Burn Zone

18

ALEX DUARTE SAT WITH THE OTHER INVESTIGATORS AROUND A conference table at the Port of New Orleans and said, "I don't know what else we can do. The pot is in evidence. Gastlin is dead. I'd say the case is closed."

Félix, who continued to glare at Lina every time she touched Staub's arm or spoke to him, said, "We got the pot, that's something. But we can't forget Gastlin."

Lina nodded. "I'm gonna stay in New Orleans a day or two longer. Lázaro knows the city a little, and we're going to look around."

Duarte remained silent, but he wanted to see if Alice could lift any prints off the container's padlock before he left. He and Félix felt like they owed that much to Byron Gastlin. If the person who'd gotten into the container knew anything about Gastlin in Panama, Duarte intended to find out, and he didn't care what it took to get the information.

Lina said, "Let's all go out tonight."

Félix looked at Duarte, who shrugged.

Staub said, "A wonderful idea."

"How about we meet at five?"

Staub said, "I'm sorry, I have the errands to run. What about seven?"

Lina smiled. "Sure."

Duarte and Félix just nodded. Duarte was distracted by how much he had relied on Alice for forensic work. The ATF had a good lab, but if he went through channels, it would take weeks to get anything back. He didn't think Lina would even believe his theory that someone entered the container. Besides, she had a different agenda, and Gastlin's death wasn't part of it. She was focused on Ortíz's contacts here in the U.S. He also doubted she would approve of what he was willing to do to find out if the two incidents were related.

Félix mumbled to him. "Let's get out of here."

The two men stood, and Lina said, "We'll meet you in the hotel lobby at seven."

Duarte said, "Can't wait." And realized that he might have been sarcastic for the first time in his life.

Lázaro Staub rented a Chevrolet Impala from the Hertz office in the lobby of the hotel. He didn't want the others to see he had a car. He left early, around three o'clock, so he could see a little of New Orleans before his appointment. The colonel drove down Robert E. Lee Boulevard and looked out over Lake Pontchartrain. The white mansions on the other side of the street looked like they had survived the last two centuries without seeing any turmoil. That was not the truth. He was an amateur historian, and several trips to New Orleans over the years had taught him the hard lessons of the region. He knew that the American Civil War had reached this far, as had the War of 1812.

He knew the story of how Andrew Jackson, one of the country's most aggressive and bloodthirsty presidents, had fought the British near here in the swampy bayous surrounding the city before ascending to the nation's highest office. The arrogant Old Hickory didn't even realize the War of 1812 had been over for almost two weeks when he drove back the British.

He looked at the mansions and wondered how they would've fared against Stealth bombers.

Staub had also read about the floods after hurricane Katrina and laughed at the government response. When it was time to invade a small country like Panama, they could muster overwhelming strength, but when their own citizens were in need, the country moved like a snail.

He drove slowly through some of the streets near the French Quarter and past Tulane University. Finally he crossed the I-10 bridge and could see a U-Haul truck already parked near the base of the bridge. They were both an hour early. He was glad that this man took the matter so seriously.

Because of his status in the country as a visiting Panamanian official, he was not supposed to possess weapons. One of his assistants had circumvented this prohibition by bringing in a Beretta for him on the ship. Now he hid the automatic pistol under his loose shirt.

As he pulled the small white Chevy next to the truck, he was surprised at how large William "Ike" Floyd was. His broad shoulders and short legs made him look more simian than most, but at five-nine he was still impressive. Staub would hate to find himself engaged in an unarmed fight with him.

He stood from the car to his full six-feet-one and nodded as Floyd approached him.

"Mr. Ortíz?" said the man.

"Yes, William, I am Mr. Ortíz. It is an honor to finally meet you."

Pelly scowled at the small cook who had lingered at his private cabin after delivering a sandwich. The man scurried away like one of the many rats on the ship. He knew his appearance, when he didn't shave enough, terrified the superstitious sailors. That was their problem. He was no happier that Colonel Staub had sent him with this load than the sailors were that he was aboard.

He ate and then cleaned up in his small cabin. After shaving and changing into a clean white button-down shirt, he decided he'd see a little of New Orleans. He didn't need anyone's permission to leave.

Using a fake identification card in the name of Juan Rodríguez, with an immigration visa that listed him as a "deck worker," he walked right through security at the port and into the streets of New Orleans.

He took a cab to Jackson Square and wandered around the famous plaza. He smiled at the silly street performers, like the man who juggled bowling balls or the woman who swallowed swords, but kept his money to himself. He resisted the subtle nods of women he knew were there for business and not for meeting the man of their dreams.

He looked around at the nonstop festival that seemed to go on in New Orleans and had to admit he didn't mind this part of his boss's crazy plan.

As he reached a corner of the square with the Jax Brewery to one side, Pelly slowed and noticed a man leaning against the fence that separated the cement from the grassy inner square. The man stared straight ahead with hazy blue eyes. He wore several different shirts over one another and filthy cutoff blue jeans. But it was his face that Pelly stopped to study. While everyone else passed by without a glance or at least without trying to stare at the destitute man, Pelly saw the root of what might have caused this man's problems: He had an uncorrected cleft palette like none Pelly had ever seen. It virtually separated his face. He had a normal lower lip, but his upper disappeared up his face, causing his nose to be disfigured as well.

Pelly silently reached in his pocket, pulled out his wad of cash and, without counting it, dropped the entire bundle into the man's pouch around his neck.

The man's eyes flickered at Pelly's face and seemed to recognize someone who knew what physical appearance could mean.

Pelly patted the man on the shoulder and continued his walk through the square. He saved his energy because he knew that now that he had given away his money, it was a long walk back to the port.

"Call me Ike; everyone does."

"Fine, Ike. You have our package inside?"

"I do."

"Excellent. You will have to take it to Houston from here. I'll contact someone I know there who will get it ready for you."

"Great." His eyes darted back and forth over the deserted rest area parking lot.

"Is something wrong, Ike?"

"Well, there is one small complication."

"What's that?"

"I have to silence a witness."

"Here, in New Orleans?"

"Well, actually here, in this parking lot."

"I don't understand."

"There is a girl who saw me on the e-mail, and I'm afraid she knows too much. I got her locked in with the package."

"You mean she's still alive?"

Ike nodded as he looked down at the ground.

Staub didn't like the sound of this. Not only was it messy, but he was concerned Ike hadn't had the guts to kill her wherever they'd been before this.

"Let's talk to her, then. I need to see the package anyway."

Ike slowly slipped the key in the lock and then slid the door in one motion straight up. Before the door was all the way up, a young, well-built blond woman sprang from the truck, almost landing in Staub's arms. He didn't hesitate to wrap one arm around her chin and one around the back of her neck and twist with all his strength. It was a technique he had learned in the defense force, but he had practiced it on several prostitutes and informants.

The woman's head snapped to one side, and she went limp in his hands. Her legs and arms hung loose, and her eyes remained open and staring at Ike.

"Damn" was all Ike said.

"Any other problems I should know about now?"