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 smile.

"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."