Hunter's Moon (26 page)

I said, “Only you, me, and Tomlinson knew about that stop.”

“Is it possible one of the fishermen recognized me?”

“No, they didn't get close enough. If someone had binoculars, maybe, but unlikely. No one was expecting us.”

Both men were now staring as I considered alternative explanations, both probably wondering who had tipped off the TV people, me or Tomlinson.

We were in the foreman's cabin of a working cattle ranch owned by a friend of Rivera. The room smelled of leather and horses. Rivera had ordered privacy. Except for men cutting wood in the distance, the president and I had seen no one until Rivera landed on the beach in an old Huey helicopter, blasting sand and spooking horses. With him were four men in military khaki, plus the pilot. All wore sidearms.

As I approached Rivera, we both spoke at the same time, surprised, the general saying “What are
you
doing here?” as I asked “How did you
find
me?”

It wasn't until Rivera greeted Wilson with a bear hug that I understood that the powerful, unseen force providing assistance to the president was the same man I wanted to assist me.

What had Wilson said in Key West?

Something like that.

I was sure the maxim now applied to me.

RIVERA WAS TELLING US HOW HE KNEW WALT DANSON was in Panama to search for the president.

“He arrived in the capital this afternoon, trying to charter a helicopter. He came in a craft from Managua too small, he said, for his crew and equipment.”

I was picturing the single-engine plane that had circled us, as Rivera continued, “Walt Danson went to the only
avión
company in Central America that I do not trust. Those
malvados.
But even there I have extra eyes. Loyal comrades in the flying business eager to help. As you know, I own a beautiful helicopter.”

Through the office window, I could see the Huey's tail section. Someone had used green spray paint in an attempt to cover MASAGUAN PEOPLE'S ARMY, stenciled in white. The aircraft had to be twenty years old. Like its owner, the Huey had seen better days.

As a young revolutionary, Rivera had been among the most charismatic figures in Central America. Like Fidel Castro, he was driven and ruthless. Unlike Castro, he actually was a good baseball player. Three years pitching in the Nicaraguan League elevated Rivera to icon status. I am a mediocre catcher; still play amateur baseball. The sport is what brought us together, even though we were on opposing sides in two revolutions.

But great revolutionaries are seldom great administrators and Rivera was no exception. He was an inspiring leader but an uninspired bureaucrat. Dressed in fatigues, with his beard and field cap, Rivera photographed like a film star. In a suit and tie, though, he looked like an out-of-shape vacuum cleaner salesman who smelled of cigars.

The apex of his career in mainstream politics, ironically, was when he outmaneuvered Wilson in a showdown over illegal Latin immigration and then publicly snubbed the U.S. president at the Conference of American States.

It was incredible that the two men had forged a secret friendship. Or maybe inevitable . . .

In Key West, Kal Wilson had admitted he was more comfortable as a hero than as president. He loved leading the charge but hated arranging tents afterward.

That was true of Rivera, I felt sure. I once saw him on horseback, leading his troops toward a Contra stronghold—not exactly a cavalry charge, but Rivera didn't turn and run when he started taking fire, nor did his troop.

In some ways, the two men shared threads of a similar destiny. Their political stars had blazed, then dimmed, at about the same time. Both were horseback anachronisms in a young, impatient world that was guided by committees and administered by computers.

The public will tolerate an incompetent politician. But not a failed hero. The people have so few.

 

 

 

ON THIS NOVEMBER EVENING, RIVERA WAS DRESSED AS he had as a younger man. His camo fatigues were tight around the belly, his beard was gray, but his eyes were as brown and bright as his polished boots.

He was still a showman. Probably still ruthless. You didn't have a conversation with Rivera, you listened to a speech. I noted key points as he continued to talk, explaining at length how he knew Danson was in Panama.

Danson was accompanied by a two-man crew, he told us. They had a lot of equipment, but the Cessna from Managua had been the only plane available. They needed a larger aircraft, plus they'd somehow offended the pilot.

“Television stars are vulgar,” Rivera counseled. “I have met many and can assure you of this truth. You may be aware, Mr. President, that
I
was invited to be a television star, even though I am not a vulgar man. But I refused out of loyalty to my people.”

Wilson was diplomatic. “It was the viewing public's loss, General.”

Because of his destination, Danson had been told he needed a helicopter, Rivera said—significant. He also wanted to charter a ten-passenger plane and keep it standing by because he expected “friends” to arrive soon. Cost was of no importance.

My guess: If Danson found the president, he planned to import a bigger crew. He was in contact with New York, so he was also aware that Shana Waters was only a half a day behind him . . . and behind us.

An example of the occupational death dance Wilson had mentioned.

Rivera said, “There is no doubt why they are here. One of my comrades overheard the cameraman mention your name. Not once but twice. They also overheard the place where the famous Danson wanted to go.” Rivera was growing more serious. “My friends are very good at overhearing. There is no mistake.”

The place, he said, was near the village of Muelle de San Carlos.

The general focused on me a moment. “Is that name not familiar, my old catcher friend?”

