by Jack Du Brul
“What could Liu gain by just giving all that money to the government?”
“More local power than he already has.”
Roddy shook off Foch’s suggestion. “With the amount of money Hatcherly Consolidated has poured into my country, Liu already has as much power as any man in Panama. Unless he wants to be named emperor or something.”
Lauren picked up the thread. “Plus, if he wants to get further into President Quintero’s good graces he could simply turn over all the treasure. Once they find it,” she added.
“You’re saying that Liu wants to maintain control of the gold so he can dole it out more slowly?” Harry’s question was answered with a nod. “Well, we all know that politicians have pretty short memories. Let’s say Liu gives them the treasure all at once. What do you bet in a year none of ’em recall Liu’s generosity when he wants the go-ahead on some other scheme? By holding back part of the gold he can keep Quintero or whoever’s in power on a pretty tight leash.”
Foch suddenly saw what Harry had figured out. “By keeping them grateful, he can keep them, ah, obedient, yes?”
“For years.”
“No,” Mercer said. “For as long as the treasure lasts. The supply isn’t inexhaustible.”
“Ah, guys,” Lauren drawled, inspiration flashing in her magical bicolored eyes. “What if we’re coming at this backwards.”
“What do you mean?” Foch accepted a cigarette from Harry.
“We’re assuming that Liu’s plan is to just give money to Panama in exchange for some later concession. But Roddy mentioned that Hatcherly already walks on water in the government’s eyes and I’ve heard pretty much the same thing since I rotated in. Hatcherly doesn’t need to give them anything.” She paused, as if unsure.
“Okay.” Mercer drew out the word to help her draw out the idea.
“Rather than ask something of Panama later, what if they plan to take away something now and use the treasure to compensate?”
“You’re talking about the canal?”
“What else?” She gathered herself, warming to the wild idea as she explained. “Think about it. Hatcherly is just going to give the government millions of dollars in gold when they could have just snuck it out of the country. They already control container ports, a pipeline, the railroad, and a dozen other businesses. The only thing they don’t directly run is the canal. Maybe the gold is payment to take it over too.”
“Captain Vanik,” Roddy interrupted, “the Canal Authority pays my government roughly two hundred and thirty million dollars a year. If Liu is given control of the waterway he might be able to match that in gold revenue for a couple of years, but like Mercer said, the treasure will eventually run out. And then what?”
He’d pointed out a fatal flaw in her idea but she refused to give up. She was convinced she was on to something. “Maybe they only want control for a couple of years.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” She blew a frustrated breath. “Maybe they want to shut it down or something.”
“They couldn’t do it.” Roddy was on familiar territory and spoke with authority. “Part of the treaty that handed the canal back to Panama was that the United States maintains the right to use military force if open navigation is threatened by an overt act. If Liu intentionally shut down the canal American marines would hit the beaches within days to reopen it.”
“I thought I read somewhere that U.S. intervention is dependent on Panama allowing them to land,” Foch said.
“That’s just a technicality,” Roddy said, dismissing the idea.
And then Mercer saw the whole thing. It was as if Liu’s entire operational plan was laid out in front of him. He knew exactly what the Chinese were after. He’d been leaning back in his chair and shifted so suddenly the legs snapped against the floor. “It is a technicality, yes, but a very important one. If a shutdown isn’t an overt act, the U.S. can’t come in without an invitation.” He focused on Roddy because of the former canal pilot’s expertise. “Let’s say Liu wants temporary control of the canal but can’t act in the open. His next best option would be some covert act of sabotage. Something short-term that won’t look suspicious and can’t be tracked back to him.”
“All right.” Dubious, Roddy had seen enough of Mercer to go along with him.
“How would he do it?”
“Oh, God, I’ve never really thought about it before. The obvious thing is going after the locks, but they’re so massive that anything short of a nuclear strike can be repaired in a couple of months.”
“Too short of a time frame,” Harry interjected. “And not very covert either.”
