Playing the Fools

By M.W. Carey

Dan Burdette decides he will not play the fool for Stracht. After double-crossing Stracht in Panama, Dan flees to Geneva only to be imprisoned. Barbara Burdette gathers their friend, assisant US Attorney Mike Buckland and the game of cat and mouse begins. Yet, as Stracht plays his game, his boss plays Stracht -- and while Dan and Mike use the system to get Dan's freedom, Barbara decides the deal is not good enough and she plays her own game with the dangerous Stracht, using the tools that God had granted her. In the end, some have played the fools, some have been the fools, and not everyone comes out alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468548204

M.W. Carey

M.W. Carey is a former attorney who lived the events portrayed in this novel. He lives quietly with his wife at an undisclosed location.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Myron Stracht’s eight million dollars weighed a hundred and seventy-five pounds. Dan Burdette outweighed the neatly stacked pile of hundred dollar bills by ten pounds. Stracht outweighed Dan by thirty pounds and Stracht had Omar who had a gun.

Dan did, however, have one goddamned headache.

Dan wanted to throw the bundles out the window, but the hotel’s windows were solid glass, the fire escape was at the other end of the corridor, and Omar Moreno stood guard in between.

Days earlier, Omar had walked the money through Customs as if he owned it, which, as Chief of Security for Panama International, he did. And, last night, when Omar poked his gun barrel into Dan’s left ear, Dan saw no reason not to be a friend with Omar and do what Stracht wanted.

Dan would leave Panama in a box or on a plane, depending on what Stracht had decided.

Dan pulled the sheets up over his head and, in his misery, decided that if Stracht made the mistake of letting Dan live, Dan would make sure Stracht lived to regret it.

* * *

Don’t go stupid on me, Dan.

Dan ignored Myron Stracht’s taunt and continued to the cliff’s edge. Dan stood at the rim and sucked in the cooler, evening air swooping up from the depths of the Calebra Cut. Dan loved this part of the Canal. For him it symbolized all the struggle, tragedy, and fortitude that went into building the Path between the Seas.

He stood silently, scanning the horizon. He would play the mule and if Stracht didn’t have a ringer in Geneva like he had Omar in Panama, Dan would have an edge.

If Dan got to Geneva, he could turn the tables. If Stracht had gotten Marty Giolia back in the deal, Dan’s edge got wider. But whatever Stracht did or did not do, the die was cast.

Twenty-two hours earlier, when the Zimmer Bank deal collapsed—as planned—Dan came back to the hotel with a song in his heart and frown on his face. If Stracht had checked up, everything would have checked out. Even Omar Moreno agreed that putting the money into a Brink’s locker was the next move. But Stracht wouldn’t budge from Geneva. Ten minutes of verbal scrambling couldn’t change Stracht’s mind, but Omar’s gun changed Dan’s.

After that, Dan remembered best the numbing terror of believing that he was going to die. Throughout the day, zombie-like, Dan trudged along with Omar while Omar arranged for Dan and the money to go to Geneva. Then, when Dan attended to his own legitimate business with the Panama Canal Commission, Omar came, too.

Cuevas and the other Canal Commission officials eyed Panama International’s Top Cop nervously, but no one asked why he was there. In Panama, if it wasn’t your business, you looked the other way.

Three months before Panama, when Dan had options, he opted to play along. He told himself, then, that the risk to Barbara and the kids was too great, that he needed to wait and see, that he didn’t know how many ‘friends’ Stracht had or how far Dan could push Stracht, and what would motivate Stracht’s friends to leave Barbara and the kids alone if Dan turned Stracht in.

But, on the other hand, what if Stracht had the big connections he said he did? What if Stracht truly had a man inside the DEA? What if they thought Dan could expose the whole bunch? The what-if’s made his so far, so good strategy seem a wise choice. Panama was supposed to be Dan’s advantage. Why would Stracht need Dan if Stracht had contacts in Panama?

Stracht’s right hook put Dan flat on the canvas so early in Round Ten that Dan had almost given up. And if it hadn’t been for Stracht’s assurances of what he would do with Barbara, Dan might have thrown in with Stracht. The Feds would never find out, but Barbara at risk made Stracht a dead man.

