to do and move on to Mar del Plata as quickly as possible.”
“That is true,” Sabine mused.
“Then do something to keep her here,” Hector said, a verbal shrug. “Do not forget, the summit at Mar del Plata will have dozens of world leaders, all of them surrounded by layer upon layer of armed security, not to mention the hardened defenses of the venue itself, the Argentine military, and the American armed forces already in place.”
A crooked smile spread over Sabine’s face as she pondered the possibilities. “And Panama has no army . . . Unless you count mine.”
Moncada’s pleadings poured out of her phone, no doubt having heard the conversation. She ignored him.
“We would have to contend with the American Secret Service.”
Hector leaned forward, chin on the back of the seat like a child asking when they were going to stop for a bathroom break. “But they are a skeleton crew,” he said. “That is the price they paid for keeping Ryan’s visit a secret. Whatever you do, you need to do it now.”
Sabine put the phone to her ear, cutting Moncada off mid-sentence.
“Be quiet and listen,” she said. “Blow the explosives as planned. JAMAICA is back on.”
“Are you insane?”
“What did you say?”
“I am sorry, but the American President and his entourage will be walking through the door at any moment. Operation JAMAICA is a complicated endeavor. It is—”
“Blow shit up and shoot people,” she said. “That does not sound so very complicated to me. Detonate the explosives. Now. I will contact Doyle about the Chinese ship.”
Moncada sounded as if he were being strangled. “But the Russians have already passed through the locks. They are probably at Gamboa by now! What will they—”
“The Russians will do what Russians do,” Sabine said. “They will break things and accomplish their task—”
The Suburban lurched as Francisco suddenly threw it into reverse.
He shot a glance in the rearview mirror. “Forgive the interruption, patrona. Something is going on ahead of us. The men in suits are running, and police are waving everyone back.”
De Bruk’s phone buzzed. He threw it to his ear, listened momentarily, then snapped his fingers to get Sabine’s attention. “It’s Gordo. Secret Service K9s have alerted on one of the explosives. They are pulling Ryan back to his limousine.”
“Shit!” Sabine said. Then, through gritted teeth, “Moncada, detonate the bombs now. Ryan must not leave.”
“And Botero?”
“Do as you planned,” she snapped. “Kill everyone in the building, for all I care.”
De Bruk’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Avoid killing my men, of course,” she added. “If you can.”
Hector reached over the seat and put a hand on her shoulder. “Very good, child,” he said. “Very, very good.”
Francisco had the Suburban careening backward on the narrow sidewalk by the time the shock wave from the first explosion rocked them. A half breath later, the car shook from a second bomb farther up the street. Car alarms screamed and honked throughout Casco Viejo. Had Francisco not started rolling backward right when he did, they would have been trapped in the jam of vehicles and pedestrians fleeing the scene before any more bombs went off, and first responders rushing toward the carnage. As it was, he squealed around the corner in reverse and into a vacant alley. He threw the Suburban into drive and sped down the wrong side of the street, scraping building façades and knocking down awnings to avoid oncoming traffic.
“To the U.S. embassy,” he said over his shoulder. “Correct, patrona?”
“Yes.” Sabine hung tight to the grab handle above her door and caught Francisco’s soft brown eyes in the rearview mirror, already thinking of feeding De Bruk to the pigs.