“The Gatun Dam on the Atlantic coast is what holds back all the water ships use to transit the canal. It’s vulnerable. During World War Two there were antitorpedo nets strung in front of it and antiaircraft artillery emplacements around it. Boats today are kept away by law and buoys.”
“Is there any way to damage it?”
“Oh, sure, ram a ship into the spillway. Problem is that such a breach would likely drain a few million acre-feet of Lake Gatun, the canal’s reservoir.”
“Overkill,” Mercer thought aloud.
“Overkill,” Roddy agreed. “It would take many years for natural rainfall to refill the lake to the point ships could cross the isthmus again.”
“So what does that leave us?”
“That leaves the Gaillard Cut, the canal’s narrowest point.” With a pencil Roddy sketched out the shape of Lake Gatun and the canal. Like a twisting tentacle growing from the body of an amoeba, the main part of the waterway stretched from the lake and wended between the continental divide on its way to the Pacific Ocean. Where the canal was its narrowest, between two mountains he labeled Contractor’s and Gold, he wrote in its width: 624 feet. “It looks like a big number,” the pilot added, “but it really isn’t when you consider a lot of the ships we move through there are a third longer than the cut is wide. Those mountains loom over even the tallest vessel and it’s like an oven in there during the summer with heat radiating down into the cut. Even with the widening, it’s too tight to allow the big PANAMAX ships cross-directional passage.”
“I’ve seen the cut,” Lauren said as she looked at the rough drawing. “It would take a hell of an explosion to blow enough rubble into the water to block it. During the widening project completed in 2001 the final blast used something like sixty thousand pounds of explosives.”
“You forget it was spread over a few hundred yards of the canal,” Roddy countered. “A concentrated shot could do enough damage to at least partially fill the canal.”
“Let us say for the sake of your argument”—Foch looked at the others as he spoke—“that Liu wants to shut down the canal for a couple years while it is redredged. We still don’t know why he would do such a thing. Why jeopardize his legitimate gains in Panama with a subversive act of terrorism? What does he gain?”
“He controls the oil pipeline and railroad,” Harry replied. “With the canal out of action he’d be the only game in town. Be a hell of a business.”
“Ah, yes.” The Frenchman nodded. “He’d be able to double or even triple his freight charges. Shippers would have no choice but to pay if they wanted to avoid the extra fourteen-thousand-kilometer trip around South America.”
Mercer had already considered and rejected that motivation. “Rail tariffs represent about half as much money as Liu would give in gold subsidies to keep Panama afloat until the canal opened again. That’s not the reason, although moving freight on the trans-isthmus line could help defray some of the costs of his operation and maintain an international shipping presence here.” He turned to Lauren, who looked exhausted. “You were the first to think about Liu exchanging the Twice-Stolen Treasure in return for being allowed to knock out the canal. Any ideas?”
She stifled a yawn and shook her head. “For now I think we should worry about the how of this thing rather than the why. Liu’s strategy will reveal itself once we learn his ta
ctics.”
Mercer smiled. “First law of combat?”
“Nope. Second law. The first is that bullets always have the right-of-way.”
This got a chuckle all around and the intensity seemed to drain from the discussion. It was nearing two in the morning, time to call it a night. Most of them had been awake for thirty hours or more.
Lieutenant Foch declined Roddy’s offer for he and his men to spend the night. The Legionnaires had to return to their safe house and face whatever punishment Bruneseau had for their disobeying orders.
“Will you still be able to help us?” If he was going to stop Liu, Mercer desperately needed the Legion’s help. It showed in his voice.
“I do not know. Until a few weeks ago Bruneseau was a stranger to us.”
“You will tell him what we’ve learned?” Lauren asked in a tone as desperate as Mercer’s.
“I will tell him. It may do no good. I get the feeling that he is more interested in his career than, ah, what is your saying, sticking out his neck.” Then he added soberly, “I do not concern myself with legalities in this matter. I don’t need enough evidence to convince a court of law that Liu is dangerous. However we have yet to gather enough proof to convince anybody of anything. This is all speculation on our part. Captain Vanik, would you be comfortable bringing this to your superiors?”
