by Jack Du Brul
Accomplishments. They whirled past so fast he could grasp none. None of them meant anything now.
Women he’d known. He caught a blur of faces and snippets of conversation before they were all banished by the agony.
His nanny, Juma. She appeared in his imagination so anguished by what he was going through that he let her go.
His mother and father. He held their image in his mind for just a moment before they disappeared, each looking at him sadly, as if they had let him down once again by not giving him the haven he so desperately needed now.
Friends. Harry White back at Tiny’s Bar tricking an unsuspecting customer into buying him drinks by flipping a pair of double-headed coins. Even Harry faded into the agony.
God, what was there? his soul cried. What did it matter to stop Liu Yousheng? Who was he to protect Lauren and Bruneseau? What did they mean to him? Surely, not this.
Sun trailed his finger across Mercer’s cheek and it felt like two inches of flesh had been peeled back. He knew he was screaming, had been for many minutes, but couldn’t hear it any longer.
There was nothing that he could use to get beyond what Sun was doing to him. There would be no refuge, no trick he could play in his own mind to free himself from the torture. He was about to break. Knew it. Hated it.
Harry hadn’t used a pair of double-sided coins. There’d only been one, a two-headed quarter he’d picked up at a novelty shop.
Someplace beyond his chest, he felt a distant blooming of agony around one knee, like it had been smashed with a sledgehammer and the shards of bone ground against each other. Mercer felt the back of his teeth with his tongue. Somehow his mouth had closed. He’d stopped screaming.
And it hadn’t been a customer Harry had tricked. The son of a bitch had used the coin on me. I must have bought him four drinks before I figured it out.
“Talk to me!” Sun screamed.
Mercer ignored him, hardly noticing his hand being dipped in molten steel.
“Fool me once, shame on you,” Harry had cackled when he’d been found out. “Fool me twice, shame on me.” Then he added to the old adage. “Fool me four times in a row and I’m the biggest goddamned huckleberry to ever fall off the lettuce truck.”
“Answer me,” Sun screamed again. “Who was with you at the warehouse?”
Not lettuce truck. He’d said turnip truck. Biggest goddamned huckleberry to ever fall off the turnip truck.
Mercer could never hope to beat back the pain being inflicted. No human could. What he’d found was a shelter where the waves of agony washed against a mental barrier. This shield could only be as strong as his emotional connection to it. Rather than break Mercer completely, Sun had rendered him down to that one thing that the pain would never transcend. Mercer would never have thought it was Harry. His parents, yes, his dedication to his own ideals, possibly, even the memory of some of the women he’d loved. But Harry?
Who was Harry to him? To get further past the pain, that question demanded an answer. Friend wasn’t enough and father figure sounded like a new-age cop-out. What was he, then? He is I, Mercer realized. Or who I want to be in forty-plus years. Not the booze or the cigarettes or the bad jokes. It’s the loyalty he inspires, the steadfast dedication of a favor asked being a favor granted. Harry was the kind of person that people would talk about for decades after he’s gone-a phenomenon rarely seen beyond family groups and sports legends. He touched those around him in unexpected ways, but always leaving them a little better for it. Lauren had learned that in just days. And Roddy was ready to get into a war because of Harry’s friendship to his dead father.
It was a revelation to finally understand that despite all of Harry’s faults, he’d been Mercer’s role model, the person he had unconsciously patterned at least part of himself after. Nearly a decade of Harry’s friendship and influence had made Mercer the man he was now. And then he realized that his old friend had been his lifeline all along-the anchor not just through this agony but through the years they’d known each other.
Sun sensed his work was no longer producing the desired results. He hadn’t expected an American to understand the ways to slip from the needles’ touch, yet he could see that Mercer was dodging the pain. Inflicting more would accomplish nothing. He pulled just one of the needles he’d inserted to open the locus points and the fragile system of artificial pathways he’d created collapsed.
