Steve Martini - Guardian of Lies

Herman and I look at each other.

“If it’s something that would help Katia, we need to know about it,” I tell her.

When she finishes she drops her hand to her side, still clutching the paper tightly. When she turns and looks at us, there are tears running down her cheeks. “What is today?”

“Wednesday,” says Herman. “Why?”

“No, I mean the date.”

He looks at his watch. “It’s the twelfth,” he says.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “That means we still have time.”

“Time for what?” I say.

She looks at me. “My father made me promise not to tell anyone. But none of us knew what was happening then. I cannot think of anyone who would want to kill me other than Alim. And if he tried to kill me, then he probably also tried to kill Katia and killed her friend. What was his name?”

“Emerson Pike.”

“I believe if my father knew all of this, he would want me to tell you. It may be the last chance we have to talk to him. The note says he is going to try and call me.”

“When?” says Herman.

She hands him the note. “He says he is going to be in Panama. But he doesn’t say why.” Suddenly a dark expression blankets her face.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“He won’t be able to reach me.”

“Why not?”

“The only number he has for me is my cell phone. It was at the house.”

Within minutes, three of Alim’s men were overcome by motion sickness. Swaying and twisting in the dimly lit container under the flapping rotor of the huge blades, Nitikin could hear them retching in alternate waves on the other side of the wooden crate.

Alim hollered at them, but it seemed to have little effect. The men could not control themselves. The air in the metal coffin was stifling, and the constant motion in the enclosed container disoriented the inner ear even with the Dramamine.

Yakov closed his eyes, propped his elbows on his knees, and steadied his head in his hands to control himself. In less than five minutes, he was unconscious.

Alim had had enough of the weaklings who followed him. The one he shot through the head the day of the dragon’s breath had tried twice to abandon his comrades and escape from the camp. He looked at the two on the floor by the crate as they soiled themselves. He jammed a fully loaded thirty-round banana clip into the receiver of his rifle. He would have shot them on the spot except he knew he would need them, at least for a few more days.

On the other side of the crate he could see shadowed faces in the dim light, the interpreter and two brothers, who struggled to their feet. The two young men looked almost ashen, and were breathing heavily. But at least they were trying. Alim grabbed one of the other rifles from the duffel, jammed a clip into the receiver, then tossed it to one of them. He grabbed one more weapon and a clip, and then glanced down at the Russian who by now had toppled over and was laid out flat on the floor. Alim kicked him with one foot to make sure he was out before stepping away from the unguarded weapons still in the duffel bag. He loaded the other rifle and handed the Kalashnikov to the other brother. He told them to sit and relax and to keep an eye on the Russian.

It would be a long ride. Alim knew that the extra fuel tanks on the Skycrane would extend the usual three-hundred-mile range of the helicopter out to nearly two thousand miles, almost all of it over the ocean. It would take them ten hours to rendezvous, and then from there just under four days to their destination. Before anyone knew what was happening, they would be there.

Afundi tapped the interpreter on the shoulder and the two men slipped between the wooden crate and the wall to where Nitikin was lying on the floor.

The interpreter lifted the Russian’s eyelids, first one and then the other. He checked the pupils in both eyes with the flashlight and checked Nitikin’s pulse.

“He’s okay,” said the interpreter.

The last thing they wanted was an overdose. The cartel’s doctor in Tijuana was very precise regarding the amount to use. They wanted to know the weight of the victim, the age, and whether the pills would be administered with alcohol.

The tablets were known in some circles as “Mexican Valium.” In the U.S. it fell under the rubric of one of the more popular date-rape drugs. In the right amount, it would knock the victim out for hours. Properly managed and administered it could keep them in a haze for days. And when they finally woke up, they would remember nothing.

This evening Maricela, Herman, and I go over Nitikin’s note line by line looking for any information we might glean. She had promised her father that she would maintain the note in confidence. But because Katia is now in trouble, she is certain that her father would want her to do everything in her power to help.

Goudaz is in the other room working at his computer with the door closed. We talk in hushed tones as we sit at the dining table.

“He doesn’t mention a ship by name,” says Herman. “But somehow he knows that he is going to be at the Port of Balboa in Panama in two days. He doesn’t give us a certain time, but he says he’s gonna call.”

Most of the message is personal. For Maricela this is painful. All indications are that Nitikin’s phone call from Panama is intended as a final good-bye. While he doesn’t say it in so many words, the message has an ominous tone. Reading the note carefully conveys the definite sense that whatever is happening, the Russian does not expect to survive.

“Why would he be working with these people?” she says. “He detested Alim. I could tell.”

“Maybe he has no choice,” I tell her.

“What I don’t get is this part right here,” says Herman. “Who is the contender?” He points to the word in Spanish on the note. The Russian’s handwriting is a scrawl. “He says, ‘The contender is ready.’ Do you know what that means?” He looks at Maricela.

She shakes her head.

“How is the word used in Spanish?” I ask. “What is a ‘contender’? Is it an enemy? It could be a reference to Alim.”

“No,” she says. “‘Contender’ in Spanish is spelled the same as English. It means the same thing. It’s not an enemy. It’s like a competitor.” She squints and looks more closely at the note. “Ah. The word he uses is contenedor . How do you say?” She looks around as if her eyes are scanning the floor and the walls for the English translation, and then says, “Container. He is saying that the container is ready.”

“What kind of container?” says Herman.

“If he’s going by ship to Panama, it could be a cargo container,” I say.

“That would make sense,” says Herman. “When you were down there with your father, did you see any cargo containers? You know, a large metal box, about the size of a small truck trailer.”

She shakes her head. “My father would not permit me to move around the camp. He didn’t want me to see what was happening.”

“Assuming that’s what it is, then all we need to know is what’s in the container,” I say.

“That seems to be the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.” The voice comes from behind me. When I turn in the chair, the mayor is standing in the hallway holding some papers in one hand and a pen in the other. He seems to have been listening for some time.

“I couldn’t help but overhear. I know that the Port at Balboa, in Panama, is a major transshipment point. There is a large international container facility there. The reason I know this is one of my sidelines. I install electronic sound systems in small boutique hotels and my supplier runs the stuff across the border around customs for me from the port in Panama. I don’t know if you remember, but a few years ago there was a big flap because the Chinese government was in negotiations with Panama to purchase the container terminal. It became a very touchy subject because of the canal.”