It was, but I'd been a lot of places and heard a lot of names. Then I remembered.

“John Hull owned a farm near there,” I said.

Hull, with the help of the CIA, had built a dirt airstrip sizeable enough to land cargo planes. Colonel Oliver North and associates had used the strip to transport food and arms to the Contras during the war in Nicaragua.

“It is true I had a base near John Hull's, but this camp is far to the south. You should remember this property. A secret camp that is also a farm. You do not remember the excellent baseball stadium my men constructed?”

It was a rocky infield with a couple of benches, not a stadium.

“Of course,” I said, smiling—until I saw that Rivera was not smiling. Danson was on his way to Rivera's secret camp, I realized. That's why he'd chartered a helicopter.

The president had figured it out. “Son of a bitch—your farm—that's where I sent Vue and Tomlinson. They're there right now, spending the night. What time did Danson's helicopter leave?”

“Only a few minutes before my comrade contacted me with the information. That was a little more than an hour ago, after I saw the sexy
gringa
in her pretty blouse.”

“How far is your camp from Panama City?”

“About an hour's flying time.”

Wilson began to pace. “If Danson isn't there yet, he soon will be.
Damn it.
How could he know?”

Rivera said, “It pains me that I also must ask this question. How did the famous man learn of my secret base?”

Walt Danson had the GPS coordinates, Rivera informed us. He gave the coordinates to the pilot of the helicopter he chartered.

“The exact coordinates?” I asked.

“Yes. Written on a paper.”

I turned to the president. “We're being tracked. There's a telemetry transmitter somewhere on the plane. It's the only way to explain how Waters knew where we refueled in Honduras, and why Danson—” I stopped, aware that I'd overlooked the obvious. If the plane was bugged, why wasn't Danson flying here, to the cattle ranch? Instead, he was bound for a place near the Caribbean coast.

If there was a bug, it was no longer on the plane.

Wilson was right with me. “Either Tomlinson is feeding them information, which I doubt, or there is a transmitter in the gear Vue took from the aircraft. If Vue or Tomlinson had planted the bug, they would've made sure it stayed on the aircraft. If either one of us had planted a bug, we wouldn't have allowed them to take it from the aircraft.”

Reasonable. And comforting. The president's logic, by including us all, cleared us all.

The “Angel Tracker” chip in the president's shoulder had been the size of a rice grain. It would have been easy to hide a transmitter anywhere in the plane. Perhaps in one of the containers that we'd transferred to Vue's SUV.

But
who
?

I WAS REPLAYING THE LINKAGE, STILL PUZZLED, AS Rivera said, “Thank God, no matter how it happened. My great worry was that you were at my camp, Mr. President. I have not explained why. The
avión
company is owned by
extranjeros.
It is a word we use.”

The general looked at me for help.

I said, “The charter company is owned by
foreigners
? I don't understand. Almost everything in Panama is owned by foreigners.”

“They are Muslims. But not Latin Muslims. You see? They are foreigners. Brought here by Dr. Thomas Bashir Farrish, that
cabrone.
If the famous Danson knew your location, then the foreigners would also know because it is their helicopter. They might sell the information to other journalists. Or even give it to someone who wants to kill you.”

Wilson stopped pacing as the implications crystallized. “Islamicists own that charter company?”

“The same people, Mr. President, who offered money for your head. That is why I am overjoyed you are safe. With such men, the way their brains work; killing civilians, children—they are foreign in that way, also. They are
malvados.
Capable of anything.”

Malvados.
Evildoers.

I said, “Farrish is behind all this?”

“He's a main player,” Wilson replied.

“Because of politics? Or religion?” Change the political makeup of Central America and Panama could cancel the Indonesian company's lease.

His expression severe, Wilson said, “Both. Islamicists consider me a prize. I'm a
symbol.
The cleric who offered the reward is Altif Halibi, an Indonesian. Halibi is a disciple of the cleric who converted the billionaire playboy into a billionaire Islamicist.”

Meaning Thomas Farrish.

“Halibi visits Farrish in Panama often. Either one of them—or their lieutenants—could've hired Praxcedes Lourdes, along with a dozen other psychopaths, to kill me. Halibi doesn't have a million dollars to pay as a reward. Farrish does.”

Four days with Kal Wilson and I finally understood why he wanted to be at Panama's Independence Day ceremony. All the “principals” would be there, he had said.

I was picturing it, imagining what my role would be, as Wilson told Rivera, “If Farrish's people believe I'm at your camp, they could send someone after me. We've got to warn Vue. Is there a way to contact them, General?”

Rivera appeared embarrassed. “All winter, at that place, we had a generator and a telephone line. Even the Internet and a hot tub. But then the rainy season arrived, and after so many storms—” He shrugged. They were all out of service.

I suggested, “Morse code?”

Wilson said, “I can try. Vue and I are supposed to make contact at nine and again at eleven. But maybe he's already hooked up.” As the president jogged toward the bedroom, where he'd placed his bag, he called, “Does your camp have an airstrip? Or a lake?”