Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Paris, France

On the Rio Tuira, Panama

Gary Barber’s Camp on the River of Ruin

The Lake

Panama City, Panama

Cristobal, Panama

Hatcherly Consolidated Terminal Balboa, Panama

Panama City, Panama

Above the Darien Province, Panama

The Canal Zone, Panama

The Twenty Devils Mine Cocle Province, Panama

The Twenty Devils Mine Cocle Province, Panama

The Twenty Devils Mine Cocle Province, Panama

Roddy Herrara’s House Panama City, Panama

Lake Gatun, Panama

The Radisson Royal Hotel Panama City, Panama

El Mirador West of Panama City

The Radisson Royal Hotel Panama City, Panama

El Mirador

The Radisson Royal Hotel Panama City, Panama

Canal Administration Building Balboa Heights, Panama

Radisson Royal Hotel Panama City, Panama

Hatcherly Consolidated Terminal Balboa, Panama

The Pedro Miguel Lock Panama Canal, Panama

The Englander Rose Panama Canal, Panama

Hatcherly Consolidated Terminal Balboa, Panama

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Praise for River of Ruin

“Starts at 100 mph and then gets faster . . . intricate, intelligent, high-octane adventure.”

—Lee Child, New York Times bestselling author of Without Fail

Praise for Pandora’s Curse

“A rare treat—a thriller that blends some of modern history’s most vexing enigmas with a hostile, perfectly realized setting. This is one thriller that really delivers great characters combined with a breakneck pace and almost unbearable suspense.”

—Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child, coauthors of The Ice Limit and Relic

“Combining plenty of thrills and a touch of romance, Du Brul’s action-packed contemporary adventure zips along like an out-of-control locomotive. . . . A well-researched foundation of facts and details grounds the reader in this frosty setting. . . . Mercer’s love interest, Dr. Anika Klein, is his fitting counterpart and a strong heroine, and their romance adds a degree of warmth to this swift, sensational tale. Those who enjoy a good adrenaline rush will find plenty here to satisfy.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Have you been casually looking for a new thriller writer in the tradition of Clive Cussler? Would the idea of a touch of Jack Higgins intrigue you? Do you like your reading to move quickly, have a grand plot, and the good guy gets the girl? Browse no more! Jack Du Brul is here. . . . Pandora’s Curse hit all the buttons. Read it and run to your favorite bookstore for the others. . . . A dandy read.”

—News & Citizen (Morrisville, VT)

The Medusa Stone

“[The Medusa Stone’s] nearly 500 pages of fast-paced prose propel Du Brul closer to the front ranks of thriller authors.”

—Publishers Weekly

“With novels like Charon’s Landing, Vulcan’s Forge, and now The Medusa Stone, Jack Du Brul is one of the leaders of adventurous intrigue novels. The story line of his latest thriller continually ebbs and flows, but each new spurt builds the tension even further until the audience realizes that this is a one-sitting novel in spite of its size. Philip is a fabulous lead character and the support cast brings to life Eritrea and some questionable activities in the Mediterranean area. However, in hindsight what makes Mr. Du Brul’s novel a strong candidate for adventure book of the year is the brilliant fusion of Eritrea, its people and customs woven into a dramatic plot.”

—Midwest Book Review

Charon’s Landing

“A pleasure . . . A densely detailed and well-paced thinking man’s melodrama.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Jack Du Brul has to be the finest adventure writer on the scene today. Romance, violence, technology are superbly blended by a master storyteller. Du Brul creates a fast-moving odyssey that is second to none.”

—Clive Cussler

“Du Brul’s well-calculated debts to Fleming, Cussler, Easter-man, and Lustbader, his technological, political, and ecological research, and his natural gift for storytelling bode well.”

—Publishers Weekly

Vulcan’s Forge

“Wonderfully outrageous [cliffhangers]. . . . Finely tuned, buoyed by strong, fresh writing.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“An exciting, well-honed thriller that will have Clive Cussler fans taking note of the new kid on the block.”

—William Heffernan, author of The Dinosaur Club

“Du Brul has created a high-tempo action pace. . . . The reader is constantly intrigued. . . . An action-packed and intriguing thriller.”

—The Mystery Review

“The writing here is good, the pace very fast, the characters believable. . . . A welcome addition to the ranks of thriller writers.”

—The Sullivan County Democrat

“A fun thriller.”

—Oklahoman

“An intricate tale filled with action and intrigue where the stakes are high. Mercer is an action character with a brain, a penchant for beautiful women, and the ability to think fast and inspire respect and trust. . . . A fast-paced story well told by an upcoming new talent in the spy thriller genre. Du Brul has earned an avid fan.”

—Cape Coral Daily Breeze

Also by Jack Du Brul

RIVER OF RUIN*

PANDORA’S CURSE*

THE MEDUSA STONE*

CHARON’S LANDING

VULCAN’S FORGE

*Published by Onyx

ONYX

Published by New American Library, a division of

Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand,

London WC2R 0RL, England

Penguin Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood,

Victoria, Australia

Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue,

Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road,

Auckland 10, New Zealand

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices:

Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

First published by Onyx, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.

First Printing, December 2002

Copyright © Jack Du Brul, 2002

Map copyright © Jeffrey L. Ward, 2002

All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS OR SERVICES. FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC., 375 HUDSON STREET, NEW YORK, NEW YORK 10014.

eISBN : 978-1-101-09801-1

http://us.penguingroup.com

In loving memory of my

father, David Du Brul. No

work of fiction has produced

a greater hero or a better man.

Paris, France

The auctioneer’s gavel came down with a stinging crack that carried across the ornate salon. “Sold for forty-seven thousand francs to bidder number 127.”

A digital board on one side of the elevated stage showed the exchange rates for each bid as they were acknowledged. The book held aloft by a white-gloved assistant standing behind the auctioneer had just been purchased for nearly seven thousand dollars.

The bid had actually been placed by an auction-house employee who fielded business from buyers either unable or unwilling to attend Paris’s premier rare book and manuscript sale. There were several such bid takers grouped together in an area like a jury box, each person equipped with telephones and an Internet-connected computer. The rest of the high-ceilinged room was given over to ranks of comfortable chairs for buyers in attendance. Derosier’s Librairie Antique was offering today’s books from a collection entitled “Patriarchs of the Industrial Age.” Tomorrow’s auction, the main event for the three-day affair, included dozens of Renaissance Bibles and a partial da Vinci manuscript expected to fetch millions of dollars.

There was a period of murmuring and catalogue rustling before the next book was brought out and its picture flashed on the projection screen at the back of the stage.

Philip Mercer had waited for the diversion before crossing the marble floor to a seat near the rear. A few elegant patrons frowned at the noise made by his wet, squelching shoes. He was more amused than embarrassed by their haughty reaction. Outside the tall, hemisphered windows, a fierce autumn rain pounded the streets. The leaden sky would not let the city shine. Still, the room managed to glitter with gold leaf on the ceiling and burnished woods covering the walls.

Mercer caught the eye of the auctioneer as he sat. Jean-Paul Derosier inclined his head slightly, careful not to show deference to any one client. Mercer knew his old friend was glad to see him. It was Jean-Paul himself who had enticed him to Paris with a list of what was coming to the block for this particular auction.

They knew each other from many years ago when Jean-Paul was simply Gene and pronounced his last name with an American hard r. They had been high school friends in Barre, Vermont, both outcasts in a sense because both wanted a life far beyond the confines of the small New England town. Derosier had somehow developed a taste for life’s finer things and was determined to have the means as well, while Mercer possessed an incurable wanderlust inherited from his parents, who had died in Africa when he was twelve. He had lived in Barre with his paternal grand-parents. Years later, Mercer and Derosier crossed paths again when business success allowed Mercer to indulge his interest in rare books. By then, Jean-Paul was well established in the trade.

Thumbing open the glossy catalogue, Mercer noted what lot number was due up next, and cursed. Today’s auction was just about half over. A business delay had ruined his plan to arrive in Paris a few days earlier. Had he not scheduled a meeting the following day, he would have canceled the trip altogether and bid through a proxy. He’d only just gotten into town and had taxied directly from Charles de Gaulle Airport.

The next book being offered was a personal journal written by Ferdinand de Lesseps during his sole trip to Panama in 1879. By the time the famed builder of the Suez Canal ventured to Central America, he had already convinced a syndicate of investors that he could repeat his triumph by carving a sea-level trench across the jungle-choked isthmus. Of course, his attempt ended in failure and the deaths of twenty-three thousand workers, as well as a financial crisis that rocked France to its core.

This was one of the most important items for sale today, expected to fetch around twenty thousand dollars.

Mercer scanned the rest of the catalogue and let out a relieved sigh. The manuscript he’d come to bid on hadn’t yet come up. Relaxing for the first time since his plane touched down, he used his palms to press rainwater from his dark hair.

“And our next item before a short recess is number sixty-two.” Jean-Paul Derosier knew to allow his voice to rise an octave, feeding the palpable wave of anticipation sweeping the room. Mercer also detected a vague sense of anger from the bidders that he couldn’t understand. “This one-hundred-and-seventy-page handwritten journal by Ferdinand de Lesseps was penned during his voyage to Panama. As you can see, the manuscript is bound in maroon leather with de Lesseps’s name on the cover and is in extraordinary condition.”

Derosier continued to expound on the virtues of the journal as pictures of individual pages were flashed on the screen behind him. He spoke in French, and while Mercer had once been fluent in the language, he couldn’t concentrate. Instead of paying attention to a book he had no interest in, he gazed out one of the windows, wishing he’d had time to at least change his shirt from the flight. His suit felt clammy and his tie dug into the stubble on his neck.

Jean-Paul ended his pitch by saying, “We will start the bidding at fifty thousand francs.” The phone operator holding a sign for bidder number 127 nodded her head and the audience let out a tired groan.

Mercer immediately recognized that this mysterious bidder had been bullying the auction by overbidding on the books he or she was interested in. In a minute-long frenzy, the price was driven up to thirty thousand dollars. Those bidders who nodded at the incremental increases did so with a resigned fatalism, knowing they were going to lose. However, it seemed they derived a perverse enjoyment from making bidder number 127 pay far more than the journal was worth. The telephone operator’s impassiveness began to crack as the bids passed the fifty-thousand-dollar mark, two and a half times the journal’s estimated value. Mercer could imagine the anger she was hearing in the voice of whoever she represented.

Then it was down to just two bidders, the mystery person on the phone and an American Mercer had seen at a Christie’s auction in New York about a year earlier. Like Mercer, this man was here for the love of the books, not their resale value. Mercer recalled the man was some kind of oil executive and had pockets deeper than the wells he drilled, but at seventy-five thousand dollars even he had to bow out with an angry shake of his head.

Following Jean-Paul’s cry of “Sold!” there wasn’t the normal round of applause for such a high sale. The room vibrated with an ugly tension. The operator who represented bidder number 127 would not look up from her desk, as if ashamed of the domineering tactics she’d been forced to use.

“There will now be a twenty-minute break,” Derosier said. “Champagne is available in the foyer outside the salon.”

Mercer accepted a fluted glass from a waitress and waited while Jean-Paul chatted up old clients and worked to make new ones. A cut across the knuckles on Mercer’s left hand had reopened and he dabbed at the blood with napkins. Patrons might have wondered about the man in the Armani suit with his injured hands, but none approached. It wasn’t that he seemed out of place, rather he appeared so self-contained, more comfortable in the opulent surroundings than they themselves felt despite the wet shoes and bloody wound.

He threw away the stained napkins when he’d stanched the cut and offered a disarming shrug to a staring matron as if to say, Don’t you hate when this happens? It was a curious, bonding gesture, like she’d been the one being judged and that she’d passed his inspection. Her dour façade cracked and she returned a smile.

Derosier finally disentangled himself from an elderly woman in a ridiculous blue hat and came over to where Mercer leaned against a damask wall. They were the same height, around six feet, but Mercer appeared to be the larger of the two men. Jean-Paul’s lustrous skin, boyishly long eyelashes, and animated mouth made him pretty rather than handsome. In contrast, Mercer’s good looks came from more masculine, squared features and bold gray eyes that could be as alluring as silk or rage like an arctic storm.

Mercer couldn’t bring himself to use Derosier’s full French name, so he compromised by calling him Jean. “Do I want to know what’s been happening in there, Jean?”

The true contrast between the old friends was apparent when they shook hands. Jean-Paul’s were slim and pampered, while Mercer’s were crisscrossed with scars and calluses like a relief map detailing years of physical labor. Derosier had spent so much of his life in Paris that his English was tinted with an accent. “Mercer, mon Dieu, I didn’t think you were going to make it.”

“I got stuck at a job in Utah and missed my connecting flight through Dulles. I didn’t even have time to go home.” Mercer lived in a town house in the Washington, D.C., suburb of Arlington. “My luggage is full of dirty clothes and mineral samples for my collection.”

“Gold, I hope.”

“Nothing so fancy. A copper-mining company was looking to get a sizable loan from an investment bank. The bankers hired me to check the company’s geology reports and oversee a series of bore-hole tests to verify the claim that there was a mother lode of extractable ore at the site.”

As an independent mining consultant, such jobs were Mercer’s stock-in-trade, and earned him considerable fees as well as a reputation as one of the foremost mine engineers in the world. His word was enough for companies to commit billions of dollars and thousands of lives into the subterranean world.

Jean-Paul gave a little Gallic shrug. “Filthy way to make a living, but I suppose it pays the bills.” He slapped at Mercer’s flat stomach. “And apparently keeps you in shape. I’m fighting a losing battle at a gym four hours a week and you look like you’re in better shape now than when we graduated high school.”

“You were the one who married a professional chef, not me.” Mercer chuckled. “The fact that I’m single and can’t cook worth a damn is what keeps me thin.”

“I understand congratulations are in order. Do you remember Cathy Rich, our high school yearbook editor? After all these years, she still e-mails me updates about old class-mates. She told me you might be working in the White House.”

“Well, not in the White House,” Mercer dodged. “It’s an advisory position to the president. Once I get through some indoctrination I’ll only be going there when called. Kind of a part-time thing.”

The job was actually Special Science Advisor to the President, a position specifically created for Mercer that would be outside the chief executive’s regular staff of advisors. The offer had come following an unusual job in Greenland that had turned into a violent confrontation with a terrorist cell trying to steal a lethal radioactive isotope called Pandora.

“I don’t think you are telling me the whole thing,” Jean-Paul said, “but I congratulate you anyway.”

“Thanks. So, what’s up with the auction? Who’s doing all the buying?”

“Goddamned Chinks,” Derosier spat. “I hate them.”

“Not very politically correct.”

“I’m a Parisian now.” The auctioneer grinned. “We hate everyone equally.” Jean-Paul grew serious. “All I know is he’s Chinese and that a few days after the contents of this auction became public, he sent an intermediary to the family who was selling all the Panama Canal documents in an attempt to buy them outright. As you’ve already guessed, he’s taking everything even remotely connected to the canal while ignoring all the rest. A lot of my regulars are leaving here empty-handed.”

A look of concern crossed Mercer’s face.

“Don’t worry,” the expatriate soothed. “When I invited you to this auction, I promised that you’d be able to buy the Godin de Lepinay journal and I’m keeping my word.”

Mercer understood what Derosier was intimating. “Jean, thanks for the offer, but don’t do anything you wouldn’t for any other client.”

“Too late. At the beginning of the auction, I announced that Lepinay’s journal was no longer for sale. You pay me the estimate, I think four thousand dollars, and it’s yours. Listen, you’re one of my only clients who actually reads what he buys. I’m sure you’ve already read a translation of Diderot’s twenty-eight-volume Encyclopedie Methodique after I helped you complete the set. I hate that the Panama books I’m selling today are going to end up on some businessman’s shelf because he thinks they’re decorative.”

A chime rang in the main auction hall. “I’ve got to get back,” Derosier said. “Meet me after the auction and I’ll give you Lepinay’s diary.”

Mercer waited for the tide of people to return to the salon before reaching inside his jacket for the cell phone his friend Harry White had gotten him for his birthday. The number had already been programmed into the device so he held it to his ear as it beeped through an international exchange. The connection took a full minute.

“Hola?” a woman’s voice answered.

“Maria, it’s Philip Mercer.”

“Mercer”—her English was good, but heavily accented—“are you already in Panama City? You sound so clear.”

Maria Barber was the Panamanian-born wife of Gary Barber, a native Alaskan whom Mercer had met while attending the Colorado School of Mines. Mercer was there having just completed his bachelor’s degree in geology on his way to an eventual doctorate. Gary was two decades older, and had already laid claim to a sizable gold strike when he’d gone to the famed mining school. Gary had dropped out after a single semester, and returned to his four-man operation in Alaska. Mercer had gone on to graduate near the top of his class. They retained a loose friendship of a couple of calls a year and dinner whenever they were in the same city.

