ALEX DUARTE STOOD ON A BALCONY OF THE ADMINISTRATIVE offices for the Port of New Orleans, looking out over the busy water operations of the Napoleon container terminal as he listened to Félix Baez on his cell phone.

"Are you sure he isn't just out for a while?" asked Duarte. "You know, sightseeing or something."

"C'mon, Rocket. It's been over twenty-four hours. I'm tellin' ya, Gastlin got cold feet. He was afraid the U.S. attorney wasn't gonna give him credit, and he skipped."

"But you got the load?"

"Yeah, they dropped it near Colón over on the east coast. Staub's men got it through the port and on an old tub named Flame of Panama. It left late last night."

"When are you coming back?"

"I fly out this afternoon. Colonel Staub is coming with me. He's been a huge help. They been looking for Gastlin, too."

"And you don't think the bad guys got him?"

"I thought about it, but the cops were watching the guy he met when he disappeared. They delivered the pot just like they said, too. If there was a problem, they wouldn't have dropped off the container."

Duarte thought about it and added, "Just seems strange. The guy didn't impress me as a runner. I thought he was too shaky to do something like that."

"Me, too. I got a few more hours to find his fat ass. Maybe he's chasing transvestites over in the central district."

Duarte considered this and remained silent. He knew the DEA man was masking how he really felt. He was quiet so long, Félix said, "You still there?"

Duarte said, "Uh-huh."

"Where's Lina? She missing me?"

"She's here with the FBI guys. I get the feeling they're interested in someone other than Ortíz."

"Who?"

"I'm just listening and learning."

"I'll get her to open up when I fly in."

Duarte remained silent, even though he doubted Félix's ability to loosen up the FBI agent.

Félix said, "I'll call if we round up that tub of lard."

"Good luck."

"See you tonight."

Duarte shut the phone and looked up to see Lina coming toward him on the balcony, the wind whipping her short hair to the side. In jeans and a simple T-shirt, her athletic body stood out. "What's up, Alex?"

"That was Félix. He's flying in tonight. Everything is on schedule."

"That's great. I wanna see who the other distributors for the pot are."

"You think they'll be threats to national security, too?"

She looked at him, trying to decide if he was being sarcastic, then said, "It's our job to find out."

Duarte liked that attitude of taking responsibility and not shying away from duty. But he didn't like not knowing what the story was as his case started to go. He felt like maybe now he had a need to know.

"Why Ortíz and his contacts?"

"Why what?"

"Why are they a threat to security?"

Lina looked at him. Her dark eyes set in that crooked face. He could see the intelligence in them, but also that famous FBI arrogance. She didn't say a word.

Duarte said, "I'm curious…You really think I'd let something slip?"

She kept that hard gaze on him. He returned it. A stare not learned from police work or four years in the army, but a natural one that God had given him instead of the ability to relax around people. When other teenagers were going to parties and learning about life, he had decided to learn karate and push himself to the limit in sports, completing the Disney marathon in Orlando at eighteen. Lina Cirillo could try and stare him down now, but she'd be in for a shock if she did.

Finally, after a full minute, longer than Duarte thought she could hold out, she said, "It's not that I don't trust you, but there are some things that I'm not supposed to talk about, and this source is one of them. You should just be happy that we were able to move things along." She leaned back against the rail on the balcony and said, "One way to look at it is that all drugs are a form of terrorism toward the U.S."

Duarte changed his stare. "Marijuana? C'mon, don't treat me like an idiot."

She smiled, her white teeth forming the only symmetrical feature on her face, but the overall effect was attractive. She sighed and said, "One of Ortíz's contacts here has been involved in some pretty serious stuff. We think he's one of the guys getting the pot."

"I assume the FBI doesn't consider dealing pot a threat to national security."

"No, but it's not like this guy. We think he might be using the pot to finance something worse."

"What sort of serious stuff has he been involved in?"

She hesitated and then leveled her gaze on him. "Let's just say, if it weren't for 9/11, this guy would be associated with our worst attack."

Duarte wanted to hear more, but realized he had already gotten more than Lina was authorized to tell him.

The man known as Ortíz looked out of the cracked, grimy windowpane above the Avenida Quarto de Julio. The second-floor apartment was one of several apartments that he and his associates owned throughout the capital city. It was vital that Ortíz not be seen meeting with certain people.

Ortíz felt his left eye twitch; it ocurred whenever he was agitated. Right now it was because, as he looked out on the city, he recalled the battles fought against the Americans in 1989. He often passed the former location of the national police, which the Americans had destroyed early in the conflict. He would let the burn zone left by the bombs fuel his anger. It sustained him.

His position in the elite 2,000th Battalion at the start of hostilities had given him a front-row seat to the rout of the Panamanian Defense Force. The use of the then ultrasecret F-117A Stealth Fighter had been more like a training run for the Americans. Panama had had no defense for such technology. Then an AC-130 Spectre gunship had pounded Fort Cimarron. He was lucky to get out alive. Now he intended to make the U.S. feel the same way: hopeless. And he had the perfect target: military, symbolic and vital to the United States.

A moan turned his attention from the second-story window back to the room.

In the middle of the sparse living room, Byron Gastlin sat with his torso and legs secured to a wooden chair. Pelly, Ortíz's most effective assistant, gave the tubby American a sip of water. They weren't ready for him to die yet. It had only been an hour. They had to make certain of the information.

Ortíz looked at the bloody mark on his left hand where Gastlin had grabbed him, begging for mercy and then scratching him when he removed his hand. Without thinking, Ortíz had snatched a butcher knife from the kitchen and severed the three middle fingers on his right hand. He wouldn't be grabbing anyone else for the time he had left on Earth.

Ortíz had cringed slightly when Pelly had then used the same knife to cut a sandwich in half. He'd wiped it, but then still he'd declined when Pelly offered him half.

Ortíz said, "You're sure no one was following him?"

"Yes, boss. Our men called me to say they were breaking off, and I saw the Americans follow them out of the business district. Héctor called me ten minutes later to confirm that he was alone."

Ortíz looked at Pelly. "And what about you?"

"I came way around and then through the Barrio Chorillo to get here. No way anyone but one of us gets through there without gunfire."

Ortíz looked at Gastlin. "Very good. Let's finish up." He stepped over to the trembling American. "Now, Mr. Gastlin, you are certain no one knows me?"

Gastlin shook his head, his eyes darting down to his mutilated hand every few seconds.

"Did you hear anyone talk of Ortíz?"

"Like in the office?"

"Exactly."