Read Online Treaty Violation by Anthony C. Patton - Free Book Online
Authors: Anthony C. Patton
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Thrillers, Espionage, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Contemporary Fiction, Spy Stories & Tales of Intrigue
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breath, he concluded that Cesar was just messing with him.
To his surprise, the two beauties were waiting for him, wearing jeans and tight T-shirts. They held either arm and kissed him. “ Vamos, papi. ”
Nicholas accepted a card from a waiter. He opened it to read: “Two special gifts for a virtuous man.”
Nicholas paused to admire the beauties—their ability to conjure lustful eyes was nothing short of an art form—but he finally got a hold of himself, kissed them on the cheek, and waved down a passing taxi.
ELEVEN
After navigating the new and inefficient system of one-way streets and shortcuts through the morning traffic, Nicholas found a parking spot near the Panama City World Trade Center complex. The trip would have been difficult for any foreigner—Panamanians relied on memory to get from point A to point B, not on street signs or sequentially numbered roads—but because the old system was still etched in his memory, he was twice confused.
The affluent strip connecting the high-rise apartment towers in Paitilla and Calle 50 had changed since his last visit. Modern buildings, ritzy shopping boutiques, and fast food franchises lined the avenue. Patatus, once a watering hole for enlisted gringos on Fridays now struggled for business while hip joints like Rock Cafe and La Cantina prospered. A haven for the affluent—white collar workers by day, spoiled teens and young professionals by night—this Petri dish of Americana was a fragile experiment amid the city’s chaos and poverty.
Nicholas entered the parking lot of the Radisson hotel, the shorter tower of the World Trade Center complex. The business day was under way. Maroon-uniformed bellhops hailed taxis for stodgy old businessmen. Attractive, fashionable ladies unlocked the front doors of retail stores like Chanel, Tommy Hilfiger, and Façonable. Everything was polished, but just outside the perimeter of the complex, the road was bumper-to-bumper chaos with honking traffic that had managed to turn three lanes into four.
The brass nameplate for the top floor suite said “Enterprise Associates,” but there was nothing to indicate this office was any different from the others. Nicholas knocked and heard the click of high heels on marble. The dead bolt twisted. The door opened until the chain was taught. A seductive blue eye inspected him.
“Hello, my name is Nicholas Lowe,” he said.
The woman opened the door and locked it behind him. “Hello, Mr. Lowe,” she said and shook his hand. “Jessica Porter. Mr. Dirk said to expect you.” The accent was northern European. Her wavy blonde hair rested fetchingly on the shoulders of her navy blue business suit. Twenty-eight tops and no wedding ring to boot.
The office was clean and decorated with enough artwork, furniture, and plants to satisfy a dozen wealthy clients. Fanned out magazines and stacked newspapers covered the tables. Two fresh pots of coffee were receiving their last drops. He sensed an eerie perfection for which only The Order could be responsible. A smile filled his face as he focused his attention on his alluring guide. Her hips swung like a metronome with each click of her heels.
“How may I be of assistance?” she asked as she sat at her desk and folded her hands.
Scandinavian , Nicholas thought, holding her smile. “I have to wire transfer one point five million dollars,” he said. “I also need one hundred and twenty thousand in cash.”
Jessica removed a form from the top drawer, fit it into a clipboard, and began filling it in. She made some check marks and handed it to him. “When do you need the money?”
Nicholas tried to remember the television commercial with sexy Scandinavian women mispronouncing the name of a breakfast cereal. “I’m sorry. Did I say one hundred and twenty thousand? I meant two hundred.”
She appeared to appreciate the humor. Perhaps Dirk had told her what to expect.
“Saturday,” he said and handed her Cesar’s card. “That’s the
To his surprise, the two beauties were waiting for him, wearing jeans and tight T-shirts. They held either arm and kissed him. “ Vamos, papi. ”
Nicholas accepted a card from a waiter. He opened it to read: “Two special gifts for a virtuous man.”
Nicholas paused to admire the beauties—their ability to conjure lustful eyes was nothing short of an art form—but he finally got a hold of himself, kissed them on the cheek, and waved down a passing taxi.
ELEVEN
After navigating the new and inefficient system of one-way streets and shortcuts through the morning traffic, Nicholas found a parking spot near the Panama City World Trade Center complex. The trip would have been difficult for any foreigner—Panamanians relied on memory to get from point A to point B, not on street signs or sequentially numbered roads—but because the old system was still etched in his memory, he was twice confused.
The affluent strip connecting the high-rise apartment towers in Paitilla and Calle 50 had changed since his last visit. Modern buildings, ritzy shopping boutiques, and fast food franchises lined the avenue. Patatus, once a watering hole for enlisted gringos on Fridays now struggled for business while hip joints like Rock Cafe and La Cantina prospered. A haven for the affluent—white collar workers by day, spoiled teens and young professionals by night—this Petri dish of Americana was a fragile experiment amid the city’s chaos and poverty.
Nicholas entered the parking lot of the Radisson hotel, the shorter tower of the World Trade Center complex. The business day was under way. Maroon-uniformed bellhops hailed taxis for stodgy old businessmen. Attractive, fashionable ladies unlocked the front doors of retail stores like Chanel, Tommy Hilfiger, and Façonable. Everything was polished, but just outside the perimeter of the complex, the road was bumper-to-bumper chaos with honking traffic that had managed to turn three lanes into four.
The brass nameplate for the top floor suite said “Enterprise Associates,” but there was nothing to indicate this office was any different from the others. Nicholas knocked and heard the click of high heels on marble. The dead bolt twisted. The door opened until the chain was taught. A seductive blue eye inspected him.
“Hello, my name is Nicholas Lowe,” he said.
The woman opened the door and locked it behind him. “Hello, Mr. Lowe,” she said and shook his hand. “Jessica Porter. Mr. Dirk said to expect you.” The accent was northern European. Her wavy blonde hair rested fetchingly on the shoulders of her navy blue business suit. Twenty-eight tops and no wedding ring to boot.
The office was clean and decorated with enough artwork, furniture, and plants to satisfy a dozen wealthy clients. Fanned out magazines and stacked newspapers covered the tables. Two fresh pots of coffee were receiving their last drops. He sensed an eerie perfection for which only The Order could be responsible. A smile filled his face as he focused his attention on his alluring guide. Her hips swung like a metronome with each click of her heels.
“How may I be of assistance?” she asked as she sat at her desk and folded her hands.
Scandinavian , Nicholas thought, holding her smile. “I have to wire transfer one point five million dollars,” he said. “I also need one hundred and twenty thousand in cash.”
Jessica removed a form from the top drawer, fit it into a clipboard, and began filling it in. She made some check marks and handed it to him. “When do you need the money?”
Nicholas tried to remember the television commercial with sexy Scandinavian women mispronouncing the name of a breakfast cereal. “I’m sorry. Did I say one hundred and twenty thousand? I meant two hundred.”
She appeared to appreciate the humor. Perhaps Dirk had told her what to expect.
“Saturday,” he said and handed her Cesar’s card. “That’s the
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