by Jack Du Brul
Like a warning from a friend who knew she’d forgotten something, her lungs convulsed again, a mild jolt that reminded her she hadn’t taken a breath in almost a minute. Without conscious thought, she stuck her arm straight behind her back, swept it forward and felt the air hose tickle along the inside of her arm. In a second she had the regulator in place and oxygen in her lungs.
It took her another minute to clear her head enough to check the level of air in her tanks. Amazingly she still had fifteen minutes. While it felt like hours, just eleven minutes had elapsed since she’d first spotted the Chinese divers. While the forty-five-minute deadline she’d given Mercer was upon her, she knew he’d be waiting for her for at least another twenty or twenty-five minutes despite his assurance he’d heed her order.
All she needed to do was swim up to the surface next to the ship she could sense looming above her, wait there until the lock doors swung open, and then swim back to Juan Aranjo’s little Wellcraft.
Simple.
She checked her depth. Thirty-eight feet. She had been working at a greater depth but took a guess that she’d purged the excess nitrogen from her blood by fighting the Chinese and slaloming through the culverts.
She began climbing upward, using her one remaining fin to maintain an easy pace, her mouth somewhat slack to allow the expanding air in her lungs to escape. There was a ten-foot gap between the side of the lock and the scaly hull of the ship going up the waterway. She held close to the cement, fearful of the spiky barnacles coating the ship like a jagged veneer of thorns. The vessel had probably languished in the Bahia de Panama for weeks or even months, accumulating such a thick skin of marine life, while its owner pulled together the money to pay for the transit. A not uncommon occurrence.
She had just passed the ship’s keel when she drew a breath that didn’t fill her lungs. She inhaled again and was left with a deep hollowness in her chest. Lauren knew what was wrong. Her tanks didn’t have fifteen minutes. They were empty; the gauge had stuck. She pushed harder for the surface, remaining calm, remembering her training.
As the sun set across the isthmus, the wind picked up in a sudden gust that slapped against the tired freighter in the lock. The ship’s pilot, on just his second solo run through the canal, hadn’t anticipated the dusk wind shears and the vessel got away from him, drifting closer and closer to the lock wall.
Lauren saw the gap of murky light closing as she swam for the surface. From ten feet it had shrunk to five in seconds and continued to dwindle. She was caught between the drifting freighter and a solid wall of concrete. She would reach the surface only to be pulped by the inevitable collision. She had one chance.
The air in her buoyancy compensator continued to haul her upward even as she stopped pistoning for the surface. Despite having empty lungs and tank, she had to sink below the ship if she was going to survive for a few moments more. The gap between ship and wall was down to four feet when she spilled the air from her vest. The change in buoyancy was immediate and she began to plummet, pulled downward by her weight belt and heavy dive gear.
Her hand scraped against the side of the ship, opening ragged cuts in four fingers before she could draw them back. Her lungs screamed for air. She could barely detect the difference in the darkness below her where she would clear the underside of the freighter’s keel. It seemed a thousand feet below her. Her tank bumped the wall, pushing her forward, and her hands brushed the hull again. More blood clouded the water.
The instant her feet sank under the bottom of the ship, she angled her body like a gymnast to get out of the way. The vessel slapped the lock two feet over her head. The metallic impact echoed in her skull like a great bronze bell, a sound that shook her bones and assaulted her hearing. Disoriented by the concussion, she continued to fall. She needed air, but she was too tired and too starved for oxygen to remember that she had to swim under the ship to reach the surface on its far side. Her backside hit the concrete floor and she fell back, her spine arched over her tank. Her vision became a kaleidoscope of swirling color as her brain slowly suffocated.
One point of light remained sharp amid the torrent of colors and she reached out for it, knowing in the back of her mind that she was grasping at nothing but a phantom. The brilliance faded, her brain unable to produce anything but monochrome. Her lungs pumped, but there was nothing there. Her chest and the air cylinder strapped to her back had equalized at empty.
“You were right about the submersible, Mercer,” she tried to say around her mouthpiece, letting in the first taste of the water that would kill her.