About five years ago, Gary had unexpectedly sold his claim to a business partner and moved to Central America to take up a new venture—treasure hunting. He’d tried to explain to Mercer that tramping through jungles in search of lost artifacts was no different from panning hundreds of miles of streams looking for placer gold.

Mercer had always disdained treasure hunters. He felt they rarely considered the long odds of their endeavors, and sustained themselves with the false hope of a quick strike. All but a well-publicized few ended up broke and embittered after decades of fruitless work. He likened them to people who thought state lotteries were an investment plan. Mercer couldn’t change Gary’s mind and the tough Alaskan had gone off with an enthusiasm that had damned so many like-minded people.

Mercer had to give Barber credit, though. Five years of turning up nothing had yet to dampen his spirits. In fact, he was more excited now than ever. He had recently convinced himself that he was on the trail of a lost Spanish treasure larger than any ever found. Gary had called Mercer a month ago after tracking the Lepinay journal to this auction, offering to pay half just so he could read it. He was certain the last piece of the puzzle he was trying to solve lay somewhere in its pages. Mercer thought Gary was self-deluded, and wasn’t close to a breakthrough, yet did agree to the deal.

He was going to buy the book anyway for the simple reason that he was interested in the man who, in 1879, first proposed the lake-and-lock-type canal that the United States had eventually built a quarter century later. Derosier was right. He would read this journal. Devour it, most likely.

“No, Maria, I’m still in Paris. Is Gary there? I’ve got some good news for him.”

“He’s in the middle of the Darien Province, south of El Real,” Maria Barber said with a trace of hostility. She did not share her husband’s interest. “Fooling around in that damned river again. I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

“Can you contact him?” Gary had shown Mercer a picture of his much younger wife the last time they’d gotten together. She was a pretty, raven-haired woman, not yet thirty, but her eyes were sullen. She cast a sober look in the photo, as if she’d fit more life into her years than she should have. Gary explained her melancholy by telling him that she’d been raised in the slums of Panama City’s Casco Viego district.

“Sí, we speak on the radio yesterday. I am calling him in an hour.”

“When you do, tell him I’ve got the Lepinay journal and I’ll be in Panama the day after tomorrow.”

“He will be pleased,” she said with little enthusiasm. “Am I to still pick you up at the airport?”

“Yes, my flight connects through from Martinique.” The clothes in his luggage, once laundered, would serve him well enough in the tropical sauna of Panama. “I arrive at about ten in the morning on the seventeenth.”

“The last time Gary and I talked, he said that he had something very important to show you. He wanted me to make sure you will be here for a week at least.”

“Tell him that we’ll see,” Mercer hedged. He hadn’t been home in nearly a month and wasn’t planning on more than a few days in Panama. He was looking forward to a quiet couple of weeks before reporting to the White House for long rounds of tedious briefings and staff meetings.

“I will tell him,” Maria Barber replied. “And I will see you at Tocumen Airport in the morning of the seventeenth. Then I will take you to where Gary is working. And, ah . . .”

“What is it?”

“It is just that increased antidrug efforts in Colombia have forced many rebel soldiers into the southern Darien Province. I thought you should know.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Mercer answered, but she had already clicked off.

He returned to the main auction gallery. Jean-Paul was just about to announce the next item. Back in his seat, Mercer listened idly as the sale continued around him, only showing interest when something pertaining to the Panama Canal came up. Like before, bidder 127 bought everything, often paying double what the material was worth. He knew that such buyers sometimes sent silent proxies to an auction to report on who they were bidding against. From his vantage at the back of the room, Mercer surveyed the well-dressed crowd but saw no Asians; not that one of the Europeans couldn’t be in the enigmatic Chinese’s employ.

It was nearing 6:00 P.M. when the auction wound down for the day. Mercer’s internal clock said it was 10:00 in the morning, but he was tired enough to only think about getting to his hotel. He’d been awake for twenty hours and had a morning meeting at the Ecole des Mines on boulevard St. Michel near the Luxembourg Gardens.

He found Jean-Paul again at the center of a group of people in the reception room outside the salon. Because of bidder 127 and an excessive price paid for a Gustave Eiffel drawing, Derosier had made a small fortune today and was beaming.

“Mercer, what a day. I think this is a record for me and the big stuff isn’t being sold until tomorrow.” He turned to introduce the man next to him. “Oh, this is my chief of security, Rene Bruneseau.”

Bruneseau had a compact build and the bearing of an army drill instructor. His receding hair was cropped short and made the heavy brows over his dark eyes more prominent. His head was blocky, more Slovak than French, with chiseled features blurred by excessive stubble. He wore an ill-fitted suit dusted with cigarette ash and his teeth were stained a coffee brown.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Mercer said, then addressed Jean-Paul. “Looks like bidder 127 is going to keep you in frog legs, snails, and other garden pests you French insist on eating.”

“Speaking of which, we must go out for dinner, or at least a drink.”

“Sorry, not this time. I’m going to my hotel and crashing.”

“Staying at the Crillon, as usual?”

“No. My travel agent had a client cancel a reservation at a hotel on the Left Bank near the Montparnasse Tower.” The 690-foot-tall office building was considered a blight on the city that photographers deftly avoided when shooting Paris. “She conned me into taking it over so her client wouldn’t lose his deposit.”

“Slumming?” Jean-Paul teased.

“She guaranteed it was four stars, or was it four cockroaches?”

“Mr. Derosier,” Bruneseau interrupted, his voice rumbling from deep within his barrel chest, “I will get the Lepinay journal for Dr. Mercer and then I must see to that problem we talked about before.”

Jean-Paul’s urbane veneer cracked for a second before a smooth recovery. “Oh, yes, right. The Lepinay journal.”

There were forty or fifty auction-goers still milling around the reception room. It was odd that Jean-Paul would mention the book after telling them it wasn’t for sale. “Sure you guys want to be blurting out that you were selling it after all?” Mercer asked.

“Oh, merde. I forgot.” Derosier looked around to make sure no one overheard. “My mind’s elsewhere.”

“Thinking about those frog legs already?” Mercer joked. Jean-Paul didn’t respond for a moment. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. Ah, here comes Rene.” The security chief had the journal wrapped in brown paper.

Mercer caught the eye of one of the tuxedoed attendants and asked him to get his steel sample case from the cloakroom. He’d left all his luggage at the reception desk when he’d arrived. While he waited, he pulled out one of the blank checks he kept in his wallet and filled in the information, including the four-thousand-dollar price. He handed it over with an exaggerated flourish. “With my thanks from the Bouncing Check National Bank.”

Once he had his case, Mercer slit the book’s paper wrapper with a pocketknife. He studied the scuffed leather cover for a moment, feeling a tingle of excitement. He didn’t consider Gary’s “final puzzle piece.” What filled him with anticipation was the opportunity to gain some insight on a brilliant engineer who was decades ahead of his time. Slowly, he opened the diary. The journal was handwritten in faded black ink on heavy rag bond that felt as thick as a wallpaper sample. Godin de Lepinay had written in a confident, looping script. Mercer read just a couple of lines, translating in his head as best he could, and knew that he needed to pick up a French-English dictionary before his flight. He slid the journal into the case and snapped the lid closed.

“Can’t wait to start reading it, eh?” Jean-Paul said, correctly reading Mercer’s rapt expression.

“I think you two should go get a drink together,” Rene Bruneseau suggested.

“Come on, Mercer, what do you say?”

Mercer shook his head. “I’ve got a suite at the Victoria Palace Hotel with a bed they promise me is big enough to play soccer on. I’m meeting another old friend in the morning and then I leave for Panama in the afternoon. You’ll be coming to the States when Sotheby’s has that big auction in December. We’ll have time then, I promise.”

“I understand.” Jean-Paul stuck out his hand just as a customer approached. Before he was engaged in this next conversation he called out Mercer’s name once again. “Just watch yourself.”

It was such an odd thing for him to say that Mercer asked him for what.

“Oh, with the rain we’ve had for the past few days, the sanitation department’s been dropping the ball all over the city. Traffic is a nightmare and your cab driver’s going to try to rip you off on the ride to your hotel.”

Mercer laughed. “I can play ugly American with the best of them.”

He retrieved his luggage from the cloakroom, slinging the garment bag’s strap over his shoulder and clutching the matching suitcase in one hand and his metal attaché in the other. Outside, the rain hissed under the tires of the cars moving in starts and jerks along rue Drouot. He didn’t have an overcoat and the cold rain trickled down the back of his neck. Across the street, he thought he saw Rene Bruneseau, but the figure ducked into a sedan without looking back.

It took ten minutes to find a cab because rush hour was in full effect, and like all other city dwellers, Parisians hated being rained on more than anything. He told the Algerian driver to head toward Place Denfort-Rochereau across the Seine, and settled into the battle-scarred Peugeot. Paris had never held him enthralled so he closed his eyes while the car fought its way across the city. He barely glanced up at the floodlit Notre Dame Cathedral as they motored across the Ile de la Cité. The cab driver mercifully didn’t try to engage him in small talk. The storms had snarled traffic so badly that he needed all his concentration to avoid the fender benders that erupted around them.

The streets on the Left Bank were a leftover of the city’s medieval past, a warren of obtuse intersections that made Mercer think of a demented maze. The driver seemed sure enough, yet had to take several detours to avoid street department trucks parked near overflowing storm drains.

Through the arcs cleared by the windshield wipers, Mercer could see the yellowed stonework of the seventeenth-century observatory. He remembered that the sprawling Luxembourg Palace, the home of France’s senate, would be right behind him.

He twisted around to see if he was right and just had time to brace himself as a pair of stabbing headlights surged toward the rear of the cab, blinding him to the sight of a large truck barreling toward them. The impact came an instant later, a rending crash that pancaked the taxi into the car in front. The chain reaction shot through several other stalled cars. Caught unaware, the Algerian driver had his face slammed into the steering wheel. He slumped unconscious into the footwell, taking his beaded seat cover with him.

Mercer had cushioned the impact by clutching the driver’s seat and allowing his arms to flex like shock absorbers. Unhurt but rattled, he leaned far over the seat to check on the driver when his door was suddenly wrenched open. What the hell?

Thinking it was a Good Samaritan lending a hand, Mercer had a second to acknowledge that the person reaching into the vehicle was young, dressed in an army surplus jacket, and that his hair had been shorn off in a skinhead style. Then the punk yanked Mercer’s briefcase from the seat. He held an automatic pistol in his free hand.

The thief paused for an indecisive moment before hissing in French, “Give me your wallet or you’re dead.”

The kid was counting on the gun paralyzing his victim, but Mercer had faced armed men before. His reactions were instantaneous and focused. He had one leg in a cocked position that the mugger neither saw nor expected. Mercer kicked out, pinning the thief’s arm against the open door frame. The blow lacked the power to break bone and the punk managed to keep his grip on the black pistol as he pulled free. A crowd of pedestrians who had witnessed the accident began to gather. The heroin-thinned thief took off with the sample case under the forest of umbrellas they held aloft.

Mercer launched himself out of the taxi even as the rational side of his mind questioned his actions. His feet moved as if of their own volition, finding grip on the wet sidewalk even though his loafers should have slid out from under him. The kid didn’t look back as they raced down rue Denfort under a canopy of trees that lined the road and reflected the glow from the streetlamps. He had no reason to expect his victim would pursue him.

The gap between the two shrunk with each pace, Mercer driven by an enraged desire to retrieve his case and the Lepinay journal. Fifty feet short of the next crosswalk, Mercer was just five yards back and gaining. A four-door Mercedes screeched to a halt at the intersection, and the rear door was thrown open. The kid’s getaway car? A Mercedes?

Horns sounded.

The thief put on a burst of speed, adrenaline giving him that last bit of energy to reach his target. Mercer was certain that if he could trip the kid, the idling car would take off. The race would end long before they reached the corner. Mercer was just a few yards back, his attention focused first on his case and then on a spot between the punk’s shoulder blades.

The thief broke stride suddenly, his body torquing before he fell flat onto the sidewalk without trying to check his fall. He skidded for a yard or two, Mercer’s attaché slipping from his limp hand, the pistol sliding next to it. Mercer pulled himself to a stop, hunching over the still form. His breath exploded in the moist air and his heart thumped hard enough to pound in his ears. He could see one side of the teenager’s face had been scraped raw by the rough cement sidewalk. Rain sluiced stringy trails of blood toward the gutter from under the body.

Then Mercer saw a slick black exit wound from a bullet that had punched a hole through the side of the kid’s chest. Although he hadn’t heard it, he realized the shot had come from their right.

Mercer looked up from the body, all his senses now keyed to his surroundings. Hard-won experience gave his eyes that extra bit of acuity, his body that extra bit of strength, his mind that extra bit of clarity. The front door of the waiting Mercedes sedan swung open. From the dim interior came flashes from silenced weapons. Bullets split the air over Mercer’s head. Screams rose over the din of congested traffic and the distant honking of an approaching siren. He scrambled to grab his case and the pistol and ran for the entrance to the nearest building.

Out of the corner of his eye Mercer spotted three armed men jump from the Mercedes. Unlike the kid who’d swiped the case, these gunmen moved with a well-trained grace and all were Asian. A worker stood at the building’s steel-and-glass door, locking up for the night. Without looking at where he was, Mercer shoved the man aside and dodged into the dim interior.

Even as he sought defensive cover, the connection came clear. Far from a random mugging, this was an elaborate robbery attempt to get the Lepinay journal and hide evidence of who really wanted it. But who had killed the thief? It made no sense that the Asians in the sedan had gunned down their own man. The bullet had come from a yet-unseen assassin.

There was no time to consider the implications that Jean-Paul Derosier or Gary Barber might have set him up. With only seconds before the attackers burst through the door behind him, the memories of previous combat served to push Mercer on.

A set of circular stairs were sunk into the floor on one side of the room, backed by a stone wall that looked like it had stood there for centuries. Light spilling in from the street made the round opening look like the entrance to Hell itself. That sudden image sent a chill along Mercer’s spine. He’d just figured out where he was.

In the late eighteenth century, Paris was being overwhelmed by the stench of its overflowing cemeteries, and outbreaks of disease from decomposition were rampant. In an effort to clean up the city, officials decided to dig up and then re-inter millions of the dead in the old limestone quarries that had been excavated during Roman times. They ended up filling a hundred miles of tunnels with the skeletal remains of six million people in what became the largest repository of bones in the world. Part of this extensive catacomb was open to the public as a mile-long walking tour, and Mercer found himself trapped at its entrance. His only way out led through the twisting maze of what Parisians called l’empire de la mort. The empire of the dead.

He had no time to find light switches, so he rummaged behind a counter and grabbed two large flashlights. He stuffed one into his coat pocket and held the other in the same hand as his briefcase to keep the gun free. He dodged to the circular stairs and descended into the abyss. At the bottom of the corkscrew stairs, the flashlight revealed a long tunnel lined with rough stone. He turned off the light again when he heard a door open above him. He ran with his knees bent, his shoes making no more than a whisper against the gravel floor. With his fingers brushing the wall, he came to a left bend in the passageway and checked his surroundings again with a quick burst from the flashlight. Another straight tunnel led farther into the subterranean realm, and again he ran on.

Three more times he came to sharp corners before breaking out into an underground chamber. For as far as the flashlight cut the gloom he saw neat stacks of skeletal remains piled like cordwood. Age had yellowed the bones and some were cemented together by minerals in the water that dripped from the limestone ceiling. Countless thousands of empty skulls watched him as he crossed the gallery. He hoped the painted markings in the roof led to this horror show’s exit.

Halfway to the next section of the catacomb the lights suddenly snapped on. They were artfully placed spots that highlighted the chamber’s more grisly aspects—walls of femurs, crosses made of tibias, abstract sculptures of skulls and pelvises. Mercer noted all this in a frantic glance. His pursuers would be coming and his lead was maybe a minute.

He was certain that the gunmen had seen him pick up the gun, so he doubted he’d shoot more than one in an ambush. And once contact was made, they’d be able to outflank him. But he decided that two against one was still better than facing three. From behind a wall of bones he was able to see the tunnel leading back to the surface. A constant patter of water seepage dripped from the low roof.

The countless firefights he’d been in gave him if not confidence, at least self-control. He managed to slow his breathing and cut short the raging questions. He concentrated solely on survival. He took a moment to check the automatic pistol he’d recovered, a small Beretta 9mm. The action was stiff, as if it hadn’t been oiled in years, and the brass shells were pitted and tarnished.

