Guardian of Lies

“Because the government probably has a history on Nitikin. And you can bet it’s classified. They want to keep it under wraps, find him, find whatever it is he has, and make it all disappear.”

“Right,” says Herman. “That way people never find out how close they came to gettin’ their asses flamed.”

“And you’re thinking that if I call Rhytag and tell him what it is we think we know, he’s only going to be bored. Because all he wants to know is where it is.”

“That’s my guess. And when he finds out you don’t know where it is, he’s gonna arrest your ass and turn you over to Templeton. And if you try and tell a jury about any of this, the Dwarf’s gonna tell the judge it’s a fairy tale, that without hard evidence you can’t be allowed to even mention it. And he’s gonna be right, because that’s the way the screwed-up rules of evidence work.” This is coming out of Herman’s mouth, but he has been in court enough times to know that this is how the system works.

“Still, I can’t ask you to get involved in this,” I tell him.

“I shoulda’ left you in the smokehouse yesterday,” says Herman. “I’m already involved. Hear me out. You try to call Rhytag until we know more, I’ll beat you to death with the phone.”

“Right now I’m charged with only two counts of murder. We get in the way and a mushroom cloud goes up and they could end up adding a few more counts.”

“Yeah, but right now we got nothing,” says Herman. “Think about this. If the feds bag Nitikin, Alim, and his followers, say they catch ’em with the goods, unless we’re standing right there to witness it all, we still have nothing. They’ll stamp ‘classified’ on the bomb and throw the national security blanket over everything they find. They’ll cart it all up in boxes and bury it in some vault.

“That means if you and Katia end up getting strapped to gurneys for a ride to the death house, I wouldn’t be holdin’ my breath waiting for somebody in the federal government to step up and raise his hand just ’cause they got a Dumpster full of evidence showing somebody else did it. As far as the government’s concerned, their only downside is one less sheep to shear come tax time. Katia’s a foreign national. The prisons are full of people who didn’t do the crimes. Every time they do a new DNA test, they empty another cell block. It’s the problem we got, the justice system has absolutely nothin’ to do with justice.”

Herman takes a deep breath.

“Don’t sugarcoat it,” I say. “Tell me how you really feel.”

“Okay, I shot my wad.” He laughs.

“I thought African Americans were supposed to like government?”

“That’s why you never wanna get hooked on stereotypes,” he says. “We better get back inside.”

“Who is this Rhytag?” As soon as we sit down again, Maricela wants to know.

“Later,” says Herman.

So far we have avoided telling her anything about the FBI or the fact that I am charged as a codefendant in Pike’s murder. Herman and I haven’t talked about this, but we seem to have come to a mutual understanding. Neither of us can be sure whether her cooperation will continue once she realizes I’ve been charged along with her daughter.

“Problem is, we’re missing the same piece to the puzzle he is, the location, where it is. So where do we go from here?”

“It sounds to me like we’re going to Panama,” says Herman.

“I wouldn’t if I were you.” Goudaz comes in behind us holding a notepad in one hand, twirling a pen in the other. He’s picked up only the last bit of the conversation.

It turns out his friend at the docks at Puntarenas is a storehouse of information.

“He has a line on containerized shipping from all over the world,” says Goudaz. “According to him, any container cargo coming out of that area, southwest Colombia on the Pacific side, would ship from a place called Tumaco. His computer shows only one vessel leaving Tumaco bound for Balboa within the next four days, a ship called the Mariah. It left Tumaco this morning and is scheduled to make port in Balboa day after tomorrow.”

“Then that’s it,” says Herman. “That’s gotta be it.”

“There’s one problem,” says the mayor. “The Mariah left Tumaco empty. No cargo. It’s supposed to be taking on cargo in Balboa. It’s not showing any ports of call between Tumaco and Balboa. But here’s the interesting part. The records at the other end in Balboa show preliminary arrangements for transshipment of one cargo container from the Mariah to another vessel. So far, the other vessel is unidentified.”

Maricela is shaking her head, a perplexed look on her face. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re wondering how the Mariah could leave Tumaco empty and arrive in Panama with a container?” says Goudaz.

“Yes.”

“Colombian magic,” he says. “According to the man in Puntarenas, anything is possible in Colombia. A mystery container gets put on at sea, or they make an uncharted stop in some cove along the coast. He tells me it’s also possible the Mariah may never show up in Balboa at all.”

“How is that?” I say.

“He says smugglers often fog the shipping records. They’ll show one destination and sail to another, create false bills of lading for cargo. Sometimes they’ll even change the name of the ship en route. They identify a registered container ship, same size as the one they’re sailing. The other ship could be in dry dock somewhere or in another port halfway around the world. They borrow the ship’s name for a few days. If they plan ahead and create a paper trail and a new destination for the new ship, nobody is going to ask any questions when it arrives on time. And if the paperwork shows the port of origin as a place that’s not known for smuggling, officials at the port of destination probably won’t check the cargo that closely. Customs will collect any duty, and before you know it the container is on the back of a truck headed someplace else.”

“So what you’re tellin’ us,” says Herman, “is we don’t know where Nitikin is or the container?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say somewhere out on the big blue. That’s the bad news,” says Goudaz. “The good news is, we may know more by tomorrow. If by then the computer shows the name of the other ship, the one that’s supposed to receive the container, and the Mariah actually shows up at Balboa the next day, then the transfer is likely to take place, in which case we should get a final destination.”

“What do we do in the meantime?” says Herman.

“I’d sit tight, have another beer if I were you,” says Goudaz.

“A man after my own heart.” Herman laughs and gets up out of the chair, the whole hulking six foot four of him. He puts his arm around Goudaz’s shoulder, dwarfing the man.

“Just one more thing. I hate to even ask, but we don’t know who else to turn to. And you’re such a helpful guy.” This is Herman in full bullshit mode.

Goudaz laughs. “What do you want?”

“Paul and I are afraid the prosecutor in Katia’s case may have attached a couple of investigators to us when we traveled down here. If we’re going to find information we can use at trial, we need to lose them. We’re not going to be able to do that traveling under our own passports. I’m betting you might know someone in town who could produce a couple of good passports on short notice.”

“U.S. or foreign?” Goudaz doesn’t even miss a beat.

“Too many holograms and threads running through the paper on U.S.,” says Herman. “Let’s say Canadian.”

“When do you need them?”

“Yesterday,” says Herman.

“It’s gonna cost you.”

Herman looks my way for approval.

“Sounds like a business expense to me.”