Actually, getting Stracht’s money out of St. Louis and to Panama was the easiest part of the deal. Dan stashed the dough inside the eighteen-inch blast plugs. Instead of paper wadding he filled the plugs with paper money. Dan’s nerdy professor, the grad student, and the Panama Canal Commission provided cover. Had Dan stayed in control, the money would’ve spent a day in Customs before being trucked to Blast-Tite’s small warehouse and Stracht should have been begging Dan for help.

Instead, there was Omar—and Stracht and his scrawny helper, Roberto, loading the plugs into Roberto’s taxi, and riding away before Dan could muster an objection. Now, standing on Gold Hill, the future promised to put Dan back in charge. All Stracht had to do was order Dan back in the deal.

You’re going to be on that plane in forty-five minutes, Dan, Stracht said. The look on his face echoed the distain in his voice. You got no choice.

Dan turned back to hide his relief. Stracht didn’t suspect that Dan was behind the Zimmer Bank flop. Dan figured he should push Stracht a little. Last night Dan learned that there were worse things than death—like, for example, fearing death—and that if you didn’t care if they could kill you, you had power. He needed to start acting like that.

Dan pointed to the sky. Easily five hundred. Most of them, particularly the big ones, can’t get off the ground without the updrafts. When they do get off the ground, they ride the thermals all day. Hardly flap a wing until they see something dead or dying.

Stracht looked up and frowned. Screw the vultures.

Dan watched the mob of shadowy forms winging through the dimming sky. Yeah. Dan turned and walked back the ramp to Stracht’s level. At six-two, two hundred forty pounds, a judo champ, a street fighter, and with a gun stuck in his belt, Stracht held the advantage. Geneva was not part of our deal, Myron. I kept my word to you. You keep your word to me.

Stracht laughed. Word? What about your word that your bank here would take all the money? Or that your cut would come to Panama and take the same risk my money is taking. We’re way past anybody’s ‘word,’ Dan. Way past. We’re into making sure that me and my money are safe, in that order.

Dan angled toward the cliff’s edge and looked back at the sun about ready to dip into the Pacific Ocean. "They say the vultures started massing here when they were cutting through all this volcanic rock. This ledge we’re standing on is called Gold Hill—or the other side is Gold Hill. I forget.

Right through here, though, Dan swept his arm parallel to the deep gorge, in eighteen-ninety something, the French lost upwards of eight thousand men in a few months to disease and stupidity; and they didn’t have the manpower or the will to bury all the workers that died. The vultures came from east of here, out of the Darien, to eat the carcasses. They’ve been coming back ever since.

Stracht stared at Dan. You’re confusing me for someone who gives a shit. Omar has your ticket and he’s going to put you and the money on the plane.

Dan looked back to where the car was parked. On the other side of it a construction trail led to a ledge no more than thirty feet above the Canal. He’d spent two days down along that trail with the professor and grad student working blast patterns to test the big plugs. If he could get past Stracht, Dan thought he might be able to get to the ledge, jump into the Canal and find a boat. "Myron, let me out of this. When I get home I’ll return my fee. You go to Plan B. You put the rest of the money in a Brink’s locker. You make small deposits in a bunch of accounts.

Panama City’s got a hundred and sixty banks. Nine thousand dollars a week times thirty or forty bank accounts times six months and you’ll have your eight million stashed. Poof! You’re in the international banking system. Your money is clean. We talked about all this. When you need money, the Panamanians have plenty of ways to get the—

Screw Panama. You had your chance with Panama. Stracht moved to position himself between Dan and the car, as if he was reading Dan’s mind. I’m not spending the next six months here stuffing my pockets with cash every damned day and going to the same banks every damned week after week after week. I’d wind up with a hundred knives sticking out of my ribs. We both know you need an ace, or a bunch of aces, to do that kind of business in Panama.

Down here the word is padrón. Dan hesitated. Part of their agreement had been that Dan would not be told about the people with whom Stracht was associated, but as Stracht had pointed out, they had gone far beyond to what either had agreed. Your people here, that Roberto for example, he’s not much, but Omar, impressive.

Stracht smiled. Didn’t expect that, did you?

No, Dan replied, but with a contact like Omar—who you obviously trust—why did you need me?

Stracht snorted his impatience, but answered. To get the money out of the U.S.

Dan wasn’t satisfied. But with Omar here at Panama International, what difference what container the money came in if this was the one-shot deal you promised? You must have had other options to get the money past customs in the U.S. at any number of airports.