In her last seconds, the darkness that had filled her brain exploded into a dazzling incandescence before she could no longer stop her mouth from going slack and her lungs inflating.
It was a struggle to maintain the persona of a photographer. Mercer found himself increasingly looking at the watch and not pretending to shoot pictures of the locks at sunset. Ships continued to parade by. Juan Aranjo had settled himself on the stern bench seat, pulling his stained baseball cap low over his eyes. Though he didn’t have Mercer’s emotional investment, he kept shifting his position as if the nervous energy radiating off his passenger was a physical distraction.
Mercer drank through two liters of water in the first forty minutes out of sheer nervousness. Floodlights all along the lock chambers came on, bathing the area in a glow that flattened perspective. The water beyond the pools of illumination had grown inky.
As they waited, a group of men gathered at the end of the seawall dividing the two locks. The distance and the noise from the nearby ships made it impossible to hear what they shouted to the pleasure boat, but when Mercer turned the camera on them, their gestures made it clear. They wanted Mercer and Juan to clear out.
Ignoring their growing agitation, Mercer threw a wave and continued to pretend to take pictures of the ships. Lauren’s deadline passed. Mercer’s palms had gone slick and his throat dry. Another man joined the group. Unlike the workers in their overalls and hard hats, he was dressed in a shirt and tie. He carried a megaphone and his amplified voice boomed in Spanish.
Mercer touched his ear and shouted back. “No hablo.”
“You are no longer permitted in this area,” the man said in English. “Leave immediately.”
Mercer waited a minute before moving to the driver’s seat. He twisted the boat’s key in the ignition but didn’t turn on the fuel pump. The motor caught, ran for a few seconds, then sputtered to silence. He tried it three more times with the same result and threw up his hands in frustration. He turned to face the men on the seawall and shrugged his shoulders.
A rust-streaked grain carrier suddenly slammed against the cement seawall when the pilot misjudged a wind gust. The sound was like a cannon blast.
“We will send a pilot boat to tow you to Gamboa,” the canal worker shouted. He pulled the walkie-talkie clipped to his belt.
“Shit.” Mercer searched the calm water for any sign of the divers. Nothing.
It would take ten minutes for a launch to reach them and already Lauren and Vic were overdue. As a soldier, Lauren lived by the clock and had given a maximum time. He checked her watch. They’d been down for fifty-seven minutes. She’d made it clear that their absolute limit would pass in three more. Mercer’s heart began to race.
Nothing looked amiss at the locks, nothing to indicate that they’d been captured. The mules had tugged the errant freighter back to the center of the lock chamber. Lauren and Vic must be swimming back. If they ran out of air, all they had to do was surface. He studied the water in the fading light. There were no telltale trails of bubbles, no disturbances on the silky surface.
Up the canal, one of the pilot boats came to life. A moment later it pulled from its mooring and vanished behind an ore carrier that had just passed out of the locks. The divers had been down for more than an hour. Surely there was a couple minutes’ reserve. The launch appeared around the stern of the ore carrier, heading toward Mercer. “Come on, Lauren,” he breathed. “Jus
t pop up, we’ll get you before they reach us.”
He had her Beretta 92 wrapped in a towel. It would buy a few more minutes, but he had to consider the consequences. If he took out the men in the launch, he and Juan couldn’t stay where they were anyway. The Canal Authority had stationed troops at the locks and the next pilot boat that came after them would bristle with automatic weapons. Mercer would only succeed in getting himself and Juan killed.
Sixty-seven minutes. Even if they had just remained motionless beneath the boat to conserve air, the two divers would have exhausted their tanks seven minutes ago. Any kind of exertion would have cut deeply into that time. More likely the tanks had gone dry a quarter hour earlier. Jesus, what had happened?
Frantic, Mercer called out Lauren’s name. Maybe she had gone to shore. Shadows had lengthened and merged so he could barely see the darkened banks. The only sound he heard was the approaching burble of the motor launch. He shouted again, his voice pinching in his throat as the sickening truth crushed down on his organs. He fought not to let the idea take root in his mind. It wasn’t possible.