Just my luck to be mugged by a discount goon, Mercer thought bitterly. The click of a misfire would betray his position as surely as an accurately placed shot.

A crunch of gravel sounded over the drips and a shadow passed just beyond the entrance tunnel. Mercer raised his pistol in a two-handed grip, waiting, his eyes staring into the murky light. In a burst, the three assassins rushed into the chamber, their silenced weapons shooting tongues of flame as they laid down covering fire. The wild shots turned bone to powder with each impact. Mercer couldn’t face the onslaught and stayed behind his barrier, waiting for them to pause. A row of skulls above him looked down as if laughing.

The muted echoes of that first barrage died away and Mercer heard voices. He had no way to be sure, but it sounded like Chinese to him. It wasn’t much of a stretch to realize they were employees of bidder 127. They were trying to steal the one item that he hadn’t been able to buy at the auction. How they knew Mercer had it laid the blame firmly at Derosier’s feet.

Mercer ducked his head around the jagged stack of femurs. The gunmen were hidden. An explosion of bone dust erupted next to his shoulder and he could feel the passage of a ricochet. He’d been spotted. More rounds poured in, high-velocity bullets that tore into the wall of human remains. Mercer shuffled back around the far side of the island of bones. Chips of yellowed skeleton were blown from the stack. A figure stepped out of the shadows, creeping steadily forward on soft-soled shoes. Mercer took aim before he was spotted and eased the trigger.

The gun bucked and the unsilenced blast sounded like a cannon in the nightmarish confines. The bullet took the assassin center-mass and dropped him instantly. Keeping low, Mercer moved down another alley where the neatly stacked bony fragments were separated by body part, not individual. Tibias in one section, scapulas in another, a ten-foot stretch of nothing but ribs.

He found an arched doorway and dashed through. No shots chased in his wake as he passed some sort of altar and into another ossuary chamber decorated with obelisks from Napoleonic times. A square stack of bones that reached to the ceiling was dated 1804 and looked like a mausoleum.

There weren’t as many lights on in here, but Mercer kept his flashlight off, moving more with touch than sight. He looked at the gravel floor and cursed. His footprints were visibly the freshest in the room. No matter where he searched for cover, the two remaining gunmen would know where he was hidden. The floor was too rough to discard his shoes, so he had to come up with an alternative. He walked the perimeter of the chamber, keeping his ears attuned to the sound of pursuit. Three-quarters of the way around, he realized that there was only one entrance. He’d staggered into a dead end. And then he spotted what could be his salvation, a wooden door embedded in the limestone wall that kept tourists from exploring deeper into the catacombs. He had no idea what lay on the other side. It could very well be a storage closet, but it was his only alternative.

No amount of pushing would move the locked door, and once Mercer shot the handle off the gunmen would be on him. He held the Beretta at an angle so the bullet would ricochet away, turned his head, and fired. The old iron lock crumbled and the unbalanced door creaked open. Mercer wrenched the door closed after him. There were no lights in this area, so he kept his flashlight on as he raced past more stacks of bodies, running first right then left as the tunnel bored deeper into the earth. His mind began drawing a mental map of his progress, an automatic skill developed through years of mine work. He was confident that if he survived he’d be able to retrace his steps.

The sound of pursuit reached him every time he paused for breath, neither gaining nor losing ground. He came across a narrow passage barely wide enough for him to pass sideways. The tunnel seemed to slope upward at a shallow angle. With the light off, he moved in, sweeping his feet against the dusty floor to obscure his prints. The darkness was absolute. He could taste it in his mouth and feel it clogging his ears.

After fifty yards, his gun hand smashed into a solid wall. Not daring to turn on the light, he felt around, probing the darkness until he found where the tunnel continued to the left. Behind him he thought he saw a ghost’s glow of light from one of the gunmen, but it didn’t appear that they had found where he’d gone yet. They would, he knew. They would.

His knees hit every irregularity in the ancient stonework as he shuffled sideways. Beginning to fear that the tunnel would pinch out, Mercer found that the claustrophobic rock suddenly began to widen. He could walk normally. He felt like he’d moved into another room and chanced flicking on his light. What he saw made him gag.

The room was fifty or sixty feet square and the floor was a sea of carelessly strewn skeletons, like a scene from a Nazi death camp or Cambodia’s killing fields. A hole halfway up the brick wall opposite him was his only way out. To cross, Mercer had to step up onto the remains. Each lurching pace crunched into the pile, snapping the brittle bones. To keep the threads of panic from binding him, he told himself that the obscene sound was just the rustle of autumn leaves in a forest.

His pants were torn by sharp protrusions and soon blood began to seep from shredded skin. Something snagged on his leg and he had to look down to dislodge it. His foot was ensnared in a rib cage. He kicked frantically and the bones flew apart.

The light from his torch suddenly seemed brighter and Mercer whirled to look behind him. He saw two bright spots waving in the tunnel he’d just escaped. The gunmen had made up ground. He began running across the countless dead, desperate not to join them. A yard short of the hole, Mercer dove headlong as the beam from a flashlight swept the charnel room. The rough stone tore across his chest as he tumbled through the opening. He began rolling down a packed dirt slope with his case clutched to his chest. He heard a startled exclamation from one of the gunmen and the spit of a hastily fired shot.

Mercer came to a stop in a shallow pool of foul-smelling water. His flashlight lay a few feet away, its glow focused on a half-submerged skull. This one was connected to the body that once carried it, a body still dressed in the remnants of jeans and a sweatshirt. It was a catophile, as illegal explorers of this underground crypt called themselves, who’d become lost and died. Judging by the decomposition, he or she had been down here for years. The empire of the dead continued to claim new members.

He thought briefly of abandoning his sample case here. The gunmen weren’t likely to continue the chase once they had the Lepinay journal. But the idea died as soon as it formed. His anger remained stronger than any instinct of self-preservation.

He jumped to his feet and started running. This passage wasn’t part of the Roman mines. It was a more modern, brick-lined tunnel. It took Mercer a minute to realize that he’d broken through into Paris’s extensive sewer system. Built by Napoleon III’s municipal engineer, Baron Georges Haussmann when he redesigned Paris beginning in the mid-eighteenth century, the sewers were a thousand-mile labyrinth of tunnels that exactly duplicated the streets above. Fortunately the storm runoff from the heavy rains had swept away much of the human waste generated by the millions above. Still, the stench rising from the channel in the center of the tunnel was overwhelming. Mercer’s lungs began to burn after only a few paces.

The bottom of the tunnel had silted up with a clinging morass that sucked at his shoes. He vaulted up to the ledge that ran along the side of the passage. Overhead, he could hear raw sewage coursing through the two-foot-wide pipes that were bolted into the vaulted ceiling. Strings of offal drizzled from poorly fitted seams. At least here there was an occasional lightbulb along the roof of the tunnel.

Had his lead been greater, Mercer would have climbed one of the ladders he came across that presumably led to manhole covers on the street, but he guessed the gunmen were only a minute behind. He continued to run as hard as the fouled air would let him. He paid no attention to the dozens of rats or the jaunty porcelain street signs placed at each intersection. He simply chose a direction and continued on, realizing that the flow of water in the tunnel increased the farther downstream he ran. He rounded a sharp corner and suddenly was knee-deep in water. A snarl of tree limbs had created a dam across the tunnel, and back pressure was quickly filling the gallery.

Mercer clambered over the pile and fell into the water that drained from between the limbs. Clearing sewage from his face, he flicked aside a dead rat that had become entangled. Through a small opening in the mound he saw the gunmen as dim shadows behind their probing lights. He was certain he could take one and hoped that he would get both. If he didn’t, the downstream side of the dam was much shallower and he would be able to gain a few minutes on the survivor. The Beretta came up and he was surprised to see that his aim held steady.

Either alert for an ambush or extremely well trained, the gunmen split up as they approached the dam. One held far back, covering as his partner took up a position behind a huge valve. Realizing he’d never get both, Mercer concentrated on the closer assassin. The range was about twenty feet, an easy shot for him, but the gun was unfamiliar and he suddenly began to shake from the cold water.

No sooner had the gunman started to edge from around the valve than Mercer pulled the trigger. The gun jammed and the unnatural sound carried over the liquid whir of water sieving through the dam. Mercer didn’t have time to clear the pistol’s fouled breach before return fire raked the makeshift obstruction. He wiggled out of his burrow and ran through the ankle-deep water behind the dam, his loafers kicking up small clots of unidentifiable filth.

He reached a four-way intersection and turned the corner as a bullet destroyed a chunk of brick near his head. Dust scoured his already tearing eyes. The water grew deeper. Rather than leap onto the catwalk, Mercer pushed aside his revulsion and dove in. By feel, he cleared his jammed gun and dug his heels into the silt on the bottom of the channel. His case was wedged under his legs. Polluted water surged around him and unspeakable things brushed past him in the current. His lungs began to protest the foul air he’d drawn and he could taste the water on his lips as it tried to invade his body.

What was that old joke Harry had mentioned once? If Moscow is full of Muscovites, wouldn’t Paris be full of Parasites? This part was, he was sure. Through force of will, Mercer remained on the bottom, waiting in an ambush the Chinese couldn’t possibly anticipate.

His chest began to heave involuntarily as it used up the last of the oxygen, and behind his tightly closed eyes, sparks shot across his lids. Still he waited, knowing that he could draw this out for another few seconds. A gnarled branch hit his shoulder and bubbles dribbled from his lips, becoming a rush as his lungs emptied. He came to the surface, shielded partly by the few leaves remaining on the limb. His hair was plastered to his skull and the water burned his eyes before he could wipe them. One of the gunmen was ten paces ahead, cautiously stalking along the platform adjacent to the river of sewage. Mercer allowed the current to spin his body as he searched for the other.

The second assassin was far down the tunnel, exploring a section of the sewer on the far side of the last intersection. Mercer could only see him by the play of his flashlight against the dank ceiling.

Turning his attention to the closer man, Mercer felt no distaste at shooting him in the back. Being forced to kneel in a stream of waste precluded any thought to honor or fair play. Mercer double-checked his weapon and raised it, but realized he couldn’t fire. Son of a bitch.

“Hey, buddy, can you spare some toilet paper?” The assassin turned faster than Mercer could have imagined. His gun was ready, twisting in an arc tighter than his body, and he got a shot off just before his aim centered on Mercer.

Mercer gave the Beretta a double tap. His first shot hit the gunman in the shoulder, continuing his spin, and the next blew out a chunk of bone at the top of his spine. The Chinese killer dropped even before the expended brass from Mercer’s gun pinged against the wall of the tunnel. He jumped up onto the platform, certain the unsilenced shots would draw the second assassin. So far his briefcase didn’t feel any heavier, meaning its seal was still keeping out water and protecting the old diary.

Farther under the city he moved, jinking around corners, leaping across the torrents that rushed through the center of the larger tunnels and getting himself so thoroughly lost that if he managed to elude the last gunman, he’d never be able to retrace his steps. Every time he thought he’d finally lost the assassin, he’d see the flickering light of his dogged pursuer.

Ahead, Mercer saw another of the ladders that led to the surface and judged his lead large enough to chance the unprotected climb. The steel rungs were slick with filth. He stuck his pistol into his waistband as he started up. Once he reached the top, he found that the airtight plug that kept the smells from overpowering the streets was frozen solid. He hammered at it then shimmied back down. He couldn’t waste the time. Back in the sewer, the gunman’s light was a hundred yards back. Too far for a pistol shot to be effective without a heavy dose of luck or a Hollywood scriptwriter.

Mercer came across more and more tunnels that were relatively dry and wondered how that could be, considering the amount of rain that Jean-Paul had said had been falling. As he staggered down one, a sudden gust of foul air pressed against his back. He turned. The Chinese had yet to turn this corner, but beyond the intersection he’d just passed, a wall of water raced down the sewer carrying debris of every imaginable shape and size. The sewermen working up the line must have temporarily dammed the flow to build enough pressure to clear obstructions. It was a practice used in the city for more than a century. Mercer had also heard they used special boats equipped with sluice gates for the same purpose.

He jumped out of the channel just as the tide swept past, its force making the entire tunnel vibrate. He lay on the slimy floor for a moment, almost at the end of his strength. His breathing was too labored to properly fill his lungs. Slowly he pushed himself to his feet and felt that his pursuer had gained a few yards on him.

Mercer came to a junction that contained a number of valves and gates, a central area where several of the larger sewers came together. Nearly tapped out, he took cover behind an iron valve casing the size of a locomotive boiler. This was the best place he’d found to make a stand. He checked to see how many rounds remained in the Beretta and discovered that he had only one. Considering its corrosion, there was a fifty-fifty chance of the bullet firing or exploding in the pistol. He hastily searched for an exit. Just as he spotted an open hole in the floor that was usually covered by a hatch, the assassin burst into the chamber. He didn’t appear winded at all. His motions were crisp, precise, quartering the room with his eyes as his gun arm followed. Mercer couldn’t wait for the gunman’s gaze to swing toward him.

As silently as his sodden shoes would allow, he crept forward on the man’s blind side. When they were ten feet apart, Mercer launched himself at his attacker. The gunman was quick, but not quick enough. The impact sent both men against the railing that protected three sides of the hole. The assassin’s breath exploded as his ribs were hammered by the metal railing. Mercer used this momentary advantage to smash the gun out of his grip.

The killer had one arm free and whipped his elbow into Mercer’s chest, twisting out of reach and settling into a martial-arts pose. Mercer had learned a few basic karate moves, but considered his superior size his only weapon in this fight. When the assassin came in with a lightning kick, Mercer pushed him aside, wrapped both arms around the man, and began to squeeze. The Chinese used the back of his head as a battering ram against Mercer’s face, but Mercer lowered his own head so the two came together with a stunning crack.

Dazed by the contact, Mercer lost his hold and the assassin moved inside his defenses, putting two punishing blows into Mercer’s chest before using the heel of his hand against Mercer’s chin.

Mercer dropped.

The gunman was on him like a terrier, kicking him so that he was pushed toward the open manhole in the floor. Mercer couldn’t defend himself. Instead of resisting, he clutched his briefcase with one hand, wrapped his arms around the gunman’s leg and allowed himself to fall through the hole.

Mercer and the gunman dropped six feet into the trickle of water running along the floor of a perfectly round tunnel. It was more like an enormous pipeline than the previous tunnels, but seemed to date from the same time. A steady wind blew across the men as they lay in the water, too stunned to move for a moment.

Gaining his feet just before the gunman, Mercer faced into the peculiar wind while the Chinese killer had his back to it. He never saw what was coming for them out of the darkness. Mercer could see it and it was like something out of a nightmare.

This tunnel was one of the main feeds of the entire system and had been designed so that cleaning it didn’t require men to go into the channel with boats and their special shovels, called rabots. Here, whenever silt and debris clogged the conduit, they introduced a huge wooden ball exactly nine-tenths the diameter of the tunnel. The pressure of water behind it forced it down the pipe like a rolling plug.

Mercer now understood what Jean-Paul had meant when he said the street department was dropping the ball all over the city. He wasn’t using the American expression for a screwup. They were literally dropping a one-thousand-pound wooden ball into the storm drains to clear them of the trash washed in by the constant rains.

The ball rolled at them with unimaginable force, pressed forward by tons of water on its upstream side. Water jetted from the gaps between it and the tunnel’s lining. Mercer turned and ran, snapping on the spare flashlight he’d taken at the entrance to the catacombs. He looked back once to see the assassin limping after him. The man had injured his leg during the fall into the drain. His pace nowhere near matched that of the huge sphere.

The gunman must have known it too because a moment before he was overwhelmed, he stopped to face the ball. He screamed once, a high keen that carried over the thunder of so much pressure, and then he fell under the revolving weight. Without pause, the ball’s remorseless motion crushed him flat as though he’d never existed. Mercer dredged up the last of his reserves, running harder than he’d ever moved, his light licking at the smooth tunnel walls searching for an escape.

Ahead, he saw a pile of sand that blocked half the tunnel and dove over its crest in a flying leap. He rolled down its far slope, regained his feet and continued on. He glanced over his shoulder to see the ball hit the sand, hoping it would give him a moment’s reprieve. The ball was stopped for just a second before hydraulic forces dissolved the shoal. It continued its inexorable journey, mindlessly chasing Mercer down the tunnel.

The drain swept through a couple of gentle turns, Mercer maximizing his angle at each so as not to lose one inch to the wooden globe. He could feel its presence no more than a dozen paces back. An occasional drop of water hit his head and neck. He knew if he looked at it, it would fill his vision. He pushed himself even harder.

