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Panama
City, Panama
Tuesday,
May 16
2:00
PM EDT
"You have a spook
working inside the embassy," Jim Harper said. "He's a big guy
and yesterday he was wearing a white Panama style suit. Who is he?"
An Embassy, even a major
one like Moscow or Beijing, is fundamentally a small community. The
buildings are generally to small except for the signal intelligence
gnomes buried three subbasements below ground level. In Charlie
McGiffert's line of work, he needed to have a line on everyone coming
into the Embassy. The Marine detachment provided perimeter and physical
security; Charlie worked Intelligence angles. It was another one of his
duties in an over-stressed and under-staffed office.
"Why would you want
to know about him?" whispered Charlie. Nothing good could come from
this conversation. As far as Charlie was concerned, Damon Layne was a
creature belonging on the bottom side of a rock.
"Unfinished
business," came the wintry voice behind him.
Harper had zeroed in on
possibly the only person Charlie had no clue about. Damon Layne seemed
to be an enigma. "Damon Layne is the one you're asking about."
Charlie stole a glance back at Harper's face. There was no sense of
recognition or satisfaction.
"What does he
do?"
"I don't know,"
admitted Charlie. "He has his own portfolio."
"You're the FBI and
you don't know," echoed Harper matter-of-factly.
"Yeah."
It made a certain kind of
sense in the calculus of Harper's nether world.
"You know I can't
make any deals with you. If I find you, I'll have to arrest you,"
explained Charlie.
The blue gray eyes seemed
to change into black pools. "Figured it would be something like
that, my war ain't with you or your people."
"I didn't know we
were at war."
"I wouldn't be here,
if we were at peace," replied Harper as he clambered of of the car
and disappeared into the evening crowd.
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