by Jack Du Brul
“No, I’m a mining engineer. Gary and I went to college together.”
Captain Vanik had stopped listening. She was watching as the Panamanians trooped around the encampment. “Excuse me,” she said to Mercer and strode across to the head official. A holstered Beretta 92 slapped against her slim hip with each pace.
As several of the other policemen unceremoniously stacked corpses into the larger boat, she began a shouting match with the group’s leader. Her Spanish sounded colloquial. Mercer moved closer, and a few minutes later Captain Vanik spun away from the cop. Her face had darkened.
“What is it?” Mercer asked.
“Damn fools. I was afraid this would happen.” She pronounced I as Ah. “I wish I had time to get a real forensic team from Panama City.”
“Why?”
“El colonel Sanchez,” she sneered, “has determined simply by walking by the bodies that this was a failed kidnapping attempt by Colombian rebels who have already slunk back across the border.”
It appeared Colonel Sanchez was more than satisfied that this was done by long-vanished narco-traffickers so he could just clear the site, fill out his report and go back to the sleepy office he kept somewhere. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she parroted. “The lazy bastard’s convinced he’s solved another one. Five guerrilla attacks in Darien in four months and every time it’s the same story. Usually he doesn’t even come out to inspect the sites except this time a gringo got himself killed.”
Not prone to making snap judgments of people, Mercer had to go with his gut impression that Captain Vanik cared far beyond her official capacity. It was in her quick anger at the police ineptitude. Since Sanchez wasn’t likely to act on his suspicions, he had to trust that she would.
“He’s more wrong than you know. Want me to tell you what really happened here?”
Lauren Vanik looked at him sharply. “What do you know?”
Mercer led her a little away from the others. “These people weren’t murdered by Colombian guerrillas. In fact, they weren’t murdered at all.” Mercer took a breath, pulling together the small bits of evidence that had drawn him to a rather outlandish but inescapable conclusion. “They were killed by an invisible wall of carbon dioxide gas that swept down this valley from a volcanic lake farther up the river. The bullet wounds are all posthumous to make this look like an attack.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked in her scratchy alto voice.
“I noticed something was wrong when we first arrived on this river. There were no sounds from the jungle, no birds or monkeys. An area like this should sound like a zoo at feeding time. I also saw that a lot of the trees were stripped of foliage on their upstream side, as if a storm had passed through.”
“I noted that stuff too.” Captain Vanik nodded. “I didn’t think anything of it.”
“Neither did I until I did some exploring. Some of the dead chickens supposedly shot by the gunmen hadn’t been shot at all. They didn’t miss the goats or dogs but they just raked the chicken pen figuring no one would look too closely. And the animal corpses I saw in the jungle show no physical trauma, no reason to be dead. Also they weren’t decomposed yet. Few insects out there to eat them. That’s when I checked around the kitchen tent. The cockroaches were all dead and all of them were on their backs.”
“Meaning?”
“Cockroaches breath through a tube on their abdomens. When they’re poisoned, they roll over in an effort to get more air. An exterminator explained it to me when I first bought my town house and discovered a roach problem. The only thing that could have killed the roaches, the birds, monkeys and Gary’s people at the same time is some kind of poison gas. With me so far?”
“Yeah. I can see that.”
“Okay, if it was an attack by rebels using mortars or gas grenades, the people would have panicked and tried to run into the jungle. Yet everyone appears to have simply fallen dead where they were. No one ran anywhere. No one panicked. They all just fell dead when the carbon dioxide hit.”
“How do you know it was CO2?”
“Because it’s colorless, odorless, heavier than air, and can come from a natural source. It would have swept this camp like a wind that no one would have thought anything of until they started to die.” He paused. “And because something like this has happened before.”