And just as he began to lose strength once again, his light flashed across a niche in the wall, a portal of some sort that protected a metal door. The surge of adrenaline carried him out of the spray that geysered from around the ball. He reached the niche just yards ahead of the ball and pressed the door’s lever handle. The metal shrieked as it opened and Mercer stepped into a smaller tunnel that ran parallel to the main trunk line. The ball passed the open door before Mercer could reseal it. A solid wall of water hit him full in the chest, knocking him back against the far wall, pinning him until the pressure dropped. He fell back to the floor, gagging on the sewer water that had filled his mouth.

After several minutes of coughing and vomiting, Mercer staggered to his feet and returned to the main drain line. The tunnel had been scoured clean, and a smooth stream of water coursed down its center. Mercer continued to follow it, knowing that eventually he’d come to an outlet where sanitation workers would be waiting to recover the ball. Fifteen minutes later he heard voices echoing in the humid tunnel.

The tension of the past two hours washed out of him. He had to brace himself to keep from collapsing. He touched the side of his sample case, wondering again what exactly he’d been lured into. Later, he knew, his desire to find the truth would build, but for now all he wanted was out of this reeking labyrinth.

Mercer staggered into the light cast by the sanitation workers’ mining helmets as they maneuvered one of their special boats into the stream from a side tunnel. They all wore tall rubber waders and thick gloves. They were as startled to see a filthy man blunder out of the gloom as Mercer was relieved to see them.

The crew leader finally found his voice, and called out in French, “How did you get down here?”

Mercer gave him an exhausted smile. “Let’s just say that Parisian toilets have one hell of a flush.”

After improvising a story about being mugged earlier in the day and dumped down a manhole, Mercer convinced the work crew to take him back to the surface, allow him to use their locker room for a long, long shower and even lend him some clothes. Mercer had no intention of fulfilling his promise to go to the police with his tale. The last thing he needed was an official investigation into what had happened outside the catacombs. He recalled that he hadn’t given the taxi driver the name of his hotel and there was nothing in his abandoned luggage that gave away his identity. If the police did manage to connect him to what had happened, he’d be halfway to Panama.

Instinct told Mercer to lay low until his flight the next day, but he needed fast medical attention, and knew how to get it without raising too many questions. After buying more appropriate clothes from a trendy store that catered to a late-night crowd, he checked into the Hotel de Crillon at Place de la Concorde. He asked the concierge to get him a doctor with a bag full of antibiotics and an undeveloped sense of curiosity.

An hour later, with massive doses of drugs coursing through his veins and a second shower, Mercer called Jean-Paul Derosier and wasn’t surprised to find he wasn’t home. He spoke to Derosier’s wife, Camille.

“He called, Mercer,” she said, “and said that he wouldn’t be home until tomorrow.”

“You’re not surprised?”

“No,” Camille admitted. “He said that this might happen.”

“You do know that he set me up, right?”

“I swear he didn’t tell me a thing.”

Mercer wanted to vent his anger, but knew that targeting Camille wasn’t fair. This was something her husband had done. “When he finally shows up, give him a message for me. Tell him that when I’m done in Panama I’m coming back and I’m going to kick his pampered ass across every arrondissement in Paris.”

“Mercer, if it helps, he said that it wasn’t his fault. And he said that he was sorry.”

“Just tell him.” Mercer cut the connection.

A bellman knocked at his door and waited while Mercer slipped the Lepinay journal in an envelope the young man had brought and wrote out an address on the outside. Getting the journal to the States in twenty-four hours cost well over a hundred dollars, but Mercer could think of no better way to keep it secure. He tipped the bellman as he left and dialed an international operator. He heard four rings and was about to try Tiny’s Bar when the phone was answered.

“Mercer’s house. What do you want?” Harry White’s voice hit like a wrecking ball against an old building and resonated like the debris falling away.

“For you to not drink all my booze when you house sit and to answer the goddamned phone like a human being.”

Whether intentional or not, Mercer had built a life with very few anchors. His home was one, a comfortable base that allowed him to recharge between trips. But more important was his friendship with the eighty-year-old Harry White. In the years since they’d met at Tiny’s, they’d forged a bond that was stronger than that of most natural families. Despite what others who knew them thought, it wasn’t one of father and son, or even grandson, since Harry was more than twice Mercer’s age. They were more like brothers born four decades apart, each willing to do anything for the other without thought to cost or consequence. Because the emotional bond between them was understood and needed no further nourishment, their rapport tended to sound downright nasty to the uninitiated.

“Hold on a second,” Harry said, “I forgot to mail your bills a few weeks ago and the bank’s appraisers are here to sell your furniture. They said I could have your big-screen TV for a hundred bucks.”

“Sometimes I think that when you lost your leg, you also lost whatever sense of humor you might have had.” Harry’s left leg was gone below the knee. He told people that it was the result of an accident during his years in the merchant marine. Only Mercer and a handful of others knew the truth.

“Everyone knows the funny bone’s in your elbow,” Harry snorted. “Hey, I thought you were coming home for a few days. I had this whole thing set up for when you got here. I hired this knockout stripper to dress like a cop. We were going to be waiting for you with me in handcuffs on a charge of cat burglary.”

“I got stuck in Utah and flew straight on to Paris. Sorry to frustrate your plans.”

Harry gave a lecherous chuckle. “I wouldn’t exactly use the word frustrate. Before she left, the stripper gave me the handcuffs in appreciation.”

Mercer didn’t doubt Harry’s story, or at least part of it. It was something the octogenarian would pull. The idea of the stringy old man and his sagging pectorals and small potbelly with some hot stripper was an ugly picture that he quickly purged from his mind. “That was pity, my friend. She gave you the handcuffs out of pity.”

“Don’t get snippy with me just because you haven’t been laid for a few months.”

“And you haven’t since they put fins on cars.”

Harry allowed him that final shot. “So are you coming home?”

“No. In fact, I want you out of my place for a few days.” Mercer explained what he’d been through in the past hours. “I mailed the journal to Tiny at the bar, but just in case these Chinese, or whoever the hell they are, figure out who I am and send people to the house, I don’t think you should be there.”

“Screw that. You think I want to give up your three-story town house for my one-bedroom apartment so you can read some old book? Give them the damned journal.”

“I knew you’d understand. You going to Tiny’s tonight?”

“No, Doobie Lapointe is covering the bar. Tiny, me, John Pigeon and Rick Halak are going to a Georgetown basketball game.”

“Tell Paul”—Tiny’s real name was Paul Gordon, and the nickname certainly fit the former jockey—“about the book that’s coming. Have him put it someplace safe. I may need him to send it to me when I get to Panama.”

“You got it.” Harry’s tone matched the gravity he heard in Mercer’s voice. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, don’t steal my booze when you go home.”

“Sorry, Mercer.” Harry raised his voice as if the clear connection had suddenly become static-filled. “You’re breaking up. Did you say you wanted me to take your booze? Okay. I’ll guard it with my liver, I mean life.”

“I’ll call you in a couple of days.”

“Hello? Hello? Come in, Tokyo. I can’t hear you. Hello?”

Mercer never doubted that Harry could lift his spirits following his sewer swim. He was still chuckling when he dialed his third call, the one he feared making. His smile faded when he began to comprehend what Maria was saying, even if she didn’t understand the significance.

“Gary hasn’t answered his radio for hours,” she said over the sound of Latin pop music blaring from a stereo. “You know he never buys new equipment. It’s probably broken again.”

“Are you sure?” Mercer managed to keep concern from his voice. He didn’t believe that Gary was coincidentally out of reach at the same time three trained gunmen tried to steal the journal he needed to conclude his treasure hunt.

“Sí. Tomorrow he will fix it again and call. He always does.”

“Can you keep trying for me? I will call again just before my flight.”

“Well, sometimes it takes a day or two to fix. But I will try.”

Mercer finished off the second of three vodka gimlets that room service had brought up and started on the last. A couple more might dull the thoughts churning in his mind, but he wasn’t looking for release. He wanted answers. He assumed the mystery bidder at Jean-Paul’s auction had sent the assassins. They in turn had hired a street thief to steal the case in order to insulate themselves from the crime. But who had shot the kid just a few paces from his escape car? He doubted Jean-Paul knew. Camille had said he’d been forced to give the journal to Mercer. By whom?

Whatever was at stake, Mercer was sure the answers weren’t what he was expecting. He still didn’t believe that Gary Barber had found buried treasure. There was something else hidden in the jungle that people seemed more than willing to kill for, something on the banks of a tributary of the Rio Tuira that Gary had named the River of Ruin.

On the Rio Tuira, Panama

The boat’s outboard engine emitted a throaty growl that made conversation all but impossible unless the speaker’s lips were to the listener’s ear. Hovering above the V of the boat’s wake was a noxious cloud of blue smoke as the old Johnson engine burned through quarts of oil. Mercer sat in the bow of the open craft. The wind generated by their movement dried the heavy sweat that stuck his hastily purchased bush shirt to his chest. At his feet was a cheap duffel filled with spare clothes and other essentials. Behind him were local guides he’d hired in El Real, the closest town with an airstrip to where Gary was working.

Maria Barber was also in the boat, sitting between Mercer and the natives, her vacant gaze fixed in space as the impenetrable jungle scrolled by. She was not what Mercer had expected. Maria no longer resembled the sad waif in the picture Gary had shown him. In the years since it had been taken, she’d replaced the suffering in her eyes with a sophisticated demeanor more befitting a native of Miami or New York than the barrios of Panama City. Her skin color and features showed heavy European influence, still considered an honor badge in Central America, and glowed with health. Despite the rough surroundings, makeup accented her full mouth and drew special attention to her dark eyes. She was dressed in bush clothes that cost twice what Mercer had spent on his. The khaki was only a shade darker than her face and still showed the creases of newness.

Mercer had met her in David, a town near the Costa Rican border. Circumstances demanded he sacrifice comfort for speed getting to Panama from France, so he’d reshuffled his route to shave off fifteen hours, flying on airlines he’d never heard of and replacing an overnight layover in Martinique with three hasty hours of sleep in Mexico City’s Benito Juarez Airport. She’d stepped off the private plane Mercer had chartered for her from Panama City as if born to such travel, wearing a simple silk dress, a string of pearls, and flashy earrings. His call from a pay phone in David had given her just an hour to get from her apartment to where the charter plane waited and it appeared he’d caught her getting ready for an elegant morning rendezvous. Mercer noticed the distinctive smell of Obsession perfume when they’d shaken hands. Her nails were beautifully manicured and painted a slick red.

Even after he told her about the attempt to steal the Lepinay diary, she hadn’t seemed concerned over her husband’s continued silence, now stretching past twenty-four hours. Normally, Mercer would have made allowances for Gary’s lack of sophisticated communications gear—he didn’t have the expense accounts Mercer enjoyed when he prospected for some multinational mining company—yet the connection to the journal was so clear that Maria should have shown some anxiety. Considering the changes he saw in her, it was obvious that she was no longer the young girl grateful to Gary for rescuing her from the slums. It was also possible that these changes had effectively nullified their marriage. For all his faults, Gary was an honest worker who enjoyed a simpler way of life. Mercer couldn’t imagine the woman before him spending more than a few hours away from the comforts of a big city.

Mercer recalled that Maria was Gary’s third wife and that the others had left because the women had wrongly assumed Gary would eventually give up his rough lifestyle. He imagined this marriage heading in the same direction.

Maria had wanted to wait in David and try to reach Gary again, but Mercer felt time pressing in on him and insisted they immediately take off for the Darien Province. He barely gave her enough time to freshen up in the airport before the charter plane was in the air and headed toward El Real.

In the riverside town of three thousand people, he’d asked her to hire the boat and guides since his Spanish was nonexistent. The locals knew of Gary and the owner of the boat had set a reasonable price as long as his three cousins—and their M-16s—came along. Most of the narco-guerrilla activity had been far to the north, near the Atlantic coast, but no one took chances with the Colombians.

El Real was an hour and a half behind them now as they continued to motor deeper into the jungle. The sun was high up in the sky, flashing off the river where it found breaks in the canopy. The water was as black as tea, stained dark by tannins leached from fallen leaves. Only occasionally could they get a look at the banks of the river, sandy shoals and spots where a gentle curve had eroded small ledges. Mostly, though, their view was obscured by the jungle, a riot of intertwined plants, trees, vines and creepers that cut off everything but a ribbon of sky directly above them. The entire color palate was blue sky, black water, and green, a million shades from deepest emerald to mildest mint. And then there would be jeweled flashes. The central Darien Province was one of the premier spots for bird watching on the planet and the jungle sparkled with feathers in a dazzling variety of colors. This deep into the hinterland, only an occasional bird would flutter away from the sound of their passing boat.

The boatman eased back on the throttle and the bow settled into the water. The wake slapped against the shores. A quick conversation fired between the dark-skinned mestizos.

“What’s going on?” Mercer asked Maria Barber. The low burbling of the engine was a relief after its choking roar.

“We are getting closer to what Gary called the River of Ruin. The waters here are unpredictable. They don’t want to run the boat into a shoal.”

Mercer studied the water. Brown stains wended their way down on the lazy current. This tributary was being fed by another, muddier stream. Conversation over, the boat again picked up its pace, though much slower than before.

It was amazing, Mercer thought. Less than two days before he was in a city of millions and now the six of them in the boat were the only people for miles. Because his job took him to the remotest corners of the globe, the isolation didn’t bother him. The same couldn’t be said for Maria. She looked miserable.

“You don’t seem too comfortable out here,” he said.

She gave him a slow glance. “No.” She went on after a pause. “When I first meet Gary, we would explore together. It was fun for a little while.”

“But not anymore?” Mercer prompted.

“Gary has money. He doesn’t need to live in the jungle like an animal. We have an apartment in Panama City, a nice one. A car. I am happier there.”

“You knew that this is what Gary did with his time, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I knew.” She reapplied a glossy coat of lipstick without use of a mirror. “I just didn’t think it would go on for so long. Why would a rich norteamericano want to live in conditions worse than I had when I was a child? I couldn’t take it.”

The next logical question was if she still loved Gary, but Mercer decided that not only wasn’t it his business, he honestly didn’t care. Maria had wanted out of the slums and got it and Gary had a pretty wife years younger than him for when he came out of the jungle. Love, he realized, had nothing to do with it. He guessed the lunch date he’d interrupted with his call from David hadn’t been with some girlfriends. Mercer was glad he’d be out of here in less than a week.

“Do you know what Gary wanted me to see?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. There is a dead volcano at the head of the River of Ruin. It has a lake in its center that feeds the river from over a tall waterfall. He had been looking up there recently. Maybe he found something. I don’t know.”

The river valley they’d been traversing had been shallow but soon began to grow steeper, with high hills of thick jungle that hemmed in on the water. The ribbon of sky hadn’t shrunk, yet somehow looked farther away. The river seemed more claustrophobic and the humidity level shot up brutally.

“We are close,” Maria called.

The river branched, the spill from the smaller fork completely brown, like the discharge from an industrial outlet. Mercer saw that a number of trees had lost their upstream foliage, as if a storm had raged here recently. The muddy tributary was partially blocked by a set of small rapids, nothing the boat couldn’t negotiate, but they struck Mercer as odd. The boulders in the stream were the first rock he’d seen since leaving El Real. Then he saw partial stone walls on each bank. The artificial breastworks ran from the valley’s flanks right to the water’s edge. They were ancient, worn and near collapse. Sections of the walls had been recently cleaned of vegetation and dirt, exposed to the daylight for the first time in centuries.

The boat swung into the right branch of the river, powering through the short stretch of cataracts. This part of the river was even narrower than before, darker and more ominous.

“Those rocks back there made a ten-foot-high waterfall,” Maria said. “They dammed off this whole river until Gary cleared them away. He thinks that the stones were quarried from someplace else and set there so no one could travel farther up this valley by boat. We’re on the River of Ruin now.”

“Who laid them?” Mercer noted that the valley floor didn’t appear to be as thickly covered with jungle. This area had been underwater until just a short time ago—back-flooded by the ancient dam.

“Gary believes it was the Incas who robbed the Spanish mule trains of gold and jewels and created what is called the Twice-Stolen Treasure. It was those stones that convinced him the treasure was close by. That is why he called it the River of Ruin, for the ruins of a dam he had discovered.”

Mercer recalled the fantastic story Gary Barber had pieced together over the past five years that led him to this isolated stretch of water.