In one instant, all the pain, even the memory of the pain, vanished. Mercer was left slightly breathless. He knew what he’d just endured and it took a moment for his mind to adjust to the fact that there would be no aftereffects. To his body, it was as if the past hours of torment hadn’t happened, even if he recalled that his ankles had just seconds before felt like they’d been melted to the bone.
The torturer dipped his eyes in respect as he plucked needles from Mercer’s skin and returned them to their carrying cloth. He shut off the tape recorder. “Well done. While you have beaten the needles, don’t consider it a victory. Mr. Liu has given me two days to get the information he wants. Tomorrow I will begin with the clamps and hammers.” Sun tied up his bundle of needles. “Getting beyond self-generated pain is one thing. Let’s see how you do when I actually roast your feet and crush your testicles in a vise. Feeling pain is one thing, watching your body being mutilated while feeling it is quite another, I assure you.”
Mercer remained silent as his eyes shot a smoldering defiance. Sun turned for the door and guards came in to take Mercer back to his cell, leaving him with only a bowl of water and another of rice as well as a slop bucket with a lid.
He lay on the floor for an hour, slowly recovering from the unworldly experience. He massaged out a few muscles that had cramped under the pain, but other than that he felt pretty good. The smell of food made his stomach constrict and he had such a thirst that the small amount of saliva in his mouth felt like paste. Still, he couldn’t trust the offerings left by the Chinese. He was certain that either the food or the water was drugged, both probably, so he poured them into the metallic chamber pot. He settled his back against the wall of his cell, examining each surface of the bare room under the glow of the low-watt lightbulb.
“Okay, Harry,” he whispered. “Your inspiration bought me a couple more hours. Any idea what I can do with them?”
Escape, dumbass. Mercer could almost hear the imagined response.
“Easy for you to say. I’m in a concrete room with a locked steel door. The hinges are on the outside. There’s a rusty ventilation grille above the door that’s about one foot wide and eight inches tall. Other than the light fixture hardwired through conduit, I’ve got nothing but a couple of empty bowls, one nearly overflowing chamber pot and a pair of boxer shorts. What would you suggest?”
Of course there was no answer.
The cell had probably been built as a storeroom. When he’d been dragged down the hall by the guards, Mercer had seen a hallway with ten identical doors. Some kind of secure underground warehouse was his guess. But it couldn’t have been better designed as an escape-proof prison either. With his meager possessions, Mercer knew there was no way he was getting out before his next conversation with Mr. Sun.
“Now if only I had a screwdriver. . ”
The Twenty Devils Mine Cocle Province, Panama
Beyond the office windows, Liu Yousheng could see the side of the mountain had been sculpted back so it resembled the type of terrace farm seen all over southeast Asia. Rather than leveling land to produce flat plots for planting, the heavy machinery tearing into the hill searched for one of the most precious metals in the world. Of the different types of gold mining, strip mining is by far the most destructive. The mountain was being eaten, as if by a cancer, its flanks peeled away systematically to get to the gold-bearing ore underneath. The raw earth appeared red, rich in iron oxide-rust-but still it looked as though the soil bled from its wounds.
The deal he’d reached with former president Ochoa was that the open mine would be refilled once they reac
hed the end of the ore strata, called a banket reef. With him out of the way, and the pliable Omar Quintero now living in the Heron Palace, Liu no longer concerned himself with the ecological devastation. The jungle would eventually reclaim the pit. In two hundred years or so.
Another earlier concession to Ochoa that Liu could now ignore was the installation of a state-of-the-art processing plant to ensure none of the mercury used to separate gold from the crushed ore escaped into the water table. Liu had yet to activate the plant. Same went for the rolling mill that used monstrous drums filled with metal balls to pulverize the ore to a fine powder. It had lain idle since its construction.
The only machines in operation at the Twenty Devils Mine were the excavators, dump trucks, and bulldozers that endlessly pulled down more of the mountain the geologic reports said was the best suited for his operation.