Lauren’s bicolored eyes told him to continue. “In August of 1986 a volcanic lake called Nyos in Cameroon, Africa, erupted one night, belching out thousands of tons of CO2 that killed about seventeen hundred people. The gas had risen up from a magma chamber under the lake and became dissolved in the water until something released it, a small earthquake possibly. Like opening a can of soda after shaking it, the gas came out of solution in a fountain that scientists estimate was two hundred and fifty feet tall. The villagers lived in a valley below the lake. When the heavy gas poured into the town, it suffocated every living creature.”
She listened intently. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“Few people have. There’s only one other lake like it in the world, well, maybe two if I’m right about what happened here.”
“I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but volcanic gas can’t explain bullet holes. And you said this wasn’t Colombians. Why?”
“This is where the story gets really weird.” He told her about Gary’s belief in the Twice-Stolen Treasure and how he thought it might be here. Then he explained how he’d been drawn into the search by going to a Paris auction and how thieves almost made off with the Lepinay journal, saying that it was the only item not purchased by a nameless Chinese businessman with ties to Panama.
“So you’re saying some Chinese guy who’s looking for this treasure shot a bunch of corpses for the fun of it?”
“I think what happened was he came out here to hijack Gary’s effort, I assume by killing him and his people, but when he arrived he found everyone was already dead. He had to know that eventually Gary’s wife would become suspicious and the bodies would be found. He couldn’t afford to have such a mysterious death investigated. Scientists would fly in from all over the world to test the lake to see if it was a CO2 eruption.”
“By shooting the bodies,” Lauren interrupted, “and making this look like a rebel attack, he knew the local police wouldn’t spend more than a day here and they could come back and pick up where Mr. Barber left off.”
Mercer was pleased that she made the same intuitive leap that he had. “That’s how I figure it.”
She looked over to where Sanchez was smoking little cigarillos with one of his men. “He wouldn’t believe us even if we showed him proof.”
“That’s why I told you and not him.”
“I know you have some sort of proposition for me, so what is it?”
“I want to take a look around that lake tomorrow, maybe collect some samples. If it is high in CO2, I can have a team from the States here in twelve hours. I know a couple of the geologists who’ve studied Lake Nyos. Unfortunately I don’t speak Spanish and I’d like Ruben and his boys to stick around to help me. What I need is a translator. It would only be for a day or two.”
Suspicious, Vanik narrowed her eyes. “You’re hoping that a well-publicized science team will deter this Chinese guy from coming back until you can find the treasure.”
“I have no interest in the treasure,” Mercer countered. “Hell, I don’t even think there is one. I just want the son of a bitch who almost had me killed in Paris and came here to murder my friend.”
Gary Barber’s Camp on the River of Ruin
Police Colonel Sanchez and his troopers spent a total of thirty-eight minutes at the camp before the last of the bodies was stowed on the largest boat and they were ready to leave. The officials wanted to be in El Real as soon after sunset as possible. He tried to order Captain Vanik back with him, but Mercer got the impression that no one but a direct superior officer could order her anywhere. She’d made her decision to remain behind and that was it. Sanche
z boarded his launch, warning her about guerrillas and saying that he had no desire to return in the morning to pick up more gringo corpses. She threw his retreating party a mocking salute, cursing them in a frustrated breath. Ruben tossed in a few choice phrases of his own and then they were alone-Mercer, U.S. Army Captain Lauren Vanik, and three Panamanian mercenaries.
Sundown was an hour away and already the light was diffused, ruddy and deeply shadowed. They quickly established a smaller camp upstream from the ruins of Gary’s bivouac. The prevailing wind swept away the coppery smell of blood, but none wanted to remain near the site of so much death. They tolerated the hordes of insects that swarmed their campfire because its cheery glow dispelled the superstitious chills that struck them all.
“You’re sure we’re not in any danger from another wave of gas bursting from the lake?” Lauren asked as Mercer heated cans of spaghetti he’d taken from the camp kitchen.
Mercer used a bandana as a pot holder to retrieve one can and set it next to her. “The CO2 needs to build to a critical level before it can erupt. It may never reach that level again, and even if it does, it’ll take months, maybe years.”