The launch was fifty yards away when a lancing beam from its searchlight cut across the water, dazzling Mercer in its glare. He turned away, his focus on the canal, not caring that he’d abandoned his ruse of being a photographer.
Lauren and Vic were experienced divers who knew their limits. They wouldn’t push it this long if they didn’t think they’d make it back. Mercer had to stall. He had to give them a couple more minutes no matter what it cost. He reached for the towel, feeling the outline of the pistol inside.
Juan put his hand on Mercer’s wrist. The boatman had retrieved something from a compartment under the dash and showed it to Mercer. It was a laminated card written in Spanish. The dates had long since expired, but even Mercer understood that ten years ago Juan Aranjo had been a certified diver. Juan touched his watch, his eyes downcast. He shook his head. The simple finality of that gesture was like a spike thrust into Mercer’s chest. Lauren and Vic weren’t coming back.
Mercer looked toward the concrete lock again and saw a figure in a black wet suit climbing the ladder bolted to the seawall. The emotional swing from desolation to immeasurable joy was like a sledgehammer blow that left him dizzy. The person was slender, like Lauren, and about the right height. And then a second diver emerged from the water. It had to be Vic. He kept his weight off one leg as he lurched up the ladder.
Mercer had no idea what had happened but the relief was like a jolt of electricity that turned to dismay when a third figure climbed from the water.
What the . . . ?
Mercer pulled the camera to his eye, zooming in on the dark figures. He saw immediately that these were strangers. All three divers wore double tanks, not the single cylinders Lauren and Vic carried. The wet suits were different too. One of them pulled off his hood. His hair was jet black, and when he turned slightly, Mercer saw his features. The frogman was Chinese.
A fourth diver heaved himself up to join the other three. In his hand was an empty speargun. He, too, appeared injured.
Mercer let go of Lauren’s pistol and collapsed onto the deck. His legs could not support the burden his heart now carried. Juan eyed the distant divers then the motor launch. His decision was made for him. It was time to go.
He moved to the driver’s seat, flicked on the fuel pump, then fired the engine. He called across the water to the helmsman in the launch, explaining how his boat was temperamental. Before the pilot boat could get any closer, he engaged his craft’s drive and floored the throttle. The Pedro Miguel Lock quickly receded behind them.
Mercer noticed none of this as he fought the inescapable. Lauren was dead. From deep in his lungs and even deeper in his soul, the agonized roar exploded into the night, a shout that rippled across the water like the death cry of a mortally wounded animal.
Somehow Liu had known they were coming and was waiting with divers ready to intercept them. That was only possible if they’d been set up. Somebody close to Mercer had betrayed them to the Chinese, sold them out and let them walk into a trap.
Not somebody, he thought. He knew who had done it and even knew why.
The rage at Lauren’s murder became a burning flame, phosphorus white and agonizing. Mercer was consumed with finding Rene Bruneseau.
The Radisson Royal Hotel Panama City, Panama
Lieutenant Foch was waiting at the hotel where Mercer stashed Harry and the Herrara family. He sat in a club chair, his forgotten drink tinted a watery brown as its ice melted away. Harry sat opposite, his drink vanquished by thirst rather than neglect. Behind them, staring across the glittering cityscape through the curtains, stood Rene Bruneseau. The hard-looking spy had his hands clasped behind his back, his face a mask. The air-conditioning system battled the hot anger infecting the luxury suite.
Carmen and the children had another room on a lower floor, ordered there by Mercer during his brief phone call from Limon where he’d parted ways with Juan Aranjo. He’d told everyone what had happened at Pedro Miguel. He’d also asked Roddy to call the dive shop where Lauren had rented her equipment. He was afraid that if the gear was identified, Liu would pay the owners a visit.
The expected knock on the door barely caused a stir. Roddy hastily answered it.
Mercer paused in the vestibule. His expression was savage, deepening the redness around his eyes and the purple-black bruises beneath them. His clothes were salt-rimed with dried sweat. His gaze caught Bruneseau’s reflection in the dark glass and the agent turned.
“Where were you when we got back from the Twenty Devils Mine?” Mercer moved his hand to the butt of Lauren Vanik’s pistol that stuck from the front of his shorts.
