“If you want to see the Culebra Cut, work crews are getting ready to head in to fix whatever got broken today and replace bits on the big rock drills and the like. This means it’s a little quieter, and there’s no restrictions on movement because the blasting is suspended for a while. It’s a great time to see the cut for yourself.”
“Anything to distract me from this mess. Let’s go.”
Westbrook took one of the trucks from the motor pool, and they drove northeast on the road that paralleled the double tracks of the Panama Canal Railway. At another station and company town like the one at the Pedro Miguel Locks, Westbrook parked, and they walked to the edge of a narrow valley that stretched for miles in either direction.
On each side of the valley, the land had been contoured into steps like those in the photographs of Asian rice paddies Bell had seen, but these tiers were enormous. On many, two sets of train tracks had been laid. The upper steps were devoid of any activity, while toward the valley floor, as they watched, a train loaded with ore pulled away while another slid into its place. Each train included twenty-one open-sided flatbed cars hauled by a single locomotive.
Westbrook said, “When the trains reach their destination, a three-ton plow blade is placed at the back of the last car. It’s attached to a winch between the first car and the locomotive. Power from the locomotive drives the winch and drags the plow over all the cars, scraping the dirt off to one side. That way, we can unload an entire train in about ten minutes.”
What fed the rock and earth onto the flatbed cars were machines that looked like they’d sprung from the era of iron dinosaurs. These were the ninety-five-ton Bucyrus steam shovels. They were longer than the locomotives and belched black smoke from a single stack in the middle of their broad backs. Men fed coal into the boiler at the rear of the machine, which provided the motivating power, while at the front was a forty-foot riveted boom that supported a mechanical dipping arm capped by a shovel bucket that looked to be the size of a bedroom.
Bell watched, rapt, as the operator swung the boom to the side and dropped the dipper so that the bucket faced the mountain of dirt ahead of the machine. The dipper then slid forward and upward, the bucket tearing a great gash in the ground. Even as the operator raised the bucket up, he was swinging the boom to the other side so that the bucket was in position to dump its contents onto a train without wasting a single second. With the throw of a lever in the cab, the bottom of the bucket fell open and the mass of rock and dirt tumbled onto the flatbed. And then the boom was in motion again to let the bucket rip out another eight-ton chunk of the Culebra Cut.
“And how long have you been widening this valley?”
Westbrook shook his head as if disappointed. “That’s a common question from first-time visitors. And when I tell them the answer, they’re even more impressed.”
“Okaaay,” Bell said, drawing out the word a bit.
“There was no valley, Mr. Bell. We dug it all. Eight miles long, fifteen hundred feet wide in places, five hundred feet deep in other places. When we finish, we’ll have pulled a hundred million cubic yards of rock out of the cut.”
Bell looked back with even deeper appreciation at what he was seeing and the enormity and audacity of the herculean undertaking. Everywhere he gazed he saw the monstrous excavators swinging their booms back and forth, filling train after train, while ahead of them teams of men worked around mobile drilling vehicles bigger than any truck he’d ever seen. They drilled close-knit clusters of holes that would be packed with dynamite. Long, rolling detonations would echo across the artificial canyon as the blasts pulverized rock into manageable chunks for the steam shovels. There was even room for laborers by the thousands, with picks and shovels and hand drills, all trying to feed the insatiable appetite of the excavators.
“At the height of digging,” Westbrook added, “we had more than one hundred steam shovels, four thousand ore cars, a hundred and thirty miles of track, which could be shifted as the work progressed, and more than nine thousand men. With the spoil, we built the Gatun Dam, the longest in the world, plus a three-mile breakwater at the Pacific terminus of the canal, and thereby reclaimed five hundred acres of the Pacific that will be a new town and military fort. And there is still so much overburden that we have a bunch of dumpsites in the jungle.”
“I had no idea,” was all Bell could say.
Westbrook smiled knowingly. “No one really does.”