Maybe, maybe not, Stracht chided. Don’t sell yourself short. You were a one-stop shop, Danny Boy, from you to Panama and no middlemen. Clean and nice, nice and clean.

Dan’s eyes narrowed. This is my fourth charter for Blast-Tite, so nobody bothers us leaving the U.S. Down here, doing business with the Canal Commission nearly immunizes us, but you got Omar who provides total immunity.

Yeah, Stracht shook his head, and you also had your friend, Saia—one of the Seven Saints, or whatever—just in case. I like insurance.

Dan persisted. You were setting me up to run a pipeline, weren’t you? Dan’s friend, Rogelio Saia, was a great grandson one of the Seven Holy Names, not Saints, of Panama. These were the ruling families of Panama, most descended from marriages between American engineers who came to build the Panama Canal and the daughters of the wealthy Panamanians who helped the United States steal Panama from Columbia fair and square, and who owned and controlled most of the legitimate businesses in Panama as well as many of the illegitimate.

And Stracht was correct, doing business in the shadows in Panama without a padrón could mean a short life. In Panama, secrets came in one breath and went with another. That Dan had not contacted or used Rogelio Saia to set up Zimmer Bank was a secret Myron Stracht was never meant to know and, at least for now, that secret seemed to be safe.

Stracht kicked some of the loose, volcanic rock toward the ledge’s rim. He was close enough for some of the rocks to go over. I am keeping my word to you. This is a one-shot deal. You get my money to Geneva you’re free. You want to do some pipeline business, I can introduce you.

I don’t like this, Myron. We come to Panama, a place in which you tell me you have no contacts—yet, you own Panama International and, Dan emphasized, you don’t even give me the chance to get things straightened out at Zimmer Bank before you decide that I’m going to Geneva with your dough. Then, all that crap with the gun last night.

All you had to do was bank my money like you said you would and you’d be out of this, Dan. As to the other stuff, it’s real simple: my backup plan doesn’t keep me in Panama for six months, Stracht rolled his head skyward. Your vultures are disappearing.

Dan looked up and agreed. The thermals are fading, Dan figured that it would not be prudent to follow the vein of their conversation much longer. The more Dan knew, the more he endangered Barbara, the kids, and himself. Knowing the truth about Stracht’s world would not set Dan free, but it could make him dead. The vultures are losing their free ride.

Stracht looked from the dusky sky to glare at Dan. Dan glared back. Stracht’s determination hadn’t weakened an iota in the three months since Stracht had first employed the simple and credible threat of do or die. I trust you, Dan, but I know where you live and I know where your family lives. How many dozens of times since had Stracht repeated that trite phrase, stolen from a thousand movies and TV shows? How many dozens of times had Dan used Stracht’s threat to justify his aiding and abetting a continuous stream of criminal acts?

Stracht’s countenance turned obviously confident. Okay, Dan, I’ll humor you. Omar is second generation Cuban. He has an uncle named Arturo who lives in Miami who I used to work for. Arturo has no connection with what I do in St. Louis and my St. Louis people don’t know about him either. Remember what I told you about me? Don’t ever think you know all my angles. I always got an insurance policy and I don’t trust no one.

But you trust me to take the money to Geneva? Dan countered. Omar was helping Stracht through the airport and nothing else? Maybe. What happens to the eight hundred thousand I deposited at Zimmer?

Nothing for at least a year, Stracht replied. That’s not my money. You don’t want to know whose it is. You do anything to upset me and I visit Barbara. If I can’t get to her, I get a message to the man whose money it is and I tell him that you know who he is and that you’re the only one who has the account number.

Dan gritted his teeth. Fortunately, Stracht was right that Dan was the only one who had the right account number. He’d tricked Stracht into remembering the wrong bank account number. Thank god for Stracht’s dyslexia, his one and certain weakness.

Stracht walked toward the car along the rim of the rock ledge. The blasting you were working on with your professor, you were blowing these ledges from the top down, right?

Yeah, Dan muttered, but we weren’t blasting. We were plugging the blast. He wasn’t touched by Stracht’s interest in what Dan had been working on for over two years and what was certainly going to end with this trip. What about Zimmer Bank? I said I’d be back tomorrow. Morales, the v-p, might call the cops.