“So we’re safe?” She savored the hot food.
Mercer imagined she’d spent part of her military career where this meal would be a luxury. The Balkans was his guess. “From the gas, yes, and I don’t think the gunmen will be back for a few days at least. They’ll wait until local interest dies down entirely.”
She gave him an appraising glance. “You seem to understand something about tactics.”
“Isn’t that what you would do?” Mercer asked innocently.
“Absolutely, but most civilians don’t think that way. Fact is, most civilians would be in Panama City right now waiting for a flight to Miami.”
There was an invitation in that statement to further explain his motivations. Mercer was about to tell her how it was he knew terrorist tactics probably better than she did when a single rifle shot cracked from the jungle where Ruben was collecting firewood.
Lauren Vanik’s reactions were like electricity, sharp and fast. She kicked at the fire, scattering the logs to create a curtain of dense smoke, then rolled away, her Beretta coming out of her holster. She racked the slide, fingered off the safety and had the area where the shot had originated covered in a prone, two-handed position. In the time it took her to do all that, Mercer had barely thrown himself flat. Ruben’s two men remained seated on the far side of the fire, their guns just now coming up when there was a crash of tree limbs followed by a high-pitched scream.
Twenty seconds ticked by before Ruben shouted from the bush and Lauren safed her weapon.
“What is it?” Mercer whispered, still marveling at how fluidly she moved.
Before she answered, Ruben stepped into the clearing holding a boy by the back of his T-shirt. His M-16 was on his shoulder. He spoke in quick Spanish and Lauren laughed.
“Says he caught the kid in your friend’s camp looking for food. The shot was over the kid’s head and he says he tried to bury his head in the dirt.”
The boy was about ten or twelve, rail thin and exhausted. His dark eyes dominated the smooth planes of his face. They were wide with shock and fear, like a caged animal’s. His hair was as long as a girl’s, dirty now, but so black it would probably shimmer after a proper bath. His eyelashes too were long and made his face a thing of delicate beauty. Once he spotted the can of spaghetti near where Mercer stood brushing sand off his clothes, he had attention for nothing else.
Lauren holstered her Beretta and got down on her haunches when Ruben dragged the boy closer. The mercenary went to the far side of the fire to rejoin his men. Lauren spoke in melodic Spanish, her Southern accent transmitting the care of a mother soothing her own child. The change from combat readiness to such tenderness was remarkable. Mercer wondered again if she had been a peacekeeper, a job that demanded equal measures of ferocity and sensitivity. That she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring didn’t mean she didn’t have a child of her own, either.
“I speak English,” the boy said after a moment’s conversation. “My name is Miguel.”
“I’m Lauren.” She shook the boy’s hand. “And this is. . I’m sorry, I forgot your first name.”
“It’s Philip, but everyone calls me Mercer.” Getting down to the boy’s eye level, he also shook Miguel’s hand. “What are you doing out here?”
“Mi mama and papa, they work for Mr. Gary. They went to sleep two days ago and I couldn’t wake them.”
Mercer handed over his canned meal and a spoon. “Where were you when they went to sleep?”
From around a mouthful of food he said, “I was playing up the hill.” Miguel pointed to the top of the ridge flanking the valley. “I hear a big wind that tore up the jungle and when I come down everyone was asleep. And then. . a day later. .”
A shadow settled behind his eyes, dimming them.
“We know what happened,” Lauren said. “Men came, didn’t they?”
The boy nodded, his meal forgotten.
“They did bad things?” Another nod. “Do you know how many?”
He held up four grubby fingers.
“You were very smart to hide in the jungle when they came, Miguel. That was the bravest thing to do.” She intuitively knew he felt like he’d let his parents down by not preventing the desecration of their bodies. “Your mama and papa would have wanted you to stay away from the bad men.”
“I wanted to come out, but I saw guns. I’m not supposed to be near guns.” His gaze flicked to her pistol peeking out the back of its holster. “You are a soldier so it’s okay you have one.” He looked at Mercer. “Are you a soldier too?”