Bell pointed down the cut to where the wall of the valley bulged. “Why have you left that big pile of rubble on the valley floor?”
Now the young engineer grimaced. “That’s a landslide. One of many we’ve encountered. The biggest is at Cucaracha and is about two million cubic yards’ worth of headache. Eventually, we’re going to have to flood the canal and clear it by dredge.”
“What causes the slides?”
“Rain is a big factor, but really it’s just that the weight of the material we’ve removed kept the earth stable. When we dig it out, the ground needs to find its equilibrium again. The geologists say that this will be a problem for a hundred years or more, and dredging will be a constant part of the canal’s maintenance.
“But to get back to your original question, we’ve been digging here pretty much nonstop since crews first arrived in Panama in 1904.”
“Truly amazing,” Bell said.
“That’s the thing about the canal. Its three principal components—the locks, the Gatun Dam to create a navigable lake, and the Culebra Cut—are each in and of themselves the largest and most daunting engineering challenges ever undertaken. Here we managed to undertake all three simultaneously in hundred-degree heat, ninety percent humidity, and under the constant threat of tropical disease.”
“I had some thoughts about the changes coming to America’s West Coast as a result of the canal’s completion without really thinking through what the canal means for the rest of the country and the world. I believe we are at the dawn of the American Century, where we take our place as a world power.”
“There’s a lot of talk like that down here,” Westbrook agreed. “The great Ferdinand de Lesseps, the architect of the Suez Canal, came here and failed miserably, practically bankrupting his nation and losing twenty thousand men in the process. But we’re about to finish it, Mr. Bell. Little upstart America is going to do what the mighty French could not. We see it as a sort of baton pass, like in a relay race. We’re all mighty proud of what we’ve done, which makes the likes of the Red Vipers doubly vicious. They’re killing our men while also trying to kill our dream.”
“Today was a big escalation on their part.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“It doesn’t fit the pattern. They’ve been small-scale, so far, thievery and sabotage, with just some incidental, rather than deliberate, injuries. Then came the attack in California, and now the bombing. Outright murder. What changed here in Panama that led them to such an attack? Their message is out there and spreading. They are garnering allies among the local population, so things are working in their favor for the time being. And time is something they have on their side. Construction will likely carry on for another year, meaning there’s plenty of opportunity to press their case.”
“I hadn’t thought about that.”
Bell shrugged. “And maybe this fits their timetable exactly and I’m talking out of my hat.”
“Let’s head back. I can drop you at the Tivoli.”
“I’m actually staying at the Central.”
“Better choice,” Sam told him. “Tivoli tends to be temporary workers and Washington types, skulking around. There’s usually some interesting characters at the Central.”
14
Fresh from a shower and wearing a cream linen suit with a dark tie and proper shoes rather than his rain boots, Bell slipped into the Central Hotel’s dining room with Marion on his arm. She wore a yellow dress and the smil
e of a woman who’d just won an argument. Bell had failed to convince her to return to home in light of the bombing.
Bell scanned the space on the off chance he’d recognize someone and immediately spotted Court Talbot at a table with a handful of people. A few of the other tables in the brightly lit room were occupied, but the level of conversation was muted. People were still reeling from the news about the bombing. Ceiling fans stirred the warm smoky air.
Talbot waved Bell to his table. “Ah, the Bells. Join us, please.”
“No. We haven’t eaten yet and all of you have.”
“It doesn’t matter. Sit.” He summoned a waiter. “Bring two bowls of sancocho for my friends.” He pulled out a chair for Marion as he explained. “Sancocho is the national dish. It’s a kind of chicken soup with corn, yams, and fresh cilantro. It’s also good in the morning if you are hungover. What are you drinking?”
“What do you recommend?”
Talbot called to the retreating waiter, “Juan, two rum and lime sodas, por favor.”
“Sí, Señor Talbot.”