Who cares? Your banker friend doesn’t know who Myron Stracht is and in another hour it won’t matter ’cause you’ll be gone one way or the other. You said your banker said he couldn’t take anymore for a week, maybe two? It’s Geneva, Dan. I always wanted Geneva. I got people in Geneva.

Morales knows who I am. What if he calls St. Louis?

You don’t really think that’s going to happen, do you?

Dan couldn’t push that line too far. What about the guy who owns the eight hundred thousand? What’s he expecting from me?

Stracht looked at Dan, hard. I’ll cover you in St. Louis. It’s to my benefit to cover you. And I got no reason to leave you in Geneva.

Dan spit. Oh? I don’t know whose eight hundred grand I banked at Zimmer, but he, she, it or they know who I am? You’re putting me into the line of fire, you son-of-a-bitch! You’re double crossing someone back home and you’re making it look like I did it.

I’m double crossing nobody. You do what I tell you, Stracht hissed, and I’ll cover you back home.

Dan didn’t reply.

Get your head out of your ass, Dan. This is only hard if you make it hard. You do good in Geneva, the Berea papers go up in flames and I don’t have to think about being ugly to a beautiful woman. Besides, I don’t want you doing this again. You get caught; you’d snitch on me quicker than a goose can shit.

Dan could feel his face redden. This time he turned and moved deliberately toward Stracht, clenching his fists.

Dan—forget it. Stracht drew his revolver and pulled its hammer back. Get your ass in the car.

Dan walked ahead of Stracht and got in behind the wheel. Stracht had no deeper connections into Panama than Omar and Arturo, whoever Arturo was. Geneva had to be Stracht going solo. Whoever was behind Stracht back in St. Louis was about to be disappointed with something. The hole Dan found himself in was getting deeper.

Yet, Dan felt a tinge of confidence. He hadn’t been that wrong. But for Arturo and Omar, Dan might’ve been able to dump Stracht in Panama where the odds would have been fifty-fifty that Stracht would live long enough to finish his smurf. On the other hand, Dan calculated, if Stracht hadn’t had Arturo, and Arturo hadn’t had Omar, Stracht might not have decided on Panama as his port of embarkation to the wonderful world of off-shore banking aka international money laundering.

Dan put the car in gear and drove slowly down the bumpy construction road. His stomach ached. The modest spike of confidence melted away. Stracht would surprise him in Geneva just as he surprised him in Panama.

Where was Mike Buckland when you needed him? It had been almost two years since the split. Their last time together was Winter Park atop a double black diamond with moguls in the middle of a blizzard. The ski patrol was closing the slopes and Mike challenged him to the last run. Mike pulled his goggles over his eyes, laughed hard and yelled one of Mike’s favorite mantras, Face your fear!

Face your fear. Dan looked in the rearview mirror and stared directly into the eyes of Myron Stracht.

* * *

As Dan settled into the leather chair, the door to the lounge swung open. Young Roberto bobbed his head in Stracht’s direction.

Jefe, ah, Boss. As you tell me, I bring Señor Dan dos cervezas. Roberto placed two clear glasses of beer on the table in front of Dan.

Dan emptied the first beer and reached for the second. He sneered at Omar, letting him know what Dan thought of a policeman in the pay of drug dealers. Omar dismissed him and said to Stracht, It is time. We go.

Stracht grunted and motioned to the fawning Roberto.

Roberto blushed as he stepped towards Stracht. Do I go, too, Jefe, with Omar? The bags? I carry the bags?

Stracht laughed. No, kid. From now on, you’re with me. Dan choked on his surprise. You’re not going to take him back to St. Louis? The kid can’t keep his mouth shut here and he won’t there. If you’re going to cover me with your St. Louis friends, how does Roberto help?

Roberto flashed Dan an ugly look and then sought Stracht’s approval.

Señor, Myron, I am so sorry that I—

Yeah, I know, you meant no harm, Stracht said. He looked over Roberto’s shoulder and pointed. Get me the pipe inside that window.

Stracht smirked at Dan as Roberto handed Stracht a section of galvanized water pipe that had been wedged between the window frame and its sliding section.

Roberto grinned. I open the window?

No. Stracht took the pipe from Roberto. With a quick, backhand blow, Stracht smashed Roberto’s throat. Roberto crumpled to his knees; his arms at first flapping like a sick Buck and, then, sagging to his sides. His eyes stayed wide in panic while a plea gurgled from the foam dripping from his mouth.