“No. I’m a friend of Mr. Gary’s.”
The name seemed to bring out the boy’s natural resilience and his voice brightened. “I like Mr. Gary. He is funny. Can you be funny?”
Mercer was at a loss, uncomfortable in the child’s presence. How can you entertain a boy who just lost his entire family, but desperately needed reassurance that all adults weren’t butchers who shoot up corpses? “I’m not funny,” he said, pulling his bandana from a pocket. “But I can make a rabbit poop chocolate.”
Miguel giggled. “No, you can’t.”
The Snickers bar was half melted from the heat and misshapen from being in Mercer’s pocket. He’d found it earlier in the camp. He palmed the candy bar before the boy saw it and tucked one side of the bandana in the creases between his three middle fingers. By pulling the cloth’s tails through his fingers he created long floppy ears, and when he wiggled his middle finger, it looked like a rabbit sniffing the air. Miguel’s wary expression became wonder at the transformation. Mercer blew a wet raspberry and let the candy fall from inside the rabbit to his other hand. Miguel screamed with delight.
“Told you so.” He gave the chocolate to Miguel.
The boy petted the rabbit before tearing open the wrapper. “Can he do it again?”
“He needs to eat first.”
“I’ll go find some leaves for him. I’d like another candy bar.”
“Not so fast, young man.” Lauren grabbed his arm before he could run off into the jungle. “I think you should stick with us.”
It was only fifteen minutes before the effects of warm food and human contact had the desired effect on Miguel. Some instinct pushed him more toward Mercer than Lauren, a need for the protection he thought only a man could offer. He curled up next to Mercer, his head resting on Mercer’s outstretched leg. Lauren touched Miguel’s smooth cheek as she covered him with a clean blanket from the destroyed camp. Mercer had reformed the rabbit puppet in the boy’s tiny hand, though it had wilted between his sleep-loosened fingers. Miguel hugged it to himself like a teddy bear.
“I think you’ve made a friend.” Lauren sat on Mercer’s other side. “You have children of your own?”
Reaching for the carryall he’d bought, trying not to disturb the lad, Mercer extracted a bottle of duty-free brandy. “I don’t even
have nephews or nieces.”
“Well, you’re a natural.”
Mercer was surprised. He had always been uneasy around kids. He found the responsibility of forming a child into an adult to be unimaginable. He feared that saying or doing the wrong thing during even a casual meeting could somehow cause irreparable harm. Knowing that belief was irrational didn’t change the fact that he avoided children whenever he could. He’d heard kids were supposed to pick up on things like that so he was at a loss to explain Miguel’s quick attachment to him.
Then again maybe there was a bond after all.
The jungle had darkened so that the greens of the bush had merged into an impenetrable black deeper than the star-strewn sky overhead. A distant bird cried. The only other sound was the swish of the river and an occasional rustle of wind. How different was this night from one many years ago? The continents were separated by a thousand miles, but weren’t the jungle and the sounds so similar as to be indistinguishable? Wasn’t he about the same age as Miguel when he watched those he loved get wiped out?
Mercer was about to take a long pull from the brandy bottle as the memories overran him, but stopped his hand before he lifted it from the sand.
Driven by the same wanderlust that would infect his son a generation later, David Mercer had gone to central Africa in the early 1960s to hire out his geologic knowledge and mining expertise to various companies. Over the course of several years he built a solid reputation as a competent prospector who could also navigate through the tangled and often corrupt bureaucracies that formed in the wake of independence. It was in the Congo that he met his wife, who had come to Africa from Brussels as an inexperienced fashion model. Caring little for her profession, she’d only come on the trip to get a free ticket to Africa in order to pursue her true passion, animal rights. Two weeks after their chance meeting during one of David’s rare trips to Leopoldville, they were married. Their only child, Philippe, named for Siobahn’s long-dead father, was born at a mining camp in the Katanga Province a couple years later.