Following the dazzling success of Hernan Cortes against the Aztecs in 1519, Spanish conquistadors turned their attention to South America in pursuit of the massive gold reserves held by the mighty Inca empire. After an earlier exploration that gained him the favor of King Charles I, Francisco Pizarro arrived in Peru in 1531 with 180 men and 27 horses just as a long Inca civil war was coming to an end. He immediately left his coastal garrison of San Miguel to meet with the new ruler, Atahualpa, in Cajamarca. Backed by a thirty-thousand-man army, Atahualpa felt he had nothing to fear from the small Spanish band. He continued to believe that right up to the moment he was taken prisoner. His people paid his ransom by twice filling a room eighteen feet by twenty-two feet with silver and once more with gold, an estimated twenty-four tons of precious metal. The bullion was shipped back to the coast for its journey to Spain and the Inca ruler was murdered anyway on August 29, 1533. Three months later Pizarro completed the conquest by occupying the Inca capital of Cuzco and made Atahualpa’s brother, Manco Capac, a puppet ruler.

In 1536, Manco Capac finally began a belated revolt against the Spanish, laying siege to Cuzco and eventually burning the city. But he could not maintain his revolt and eventually retreated to the mountain stronghold of Vitcos, where he engaged in a harassment campaign against Pizarro’s soldiers until his murder by the Spanish in 1544. By this time a steady supply of gold, silver and emeralds was being drained from the Inca empire, loaded on ships in the new city of Lima, where it was sent to warehouses in Panama City. From there the treasure was moved to the Caribbean coast trading centers of Nombres de Dios or Porto Bello by pack mule on El Camino Real, the King’s Highway. Once a year, galleons from Spain arrived to take the loot back to Europe.

As part of his guerrilla campaign against the conquistadors, Manco Capac dispatched a small expeditionary force to Panama in an effort to stem the flood of gold, silver, and gems. Although the Incas did not have Spain’s rapacious hunger for precious metals, they considered gold to be the Sweat of the Sun, the central deity in their religion, and silver to be the Tears of the Moon. Manco’s plan was that this force would attack the mule caravans in the densest part of the jungle as they traversed the isthmus, and recover as much of the treasure as they could. Once taken back from the Spanish, the treasure would then be hidden until such time as the conquistadors were thrown out of Peru and the Inca empire was reestablished.

With the help of Cimaroons, escaped slaves living as small tribes in the jungle, Manco’s troops established a number of hidden villages in Panama where they prepared to carry out their commando raids. Using information gathered by the Cimaroons, the warriors learned the routes and schedules and began their attacks. The early assaults were small-scale and cautious, netting little in the way of treasure, but teaching the rebels a great deal about Spanish arms and tactics. They would strike quickly and just as quickly flee with what they could carry to their forest redoubts, far from where the Spanish would pursue them. Soon, however, they were attacking the larger mule trains the Spanish sent across the isthmus, wending caravans of three hundred or more animals laden with bullion from the newly opened mines at Potosi and Huancavelica.

Back in Peru, Manco Capac’s rebellion against Pizarro ended with his assassination. His son Sayri Tupac became ruler, and the Inca warriors in Panama continued to raid the mule trains. Sayri was poisoned in 1561, and still the raids continued. Isolated in the Panamanian jungle, the band of warriors didn’t know that their once mighty empire was dying by degrees. They interbred with Cimaroon women, creating new generations of rebels to maintain their harassment of the caravans. In 1572, the last Inca revolt in Peru, led by another of Manco Capac’s sons, Tupac Amaru, ended with his beheading in Cuzco. What followed was two hundred uninterrupted years of colonial rule by the Spanish, and for much of that time they shipped the riches of the New World back to the Old through Panama. And all that time the descendents of Manco’s original band of soldiers continued to plunder the mule trains.

While the attacks by pirates such as Henry Morgan and Francis Drake against the Spanish strongholds of Nombres de Dios and Panama City were better known, the secret raids by Incas long cut off from their homeland amassed fortunes far beyond the dreams of even the most bloodthirsty privateers. An estimated billion dollars in silver from just one mine in Bolivia was transported on the King’s Highway, and nearly every shipment across the isthmus was attacked by the rebels. Untold tons of silver and gold and millions of carats of Colombian emeralds were hijacked from the caravans and cached someplace in the Panamanian jungle.

Gary Barber, like others who’d followed the legend, believed the hoard, stolen once from the Incas and once by them, to be worth hundreds of millions if not billions of dollars in today’s market.

The problem, of course, was that there exists no actual proof that these raids ever took place. Journal entries written at the time were sketchy at best and much of what was known came second- and often thirdhand. Most scholars discounted the idea of a tribe of Incas living in the Panamanian jungle for two hundred years. They felt the tales were merely cover stories told by conquistadors who stole from their own mule trains to avoid turning over the loot to the Spanish crown. Because nothing of the Incas had ever been found, and certainly no trace of a fabulous treasure had ever turned up, they believed the legend likely grew from a single documented Cimaroon raid. This tale was then embellished to hide a systematic looting by the Spanish of their own royal caravans.

But looking back at the remnants of the ancient dam that once blocked this river from the main channel of the Rio Tuira, Mercer saw that maybe there was something to the story after all. As far as he knew, no pre-Colombian civilization in Panama had constructed such elaborate stonework. In fact the main indigenous tribe, the Kuna, had been left alone by the Spanish because they were a near-Stone Age people with nothing worth plundering. The stone slabs that Gary had excavated were square cut and would weigh between one and two tons. Not something the Kuna could have built, and the design lacked typical Castilian ornamentation, which meant it was unlikely to be the work of the Spanish. Having never seen Inca ruins like Machu Picchu firsthand, Mercer couldn’t say for certain if the dam had been fashioned by those master builders, but he wouldn’t be surprised.

Once past the rapids that were the remnants of the dam’s foundation, the boatman throttled back his outboard and guided the craft deeper into the jungle, farther up the River of Ruin. Sections of both banks had been dug into recently, showing raw scars of muddy dirt that could only be Gary’s work as he searched for the treasure. After ten minutes the engine was cut altogether.

Expecting to hear the raucous sounds of the jungle—the birds, and insects, and monkeys—the party was struck by a deafening silence. Mercer’s hearing recovered from the thrum of the outboard and still he could hear nothing except the gentle hiss of the boat through the water as it slowed. The guides shot each other apprehensive glances. This was clearly something they had never experienced before.

High above, a vulture slashed through the strip of sky.

The guides jabbered something at the boat’s owner, each reaching for his assault rifle.

“What are they saying?” Mercer asked.

Maria ignored him and joined the conversation, her voice rising to a shout that cut off the argument. She finally turned to Mercer. “He wants to head back and call the police. He thinks Gary and his party have been attacked by guerrillas.”

“Tell him we go on,” Mercer said.

“I did. We’re only about a half mile from Gary’s camp.”

The nervous energy was palpable as they threaded through the draped branches of overhanging trees. The three armed men restlessly scanned the jungle, eyes and hands tight, mouths fixed in grim lines. There was no movement except where the boat’s wake splashed against the river-banks.

The smell reached them before the camp came into sight. On an instinctive level, Mercer knew what it was, as if his olfactory senses had a genetic knowledge of what human death smelled like. Then again, he’d smelled death too many times to ever forget it. It was a scent like that of rotted meat, but somehow much, much worse.

Gary’s encampment stood on a flat plain on the water’s edge. There were a dozen personnel tents and one larger one Gary must have used for his headquarters. The bodies lay haphazardly throughout the camp. Some were at the riverbank as if they’d died fetching water, while others had fallen half in and half out of their tents. Still others must be still inside the tents, for carrion birds clustered around the open flaps, their plumage streaked with gore. Mercer could see maybe fifteen people, men and women, and several children. All were dead from apparent gunshot wounds.

The boatman began jabbering again. Mercer flicked his eyes from the carnage and stared at the frightened man. The Panamanian stopped speaking, swallowed once, and was unable to meet the hard gaze. “Tell him to beach the boat,” Mercer said without turning away.

Maria didn’t need to translate. The boat edged over to the camp and Mercer leapt out with a rope in his hand. He tied it to a stake jammed deep into the mud. He pointed at the leader of guards, motioning the man to follow him and to send out the other two as pickets at the upstream and downstream edges of the clearing. Maria and the boatman stayed in the small craft. As the men entered the camp, their motion startled the scavenger birds to a flight of indignant cries. Mercer tied a bandana around his mouth and nose.

There were times that he hated being right, absolutely hated it. As he trudged toward the main tent, the sense of urgency that had driven him halfway around the globe washed out of him with each step. The fears he’d harbored since the assault in Paris had been justified. This was no random narco-guerrilla attack. The timing was just too coincidental. Judging by the amount of damage done by the birds, he estimated this group had died at least a day before he bought the Lepinay journal, just after Gary’s final communication with his wife, when he’d said he had something he wanted Mercer to see. Gary had been closer to a major discovery than he’d known and the knowledge had cost him his life.

Mercer was doing a good job of keeping his emotions in check until he entered the main tent and found Gary’s body. Dressed in shorts, boots, and a filthy T-shirt, Gary lay sprawled on the canvas floor of the tent, a bullet wound like an obscene third eye in his forehead. Despite the savagery of the attack on the camp, his weathered features were composed, as if he’d puzzled about his death rather than fought it. Though not as bad as the others outside, Gary’s corpse had not been spared from the vultures. Mercer thought he’d prepared himself for finding this type of scene, and still his hands shook as he bent to close Gary’s eyes.

Mercer needed many minutes for the ache to subside enough for him to begin thinking again.

The large tent had been ransacked, the contents of chests and boxes dumped on the floor, a computer smashed, Gary’s bed stripped and flipped. Further proof that this wasn’t Colombian guerrillas was that a great deal of equipment valuable to struggling rebels had been either smashed or left behind: a transceiver, clothing, the portable generator just outside the tent and cases of canned food. Mercer didn’t know exactly what the killers were after so he couldn’t tell if they’d found it, but he suspected that eliminating Gary as a rival was their principal aim. The ransacking had been a ruse to throw off authorities.

Back into the brutal sunshine, he stepped carefully toward the boat, noting that they had gone so far as to shoot a couple of camp dogs, two goats, and a handful of chickens. Like the dead people, there was remarkably little blood from the gunshots. When he reached the boat, Maria’s back was to him, her gaze fixed on the slow-moving river.

“I’m sorry,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. They remained frozen for several long seconds and then he could feel her body heaving gently as she began to sob. “If it’s any comfort, he didn’t suffer.”

She turned into him and his arms went around her, her face buried in his stomach as he stood over the boat. “It is no comfort,” she said softly.

They stayed like that until the leader of the guards, Ruben, approached. He made a sweeping gesture with his hand to encompass the camp then shook his head. He’d searched the area and found no one alive and no sign of the attackers. Just as Mercer had guessed.

“Guardia Nacional?” he asked, meaning should they alert the national police force.

“Sí.” Mercer nodded. He lifted Maria’s chin so he could look at her face. Her makeup had smeared a little, but her eyes remained clear and glassy. “I’m going to stay here while Ruben contacts the police. I think you should go back to Panama City. The charter plane is still in El Real. Just have the pilot fly you home. Is that okay?”

“All right. You will . . . take care of Gary?”

“They’ll probably want to bury him tomorrow in El Real or I can have him flown to the capital.”

She looked across the camp. “No. He was interiorano, a person of the bush. He should be buried here.”

“Then tell the pilot to bring you back tomorrow morning for the ceremony.”

Maria hesitated. “You and I will go to church for Gary at home when you are finished here. I will say good-bye then.”

Surprised that she wouldn’t want to be there when her husband was buried, Mercer held his tongue. Her relationship wasn’t his business, he reminded himself.

Ruben stayed with Mercer and sent his two comrades to El Real with Maria. It cost Mercer another hundred dollars to retain their services. He didn’t think Gary’s killers would be back, but there were real narco-guerrillas operating in Darien, and he didn’t want to hang around without armed protection.

The language barrier aside, the Panamanian seemed to understand Mercer’s need to quietly mourn for Gary Barber and to investigate what had happened on his own. Ruben shadowed Mercer at a respectful distance as they spent the six hours it would take for an organized force to return exploring the area around the camp. This included taking a battered fiberglass canoe down to the dam. It was an amazing structure but told Mercer nothing about its builders or its true purpose.

Ignoring the ancient enigma, he concentrated on the one surrounding the massacre. Apart from the obvious—that treasure hunters, likely backed by an unknown Chinese businessman, had shot seventeen people to make their raid look like the work of Colombian rebels—there was a deeper mystery here that went beyond the evidence. There were too many irregularities that didn’t fit the elaborately staged scene. Gary’s calm expression and the lack of blood were the most obvious signs, and the more Mercer explored, the more anomalies he saw.

Although the killers had taken the time to shoot all the domestic animals, further inspection revealed that several of the wounds wouldn’t have been fatal, and five of the dozen chickens hadn’t been shot at all but were still as dead as those raked by automatic gunfire. Then there was the absence of any scavengers other than those that had flown here. He also found a number of dead animals in the bush bordering the camp, a few monkeys and birds. Even more puzzling was the fact that they were barely decomposed. There were no insects to eat them. The jungle was virtually dead. It wasn’t until he entered the kitchen tent and discovered lifeless cockroaches lying on their backs that he put it all together: the wind-ravaged trees, the silence, the calm acceptance of death on most victims’ faces.

That the whole scene had been contrived wasn’t in doubt. It was what the killers had covered up that was truly bizarre. “Jesus.” Mercer looked upstream to where a lake hidden inside a volcano fed the river. “These people weren’t murdered.”

He and Ruben were drinking warm bottles of Coke when they heard boats approaching, their rumble echoing across the tight valley. A minute later three boats appeared from downstream. One was the outboard that had first brought them here, but the craft’s owner had not returned. It was run by Ruben’s men. Another held a small group of officials in sweat-stained uniforms, and the third boat, the largest, was likely to be used to transport the dead back to El Real. It wasn’t until they were almost to the camp that Mercer saw one of the officials was wearing U.S. Army camouflage BDUs. He then realized it was a woman. Most of her brown hair was tucked under a black beret but there was no mistaking the feminine beauty of her features or the swell of her breasts.

Ruben helped secure the boats as everyone jumped to the shore. The local officials did nothing to hide their disgust at the smell of the camp, making exaggerated gestures and muttering a few sarcastic remarks. The head of the delegation, a paunchy man with a mustache that sagged past the corners of his mouth, spoke with Ruben for a few moments, paying no attention to his M-16. Mercer picked up a few words, muerto, guerillero, Colombia, and Gary’s name several times.

“Do you mind my asking who the hell you are and what you’re doing out here?” The question was asked in a melodious Southern accent. Though bluntly worded, it sounded more congenial than accusatory.

Mercer looked away from where Ruben was giving an account of what they’d found and studied the American soldier who’d accompanied the Panamanian military. She’d pulled her hat off. Her hair swept past her jaw and covered a portion of her small ears. He guessed she was somewhere in her early thirties because the lines at the corners of her eyes vanished when she stopped squinting into the setting sun. Mercer noticed immediately that her eyes were two different colors. One was a gray a few shades lighter than his own and the other was more blue. The asymmetry made her striking, even if he hadn’t already found her so attractive. Through her tan, a sprinkle of freckles glowed on her high cheeks and across her nose. The other thing that struck him was how long and graceful her throat was and that without makeup her lips were still red and full.

She stood with a casual confidence that told him this was-n’t the first time she’d witnessed such carnage. Mercer found himself flustered for a moment. He finally put out his hand.

“Mercer. My name is Philip Mercer.”

“Captain Lauren Vanik.” Her grip was firm and she never broke eye contact. As if nature needed to draw even more attention to her stunning eyes, her lashes were long.

“The head of this expedition was a friend of mine,” Mercer told her. “He’d invited me here a while ago. I arrived with his wife around noon and discovered . . . well, this.”

“And you sent a couple of Ruben’s boys back to get the police?”

“Yes.” It was odd that an army officer would know such a mercenary. He asked, “Ah, how do you know Ruben?”

Her quick smile revealed a narrow gap between her front two teeth. “I coordinate with Panama’s antidrug efforts for U.S. Southern Command. Ruben’s network has been a good source of information to us. I was in La Palma, the provincial capital, when word got out about this massacre so I came to El Real to see for myself. I understand Mr. Barber was some kind of treasure hunter. Is that what you do?”

“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 CO?”

“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 CO 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 CO 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 CO, 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. Sanchez 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 CO 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.

Wherever his work took them, Siobahn established small conservation groups among the locals who serviced the mining sites. It was a vagabond existence in which young Philippe flourished, learning a trade from his father and an understanding of the natural world from his mother. Despite the ethnic strife that engulfed the region from time to time, they found a rare happiness among friends, white, Hutu or Tutsi.