Dan hesitated in disbelief and then jerked to his feet as Stracht stepped around Roberto. Dumbfounded, Dan watched Stracht cup Roberto’s chin with one hand and the back of his head with the other, and then snap Roberto’s head from right to left. When Stracht released Roberto’s head, Roberto’s body slumped to the tile floor.

Wha… you… you… Dan choked the words out. The stink of urine permeated the room.

Stracht stood over Robert’s crumpled form. Never seen anyone killed, have you, Dan?

Dan sputtered, How could—

Like you said, I couldn’t take the little bastard with me. I couldn’t trust him here. Loose lips can sink Myron Stracht’s ship, he smiled.

Señor, Omar Moreno stepped in front of Dan, the plane, it boards. We must go.

Dan shook his head as he stared at the heap of still flesh. Dan barely noticed when Omar pulled the two large Samsonites past him and out the door.

Dan didn’t move until Stracht stood next to him and put his arm on Dan’s shoulder. Business is business.

Dan pulled himself away from Stracht. Dan’s eyes remained on the lifeless Roberto and the juices oozing from his mouth and nose. If I’m taking your money to Geneva, you have to fill me in. You have people in Geneva? Galena, isn’t it? Your people in Geneva are the Ukrainians you play with in Odessa?

Stracht smiled, reached into his pocket and unfolded a Western Union telegram. I got your people and I got my people. I wired your friend Marty Giolia for you on Sunday evening telling him the car deal was back on. Stracht spread the paper out and pushed it across the table to Dan. My people will make sure your guy doesn’t get greedy. Remember, though, he’s your guy. He screws up means you screw up.

Dan read the telegram. He was not surprised that Marty Giolia jumped to get back in the deal. Where’s he going to meet me?

Customs. Read the telegram.

Dan read Marty’s reply. Marty was already on his way to Geneva, having made all the arrangements for Stracht’s money. Marty had even been able to get rooms on short notice at Marty’s favorite hotel, the Beau Rivage.

Okay, Dan nodded. If no one stops me in Amsterdam, I get on the plane to Geneva, Marty gets me through customs, we take a taxi to the hotel and Marty takes over from there.

Stracht rose. No one will stop you in Amsterdam. Omar’s taken care of that. You have Marty’s paperwork. Omar put the transit papers from Panama City to Geneva in with your ticket. The papers say this is government business, so no sweat. You need anything else?

No. I’ve got a bill of sale and a bill of lading for seven hundred and forty-seven late model, luxury cars which sold for nine million something dollars minus commission. The Swiss will be satisfied, Dan answered.

In forty-nine hours and, Stracht checked his watch and pulled a small piece of paper from the breast pocket of his Panama shirt, thirty minutes, you call me at this number and say, ‘The cupboard is full.’ You don’t repeat if everything is okay. If you say it twice, I know something’s wrong. And if something goes wrong, make sure it ain’t you. Remember, I got people over there and I’ll be in St. Louis.

Dan read the note. I understand. He looked back at Roberto’s oozing corpse.

Good. Stracht walked Dan out of the room, whispering in Dan’s ear, I don’t have time to figure out if the Zimmer Bank screw-up was a real screw-up or only a delay. You got the money here, so I’m giving you the benefit, but Zimmer smells fishy. Understand this, though, Dan, anything happens to my money, you know where I’m going.

You touch a hair on Barbara’s head and—

And what, Dan? What do think you can do? You don’t know shit. You don’t know who I got or what I got. I know everything about you and you know nothing about me. Stracht jerked his head back and forth as he talked. But if you think I want to hurt Barbara you’re wrong. She likes me; I like her. But business is business. Get it done and we’re done.

Dan glanced at Roberto as the door swung closed. The dead boy’s eyes stared blankly. Roberto had been sacrificed so that Dan would know that he’d been a fool to believe that he could play in Stracht’s world without playing according to Stracht’s rules.

Dan started to respond to Stracht, but sucked back the words. There was little sense in telling Myron Stracht that Stracht was living on borrowed time, that from now on Dan would play Stracht’s game and do to Stracht what Stracht would have done to Dan.