She was embarrassed to admit that she wouldn’t.
“You understand my difficulty as well. Bruneseau’s only concern was the missing nuclear waste. I do not believe we will be able to change his mind about leaving.”
“Could you talk to your superiors in the Legion?” Mercer asked.
“I am but a lieutenant,” he said, meaning any report he wrote would be filed and forgotten.
“What if we can get more proof? Something definitive?”
“I don’t know what you could find, Mercer,” the Frenchman answered honestly. “Because nothing has happened yet, there is no . . . smoking gun.” Foch looked pleased at his use of the American idiom.
Mercer swore at his own weakness. He was too tired to draw a conclusion from everything they’d discussed, even though he felt it was tantalizingly close. He closed his eyes, trying to get his mind around the solution he knew was there. His expression darkened and Lauren placed a concerned hand on his arm.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, damnit!” He paused. “Sorry.”
No matter who he paid off, Liu couldn’t lace the Gaillard Cut with explosives and expect investigators to believe it was anything other than an act of terrorism. The U.S. government would come down here like the hounds of hell. How else could he do it? Come on, Mercer, come on. Think. Oh, sure. Ram a ship into the spillway. Roddy explaining how to breach the Gatun Dam. The last shot used sixty thousand pounds of explosives. Lauren talking about the canal widening. The ore carrier I was piloting suddenly veered into the oncoming lane. Roddy again, back in Harry’s hotel room, describing the suspicious accident that cost him his job.
Three disparate threads and only one logical conclusion. Mercer looked first at Lauren and then at Foch. “Do you or one of your men have scuba diving experience?”
“I have some,” the Frenchman replied at once, overriding his confusion at the odd question. “Corporal Tomanovic has more. He dives all the time.”
“Can you spare him for twenty-four hours?”
“What’s this all about?” Lauren bristled because Mercer had asked about men who dove while he knew from the picture in her apartment that she was a diver.
“I think I know how Liu plans to blow up part of the Gaillard Cut. I think the proof we need is waiting for us at the Pedro Miguel Lock.” Mercer noted the anger in her eyes. He could tell she was silently accusing him of some misguided bit of gallantry to protect her from danger. He had no such intention. “Don’t worry. I’m not excluding you. I’ve only been diving a few times, nowhere near enough to make me comfortable about going into the canal. If Lieutenant Foch lets Vic join us, you’d be his dive partner, not me.”
Her anger became mild concern as she thought through what Mercer proposed. Entering the busy waterway, where the locks weren’t much larger than the hundred-thousand-ton ships that regularly passed through them, would be the most extreme dive she’d ever attempted. She searched Mercer’s face, finding within herself the trust to know he wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t critical. “I’m your girl.”
“Why the Pedro Miguel Lock?” Harry asked.
“For one,” Roddy answered, having guessed Mercer’s plan, “it is the closest to the Gaillard Cut and is also the canal’s most isolated. There are no towns around and no one goes there to watch the ships like they do at Miraflores. More importantly it was coming out of that lock that the ship I was fired over was delayed for fifteen minutes. No reason was given and a short time later it veered out of control. If Liu is doing something to the ships to cause these accidents, that is the place.”
“Ah.”
“I can’t imagine that Liu’s plan doesn’t have something to do with the mysterious accidents Roddy and other pilots experienced,” Mercer said. He turned to Foch, his cocked eyebrow asking the question.
“Vic is yours. I’ll cover for him with Bruneseau. When?”
“What do you think, Lauren? You’ve got the experience.”
“Early morning or late afternoon is best. The angle of the sun and its glare will hide the glow from a dive light. None of us are in shape to do it at dawn.” She looked at her watch. “Which is four hours from now. Let’s say tomorrow just before dusk.”
Roddy had a suggestion. “So you don’t draw attention by entering the water from shore, I know someone who keeps a powerboat at Limon on Lake Gatun’s east shore. You can meet him there and he’ll take you through the cut to the Pedro Miguel. His boat can be your dive platform.”
“Would he do it for you?” Mercer asked.
