CHAPTER 96
Panama City, Florida, was known to generations of college students who invaded the town for spring break.
Port Panama City was a port with easy access to the Gulf along a nearly nine-mile-long channel.
Ocean liners disgorged tourists.
Cargo ships brought products to America through here and took American-made products to the rest of the world.
It was a busy place, even at night.
Puller stood on the dock holding a box and eyeing the Cyrillic writing on the side of the steel-hulled cargo ship as cranes lifted metal containers onto the ship, stacking them on top of each other.
As he continued to watch, a large wooden box was carried on board. There were two men carrying one end and one man carrying the other.
The one man was Mecho. He was cleaned up from his fighting, his wounds bandaged and mostly hidden under his clothes.
For those who looked closely, and no one did, the wooden crate had two holes for air drilled in it.
Inside the box was Peter J. Lampert. He was bound, gagged, and drugged.
He would wake up in about six hours.
By then the cargo ship would be well out in the Gulf. It would make its way around the southernmost tip of Florida and then begin the long trek across the Atlantic. The cargo ship would plow along at an average speed of ten knots. Seventy-six hundred nautical miles and a month later it would arrive in Bulgaria.
Once Lampert touched Bulgarian soil he would never leave it.
The crate secured on board, Mecho came back down the gangplank followed by a heavyset man who looked strong as a bull.
His thick-veined neck was the size of an average man’s thigh. His sleeves were rolled up and revealed forearms knotted with cords of muscles. He wore a skipper’s cap, and a cigar stuck out from his mouth at an angle.
They reached Puller and stopped.
Mecho introduced the man as his friend and the cargo ship’s captain.
The captain looked at Puller appraisingly. “Mecho tells me you have something for me.” Puller held out the box. “Ten bottles.”
The captain lifted the top of the box and looked inside it.
His smile was wide and immediate.
Puller handed him the box and the captain thanked him and carried it back on board ship. Mecho looked at Puller.
“So what is this thirty-year Macallan?”
“It’s a scotch. Actually a very good scotch.” “And it is thirty years old?”
“So they say.”
“Where did you get it?”
“Let’s just say that it was another opportunity for Peter Lampert to make restitution.”
Mecho’s jaw slackened in surprise. “You took it from his house? Weren’t the police around?” “They weren’t watching me too closely.” Mecho put out his hand and Puller shook it.
“I thank you for all that you have done.”
“I hope you find your sister.”
Mecho nodded slowly. “I will never stop looking.”
“But you can stop looking for Lampert.” Mecho smiled grimly. “I will always know right where he is.”
Mecho turned and walked up the gangplank. Halfway up he turned and waved back at Puller. Puller returned the wave.
A few moments later Mecho was gone.
An hour after that, the ship was gone too and Lampert had begun his long journey to his final resting place.
“Good riddance,” Puller muttered as he walked back to his car.