“I’m here most Friday nights just to meet new people passing through the city,” the former Army Major explained. “Let me introduce you around. That lovely woman seated next to the luckiest man in the world is Mrs. Juliet Webb. Her husband is Whittier. Next to him is Felix Ramirez, and on the other side is Herr Ernst Leibinger-Holte of Zurich. And the last gentleman is Guillermo Acosta from Argentina.” Rather than reach awkwardly across the table to shake hands, Bell nodded to each person in turn. “It’s too bad you missed the famed aviator Robert Fowler, Isaac. He has just left Panama. Anyway, my friends, this is Isaac Bell, of the Van Dorn Detective Agency, and his charming wife, Marion. In case any of you don’t know, Isaac is the man who killed the fiend responsible for today’s tragedy.”
Bell noted that Talbot did not mention his tenuous connection to the bomber.
“Bravo, Mr. Bell,” Juliet said. She was raven-haired and maybe thirty years old, dressed in stylish clothes that gave no concession to the rain or mud. Her white skirt was long but amazingly unsullied. Her husband was a few years younger with a look Bell knew well. Whit Webb was the son of privilege. It was in the indolent way he held his mouth, to the hooded eyes, to the way he dismissed Bell as being nothing more than a tradesman.
Then he studied the man a little closer and realized he was a plaything for his wife. Bell noted he wore no class ring, so wherever he was schooled wasn’t worth bragging about. He was drinking a dark wine with fish, and his shoes, though a little muddy, lacked the underlying shine a gentleman would expect no matter what the circumstances. She was obviously well-off. Her diamond necklace alone cost as much as a Model T. But it was definitely her money, not his, and that would certainly be the dynamic of their relationship.
“You did Panama a service today, señor.” Felix Ramirez was as sleek as a cat, with slicked-back black hair and a thin mustache. His eyes flashed with both intelligence and cunning and were crinkled at the corners, which made him look over forty but not yet fifty. He was dressed well, though Bell could see where a button had been poorly resewn onto his shirt, and there was fraying around one jacket pocket. He wasn’t as successful as he wanted people to think he was. He smoked a cigar with his left hand while his right played absently with a gambling token with the dexterity of a street magician.
“A harrowing thing, I should imagine,” said the Swiss gentleman, Leibinger-Holte.
He sported a dark worsted suit that had wilted in the tropical heat, and his shirt was stained around the collar by the day’s sweat. He wore a severe expression, yet behind his wire-rimmed glasses his blue eyes were friendly. Bell sensed a conflict between who he presented himself as and who he really was. He was seated so there was no way to determine his height, but he had a slight build, with long, tapering fingers, and a network of veins on the back of each hand.
Bell guessed his age as fifty.
“Sorry I’m late, what?” a man said, coming up behind Bell. His accent was pure Eton and Oxford, with just enough of a country undertone to make one think of England’s charming villages and impart the impression his family likely had several on its estate.
“Tats,” Court Talbot said, smiling at the new arrival. “Finally back from the Colon? I mean from Colón. Too much Spanish in my English?”
Bell saw by the flush on Juliet Webb’s cheeks and the way she’d parted and moistened her lips that it meant the unseen man behind him was as handsome as his voice was cultured.
“Mr. and Mrs. Whittier Webb and Mr. and Mrs. Isaac Bell, may I present Lord Benedict Hamilton Macalister. Tats, you already know Felix and Ernst.”
“I do. Gentlemen, always a pleasure.” He grabbed a chair from a nearby table and wedged himself in with the group. “To have not one but two beautiful women gracing our presence gives some amount of pleasure on an otherwise dreadful day.”
“Why do they call you Tats?” Juliet Webb asked.
The Englishman gave a self-deprecating little chuckle that was as practiced as his story. “I made an unfortunate wager that I could beat Christ’s College’s fastest rower in the Wingfield Sculls race on the Thames. It turned out that I could not beat him, and, as a result, his winning time was tattooed in such a place that I preferred not to sit for a few days afterward. There were no others at Ox with such a decoration and so I was given my nickname.”
His tale got a round of laughter from the people at the table and a fresh flush on Juliet Webb’s face.