“He’s Carmen’s brother.” There was no need to elaborate. In a country such as Panama, nothing was more important than the family bond.
An hour later the ringing telephone jolted Mercer from sleep and for that he was grateful. He’d been deep into a nightmare, a virtual replay of his torture, only this time Mr. Sun hadn’t restarted Mercer’s heart before applying additional needles. Mercer was dead yet could feel the unbearable pain of his body turned against itself. Each new agony, piled on top of all the others, made him pray his brain would stop functioning. It was starving for the blood his heart no longer pumped while still providing him with every crisp pain. Death was not a release, no matter how much he hoped for it.
At the second ring he came awake enough to feel his body was so bathed with sweat that he needn’t have bothered with the brief shower he’d taken before collapsing on Roddy’s sofa. Through the panic, he felt his heart pounding against his ribs and fell back into the cushion with a relieved sigh. His lungs pumped air like a pair of bellows.
“Mercer,” Roddy whispered sotto voce. “Are you awake?”
“And alive,” he panted, disturbed by the vividness of the dream and the hollowness it left in his chest. Terror lurked right under the surface, ready to fill that emptiness if he didn’t force it back.
“Lieutenant Foch is on the phone.” Roddy crossed the dim living room, his parental sixth sense allowing him to navigate the minefield of discarded toys. “Here is the cordless.” He padded back to his bedroom.
“Yes, what is it, Lieutenant?” Mercer’s voice rasped.
“We’re back at the safe house. Bruneseau isn’t here.”
Mercer swung his legs off the couch, the rush of air tingling his sweat-matted hair. “Has he already left for France?”
“His luggage is still here, although his passport is missing.”
Mercer dismissed the missing passport. Like most knowledgeable international travelers, the spy would take the precaution of carrying it all the time. Mercer did whenever he was overseas. “Maybe he’s at the embassy.”
“I called his cell phone and spoke to
him. He said that’s where he was, but after we talked I had another question and called his cell again. He didn’t answer. I then phoned the embassy to get him for me. The duty officer hadn’t seen him. I had security check their logs. Rene Bruneseau hasn’t been there in five days.”
This got Mercer’s attention. “He lied to you?”
“Oui.”
“Pourquoi?” Unconsciously Mercer had switched to French.
“Je ne sais pas,” Foch admitted. “When we spoke, he didn’t seem to care that I had taken some of the men tonight. Nor was he interested that you wanted Tomanovic tomorrow.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing. Just that he had some loose ends to take care of before he could leave Panama and that we should make our own way back to Guyana.”
“Any idea what these loose ends might be?”
“Monsieur Bruneseau did a lot of work without us,” the Legionnaire explained. “Our job was mainly to watch the Hatcherly container port. He’d spend his days, and some nights, elsewhere. I assume cultivating contacts, but now I’m not sure.”
Mercer paused before responding. He’d worked with CIA agents in the past and thought he understood the spy mentality. Most took the concept of need-to-know to the very limit, oftentimes to their own detriment. “Did you tell him what we planned to do tomorrow?”
“Just the broad outline.”
Something told Mercer this was meaningless. He didn’t like Bruneseau. The French agent had used him, after all, but he didn’t think Rene would do anything to impede what they were trying to accomplish. Tonight, Lauren had told him how Bruneseau was ready to lead the rescue at the mine and only backed out when he found his primary mission was over. Not helping save Mercer made the Frenchman a bastard, not a threat.
“I don’t think we have to worry,” Mercer said at last. “Rene doesn’t know what we’re planning. If everything goes well, by tomorrow evening we’ll have the proof we need for Lauren to go to her superiors.”
“Okay. To be safe, I am going to close up this house and relocate. I’ll have Bruneseau’s stuff brought to the embassy. You and Captain Vanik should pick up Vic at the main bus station in the Cinco de Mayo Park at, say, nine-thirty. Don’t worry, he’ll recognize Roddy Herrara’s Honda.” Foch hadn’t come out and said he didn’t trust his superior, but the precautions meant the Legionnaire wasn’t taking any chances.