Prospecting for alluvial gold in the highlands near Goma, Zaire, where dozens of streams fed Lake Kivu, one more in a long string of violent rampages flared up when Philippe was twelve. Like many before it, the cause dated back centuries, when the Tutsis first entered the pastoral lands held by the majority Hutu, and was flamed further by inept colonial rule. As he’d done before, David sent his wife and son to the house of a Belgian plantation owner the couple had befriended. The man, Gerard Bonneville, was an old Africa hand whose family had built generations of respect in the region. Also he had a private airstrip and a C-47 behind the rambling stone house he shared with his own wife and six children if things got too bad. For a week, Philippe and Siobahn waited anxiously as David worked to organize defenses for isolated villages from machete-wielding mobs. Then word reached the banana plantation that David had been wounded.

Knowing her son was safe, and that if she did nothing her husband would die either from the wound or infection, Siobahn borrowed a farm truck from Bonneville and went to bring him back. Mercer could recall her words as she left with dawn’s light filtering into the bedroom he shared with the four boys.

“Do you remember when you were six and went swimming in the Kasai River and the current pulled you toward the rapids below our camp?” Still fogged with sleep, Mercer nodded. “And I jumped in to grab you because none of the natives knew how to swim, even Nanny, who loves you as much as I?”

Philippe’s nanny was a Tutsi woman named Juma who had been with the family from the day he was born. From his father he’d learned to love the land, from his mother he’d learned to love animals, but it was Juma, with her round face and quick laugh, who’d taught him how to love people.

“I have to do the same for your father,” his mother continued. “No one is willing to go out to bring him home. I will be back soon and Mr. and Mrs. Bonneville will take care of you when I’m gone, but remember to obey them if they decide to fly out to the capital. Do you understand me, Philippe?”

“Yes, Mother.” The idea that she was leaving was more terrifying than his father being wounded, but he knew that she had to do this. “I will obey.”

She hugged him so fiercely that he felt his chest would collapse and he wanted only for her to hug him harder. Their tears mingled on his cheek.

Young Philippe spent the next day and a half on the second-story balcony that overlooked the rolling lawn and the rough dirt track that led toward Goma, his eyes straining into the humid air to see a feather of dust or a pair of headlights that meant his parents were returning. Nanny stayed with him, holding him to her warm body under a blanket during the long night. Neither slept.

At noon the second day, with rebel guns crackling in the jungle surrounding the long rows of banana trees, Gerard Bonneville decided it was time to get his family out. Except for the house staff of five, all his workers had fled into the bush and experience told him that this uprising wasn’t going to end any time soon. He’d heard nothing from Siobahn over the truck’s short-wave radio.

Yvette Bonneville came out onto the balcony, her normal skirts and blouses replaced with sturdy khaki. Though only a few years older than Siobahn, her skin was dried and darkened by the tropical sun to the color of tobacco. Stress had formed purple circles under her eyes. Her youngest child, a pigtailed girl of six, clung to her leg with her thumb plugged in her mouth. “Juma, Gerard is prepping the Dakota now. The other children are with him. We have to get to the airfield.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the African answered. “We’re ready.”

Yvette turned away, taking her daughter’s hand. In the other she carried her husband’s Holland and Holland twelve gauge with determination. Mercer remembered it was the only time he’d ever seen her show fear.

Bitter but obedient, he took one last look down the road before preparing himself to leave.

The exact sequence of events that followed was forever lost in Mercer’s memory. He didn’t know if he heard the horn from the farm truck grinding up the road before or after a massive explosion erupted behind the house. Either way, he knew his scream would forever echo in his head. Moments after the truck appeared, it jerked to a stop. White circles like spider webs appeared on the flat windscreen. One second he could see his mother’s dark hair, and in the next she vanished behind a cloud of red mist. Two armed men stepped from the jungle flanking the road. From inside the house came a crash of glass as a window was knocked in and then Yvette Bonneville’s shotgun roared like a cannon. Mercer saw dark figures in ragtag uniforms with blood-smeared pangas crab across the lawn to his left. A second sun bloomed from the airstrip as the C-47’s main fuel tanks exploded and the rising corona of fire climbed above the house’s tile roof.

“No!” he heard Mrs. Bonneville scream from downstairs. And then came a wet smack like a club striking rotted fruit. Silence.

Thinking back now, Mercer realized Juma must have been in her mid-fifties and he would have weighed eighty pounds or more. She lifted him as though he were a toddler and tossed him off the right side of the balcony. Landing in a bed of rhododendrons that Mrs. Bonneville kept trimmed flat and full, he had only a moment to recover before Nanny fell into the shrubs next to him.

“Say nothing,” she cautioned, peering into the first rows of bananas across twenty yards of lawn. Satisfied that there was no one lurking there, she took his hand and began running, her great breasts slapping against her belly with every frantic step.

Not breaking stride as they reached the towering wall of trees, Mercer managed to take one more look down the lawn to where his mother’s truck sat just beyond the metal culvert that diverted an irrigation stream under the drive. Two men with distinctively shaped AK-47s stood next to the vehicle. As he watched, they raked the cab and the bed of the pickup with bullets. Through the smoke puffing from each weapon, an arc of spent casings glittered in the sun. A hot round ignited the gasoline spilling from the punctured fuel tank. Flames engulfed the truck, forcing the men to scramble back.

Mercer staggered, falling slack at what he’d witnessed. Nanny yanked on his arm to get his attention and slapped him full across the face. “We mourn later.”

Having spent several summers with the Bonnevilles, Mercer knew their plantation even better than the farm’s Hutu overseer. Yet as they crashed from row to row of banana trees, he had no idea where he was. His mind had left him. He wanted nothing more than to collapse. Juma led them on, maintaining their bearings by watching the pillar of black smoke that rose from the Bonnevilles’ plane.

“Where next, Philippe?” she asked when they broke out of the first cultivated field. “We need to lose ourselves in the jungle. Which way is closest?” Across a fallow area thick with wild grass, more ranks of trees ran to the horizon. The prattle of machine-gun fire had faded in the distance.

The boy said nothing, the sting of the slap having nothing to do with the tears that greased his cheeks.

Juma lowered herself to her knees so that she was looking up into his face. “In my village, when a boy reaches a certain age, he goes through an initiation to become a man. It is a time of great joy for everyone as he leaves his childhood behind. You have just left your childhood but there is no joy for either of us.” Her voice was steadying, solemn. “When the village boys take that first step into manhood, they also take a new name. It is the warrior name they will forever use in the tribe. After today, it is time that you take your warrior name too, even if your people don’t choose them like we do.

“To honor your father’s strength and your mother’s courage, you can no longer be Philippe.” She thought for a second. “You will be called Mercer from now on, do you hear me? This is the name you will use when you reach your tribe again. Your warrior name.” Her eyes bored into his, soft brown meeting frightened gray. “Tell me, Mercer, which way do we go to reach the jungle quickest?”

Without word or hesitation, he pointed to their right.

He had no idea how many days it took to reach Juma’s village on the Rwandan side of Lake Kivu. They lived off the land using her intimate knowledge of the jungle and took circuitous detours around the pockets of fighting. He stayed with her for almost six months before a Red Cross worker came to the village. It would be another three weeks until Mercer’s identity was verified and his grandfather in the United States alerted to come to the Rwandan capital of Kigali to collect the grandchild he’d never met. A mistake by a harried clerk at the U.S. Mission in Rwanda anglicized his first name to Philip, though he barely cared. He had become Mercer.

Mercer looked down at the sleeping Panamanian boy on his lap, his face glowing in the embers of the dying fire. Even if he hadn’t felt it, maybe the boy had sensed the commonality of their experience. Both were orphans, forced to live in the jungle and denied the time to grieve. He stroked Miguel’s hair.

“What happened to Juma?”

“What did you say?” he asked, startled.

“Your nanny?” Lauren prompted. “What happened to her?”

Mercer swallowed. He thought the memory had unfolded silently in his head, as he allowed it to do a few times each year, the details so vivid he could still smell the rhododendron blossoms from the hedge. Not even Harry knew the details of how he lost his parents and he’d just accidentally told the story to a complete stranger. Looking at how Lauren watched him, the vulnerability he feared failed to appear. He’d always thought his story would elicit pity, an emotion he detested, but in her voice he heard respect. The jackhammer blow to his heart he’d felt when she’d asked about Juma eased into a sort of warmth.

“I tried to get her out a few times, but she never wanted to leave her village again.” Lost in the past, his voice caught. “I went back when genocide swept Rwanda in 1994. I was too late.”

Lauren’s hand came out of the gloom beyond the fire’s reach and rested on his. “I’m sorry.”

He finally stripped the wrapper off the neck of the Rémy Martin bottle and uncorked it. He gave Lauren a sip and took a small one for himself. “Knowing her for even a day was worth the pain of losing her.”

Unexpectedly, the melancholy that usually descended after thinking of that day did not come. He felt the first stir-rings of anger instead. Mercer felt an emotion stronger than simple revenge for wanting to discover what had happened to Gary and the others. He wanted to give Miguel’s loss some measure of meaning. Something that he had never been able to do for his own parents’ murder, something that haunted him still.

“So what do we do with him?” Lauren asked into the lengthening silence.

“I assume he has family in El Real or someplace close. We’ll send one of Ruben’s men back to the town with him tomorrow and continue our original plan.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

Mercer had no answer.

They were woken the next morning by the jungle. Birds that had already reclaimed the once-poisoned valley were joined by a few other animals, including a monkey that screeched at the rising sun as if defending its territory. The thick canopy of vegetation emerged from the darkness, colors resolving themselves with remarkable speed. Blacks morphed to grays and then to greens. Shapes appeared, first like phantom shadows, then detailing into individual trees and resolving up to separate branches and leaves. With each passing moment, the jungle became louder and louder as nocturnal animals scampered for cover and the early-morning hunters sought them out.

Mercer must have fallen asleep long before Lauren, for when he woke he found she had erected mosquito netting around them and filled a shallow trench around their camp with water to keep away crawling insects. He woke flat on his back. Miguel was pressed as tightly to him as a just-weaned puppy and Lauren Vanik lay on his other side, her hand cupped around his biceps. Her face was turned to him. With her extraordinary eyes closed, her face didn’t lose any of the character he found so appealing. As he watched, they fluttered open, their curious coloring giving the impression that she greeted each day with anticipation rather than resignation. Her dark hair was a fan against the soft sand where it spilled off the folded shirt she used for a pillow. All three had shared a single blanket through the night. On the far side of the dead fire, Ruben and his men coughed and scratched themselves awake. A pair of cigarettes were lit amid more coughing and spitting.

She smiled. “I love how men come awake like they’re hibernating bears.”

“Not me. I just roll out of bed ready to face the day.”

“Oh, you did your bear impersonation last night. My God, you can snore.”

He shot her a look of mock indignation. “I do not. And if I did, you should know that a loud snore is considered a sign of manly prowess.”

“Then you should be proud of yourself. I’d say your snoring makes you quite the stud.” She spoke with more sentiment than she’d intended.

To cover her embarrassment at so openly flirting under these inappropriate circumstances, Lauren rolled out from under the blanket before Mercer could see her blush. She went beyond the jungle edge to find a little privacy while the Panamanians lustily urinated in the river.

Mercer untangled himself from Miguel and left the boy sleeping as he went to find some breakfast from the remains of Gary’s camp. The look Lauren had just given him and the glassiness of her eyes after hearing his story remained fresh in his mind. He wasn’t sure how he felt about her knowing his most intimate secret. Strangely comfortable was as close as he could come to an accurate description.

He returned to their camp with tins of stew, a pot for boiling water, mugs, and a half-empty jar of instant coffee. Lauren had folded away the mosquito netting and the fire was burning cheerily. Miguel was just wiping sleep from his eyes and sand from his hair. He held Mercer’s limp bandana as if it were still shaped like a rabbit. Before allowing Mercer to concentrate on the food, he asked for the puppet to be reformed on his outstretched hand. He’d already named the rabbit Jorge, after a cartoon he’d seen.

As Mercer cooked, Lauren took the reluctant boy to the edge of the river, stripped him naked and ordered him to bathe. Protesting in wailing Spanish, Miguel finally relented when Mercer shot him a stern look from the fire. Lauren and the boy chatted easily as he washed in the warm water.

When they approached the fire, Mercer had coffee and stew ready and Lauren had a worried frown on her face. “We’ve got ourselves a problem. Miguel doesn’t have any family in these parts. His parents were living in Panama City when your friend Gary hired them. He says he only has one uncle who moved to Miami years ago.”

“He’s got nobody?”

“Seems like it.”

“Damn.” Panama was a Catholic country, noted for large extended families. That Miguel was completely alone in the world was a complication Mercer hadn’t expected. “What do we do?”

Lauren studied the child as he wolfed his breakfast. “I can make some inquiries once we’re back in the city. Until then I suggest we keep him with us. You only need a day up at the lake, right?”

“Yeah, we can be back in the capital by tomorrow. He should stay with us when we go up to the lake rather than leave a man in camp with him. I don’t want us to split up.”

“Agreed.”

Having seen children treated worse than animals in Third World countries on two continents, Lauren asked Miguel what he wanted to do. She knew well the emotional devastation wrought in refugee children who were shuffled from camp to camp without being given a say in their own future. The trick was to make the child think that what you wanted them to do was also what they wanted. She gave Miguel the option of exploring a waterfall and a lake with her and Mercer or returning to El Real with one of Ruben’s men. The answer was as quick as it was expected.

“I would like to stay with you.” Ruben had given the boy his floppy bush hat and Miguel had to tilt his head back to see out from under it. His grin made his face come alive.

Two hours later, the skiff that had originally brought Mercer up the River of Ruin reached the base of a series of waterfalls and steep cataracts. The falls fell from about two hundred feet up a sloping mountainside, dropping from pool to pool with almost unnatural uniformity. There was little mist rising from the water, as each individual drop was no more than eight or ten feet. Mercer studied the falls, then examined the two sides of the box valley, which were noticeably less steep than the stone massif in front of him.

After tying the boat under cover, Ruben and his men took up positions around the base of the falls while Lauren kept an eye on Miguel as he cavorted in the dancing water. Mercer had recovered some equipment from Gary’s camp and set off up the side of the valley with a shovel. He found a small clearing cloaked with vegetation where the ground was littered with fallen and rotting leaves. He had to chop through countless intersecting roots to reach the underlying soil. The humidity built as rapidly as the temperature and sweat flew with each mechanical motion.

Filling a plastic bag with dirt, he returned to the riverbank to drop off his prize and climbed partially up the mountain next to the falls, reveling in the occasional spray of cool water that landed on him. Again he dug a two-foot-deep hole in the ground, cutting down through layers until he reached the underpinnings of sand beneath the richer topsoil. In a calm little inlet back at the river, he floated a shallow pan on the water to create a level surface and carefully poured in one sample of sand so it formed a pyramid. He measured the pyramid’s slope with a protractor he’d found among Gary’s personal gear. He dumped out the sand and did the same with the sample dug from near the waterfall. Both piles had a natural angle of thirty-four degrees.

The next experiment he wanted to perform needed a laser range finder, an altimeter and trigonometry tables, none of which he had. He emptied the second sample of sand into the river, watching it melt away, and returned to the base of the falls.

“What was that all about?” Lauren asked when he rejoined the party.

“A waste of time,” Mercer admitted. “We set for a little climbing?”

“Sí, sí,” Miguel cried excitedly. He was already standing at the edge of a rocky pool ten feet over their heads. “I know the way. I help men when they drag a boat up to the lake.”

They found the climb much easier than expected. Though water fell in twenty-foot-wide sluices from pool to pool, there were rock formations next to each channel, so it was as simple as climbing an enormous set of stairs. Once they ascended above the height of the jungle, the humidity dropped noticeably and the air tasted sweeter. Still it was hot as the sun rose higher in the sky. Dark spots of perspiration appeared like dappled camouflage on Lauren’s faded olive-green T-shirt.

Near the head of the falls, Mercer looked down the valley that opened below them. The river seemed to vanish in the distance as if swallowed by the jungle. If not for the mountain slopes that it had carved over the millennia, it would have been indiscernible against the backdrop of tropical forest. Mercer felt menace from the jungle and what lay unseen under its thick canopy.

The lake that fed the River of Ruin sat in a depression at the top of the volcanic mountain, a perfectly round caldera dimpled by a single tree-covered island near its center. Mercer estimated the lake was about a half mile wide, though there was no telling how deep. Experience told him the lake could be even deeper than the mountain was tall, two hundred feet or more. A strip of sandy beach ran the whole way around the lake except for where it poured down the falls.

Trapped between the lake’s clear surface and the forty-foot-tall ramparts of stone that ringed it, the air remained motionless and sweltering.

“Mr. Gary worked on this side.” Miguel pointed to their right. “He dig many holes into the side of the lake, looking for treasure.”