Macalister was in his mid-thirties but had the self-possession of a much older person, one who was making his way through life and finding success and joy at every turn. His hair was sandy blond and cut longer than fashionable so that a cowlick was always threatening to cover his long-lashed eyes. He was slender without being gaunt, and his white suit was impeccably tailored. Marion would have cast him in one of her movies the moment she laid eyes on him.
He was seated next to Bell, so they shook hands.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Bell.” Macalister indicated to the waiter that he wanted a rum and lime soda. “What brings you to Panama?”
Court Talbot answered before Bell could. “He happened to be with me and Senator Densmore of California when we were attacked by Viboras Rojas. Like today’s terrible event, Mr. Bell was there to save the day, as it were. So, it comes as little surprise he’s an investigator for the Van Dorn Agency.”
“Ooh,” cried Juliet, her eyes shining. “That must be an exciting job.”
Bell made a dismissive gesture. “Not as much as you would think. A lot of it is just waiting and watching for your target to do something stupid so you can prove your case.”
“Ha,” Talbot said, braying. “I’ve known you a week, and you’ve thwarted an assassination attempt and brought a mad bomber to heel.”
Bell laughed. “Let’s just say this hasn’t been a typical week. What about you, Lord Macalister? Why are you here?”
He shot Talbot a scowl. “I’m afraid Lord Macalister is my father and eventually to be my eldest brother. Court continues to believe he has a sense of humor because we’re all too kind to tell him otherwise. As I will not be a lord, and since our family had to give up their serfs eons ago, and thus our unlimited wealth, I must make my way in this world in any manner I can. There are always opportunities at the beginning of any great enterprise, and currently there is none greater than the canal.”
Bell noted that Macalister’s response wasn’t really an answer. He asked the same of the Argentine, Acosta.
Felix Ramirez answered instead. “I am sorry, Mr. Bell. Señor Acosta speaks very little English. He is a civil engineer here to learn dam-building techniques to take back to his native country. They have tremendous hydroelectric potential in the highlands.”
“Ahh.”
Macalister addressed Court Talbot. “Did the old man give you the okay?”
“He did right after they hit the crane at Pedro Miguel.”
“Awful business, that,” the Englishman said. “More than two dozen dead, and for what? Do they really think at this late stage that you Yanks are going to stop work, pull up stakes, and bugger off back to America?”
“We would never,” Juliet said with patriotic fervor. “Right, Whit?”
“Absolutely.” As if he would ever disagree with his wife. “The more someone pushes us, the harder we push back.”
“We are a proud people and have not had a hand in our destiny for a long time.” This from Felix Ramirez.
“Surely you do not agree with these”—the businessman from Switzerland, Leibinger-Holte, struggled to find the right word—“monsters?”
“No, of course not,” Ramirez said quickly. “But there are those who believe that Panama should be for Panamanians.”
“Was that the belief before there was a canal?” Marion asked.
While it could have been a provocative question, Ramirez was too smooth to rise to the bait. “It was a much quieter aspiration back then, Mrs. Bell. However, the belief that we are different than those living on the other side of the Darién Gap is as old as the country itself.”
A waiter arrived with more drinks and the bowls of stew for Marion and Bell.
Tats then asked Talbot, “How will you proceed from here?”
The veteran soldier said nothing for the few seconds it took for the waiter to finish his delivery and retreat. “Can’t be too careful.”
Felix laughed. “You think the waiter could be an agent for Viboras Rojas?”
Talbot said, “I actually think anyone can be. They managed to pull off a sophisticated attack here and in California. That means they have connections inside and outside the zone. And Tats, as to my plans, surely you know I can’t discuss them with anyone outside my squad.”
Bell and Court Talbot exchanged a brief look. They hadn’t forgotten that the Red Vipers had possessed advanced knowledge of the meeting in San Diego. The leak had to have come from here rather than Senator Densmore’s office. That meant one of his troopers was talking to someone he shouldn’t.
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