with the Spanish-language version of the Miami Herald.
A half hour later, it was over. The president closed a leather organizer and passed it back over his shoulder to his traveling secretary. Then he stood quickly-“Thank you for your attention”-and departed with the same abruptness.
The entire room exhaled with relief and began filing out with thoughts of liquid lunch.
President Guzman stood in the lobby with his mobile staff, running down afternoon appointments. He looked up. “Oh, Felipe? Could I have a word? In private.”
Deer in headlights. “Me?”
Felipe Chavez. Consulate director and head attache. Rumored to be heir apparent for the Washington ambassadorship. Or first in line for the chopping block over… well, anything that needed a scapegoat. Part of the job description.
Perspiration trickled into Felipe’s starched collar as the pair arrived back in the conference room. Guzman closed the door. Then placed a hand on Felipe’s shoulder.
Here it comes, thought the diplomat. Fired. Or worse, reassignment to Canada… The Canadians! Christ! The collar became soaked.
“You okay?” asked Guzman. “You’re sweating like a pig.”
“Just ate something hot.”
“Good, because we’ve got a lot of work to do.” Guzman’s arm went all the way across Felipe’s shoulders as he began walking the attache in circles around the conference table. “I need someone like you close to me.”
“You do?”
“Ever thought about a cabinet post? And not one of the little ones that runs the bus system.”
Air sucked out of Felipe. The cabinet? That was bigger than an ambassadorship.
“Don’t answer now,” said Guzman. “Because that’s in the future. I’ve got the rebels and traffickers to worry about, not to mention the generals. Right now I need someone I can trust who sees five moves ahead.”
Chavez thinking: He can’t possibly be talking about me.
“I’m talking about you.” Guzman squeezed his shoulder. “You’re why I’m standing here alive today. Razor- sharp instincts beefing up security.”
“Security?”
“That crack field operative you sent as backup in case my idiot bodyguards weren’t up to task, which they weren’t. But you already knew that. You’re going places.” He pointed at the ceiling. “The top. But don’t be looking at my office until I’m ready to retire.”
“I wouldn’t!”
“That was a joke,” said Guzman. “So where’d you find this new agent.”
Felipe blinked hard a couple times. “You mean Escobar?”
“Who’s Escobar?”
Scooter Escobar, the young guy from the mail room, who was the spy in the consulate.
“I’m talking about Serge,” said the president. “On loan to us from the CIA. Tell me-and this is very important-did they approach you first, or the other way around? Because if they came to us, especially in light of last night, it means they know more about my enemies than I do… So tell me, who approached you?”
“I…”
“Well?”
“I–I-I…”
“You can’t answer a simple question like that?” He turned and pointed aggressively in Felipe’s face. “This is exactly the sort of thing I’m talking about!”
Felipe lost color.
Guzman slapped him sharply on the back. “Always putting your president first. You know I can’t be linked to the CIA or my opposition would rake me over the coals for being a Yankee stooge. You’re willing to take the fall for me, and I’ll never forget it. So before I forget, here’s what I need concerning Serge…”
Chapter Twelve
Scooter Escobar
A sidewalk bistro in downtown Miami.
“You have to help me find out more about Serge.”
“Why?”
“Because President Guzman asked the consulate director, and he asked me,” said Scooter. “And because you’re the only person I know who’s actually met him. I think he’s after my job.”
“But your uncle’s one of the generals. Your job’s safer than anyone’s.”
“I don’t know. He was pretty sore about the RPG explosion.” Scooter tossed back another shot of tequila. “I think those arms deals he’s running are pretty important.”
“What arms deals?”
“Forget about it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Then find out about Serge yourself,” said the woman. “You’re supposed to be the spy in the consulate.”
That was the problem.
Always had been, even back in the old country…
… The top of the mountain sat in a cloud. A misty rain weighed down tree branches with dripping water. The jungle was thick, but the path clear.
An army detail hiked single file up the rocky trail in Costa Gorda. They weren’t on guard. Didn’t need to be.
Rustling in the brush off the sides of the trail. Twigs snapped. A louder sound. “Ow! My ankle.” “Shhh! They’ll hear you. They’re right there on the trail.”
The platoon commander at the front of the line smiled and kept marching. “Gee, I wonder where those dangerous rebels could possibly be hiding.”
The soldier behind him tapped the commander on the shoulder. “Sir, they’re right in those bushes. I can see their eyes.”
“Pipe down,” said the commander. “Just stay near me like we’re joined at the hip. Anything happens to you and I’ll lose this cushy job.”
“But aren’t we supposed to crush the rebels?”
“Shut up, Scooter.”
Because if they did, they’d all lose their cushy jobs.
The rebels were down to a couple dozen. Low on food, out of ammo. They stopped reading poetry and had smoked so much dope that they’d forgotten where they put their guns.
It was the plum assignment. The entire platoon knew their rebel “search-and-destroy” missions were a joke and the lightest duty in their tiny army. Just stroll through the hills each day and head back to camp at night for steaks and beer. Nothing could mess it up as long as nothing happened to the rebels.
No rebels, no more missions. The platoon became the insurgents’ fiercest protectors. Every last soldier was thrilled with the arrangement.
Except the one marching behind the commander.
“I hate all this hiking around.”
“Quit complaining!” snapped the leader. “And don’t do something stupid to hurt yourself.”
It was the one burden the commander had to shoulder to keep his prized assignment.
The safekeeping of Scooter Escobar.
Escobar’s father had been a territorial police chief until his untimely death involving a steep road, chickens, and Jeeps. Scooter was taken in as a youngster by his wealthy uncle, General Montoya Escobar, the most famous of all the generals, widely known for his vast landholdings, a consuming fascination with Baywatch, and herpes.
Scooter had always been the shame of the family, racking up school suspensions and hospital stays. The latter stemmed from his fondness for weapons. Any kind. He was obsessed and couldn’t find his way around one if