He reflected how those reports had cost a fortune to come by. Drill crews had been hired to take hundreds of core samples, consulting geologists brought in to interpret the data, and an army of workers employed to pan the rivers and streams that flowed down from the hills in the area. In the end, they said exactly what Liu knew they would, that this mountain was a virtual mother lode of gold. The bullion that had been in the Hatcherly warehouse was proof, with their newly designed Republic of Panama seals stamping them 99.99 percent pure. That gold was reported to have come from panning, drilling, and surface recovery.
Liu’s estimate that the mine would annually pump two hundred million dollars into Panama’s economy was, if anything, a conservative appraisal. Half a billion might be closer to the truth.
The office Liu had commandeered for his visit belonged to the mine supervisor and was strewn with papers, reference books and crates of rock samples. It was cluttered and smelled of the dirt outside and the faint ozone tang of a poorly maintained air conditioner. He turned back from the window overlooking the site and blew across his fingertips. Across the desk sat Mr. Sun, sipping tea brought by the supervisor’s Chinese secretary. Only the lowliest laborers in the pit were native Panamanians. All other employees belonged to Hatcherly through a dummy corporation.
“You couldn’t break Mercer with your needles, but think he’ll crack from regular torture?” Liu said, unconvinced about such a claim after listening to the tape from the interrogator’s just-completed session. “It’s a risk I’m not comfortable with. It’s imperative I learn what he knows before he dies.”
“Before learning the needles, I was well acquainted with traditional techniques,” Sun replied. “I know his thresholds now. He can’t keep anything from me.”
The phone rang in the outer office and the secretary buzzed Liu. “Mr. Shan for you, sir.”
Liu picked up the phone. Because of what had happened to Ping on the night of the warehouse break-in, Shan had become his chief assistant from COSTIND. “What do you have, Shan?”
“The Canal Authority completed their investigation of the auto carrier. Their findings haven’t been made public but they will say that it was an attempt to hijack the ship so that the automobiles could be stolen.”
“Good.” The money Hatcherly had used bribing the new canal director, Felix Silvera-Arias, was well spent. His influence not only guaranteed that new pilots were Chinese working for another division of Hatcherly Consolidated, but he could also sweep aside unforeseen contingencies like the fight aboard the car carrier. “What about the government. What do they say?”
“They’ll go along with the Authority’s findings, with the added recommendation that soldiers travel through the canal on each ship to act as guards.”
Liu considered then dismissed the implications. A couple of bored Panamanian conscripts wouldn’t be a factor during the last phase of the operation. “Doesn’t matter. What’s happening at the lake?”
“Work has already resumed. We’ve dispatched additional guards to tighten the perimeter.” Shan faltered, “We may want to consider bringing in more soldiers from China, sir. We are stretched thin.”
“Out of the question.” Liu’s voice didn’t betray the anxiety he felt at the thought of having to beg more help from Beijing. His position back home was tenuous. Any sign that he couldn’t handle Red Island would bring swift action from COSTIND, his removal from Panama being the easiest punishment, his execution the most likely. Unconsciously he blew on his fingers again, yet spoke smoothly. “We are fine with the troops we have.”
“Yes, sir,” Shan answered.
“In a few hours I will know who we are facing, and what their goals are. That information will allow us to determine where our soldiers can be best deployed.”
“What about calling on President Quintero to dispatch some of his troops to the lake. We would need to legitimize the site somehow, a gold prospecting expedition or something, but that would give us reinforcements.”
“Good idea.” He could almost hear Shan swelling with pride. “I will call him, but I’ll ask him to send men here instead. Unlike our work at the lake, there’s nothing here they can see to compromise us.”
“And sir? Gemini,” Shan whispered the name, uneasy speaking the esoteric code word aloud, “is loaded and standing by.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Liu said quickly, for he too was uncomfortable on the open line. “Is there anything else?’
“No, sir.”
