Then Gary laid him out with a bit of karate of his own.
The young man was probably better at hand-to-hand combat than Gary was at this stage in his life, but it’s hard to fight when your eyes feel like two eggs frying in a hot pan.
Gary scooped up the pistols and handed one back to me just in time for us to hear the sound of running feet coming in our direction.
I aimed my gun at the moaning form on the ground.
“It’s over.”
Ricardo was in front. Our eyes locked. I held my gun steady, aimed right at the young man I took to be his son. I saw the calculations go on behind Ricardo’s eyes.
Would I shoot? If I hesitated, he could kill me. But then Gary would fire and at least one of them would die before Gary went down too.
But if I didn’t hesitate, if I carried through my threat…
Ricardo cursed in Spanish and tossed his gun to the ground. The others, one by one, slowly did the same.
“Thank you,” I said after taking a deep breath. “I didn’t want to do that.”
“Would you have?” Ricardo asked, helping his son up.
I didn’t reply. I wasn’t sure myself.
We herded the Panamanians back to the cars, keeping well behind them and covering them with our guns. The old man stood by the car, a weary look on his face. He was unarmed. I noticed a livid old scar across his neck.
And suddenly it all became clear.
“Police Commander Carlos Pretto, I presume?”
He nodded. In a gravelly voice he said, “No one has called me that in many, many years.”
“I thought you died.”
“So did Noriega. They decided not to kill me by firing squad. They said that was too honorable for a traitor, so they cut my throat and dumped me in a field. Like an animal. Like a dog. Luckily a farmer found me and nursed me back to health.”
I glanced at Gary. He looked just as surprised as I was.
The young man I pepper sprayed was still moaning. I allowed Ricardo to fetch some water from the four-by-four to rinse his eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell the CIA? You could have gotten a visa,” Gary said.
Carlos Pretto spat. “Spend five years in Mexico living like a peasant, hoping to finally come to the country that cheated my family? No. I got a new identity, a Panamanian one, and then I went hunting for all the things Noriega stole from us. I have found some, and a few days ago I came here on a tourist visa and found another.”
“Why did you have him killed? Sir Edmund was an innocent man!”
“No one who buys stolen property is an innocent man.”
“He didn’t know it was stolen.”
“Yes, he did. We told him. He made his excuses, talking about the bill of sale my father made to General Noriega, all this nonsense. He knew it was all a lie, but he saw a pretty stone and he wanted it.”
“That doesn’t forgive murder.”
His eyes glinted. “I was a forgiving man once. I am no longer.”
“But why put him in SerMart? And why dump him on me?”
“He was a proud man. He deserved to be dumped in the place he hated. As for you, I wanted to send a message. It was only the first part of the message.”
“And the rest?” I asked.
“The rest is here,” Gary said. He had retrieved the tin box they had been looking at before the gunfight. Gary leafed through the papers and photos within.
“The Volcano Stone of Panama for one. But also documents, photos, signed affidavits. All the proof you need to show the CIA tried a third coup attempt,” Gary looked over at our captives, “and then let down the ones who risked their lives for us.”
“What were you going to do with this?” I asked.
“Sell it to the press. Shame the United States into doing the right thing for us. But you caught us, and now I am going to prison for murder.”
“You?” Gary said. “You don’t have the strength to drive a knife through someone’s head. You must be what? Eighty?”
“I did it, and I will tell the court so.”
I looked carefully around at the younger men, all with their hands up. All except for the youngest member of the Pretto clan, who was still having his eyes washed out with water. Was that a faint bruise I saw on his cheek?
I looked back at Carlos Pretto, who glanced nervously from his grandson to me.
Our eyes locked.
“I have died once for my country and my family. Let me do so again.”
I nodded.
Gary held up the papers. “I cannot let these be seen.”
“Go ahead and take them,” the old police chief said in his raspy voice. “It does not matter. We have copies in the hands of a trusted friend you will never find. Copies are not as convincing as originals, that is true, but they will still embarrass the United States.”
“Embarrassing us won’t help you,” I said. “What if Gary and I lean on the CIA to help you recover your property, or at least pay compensation? I cannot let a murder charge pass, but the rest of you I could get off without having to go to jail. As for you, Commander Pretto, I could at least keep you from facing the death penalty.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “I am eighty-two years old and have lung cancer. Death and I have been companions for some time now. Do what you can for my family, and I will not release the documents.”
“We need some reassurances,” Gary said.
Carlos Pretto looked at him. “You have my word of honor.”
I nodded. “That’s good enough.”
“Hold it right there!”
We all turned. Arnold Grimal emerged from the woods, a pair of policemen flanking him. All had guns drawn.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded.
Gary flashed a badge. “That’s classified.”
Grimal turned the color of a tomato. “Classified? You careen through town,