CHAPTER TWO

Mike Buckland pulled Dan to the pool’s edge just in time to see Gary Weiser pop the buttons on the back strap of Barbara Blair’s bra top and begin to dunk her over and over. Out of the water’s eruptions, Barbara’s top floated off to the side of the melee while the boys at the party whooped it up and the girls screamed their disapprovals.

Mike nudged Dan, I heard the son of a bitch brag about what he was going to do out on the street. I never liked that little shit.

Dan thought Barbara exquisite. The little hometown girl with the light, olive skin and big dark eyes had, over the course of one summer, become a beauty. Son-of-a-bitch, Dan muttered. At the same time, he couldn’t believe that he had lost track of her. When he was a kid and little Barbara was around the neighborhood, he always took time to check her out, make sure she was okay. Her father died when she was a baby and her mother worked all the time. One summer, when she was maybe nine and Dan had just turned seventeen, she announced that she was going to marry Dan and followed him everywhere. He’d chase her away and she’d come back, but he loved it.

Mike Buckland stood equally entranced. Yeah, look at those tits. She’s a freshman in high school.

Yeah. Get your mind off her tits. Dan pushed Mike to the edge of the pool. Get in behind Weiser and drown the prick.

Dan waited for a moment, fascinated at Barbara’s dark hair spreading in the water behind her and the dark buttons of her nipples bobbing in and out of the water. As she gasped for air between dunkings, Dan fluctuated between lust and anger. When he saw Mike Buckland pop up out of the water behind Gary Weiser, Dan dove into the deep end and came up between the struggling Barbara and the laughing Weiser.

Dan punched Weiser in the nose. Blood spurted down Weiser’s chin and chest as he fell back into Mike Buckland’s arms. Mike engulfed Weiser and took him backward into the water. If Mike let Weiser live, poor Weiser would never go into another swimming pool.

Barbara Blair righted herself in the water, laughing as she pulled her hands through her hair. Dan hadn’t talked to her much in his undergrad years. The last time they’d been together, Barbara had fallen off her bike and he’d stopped to help her. While she’d poked at the scrap on her knee and watched Dan fix her bike, she smiled at him and told him how much she missed him. He’d blushed at the feelings he’d had for the pubescent girl.

To your rescue, Dan said, continuing to be amazed at how well Barbara had come through puberty. He grabbed the floating top and held it so Barbara could put her arms through the straps. Dan couldn’t hear the hoots and guffaws of the rest of the kids in and around the pool.

About time. She slipped her arms through the straps and pulled the bra to cover her breasts. You remember me?

Remember you? You’re kidding. Yeah, I— Then, an arm jerked Dan aside and Myron Stracht lunged for Barbara.

Dan awoke with a start, reaching for the pressure on his shoulder.

Ach, I am sorry, mein herr.

Dan grunted, letting go of the stewardess’s wrist. He wanted to go back to the dream, to the part before Stracht.

We land in Geneva in twenty minutes.

Okay. Sorry. He shook himself, groggy and exhausted. The next round was coming up and he needed to be ready.

Dan made his way to the lavatory, splashed some water into his face and combed his hair. He noticed the complimentary shaving equipment and decided to take the time to shave. Dan chuckled that Stracht had sent him first class to Amsterdam, as if that would make a difference.

At the Amsterdam airport, Dan hiked from the international concourse to the commuter terminal, bought a beer and a newspaper along the way, and boarded the Swiss Air jet for the short hop to Geneva.

An hour later he deplaned and followed the other passengers down the escalator to Geneva’s small baggage claim area. Of the eight luggage carousels two were spitting baggage. A short distance away a customs area defined itself with three cubicle partitions, two folding tables, and four folding chairs.

Two uniformed officials chatted with each other as passengers picked up their bags and walked past the officials to the four sets of exit doors. The only customs activity Dan saw was a third uniformed official near the main exit doors sitting at a high chair and desk stamping passports for tourists who wanted proof that they had visited Geneva. A sign behind the official stated in a dozen languages that stamping an entry date was not required.

At the luggage carousels Dan’s Samsonites had already popped out. Dan found a porter, directed him to take the bags to customs, and walked outside, seeking the crisp, wintry air in hopes it would revive him. When Dan came back into the terminal, the two hard-shells stood at the side of the customs cubicle, a big chalk checkmark on each.

Dan reached into his sport coat for the papers Marty had prepared and which Stracht and Omar had processed in Panama City. These bags are full of money. A lot of money.

"Oui, monsieur,