Wild Storm

CHAPTER 22

PANAMA CITY, Panama

Carlos Villante pulled his Cadillac into the parking garage underneath the skyscraper that contained the offices of the Autoridad del Canal de Panama. He found his reserved spot — marked with C. VILLANTE, DEPUTY DIRECTOR — and parked there. Using his electric fob, he locked the car as he walked away, allowing himself one final smirk before entering the elevators.

He was ready for another day of smuggling bicycles.

While he considered himself, first and foremost, an employee of the United States government — that was certainly where his largest paycheck came from — the day-to-day reality of his existence was that he really did have to maintain the veneer of being a high-level bureaucrat within the canal authority.

It was no small chore. It was, in actuality, quite a bit of work: endless meetings, site visits, contracts to pore over, details to check. And whereas he didn’t want to do his job so well that someone decided to make him the authority director, he did have to do it well enough not to get fired.

On this morning, that meant arriving an hour earlier for a meeting with his boss, Nico Serrano, the authority director, who had sent him a text message the night before, saying they needed to conference first thing.

I thought you were still in Washington, Villante had texted back.

Just landed.

Do you need me to prepare anything for this meeting? Villante wrote, ever the dutiful bureaucrat.

No. But be ready to hear some bad news, Serrano had replied.

So it was Villante wiped off whatever smile had been on his face as he rode up the elevator with all the other men and women who were girding themselves for another day of earnest paper pushing.

He set his briefcase down in his office, fixed himself a cup of coffee, and then walked by the corner office. Serrano was already there.

Villante tapped on the frame of the open door. “Would you like to meet now?” he asked.

Serrano looked up from his computer screen. There were dark smudges under his eyes. The lines on his face seemed deeper than the last time Villante had seen him, even though that had been only a week earlier.

“Yes, yes, come in,” Serrano replied, rubbing his eyes.

“Would you like me to get you some coffee first? You look like you could use it.”

“Thank you, but I’ve already had three cups. Sit down, please.”

As Villante complied, Serrano asked, “How are things?”

Villante had no reason to lie. “Not very good. I went out to visit Parades yesterday,” he said, referencing the name of one of his contractors, a man Serrano knew well. “Parades says if the funding for the expansion project doesn’t resume, he is going to have to default on his largest loan. It will probably mean bankruptcy.”

Serrano bowed his head and squeezed his forehead, like this news had exacerbated an existing headache. Men like Parades had led the charge of Panamanian prosperity that had transformed their country. It was no exaggeration to say that if men like Parades were in trouble, it boded ill for the nation.

“I assume he is not alone?” Serrano asked.

“I’m afraid not. Grupa de 2000, Eusebio Rivera’s outfit, is struggling, too. Most of the companies I’m dealing with are teetering on the brink right now, Nico. They’re all in the same situation. They are relying on us to get the funding flowing again. I’m sorry, I’m telling you things you already know.”

“Yes,” he said. “But I…I keep hoping that somehow it’s not the case.”

“I thought our situation was about to improve with the Americans.”

“So did I,” Serrano said. “But I spoke with Congressman Jared Stack personally while I was in Washington. I was, of course, full of condolences about the death of his predecessor, Congressman Vaughn. And I expressed outrage over the attacks. I wanted to make it very clear there is no joy in Panama over the senselessness of this act of terrorism.”

“Of course.”

“But then the conversation moved along, and I reminded him of the importance of the canal to U.S. commerce. I brought out all the reports we prepared about how the widening of the canal would be a financial boon for everyone. I reminded him of the difficulties we are having here with financing. And do you know what he said?”

Serrano shook his head and continued. “He said that he and Congressman Vaughn were very close friends, and that while they didn’t always see eye to eye, it would dishonor Vaughn’s memory to fund the canal expansion when Vaughn had been such a staunch opponent of it.”

“But that’s…that’s absurd!” Villante burst, his outrage real even if his identity wasn’t. “The Americans are cutting off their noses to spite their faces.”

“I had thought good sense would prevail now that Vaughn was gone. We all did. But, apparently, that is not the case. Good sense seems to be in very short supply in that town.”

Villante balled his fists, then unclenched them. Again, it was not an act. He was genuinely upset by the stupidity of his government and wished he could express his anger to someone who might be able to do something about it. If there even was such person.

“So what can I do?” Villante asked.

“This is going to get out. It always does. And when it does, there is going to be great despair here. Please just tell Parades and Rivera to hang on and not lose hope. If companies like theirs start filing for bankruptcy, it will be a tremendous disruption to our economy. You have to tell them we will get the money flowing again. It’s just going to take a little longer.”

“Do you have a plan, Nico?”

“I do.”

“What is it?”

“It’s best I not say. All you need to know is we are not yet out of options. I have another card to play.”

“Okay, my friend,” Villante said. “I will deliver your message of hope.”

Villante stood and excused himself from Serrano’s office. As he walked back to his own, he was already thinking of whether he should report this to Jones at Langley. As a deeply embedded asset, one who had invested years in establishing the most credible cover imaginable, Villante often heard bits of information that he was unsure of how to handle. He was constantly weighing the value of the information against the risk that sharing it might inadvertently expose him.

In this case, he decided he didn’t have anything definitive enough to report. He would root around a little more, keep his ears open, and see how things played out.