14

JOHN "JUAN" MORALES HAD ASKED THE DEA TO TRANSFER HIM to Panama for a couple of reasons. The extra pay was nice, just like the cheap cost of living, but the real reason was he got to pick his post of duty when he got back to the States. That was about the only way he thought he might get back to Jackson, Mississippi. He'd been assigned to St. Louis right out of the academy and tried to use his ability to speak Spanish, as weak as it was then, to get to New Orleans or Atlanta. He liked being close to his family and his father, a Cuban transplant who taught economics at Mississippi State. His mom, a former Miss Magnolia, didn't speak any Spanish and really had a poor grasp of English, too, but John had taken after his father and learned just enough Spanish to pass a fluency exam.

When he saw the posting for Panama, he put in for it, and to his surprise found himself living in the capital city a few months later.

So far he had found that most of his responsibilities were related to running errands for the guys in the States. They'd need some documentation about a resident or maybe a photograph of a boat docked at one of the marinas. It wasn't too hard, and he was just biding his time to go home anyway.

Right now, as the city slowed down and even the prostitutes started to come in off their perches on the street corners in lower-class neighborhoods, John was starting to get discouraged about finding the snitch that had given Félix Baez the slip. Morales had been in the DEA academy with Félix, two of only three Hispanics in the whole class at the Quantico, Virginia, facility. They had bonded, and Félix's easygoing manner and positive attitude had gotten John through some long weeks. His experience as a Mississippi state trooper had not prepared him for the challenges of tough academics, long hours and rigorous physical training.

John Morales had already checked his sources at the airport; no taxi driver had seen the portly American. His stuff was still in the cheap hotel room the DEA had supplied him. He had not been admitted to any hospital. John was starting to think he was holed up with a prostitute somewhere in the southwestern section of the city. That was why he was prowling those streets now.

He felt his cell phone vibrate and saw it was a local cop who was a friend of his.

"Diego, what'd you got?" he said in his heavily accented Spanish.

"Juan, my friend, I think we found your American."

"Great, where?"

"The main dump on the north side."

"Oh shit. How long has he been dead?"

"Hard to say."

"You sure it's him? You saw his photo."

"Still hard to say."

"Why? If you found him."

"We found most of him."

John froze in his tracks. "Most of him?"

"No head, his left hand is missing and three of his fingers on his right hand." There was a pause and the police investigator said, "Never mind, I think one of my guys just found one of his fingers. No luck on the hand or head."

"Jesus, Diego, what happened to him?"

"My guess is he crossed the wrong man."

"Where you gonna take him?"

"The main morgue."

"Will you let me know the autopsy results?"

There was a silence. Then Diego said, "Unless we have a suspect and motive and some cops who are interested, I doubt there'll be an autopsy. This isn't CSI Miami."

John didn't want to insult him, so he said nothing. He knew things were different here in Central America. "Keep me posted. I'll check with you tomorrow."

John Morales started home, but realized his stomach was a little upset. He wondered if he went to Staub and the national police, if they would be any help. He checked his watch and realized he better wait until tomorrow to call Félix. There was nothing he could do now anyway.

Cal Linley had worked for the Port of New Orleans for sixteen years. In that time, he had seen everyone with a skin color darker than his move up the ladder. Here he was, still a miserable off-loader. Sure, the pay was okay, but he had to work shifts and rarely had a weekend off. That worked to his benefit now. He stood in front of the container from Flame of Panama with a key for the padlock direct from the president, Mr. Jessup, who would be very happy with his efforts. He didn't know what they wanted out of the container, but he had detailed instructions on how to retrieve it and whom to give it to. The big shits at the National Army of White Americans didn't think he was fit to know exactly what he was retrieving from the container. He didn't care. He'd been told it was a step in the start of a revolution. He liked that idea. Set the country going in the right direction for a change. Not listening to them Commies at CNN or 60 Minutes who always made it sound like regular people were stupid and the United States of America caused all the grief in the world.

Now he paused in the so-called restricted area. He wasn't worried. The lone security guard was also a member of the faithful, a cop who'd lost his job because he'd used some instant justice on some punk who was stealing stereos out of cars. When he'd appeared in front of the all-colored review board, he'd just resigned on the spot. Been here at the port ever since.

Cal found the container, a twenty-footer set in the corner of the restricted area. He fumbled for the key and, with the flashlight tucked under his right arm, had to lift the lock because some moron had put the keyhole facing in. He flipped the lock upside down, then shoved in the small key. With a little twisting, he shook the lock free of the doors. He had to turn his wide frame sideways to make it down the aisle between the nasty bales stacked on each side. He realized they were bales of pot, but that was none of his business, nor was he interested in why pot was in with this cargo.

He squeezed through to the rear wall and tapped it with the long screwdriver he had brought with him. The hollow twang echoed in the container. He looked around, surprised at the volume of the tap.

He stooped low and unscrewed the thick, heavy screw holding the two halves of the wall together. He reached for the upper screw, but was short by a foot. He tugged one bale of pot over and stood on it, easily reaching the upper screw. The sides of the wall then slipped out and revealed another two feet of the container.

Tucked to one side was the package he had been told to retrieve. It was completely covered in a wooden crate. He nudged it and nodded. They had told him a little more than six hundred pounds.

He shoved back the bale of pot and then walked out to his pickup truck parked at the entrance to the restricted area. He pulled the old open-bed Ford next to the container and then lowered the tailgate. He had an appliance handcart and slipped it out. He had to do some fancy negotiating to slip the cart between the bales of pot, but found that with the crate on it to steady the cart, it was easy to pull out. He left the crate strapped to the cart and was able to tip it into the bed of his truck. The crate was about four feet long and two feet wide. He had no clue what could be in there that might start a revolution, but he was going to get it to the kid from Omaha and get it to him now.

He went back to the container and tried to reset the false wall, but found that he had popped the bracket holding one side out of the container wall. He just lugged out the two pieces of sheet metal and stuck them in the truck as well.

He looked inside again. He saw a clipboard with some documentation hanging inside the container. It wasn't in English, so he just left it on the wall.

As he left, he reset the lock and didn't even think about leaving the keyhole facing out like every shipper knew to do. He just did it out of habit.