The party trudged a quarter way around the lake, muscles that had been fresh in the morning beginning to protest after the climb. At the first of the tunnels Gary had excavated into the side of the volcano, they stopped to boil fresh water and rest for twenty minutes. The tunnel was roughly square, un-braced, and had been driven about thirty feet into the soft volcanic rock. Mercer had no idea why his old friend had dug the shaft here, but it was apparent he had found nothing of interest. Other such tunnels were visible all along the arc of the lakeshore.

Including a break for the lunch they’d scavenged from the destroyed camp below, it took seven hours to circle the lake and fully explore all the tunnels Gary had dug. They also climbed up to the rim of the volcano at various points to see what lay on the far slopes. They found nothing of interest, nothing that would have led Gary to believe the treasure he sought was buried along the shores of the lake. All that remained to be explored was the island at its middle.

The rowboat Gary’s team had laboriously dragged up the waterfall was made of heavily dented aluminum. Rather than unload the supplies left in it, Mercer decided to just take Miguel and Lauren to the island. Ruben and his men stayed on the beach next to a fire built to warm their dinner. They would sleep here tonight and climb down in the morning.

Miguel sat at the front of the boat like an animated bowsprit while Lauren rested on the bundle of gear lashed in the stern. Mercer rowed with deep, even strokes. “I feel like I should be singing Italian opera like a gondolier, but I can’t carry a tune.”

Lauren began a chorus of “Row Row Row Your Boat.”

Mercer and Miguel joined her in a round once they found the tempo. Each time they messed up, Miguel dissolved into laughter.

Beaching the boat under the overhang of a sweeping tree, Mercer tied the painter to a log and helped Lauren ashore. Miguel was already off and running. The island rose twenty feet at its center, a misshapen lump of dark rock pocked with patches of vegetation that grew from soil deposits. Five skinny trees rose from exposed roots that clung to the ground like tentacles. The whole area was less than half an acre. Gary had tunneled a single shaft into the island in a natural foldback of rock that formed a partial cave. He had managed only a few feet before returning to the river below to await Mercer’s arrival in Panama. There were tools still waiting at the rock face at the end of the tunnel.

“Looks like you rowed for nothing,” Lauren remarked, wiping sweat from her slender throat.

“Worse,” Mercer said darkly, “it seems Gary and his people died for nothing. Other than the ruins of the dam where the river meets the Rio Tuira, there’s not one shred of evidence that anyone had ever been here before them.”

He imagined Gary Barber would be just as happy dying for his dream. It was the kind of grandiose romantic gesture that would appeal to him and Mercer couldn’t begrudge him that. But Gary’s team had signed on as workers, simple laborers who probably made more money with Gary in a month than they could normally earn in a year. It was the bitterness of their loss that scalded his voice.

“It’ll be dark in an hour.” He glanced at the western horizon, where the sun was sinking toward the lip of the volcano. “We should head back.”

“Um, listen,” Lauren said shyly, “I would love to take a quick dip if you promise not to peek.”

Mercer chuckled. “Gallantry is not solely esteemed by Southern gentlemen.” He changed to an atrocious antebellum accent. “We Yankees know how to avert our eyes when a maiden is at her ablutions.”

“Why thank you, kind sir.” She batted her eyes, thankful the black mood she saw pass over him was just as quickly dispelled. “And if you don’t, this belle packs a 9mm. Make sure Miguel doesn’t get an eyeful either. I bet he’s got the same hot blood as every other man in Panama.”

Even with Ruben camped on shore a quarter mile away, Lauren walked to the far side of the island to strip naked and dive into the lake. As sleek as an otter, she slid through the topmost layer of water. It was warmed by the sun and lifted days of sweat and grime from her pores. Without soap, she could only run her hands over her body, using her neatly trimmed nails where dirt had ground into her skin at knees and elbows. Her legs and underarms prickled from lack of shaving. She hadn’t been to her apartment in Panama City for nearly a week and hadn’t seen a shower in three days.

Lying on her back and filling her lungs so that she floated an easy swim from the island, she reveled in the twin sensations of the dying sun’s warm rays and the water, which now felt cool. Like soldiers had since the very first armies, she took simple pleasures where she could find them. Four days ago she had investigated a filthy shanty outside of La Palma where a low-level drug trafficker had splattered the brains of two of his mules against the mud walls like crimson Rorschach stains. The genitals of the husband-and-wife team had been crudely carved off and stuffed in their spouse’s mouth as a warning. If the trafficker hadn’t yet fled back to Colombia, Lauren considered putting Ruben on his trail when they got back to El Real.

But now she lay in a volcanic lake, and even the bizarre postmortem mutilation of Mercer’s friends couldn’t intrude on her well-being—another trick that every soldier discovered if they wanted to keep their sanity. She didn’t know what to make of Mercer. He had the credentials of an egghead, but moved and thought like a soldier. She doubted he was a veteran—veterans tended to name drop and brag around active-duty military. Though something in Mercer’s demeanor led her to think he wasn’t a braggart about anything.

He was a mystery she wouldn’t mind learning a little more about, a far cry from the embassy types who hit on her in Panama City, or the military men who professed to like her as an equal but usually felt threatened by her. Those, she’d found, either slunk off in humiliation or attempted dominion by date rape. Twice that had happened, the first succeeding and the second, a two-star during her last time at SouthCom headquarters in Miami, having to invent a car accident to cover the injuries she’d inflicted.

That sudden memory soured her tranquility. She exhaled deeply and allowed herself to sink under the water. Scuba diving had given her great lung control and she willed herself to hover under the surface for a slow count of one hundred. Clearing her eyes of water when she surfaced, she saw Mercer standing on the bank fifteen feet from her. A burst of anger prickled her skin and she was about to shout when she heard the sound that had prompted him to search her out.

The steady beat of a helicopter’s rotors.

“Come on,” he called, “I just heard it approaching.”

He tossed her shirt as she stood in the shallows, his concentration completely fixed on the sound of the unseen chopper. The cotton tee absorbed the water beading on her skin, outlining her high breasts and the curve of her rib cage as it swept toward her narrow waist. Temperature change and the sudden tension stiffened her nipples. Mercer had already stepped back to where he’d stashed Miguel in the tunnel. Lauren pulled on her pants. She followed carrying her underwear, boots, and pistol belt.

“Where are they?” She finished dressing in the tunnel. Mercer stood on a promontory of rock just outside the entrance.

“Coming in from the west but they could have circled around the volcano. It looks like a Bell JetRanger. All black.”

“Any markings?”

“Too far away.”

The chopper thundered over the lake as if it had just climbed the waterfall. Mercer assumed it had made a couple passes over Gary’s camp to determine if anyone remained there. He was certain that whoever had shot up the bodies—and ordered the theft of the Lepinay journal in Paris—was likely to be on this helicopter. His hands balled at his sides.

“Do you think—?”

“I know it’s them,” he answered tightly.

Ruben and his men had been caught off guard when the JetRanger appeared. All three had been dozing through the late afternoon. By the time they came fully awake, the chopper had swung into a hover between them and the nearest of Gary’s excavations. The helo’s side door had been removed and without having to watch, Mercer knew what would happen next. This was a well-executed air assault.

A testament to his training and reflexes, Ruben got off the first shot as the chopper hung in the air like a deadly insect. The pops of his M-16 were lost in the thunder of the rotors and the angry bark of a gimbal-mounted light machine gun slung in the open door frame. A wall of sand erupted ten feet in front of the Panamanians. They turned and ran. Eruptions of dirt followed in their wake as the gunner corrected his aim. Lauren had climbed up to stand next to Mercer and made an involuntary sound as the stream of rounds found their first mark.

One of the mercenaries arched his back in an impossible angle and was slammed face-first into the beach, his torn body carving a bloody furrow. The chopper moved sideways to close the range on the remaining men. Another burst caught the second mercenary. His head vanished. Ruben ran on. A long fusillade blew enough sand into the air to swallow him. The firing stopped for a moment. It didn’t matter that both Mercer and Lauren prayed he would appear from the settling dust cloud. It would only mean a temporary reprieve.

Ruben did appear again when the dust cloud settled. He was on his knees, his M-16 at his shoulder. He fired off the remaining rounds in his magazine. He had time to slam home a fresh one but not enough to cock his weapon before the chopper’s machine gun roared again. The sand settled a second time as a shroud over his lifeless figure.

“Get back into the tunnel and make sure Miguel doesn’t come out.” Mercer watched the black helicopter circle the lake, the door gunner alert for more targets.

With no visible marking on the JetRanger, Mercer had to hope he could see the figures within to make some kind of identification. He could tell the black paint had been recently, and carelessly, applied.

At each of the tunnels ringing the lake, the chopper hovered long enough for a pair of armed men in camos to jump down, scout the tunnel for people, and jump back on the helo’s skid. It was too far to tell their ethnicity. After completing its circuit, the chopper swung toward the island.

Mercer scrambled into the cave, timing it so that he could just peek out as the craft roared directly overhead. The smile that creased his face was without warmth. In their haste, whoever had blacked out the chopper hadn’t painted her underhull. He saw shadows of overspray on the helicopter’s normal white paintwork and the neat block letters of her ID number.

“Gotcha, you son of a bitch.”

By the time the Bell JetRanger circled for a few slower passes over the island, Mercer, Lauren, and Miguel were huddled against the far wall of the tunnel, completely screened from view. And with the rowboat hidden under the tree at the water’s edge, there was no reason for the gunmen to suspect the island currently sheltered a trio of temporary residents.

When the sound of the rotors faded, Miguel wouldn’t let go of Mercer so Lauren went out to see what would happen next.

“What do you see?” Mercer asked.

Thinking of the boy in the tunnel, Lauren modified the truth. “Ah, the men in the helicopter are landing to pick up Ruben and his men.” In fact, they were collecting their corpses.

“Are they leaving us?” Miguel cried. He hadn’t heard the gunfire.

“Yes, Miguel. They are going away in the helicopter.”

“Can’t we go with them?” he complained.

“It’ll be a lot more fun climbing down the waterfall,” she said, aghast when the first of the bodies was tossed back out of the chopper over the lake. It had been weighted so it sank like a stone. The two others were also unceremoniously tossed out to an unmarked watery grave.

The scene of the three murders was sanitized. Any trace evidence, like spent shell casings, was easily explained away in a country awash in guns moving from former Nicaraguan rebels to the Colombian drug barons and revolutionaries.

“Is Ruben leaving now?” Miguel piped.

“Not yet. The helicopter is flying across the lake again. They’re . . . it looks like they’re dropping something.”

Hearing that, Mercer ordered Miguel to stay put and scrambled out of the tunnel. He caught a glimpse of the chopper just as what appeared to be a large barrel was rolled out the door opposite the gunner’s station. A moment later another barrel followed the first.

As soon as the barrels cleared the skids, the JetRanger heeled over in a steep turn and powered away from the volcano. In seconds, even the beat of its rotors was lost.

“What was that all about?” Lauren asked, but Mercer was already running to where their boat was hidden.

The first jury-rigged depth charge, containing seventy pounds of dynamite, exploded halfway to the bottom of the lake after sinking for a minute. Its detonative force reached the surface in a fraction of a second. The plume of water rose fifty feet in a writhing froth, cascading back down with a continuous slap that seemed to shake the very air. The second, even more powerful charge, went off a moment later and at an even greater depth. The island vibrated as if caught in an earthquake.

“Mercer, what are they doing?” she shouted when he came back from the rowboat dragging the heavy bundle of supplies Gary Barber had left in it.

“Get to the highest point on the island and you’ll see,” he answered without pausing from his work. “Keep Miguel close to you.”

Taking the boy’s hand and somehow trusting Mercer, Lauren climbed up the twenty-foot-high peak on the island’s southern point and looked out over the lake. Near where the first of the explosions occurred, the water seemed to be boiling like a cauldron and she heard a steady jet of sound like a distant aircraft engine. As she watched, the patch of boiling water grew like a spreading slick of acid. In just a few seconds it had doubled in size and doubled again. She had no idea what it meant until she looked to the beach, where Ruben’s cooking fire still burned.

As if a gas fireplace was starving for fuel, the flames began to shrink, dimming down until she could barely see a flicker of yellow before it was gone altogether. Then she knew. The fire hadn’t starved for fuel. It had starved for oxygen! The twin explosions had created a chain reaction to release the last of the deadly carbon dioxide from the lake. The heavy CO was forcing all the air from the mountain’s summit.

Odorless, tasteless, and invisible, a minute-long exposure was as deadly as any poison gas in military stockpiles and it was coming for them.

Not even when a faulty road map had led her HUMMV into a minefield in Bosnia had Lauren tasted the fear that slackened her muscles now. The trust she’d put in Mercer evaporated. Miguel sensed it and took her hand. Together they raced back to the cave.

“Mercer, what are you doing?” She hated that she couldn’t keep the panic from her voice. “The lake bed is going to be filled with CO in no time. We have to row back to shore and get out of here.”

He continued to unroll a sheet of clear plastic Gary used as a ground cloth. “We’d never make it,” Mercer answered, finally looking up at her. “We’d all be dead long before we reached land.”

“Don’t you understand what’s happening out there? The gas? We’ll suffocate. We can’t stay.”

“The problem is,” he replied with more calm than he had any reason to possess, “we can’t leave either.”

The Lake

The open doors helped whip the stench of cordite from the helicopter, while only time could diminish the palpable excitement from the three commandos in the rear cargo area. Years of training and the compulsory duty on a death squad in order to teach them what it was like to take another human life could not properly prepare them for the adrenaline rush of combat, although gunning down three Panamanians who barely had time to react wasn’t really combat. Still, the exercise had instilled in them something that putting a bullet into the brain of a dissident could not. Pride.

Cigarettes were passed back and forth. Pantomimes of their victims played out under the throb of the rotors. Laughter. These men hadn’t been part of the team that had earlier found the treasure hunter’s camp littered with corpses. They hadn’t taken part in the hasty attempt to make the mysterious deaths look like a kidnapping gone wrong. Those men were back in Panama City, unaware that their tales were about to be overshadowed by stories of a massacre at the lake. The oldest of the gunmen was twenty-three, a five-year veteran in the People’s Liberation Army. As the JetRanger skirted the top of the jungle on its return flight, he carefully scratched three notches into the stock of his black-market M-60 machine gun.

The two others tried to hide their jealousy.

In the right-hand seat next to the pilot sat Huai Luhong, the senior noncommissioned officer in the PLA’s newly formed Special Forces group called the Sword of South China. Huai thought the name sounded ridiculous, but loved the men he had trained since the group’s inception. The regiment-sized outfit had come into being as a response to the stunning successes shown by Western Special Forces during the Gulf War. At the time, Chinese military doctrine held that such small, highly trained teams went against the egalitarian ideals of the government. Yet the capabilities of Special Forces couldn’t be ignored, and the Sword was formed by copying the lessons, tactics and equipment of the SEALs, Army Rangers, and British SAS squadrons. Fearing that the highly trained regiment would feel superior to the rest of China’s conscripted army, the military kept Sword on a tight leash, and those who were recruited into it came from only the most loyal families.

If not for the trust placed in Liu Yousheng, the overall director of Chinese interests in Panama, the forty members of the Sword would never have been allowed outside China. As far as Huai knew, his team was the first Chinese troops to operate beyond their nation’s borders since the Korean War. But Liu was a senior executive in COSTIND, the Commission on Science, Technology and Industry for National Defense, who had proven himself time and time again in a remarkable short career.

Unlike any other army in the world, China’s military had a dual nature, part defense force, the PLA, and part industrial conglomerate, COSTIND. They maintained control of a three-million-man combine of army, navy, and air force, as well as the thousands of companies that supplied their weapons and logistical equipment, including shipyards, electronics firms, and aircraft manufacturers. Through COSTIND, they had oversight of the China National Nuclear Corporation, the organization that produced nuclear materials for civilian and military use. COSTIND’s reach stretched far beyond China’s borders. Many of its companies had a strong presence in nations all over the world—port facilities, shipping lines, consumer goods and heavy construction. In this way, the PLA could help defray the costs of its own expansion even as the leaders in Beijing touted the demilitarization of their economy.

At thirty-eight, Liu was twelve years younger than Sergeant Huai, and yet the tough veteran of Tiananmen and countless undeclared wars against Muslim insurgents in China’s desolate western provinces had never met a more capable man. Liu had masterminded China’s initial involvement in Panama by waging a one-man crusade to convince the politburo that a lucrative power vacuum would be created by America’s withdrawal following the canal transfer in 2000. He’d worked tirelessly to get Chinese companies and interests to fill the void, beginning first with small-scale immigration and ending with virtual control of the ports that sprawled at each end of the fifty-mile canal.

