The Lotus Eaters

Estado Major, Balboa City, Balboa, Terra Nova

As soon as the helicopter had set down on a square concrete pad surrounded by close-cropped grass, the crew chief had pulled a black bag over Esteban's head.

"Sorry," the crew chief had said. "Orders."

Immediately thereafter the door had been whipped open and two sets of hands had roughly and expeditiously pulled the POW out of the chopper, forced him to bend over slightly, and hustled him to a waiting vehicle. That vehicle sped away. Miraculously, or so Esteban thought, his stomach had settled down the instant the helicopter had landed.

When the sedan stopped, mere minutes later, two more sets of hands—or perhaps they were the same; Esteban couldn't be sure—dragged him out and then backwards to somewhere he knew not. He was dumped, unceremoniously, into a hard chair. In all, the entire process from landing to seating had taken perhaps five minutes.

A voice said, "Remove his mask."

Esteban was still shaking like a leaf in a strong wind when the black bag was removed from his head. He hadn't a clue what awaited. Torture? Death?

Probably both and in that order.

Once his eyes readjusted to the light, the prisoner saw a small, slight, and weasel-faced little man standing before him with a very uncommitted expression on his face.

"I'm Legate Fernandez," the man said, "and I understand you surrendered to our men. I have a few questions for you."

* * *

"I don't know, señor," Esteban said, shaking his head. He was nervous, understandably so. "Someone in the aduana, that's all my jefe ever said. I never went with him to deliver the goods."

The one called "Fernandez" sighed. "That doesn't help much, Esteban. Work with me here. Did your jefe ever say anything about him or how he operates? A physical description maybe?"

The prisoner shrugged. "He called him 'a gold-toothed motherfucker.' "

Fernandez shook his own head. "Gold teeth, son, are not particularly rare around here."

Esteban licked his lips nervously. Torture and death. Torture and death.

"The jefe called his contact a chumbo once."

"A prick? The world is full of pricks."

"No, no, señor. In Santander a chumbo is a prick. But I think my jefe was using local slang for a chumbo, a black man."

The POW could see from Fernandez's scowl that this, too, was not very helpful. The Balboans have black folk just like we do. Shit. Torture and death. Torture and death. He stretched for something, anything that might be useful.

Esteban offered, doubtfully and nervously, "He . . . the jefe, I mean . . . he always said that payment was a mix of money and usually a single bag of the stuff, sometimes two, for his contact."

Fernandez tilted his head sideways even as his mouth formed a little quizzical expression. After a few moments' thought, he straightened his head and said, "Please, work with me here, Esteban; if a shipment's just gone through—you said these were big shipments?

"Si, señor," the Santandern agreed. "Often more than a ton. Twenty tons, once. I know because I helped load it."

"Okay. So a shipment that size gets cut by ninety percent or more before being sold on the streets of the Federated States or the Tauran Union, right?"

"Si, señor, that's my understanding."

Fernandez stopped speaking long enough to go to his desk and make a telephone call. He asked a few questions, got a few answers, said, "Thanks. Goodbye," and hung up.

"That was an acquaintance of mine," Fernandez said, "at the Federated States Drug Interdiction Team at their embassy. He says that a big shipment usually depresses prices in the FSC and TU. See, the dealers have a hard time hanging on to a large inventory and so they sell as quickly as they can. It's a supply-demand issue, much complicated by a the-police-are-looking-for-this-shit issue."

Esteban nodded, eager to please and avoid, Torture and death. Torture and death.

"Now," Fernandez mused, "if I had a small quantity of something, would I want to transship it on to someplace where the price was depressed?"

Esteban shook his head vigorously, no.

"So think I," the legate agreed. He seemed almost genial, too. "Especially if there's a substantial number of just plain rich folks locally I could sell it to. But to whom would I sell it, and how would I get my product to market?"

Before Esteban could formulate an answer, Fernandez touched an intercom and said, "Come get the prisoner."

Oh, God. Torture and death. Torture and death.

Two fierce looking guards came in. Fernandez told them, "Take this man to a holding cell. Feed him if he'll eat. Treat him well. He's been most cooperative."

As Esteban was led away he heard Fernandez speaking into a telephone again. "Patricio," he heard the legate ask, "just how far do your war powers extend? No, I don't mean outside of the country, actually."