“I’ll be back in the city shortly. I’ll see you then.” The executive hung up the phone. From his coat pocket he removed a bottle of liquid antacid and took several swallows.
Across the desk, Sun watched him as if cataloguing the weakness if he ever needed to exploit it. He did that to every living thing he saw. It was instinct.
Liu mentally shuddered at the reptilian gaze and quickly put the bottle away. “You heard what I told Shan. I need that information from Mercer.”
“Once his body adjusts back down from the needles, I can employ the other methods.” Sun glanced at his newly acquired Swiss watch. “About four hours.”
This time Liu shuddered physically.
Studying the louvers that covered the air vent above the door, Mercer saw where he could get his screwdriver. Buoyed yet fighting mental and physical exhaustion, he had to make sure that there were no guards posted in the building before he got to work. He took the metal lid off the chamber pot and smashed it against the door handle, waited for a second and hit it again. Though producing a god-awful sound, the crash of steel against steel wasn’t enough to damage the heavy knob.
That would come later.
He kept it up for ten minutes, and when no one appeared to challenge him, he decided it was time to get to work. He dumped the contents of the slop bucket back into the bowls and inverted it in front of the door. The added height gave him enough leverage to insert the lid between two of the grille’s slats. Panama’s brutal humidity had so weakened the metal that when he yanked downward, one of the louvers broke free and dropped to the floor. The piece of steel was a foot long, and with a little work he managed to blunt one end to a flatness approximating a regular screwdriver.
He turned his attention to the light fixture.
The field of mine engineering is a multidisciplinary one. People not familiar with the work assume it involves little more than digging holes. In fact, excavation is just part of the process. A good mine engineer must understand structural loading in order to keep a mine from collapsing, industrial ventilation to maintain breathable air, plumbing to remove seepage, and electrical mechanics to provide light for the miners and power to the equipment. While specialists are brought in to handle specifics of each field, the overall project supervisor must know them all. In a sense supervisors are jacks-of-all-trades, but unlike the Jack from the adage, they must be masters of them all.
Mercer approached the light fixture with the confidence of a professional electrical contractor. As he’d noted earlier, it was fed power through a one-inch steel conduit pipe clamped to the ceiling. Near where the pipe stuck through the block wall was a coupling that threaded two pieces
of conduit together. Before unscrewing the coupling, he first needed to free the wires within it from where they attached to the light. He set his inverted chamber pot under the fixture and used his makeshift screwdriver to remove the screws holding the cover to the base. Two wires, one of them carrying the current, were attached by set screws as he’d anticipated.
He could have simply yanked them free and pulled the conduit from the ceiling to get what he wanted, but when the hot feed touched the inside of the pipe, it would short-circuit and trip a breaker. He couldn’t chance the breaker snapping off, alerting his guards. This demanded subtlety.
Knowing what he was up against, he unthreaded the conduit and unscrewed the clamps holding the pipe to the ceiling so that it dangled from the wires running through it. The section of conduit was about four feet long. Perfect.
Mercer stripped off his boxer shorts. Using the sharper end of his screwdriver like a knife, he sliced away the underwear’s elastic band, then cut the band into one-inch segments. Enough elastic remained for him to wrap his index and middle finger. Now came the tricky part.
He got back up on his bucket and loosened the set screw that held the return wire to the light. The rubberized material around his fingers protected him from the electric current flowing through the fixture. Next, he backed off the hot feed, making certain that both wires maintained contact with the light. He took a breath, mentally running through his next motions, then pulled the live feed.
The windowless cell was plunged into a darkness worse than a starless night. There was no need to wait for his eyes to adjust. They couldn’t. Until he was finished, everything had to be accomplished in absolute blackness. By feel, he poked the first of his elastic scraps over the end of the electrified wire, working it a quarter inch along its length before it butted against the plastic insulation coating. He kept adding elastic, like skewering a kabob, until the shiny wire was padded with the nonconductive material.