Rene matched the hard stare and answered, “At a mosque.”
This wasn’t what Mercer had expected. “You’re Muslim?” he asked lamely.
“For professional reasons I’ve hidden my religion. Even changed my name,” the Frenchman replied. “Yours isn’t the only country with racial prejudices, it’s just the only one to address them. I never would have risen to my current position if my superiors in the DGSE knew I was Muslim. The few Muslims in the agency are low-level translators or undercover men who aren’t entirely trusted no matter how loyally they serve.”
Mercer asked, “What would happen if people learned that you were a Muslim?”
Rene shrugged. “At best I’d be fired. At worst I would be jailed as a security breach and spend years being interrogated to find out if I’d ever betrayed the DGSE.”
Mercer had never believed Bruneseau would betray the Legionnaires, but he needed to know that what Rene had been doing during his absence was damaging enough to his career that he’d risk such suspicion. Admitting to being a Muslim in a predominantly Catholic country that had suffered countless terrorist attacks from Algerian extremists was enough in Mercer’s mind.
Now that he knew the truth, Mercer let the matter drop. Bruneseau’s religion was of no interest to him. “You know that Lauren and Tomanovic are dead because somebody tipped Liu. He was expecting us.” Mercer’s voice sounded like it had been dredged from the grave, rendered flat by the conflict of emotions.
He continued. “I don’t know if they found anything in the waters surrounding the lock, but I can still provide proof that China is about to blow up the canal. If I can do that will you go to your superiors?”
“To do what?”
“Stop them, for Christ’s sake!” Harry White snarled. “What the hell do you think we’ve been trying to do?”
“It depends on what you give me,” Bruneseau said. “Foch ran down all your speculations. Sounds compelling but means nothing. I can’t push a recommendation without something solid. And I’m sorry to say that losing Corporal Tomanovic and Captain Vanik in a diving accident aren’t enough.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” Mercer said.
“My superiors sent me here looking for missing nuclear material, not fanciful plots about taking over Panama. I don’t think y
our word will be enough to convince them of anything.”
“When I get back to the United States, I’m taking a position as Special Science Advisor to the President. I don’t know all the details about my new job, but you can believe that my word carries a lot more weight than you’d think.”
“But not enough,” Rene said, not to be sarcastic, but needing to put that fact out there.
“Too much is at stake to trust my contacts alone. I need you and your organization to back me up. Probably through the CIA or State Department.” Mercer then added, “I’m also going to call Lauren’s father, an army general.”
Lauren’s phone had a programmed number simply labeled “Daddy,” which he suspected was his private cellular line.
Bruneseau lit a cigarette, adding to the smog Harry had already breathed into the room. “I can’t make any promises,” the agent finally said. “Tell me your proof.”
The relief Mercer felt wasn’t enough to smother even part of the grief settled in his stomach. Still, he felt some. “Lauren and Tomanovic are dead because we were set up. I can give you the person who told Liu and will be able to verify some of what’s been going on.”
“Who did it?” Foch asked, his body erect, his knuckles turning white.
Mercer looked at the soldier, feeling his hatred. He felt for the Legionnaire, understood how badly he wanted revenge. He also knew that now wasn’t the time for sentiment. Logic was what would defeat Liu Yousheng, cold logic and a whole lot of luck. When Mercer answered, his response had the desired effect of confusing the soldier and dampening some of his rage. “Maria Barber.”
“Your friend’s wife?” Roddy gasped.
“His friend’s widow,” Harry corrected. “Mind explaining why she would help the Chinese when it was them who mutilated her husband?”
“I think it was Maria who first told Liu what Gary was doing.” Mercer took a seat, accepting the beer Roddy handed him from the mini-bar. “When I spoke with her in Paris, she told me that Roddy had made a critical discovery, something he was eager to show me, yet she didn’t sound too interested. From what I know of her she’s about as greedy as a person could be. She should have been screaming that she was about to become rich. It didn’t fit that she was so low-key. Same goes for when I showed up and wanted to head to the River of Ruin immediately. She seemed reluctant to come with me and had some pretty flimsy answers why Gary’s radio was out.