Tom Clancy Support and Defend

30

The Beechcraft King Air landed in Bocas del Toro International Airport just after nine a.m., and it took all Ethan’s self-control to keep from pushing past the others to get out of the tight confines of the little cabin and into the open air. Once out onto the hot and humid tarmac, however, he realized he had been more comfortable inside the plane’s climatecontrolled cabin.

The airstrip was located on the tiny island of Colón, and Ethan had seen on the flight in that the island was part of an archipelago, surrounded on all sides by a multitude of larger islands and cays. All of them were flat and overgrown with tropical vegetation, but Colón airport was surrounded by the ramshackle Bocas Town, with houses and businesses standing just fifty feet on either side of the runway past overgrown grasses and brush that ran along the airport property’s fence line. Palm trees blew in the afternoon heat, and the smell of gasoline and jungle filled the American’s nostrils.

The Beechcraft was met on the already hot tarmac by a twelve-passenger van crewed by a pair of big, severe-faced Latin men Ethan assumed were more Venezuelan intelligence agents. The small amount of luggage from the King Air was transferred to the van, and everyone boarded for the ten-minute drive through dirty and congested Third World streets to the docks.

Except for Arturo. He climbed back aboard the aircraft, intending to continue on to Caracas to help organize the roundup of American spies.

As the van motored through the little town, it was explained to the three non-Venezuelans in the van — Ross, Bertoli, and Mohammed — that the safe house was on the nearby larger but more remote island of Bastimentos. They passed a few police cars and even a truck full of soldiers from the Panamanian Public Forces. This unnerved Ethan, but he recognized he could do little more but sit patiently and hope the Venezuelans knew what the hell they were doing, so he just continued looking out the window.

At the docks he saw all manner of boats doing a steady business moving people and products between the neighboring islands and cays, but his sizable entourage walked past the ferryboats and water taxis and instead boarded two large speedboats. Almost immediately they headed off to the southeast over choppy water. They passed just south of Carenero Cay, and then turned to bisect a transportation lane full of ferry and cargo traffic, and then they motored into the calmer waters between Solarte Island and Bastimentos Island.

At first Ethan thought Bastimentos looked completely uninhabited, but as they neared the shore and trolled along it to the south, every few hundred yards he could pick out the metal roof of a building sticking up from the thick jungle.

Within minutes the two boats turned into an inlet and began cruising very slowly. On their left was thick mangrove, but on their right yellow sandy beach came out of the water and continued into thick palms. As they rounded a bend in the inlet, Ethan expected to see a dilapidated tin shack of some sort, but instead a large white colonial home appeared surrounded by a huge manicured lawn, some twenty-five yards back from the shoreline. The two-story building had a wraparound veranda on the second floor, and Ethan saw several men standing there, looking down at the approaching boats.

Around the main building the neat green lawn ran all the way to the sandy water’s edge and the jungle on either side of it.

A bald-headed man with a bushy mustache and a tropic weight suit stood on the dock, waiting for the boats. His smile was wide and inviting, but on either side of him younger, tougher-looking men stood with side arms on their hips.

In English he said, “My friends! Welcome.”

Ethan climbed out of the boat ahead of Bertoli and Mohammed, and he shook the bald-headed man’s hand.

“My name is Leopoldo. Please, call me Leo.”

“Ethan Ross.”

“Bienvenido a Panamá, Señor Ross.” He shook hands with the other two visitors, and the four of them began walking up the steps to the main house.

“What is this place?” Ross asked.

Leo grinned proudly. “We think of it as a home away from home. Originally this was the residence of a French businessman in the fruit industry, about a hundred years ago. Then for many years it was a luxury hotel. A friend of the Venezuelan government bought it several years back, and he loans it to us when we need it.” Leo was obviously proud of this place. “All the comforts of home. Satellite TV and phones, good Internet, we even have our own chef.” He patted Ethan on his back as if they were old friends. “You all will be very well taken care of, and I am personally at your service.”

Mohammed interrupted, but softly and apologetically, “Excuse me, sir. What can you tell us about the security of this location?”

Leo opened his jacket, revealing an MP5 machine pistol. “Don’t worry, my friends. Ten men are dedicated to security here at the compound. Five more of us are also armed and trained. Panamanian police have a gunboat that patrols around here, and they watch out for us as well.”

Mohammed pressed Leo on the plan. “What if we are somehow discovered by the Americans? How do we get out of here?”

“The boats, of course. Plus there are a couple of Chevys in the driveway, always ready for escape. This island is over fifty square kilometers in size, with dirt roads in the jungle. And there are docks on all sides with more boats. There are many ways to get away from here if we need to do so, but nobody can sneak up on us without us knowing about it.”

“Thank you,” said Mohammed.

Ethan found it surprising that the young Lebanese man had the nerve to question the Venezuelans’ operation, but Leo didn’t seem offended in the least.

The colonial house was large, with a massive two-story great room and several common areas on the ground floor, and eight bedrooms on the second floor. Several outbuildings sat around a dirty swimming pool and a cracked tennis court and provided more shelter for the guard force of the safe house.

Ethan was given a room in the northeastern corner of the second floor, and an armed but professional looking silver haired security man was posted outside.

There was no access to the wraparound veranda from Ethan’s room, but through the window he saw monkeys climbing in the trees outside.

He felt protected, more or less, but he was no fool. Despite the assurances of the Venezuelans, he knew if the Americans or the Israelis came for him here, his only chance would be to run for his life.