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. “Just 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 your 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.
“None of this mattered at the time. Even when I found the bodies in the jungle I didn’t get suspicious. Granted she didn’t act like she was too upset, but she’d told me that she and Gary were having problems. She didn’t even want to come for his funeral.” Mercer shuddered, thinking about her coldness that day and how she’d come on to him just a couple of nights later. “After what happened tonight, I was thinking about who could have set us up and that’s when I recalled her odd reactions. I think she knew her husband was dead before we got there. Only she believed that the camp had been overrun by Liu’s men, not CO
2
gas.
“I arrived in Panama a full day before she was expecting me and didn’t give her a chance to warn Liu that I’d go to the camp. So it was no coincidence that his choppers were there the next day when Lauren, Miguel, and I were exploring the lake. They knew about Gary’s purported discovery from Maria and were already in the middle of securing the treasure for themselves.”
Rene interrupted, “I can believe that Liu was told that Barber was about to find the treasure, but couldn’t he have learned it from someone living in the nearby village?”
“It’s possible,” Mercer conceded. “That wouldn’t explain what happened tonight. Only Maria knew about Gary’s discovery
and
that we were going to the lock.”
“Oh, God,” Roddy cried quietly as he realized his role in what had happened. “I told her on the phone that you were out on Lake Gatun. She must have informed Liu and he made the connection to the lock. It was the same as if I told the Chinese myself.”
“You couldn’t know what she would do with that information,” Mercer said, hoping to assuage some of Roddy’s misplaced guilt.
“I should have.”
“How? No one suspected her until it was too late. Roddy, listen to me.” He waited for the Panamanian to look him in the eye. “No matter what you’re thinking, you are not to blame for Lauren and Vic. Maria Barber was the one who passed on that information, knowing what Liu would do with it. We can’t afford your feelings of self-recrimination. It’s selfish.”
Harry cleared his throat to get the conversation back on track. He gave Mercer a look that said he’d talk more with Roddy afterward.
“You still haven’t shown me any proof,” Bruneseau said. “You
suspect
Maria Barber had her husband killed. You
think
she was the one who told the Chinese that you were in the canal. Even if I believed you, this is simply more conjecture.”
“Vic’s death isn’t conjecture,” Foch snapped.
Bruneseau gave him a hard look. “You know what I mean.”
They started arguing in French, their voices crashing in the middle of the room like artillery barrages. Their hands were in constant motion. Mercer was too drained to try to stop it so it went on until Harry tucked two fingers in his mouth and blew a whistle loud and shrill enough to make everyone wince.
“I said earlier that I can give you the proof you need,” Mercer spoke into the stunned silence. “I want to meet with Maria Barber.”
“She’ll tell Liu the moment you phone her,” Roddy said, appalled that another of his friends could be lost.