The need to pay for the operation was what had prompted Liu’s interest in the rumors of the Twice-Stolen Treasure, and thus Sergeant Huai’s presence on the chopper. The earlier trip into Darien Province, when they found the American’s camp littered with bodies, had been the first active part in this phase of Liu’s overall plan and had not gone as intended. Liu had been hoping to gather intelligence from Barber and had been unsettled by Huai’s encrypted radio call about the bodies. Barber would have died anyway, but Liu had wanted information, and the deaths created a need for Huai to make sure that there would be no long-term official interest in the region.

Leaving the River of Ruin that first time, Huai had taken one body with him for an autopsy in Panama City that revealed what had killed the treasure hunters. The depth charges they’d brought today would ensure the last of the CO in the lake bubbled out before they committed their own resources to the search. Today’s sweep also verified that the Panamanian police had no interest in the region, just as Huai’s agent in El Real had said. The three men they’d just dumped in the lake were most likely scavengers looking to loot whatever Gary Barber had left behind.

To make certain, Huai would recommend they scout the river and lake for a few more days before bringing in laborers and equipment. Yet if a treasure was buried somewhere along the river or at the lake, they would find it. Modest compared to other COSTIND actions, Liu’s budget for just this phase was a hundred times that of Gary Barber’s. They would soon have hundreds of workers digging along the river and lake.

With other parts of the operation already under way, Huai knew the importance of finding the ancient treasure. Beijing was currently subsidizing Liu’s efforts in Panama, but the funds were not without limits. After a deadline, now one month away, if Liu hadn’t found a way to finance his activities, COSTIND would withdraw their support. The genius of the plan, however, was that failure would not jeopardize what COSTIND had already built on the isthmus. The toe-hold Liu had already created would not be lost.

And the outcome if they succeeded? It was what had first interested the conservative politburo in such an audacious plot. Liu had promised them that China would enjoy a strategic presence in the Western Hemisphere much like what the USSR had attempted in Cuba in the 1960s.

Once secret bases were established in Panama, China could concentrate on the one goal that had united the government since the founding of the communist state—the reintegration of the breakaway province of Taiwan. America’s promised defense of Taiwan was what had spoiled the countless invasion plans drawn up over the decades. Liu had stated that he could nullify that threat, or more accurately match it, and foresaw the fall of Taipei just one year after the completion of this current operation.

Huai was ambivalent about Taiwan. China already had too many people, and he never saw the need to slaughter thousands of troops to bring in millions more. But it was the stated policy of his government and he would do his duty.

Rolling below the chopper was a jungle that reminded him of the Guangzhou Military Region where his regiment had been created. Though trained in every type of terrain and environment China could offer, Huai felt most comfortable in the jungle, perhaps an affinity learned from Vietcong instructors who’d trained him as a raw recruit thirty-plus years ago.

This would likely be his last action. He was fifty years old, the scales slowly tipping from the wisdom of experience to the impediment of age. When the invasion of Taiwan came, he was sure he’d be at a desk somewhere. Therefore he was glad that his final campaign was in the jungle. It seemed fitting.

Mercer bent back to his task, speaking as he worked. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the ever-increasing roar of the bubbling gas. “The eruption that killed Gary was probably a natural phenomenon, an underwater rock slide caused by his work that discharged a fraction of the CO. Those depth charges are going to bring the rest out of solution. Because the mountaintop is shaped like a bowl with only a narrow outlet that’s currently blocked by the prevailing wind, the gas is going to stagnate here until the breeze dies down. Only then will the CO pour down the waterfall and allow breathable air back near the lake’s surface.”

“How long will that take?”

“The summit will probably be poisoned until morning.” With a twist, Mercer released the flexible frame of a three-person tent. Gary had replaced the nylon shell over the spidery scaffold with mosquito netting.

“What do we do?” Although Lauren didn’t understand Mercer’s actions, the fact that he worked steadily returned a measure of her control.

“We need to make a bubble of air to support us.” Mercer began to wrap the clear plastic sheeting around the tent frame, securing it with duct tape from the supplies taken from the boat. He didn’t stop until the tent resembled a translucent cocoon.

“That tent can’t hold enough air for the three of us until morning.”

Mercer pointed at the large duffel bag he’d dragged to the cave. “There’s a coil of hose in the bottom of that bag and a hand pump Gary used to drain water from some of his excavations. Once the CO fills the caldera, it will spill over the tops of the surrounding hills like an overflowing bathtub. I estimate the lowest hills are about twenty feet above us, which puts us under a layer of CO twenty feet thick. If we can secure the top of the hose to a tree above where the gas levels out, we can pump air down into the tent. We’ll be like a glass inverted into a bowl of water with a hose to replenish the air.”

Lauren immediately saw the parallel to Mercer’s idea. “Like a diving bell?”

“More like a bathysphere with an umbilical. Only we’re trapped under poison gas rather than water.” Because CO was one and a half times as heavy as air and they were only going to be twenty feet down, Mercer wasn’t concerned about keeping the tent pressurized. The frame would support the plastic sheets.

“How much time do we have?”

“I can’t tell without knowing how much gas is gushing from the lake. But we’re only a couple feet above where Ruben had his fire. We don’t have long. Can you climb a tree with the hose?”

“Damned right I can.” She went off, leaving Miguel to help Mercer level an area to set the lightweight tent.

The physics behind Mercer’s plan was simple enough but he wouldn’t know how well they’d carried out the execution until they were sealed inside the tent. A thousand things could go wrong, the worst being a miscalculation about the height of the hills and the top of the tree Lauren was climbing like an electrical lineman. If the mouth of the hose wasn’t high enough, CO would drain down into the tent, replacing the air, and smothering the three of them. He had enough tape to keep the tent airtight but there was nothing they could do if the hose was too low.

Mercer found a dozen candles in Gary’s duffel and set a few of them in a row running down to the shore of the lake, lighting them with one of the lighters Gary had also cached. The candle he placed closest to the lake wouldn’t even light. The next one placed at a slightly higher elevation burned for just a few seconds before it starved for air. The gas was creeping ever closer. Captain Vanik was still at the top of the tree, tying off the thick length of rubber hose.

“Come on, Lauren.” Another candle was snuffed. The CO was just a few feet below the tent.

“Almost got it.” A third candle went dark.

The top of the volcano was filling faster than he thought possible. He could see Miguel start to pant as his lungs sought oxygen. “Now, Lauren.”

As agile as a cat, she scrambled down the nearly branch-less tree. Miguel’s eyes were droopy as Mercer slid him into the tent, his young body succumbing to the narcotic effect of the gas much quicker than those of the adults. Before following Lauren into their cocoon, Mercer threw in a few items from Gary’s duffel and sealed them all inside by taping the plastic-covered flaps of the tent fly. The long day of exploration and the quick exposure to CO had already put Miguel into a deep sleep.

Mercer grabbed the end of the hose dangling through the tight slit he’d cut at the top of the tent. He crimped the rubber around the hand pump’s suction inlet. The pump itself resembled a cheap accordion with a one-way valve at its outlet. Mercer gave it a few squeezes, allowing the air it sucked from the top of the tree to blow across his face. So far, so good. While the tent was designed to hold three people, he still had to crawl over Lauren and Miguel to apply more layers of tape to where the hose entered the roof. He also needed to patch a few small holes. The remaining candles outside blinked out one by one, coils of smoke from their wicks barely discernible through the multiple layers of plastic. With surprising speed, the tent began to sag around its frame as the heavier CO pressed against the lower internal air pressure.

Knowing he’d need to maintain a rhythm for untold hours, Mercer began to work the pump. Once he’d matched pressures, he cut a tiny hole in the tent’s floor to prevent the air becoming fouled by their own breath. As the caldera filled to its maximum level, he’d need to adjust the hole in the floor to maintain equilibrium. After fifteen tense minutes he was satisfied that everything appeared set. By fighting the natural instinct to run, he’d just saved their lives. Not that they were safe by any stretch, but for a few moments he would savor the victory. He looked at Lauren and couldn’t help but grin.

She smiled back. “I saw all this stuff sitting in the boat when we came to the island and I still never would have thought of this in a million years.” She regarded him for a second. “When those explosives went off you’d already figured out a solution. I mean instantly. How?”

Asking Mercer that was the same as asking him to explain his entire thought process, something he himself couldn’t properly define. “I suppose it’s a memory trick.”

Lauren’s eyes widened. “You’ve done this before?”

Mercer laughed. “No, but I’ve read or seen something that triggered this idea. Maybe it was a story about a bathysphere, a biography of William Beebe or something. I honestly don’t know.” But he actually did know. Mercer could even recall the cover of the old National Geographic magazine he’d read as a boy that detailed the inventor of the bathysphere. He’d always considered his near-photographic memory to be his greatest single asset. “When the depth charges blew,” he continued, “I knew how the CO would build up and knew we needed an airtight bubble and a way to supply oxygen. The rest was just putting it all together.”

“Whatever trick you used, I’m grateful. I would have tried to row away.” She chuckled. “Fight my way out rather than think. And I thought I was smarter than that.”

The pump forced enough air into the tent so that Mercer and Lauren didn’t need to keep quiet to conserve oxygen as time trickled by. They also kept a candle lit as an early warning in case an unseen rip allowed CO into the tent. The single steady glow helped to dispel the horror of their predicament and the darkness that enveloped the mountaintop as the sun completed its arc.

At first their conversation was strained by the thought that a few millimeters of plastic were all that protected them from a swift death. As the first hours went by, they became more comfortable with their situation, and each other. Yet their conversation rarely strayed far from what had happened to Gary Barber and Ruben. The theories they batted around gave them more insight into each other than who was behind the helicopter attack. Mercer especially was impressed with what he learned. Lauren Vanik was filled with a sense of duty he thought people no longer had.

Two hours before midnight, the sound of bubbling gas finally stopped. For hours CO had vented explosively from the lake and the noise had become such a constant backdrop that it took several seconds for them to realize it had ceased. In the quiet that followed, Mercer suggested that Lauren finally get some sleep. She agreed only after he promised he would wake her in a few hours so she could spell him at the pump.

Before curling up, her voice took on an uncomfortable edge. “Ah, Mercer, we have a slight problem.”

“H’m?”

“We can go without food or water until morning, but I’ve got to, you know, pee, and I don’t think I’ll be able to hold it.”

“Me too,” Miguel called. He must have been awake for a while, waiting for the adults to bring up a problem he’d been struggling with for some time.

From the supplies Mercer had tossed into the tent, he dug around until he found a large steel saucepan and a lid. Lauren eyed him warily. “Don’t tell me a fine Southern woman such as yourself has never used a chamber pot?”

“I admit Thomasville, Georgia, isn’t the biggest place in the world, but we’ve had indoor plumbing for years and years.” She was still reluctant to take the pan from him.

Mercer turned his back and called to Miguel to sit on his lap. To save Lauren further embarrassment, he whispered in the boy’s ear and they began belting out “Row Row Row Your Boat” at the top of their lungs. The off-key singing covered the metallic purr of Lauren using the pot.

“Thanks, boys,” she shouted over the cacophony after she’d rebuttoned the fly of her fatigues.

Once they’d all used the pan and its lid was held tight with tape, Lauren and Miguel drifted to sleep, leaving Mercer to continue with the pump. With his stomach rumbling from hunger, it was easy to stay awake through the long night. When his arms became too leaden to work, he pressed the bellows with his foot, tapping out a steady rhythm that kept the dark tent safe. His promised wake-up call to Lauren came and went and still he worked. It was only as a faint stroke from the still-distant dawn brushed their intimate cocoon that he roused her.

“It’s past five,” she complained, checking the man’s Rolex she wore on the inside of her wrist. “You were supposed to get me three hours ago.”

“I know. Sorry. I needed the time to think more than I needed to sleep. I can tell from the top of the trees that the wind’s shifted direction. Whatever gas that’s still pooled on the lake’s surface should get blown down the waterfall in a few minutes.”

“Thank God.”

That last quarter hour until Mercer felt it was safe was by far the worst. Fatigue and hunger made Miguel cranky and his petulant whine grated on the headache that had formed behind Mercer’s eyes. Lauren’s attempts to quiet him were futile. Worse for Mercer, his stomach continued to roil and he began to think it had nothing to do with a lack of food.

The first careful lungful of air tasted sweet when Mercer stuck his nose out of a small cut in the tent, bringing home full force how rancid the interior of their chrysalis had become. With a slash, he enlarged the hole and stepped out. His muscles had cramped from so much sitting. When he stretched his back a sharp stab of pain lanced his side.

“I’d say of the three of us, only you, Lauren, managed to come out of our cocoon looking as good as a butterfly.”

She smiled at his sweet attempt at a compliment. “I’ll give you moth, but not butterfly.”

For a few minutes, each took care of their body’s needs in the first measure of privacy they’d enjoyed in eleven hours and then met back at the skiff for the long row to shore.

The descent to the River of Ruin went much quicker than their trip up to the lake because Mercer carried Miguel for most of the way. Lauren felt that Mercer was trying to make up for the time they’d lost trapped on the island.

She could understand his motivation. The bulk of her military career had been spent in duties that had no set end or beginning. Peacekeeping in the Balkans had taken a year of her life and given back nothing. No sense of accomplishment, no sense of closure. And as a drug liaison in Panama, she felt her job was even more pointless. The Balkans could settle into some sort of peaceful coexistence eventually, but as long as there was despair on America’s streets, drugs would flow north to temporarily dull the pain.

The burned-out liaison officer she’d replaced at the embassy had used the Dutch boy and dike analogy when she’d taken the billet. After her first months on the job she realized that what she did was even more futile than that because no one really wanted the drug problem to end. It kept the disenfranchised medicated, it swelled the budgets of police forces and it gave the government a legitimate excuse to funnel billions of dollars into shaky Third World countries.

Seeing the way Mercer bound down the mountain with Miguel clinging to his back, Lauren could tell that whatever challenge he faced now would have an end. God knew what was really behind the helicopter attack or the attempted mugging in Paris, and yet he eagerly ran down a mountain to face it. That kind of confidence only came from a long record of successes. His victories cost him—she heard that in his voice when he talked about his parents—and still he did not balk from the fight. Her measure of him continued to go up.

She decided right then that she would help Mercer learn what was going on. This was far beyond the scope of her mission, but with such a small American presence in Panama, she felt she had a higher duty to discover the truth. Her instincts, like his, told her that Ruben’s murder and the mutilations were the beginning of something much larger. The drug-related homicides in La Palma she’d been investigating were one more spoke on a wheel of violence without end. Finding that killer would change nothing. In Mercer she saw the chance to end a mission with the kind of fulfillment the rest of her career had always denied her.

Half an hour after reaching the base of the waterfall, they were under way again. Mercer drove Ruben’s cousin’s motorboat down the river at full throttle, barely giving Gary’s camp a glance as they thundered past. He drove in a tight-lipped silence that Miguel and Lauren respected. When they reached El Real at noon, he avoided talking with any of the locals who came down to the wooden pier to meet them. The burial of so many people in the village had raised questions that he didn’t seem willing to answer. Again, Lauren and Miguel followed quietly as he led them to the airstrip where the plane he’d rented for Maria Barber had returned. The pilot was leaning on the wing.

“Give me a second alone,” Mercer asked his companions and climbed onto the plane. Once he and the pilot were in the cockpit, Mercer asked him to have a radio call patched into the phone system so he could call the United States. It took ten minutes and three calls to track down Harry White at Tiny’s Bar.

“Harry, I can’t talk long. Did Tiny get the package I sent to the bar from France?”

“He was hoping you’d include some good European pornography. Imagine his disappointment.”

“Funny. Listen, I don’t have time to go into it now, but I need you to fly down here with that journal.”

“Now you’re the one who’s being funny.”

“No bullshit, Harry. I need that journal and I can’t risk it getting lost by some shipping company. There’s a spare credit card in the center drawer of my desk. Take it and get yourself a plane ticket.” Mercer asked the pilot to name the best hotel in Panama City. “Book a room at the Hotel Caesar Park under your name in case I can’t meet you at the airport.”

“Why can’t you meet me at the airport?”

“Please, Harry, don’t ask me any questions. Just get down here with that journal.”

The seriousness in Mercer’s voice dried up whatever quip Harry had been planning. “You in trouble?”

“Yeah, buddy. I am.”

“I’ll stop by my place for my passport and will be there as quick as I can. For your sake, I’ll even fly coach.”

Mercer crawled out of the plane. The immeasurable relief that Harry would help sapped the last of his resolve. He’d been fighting his body since last night and could do so no longer. He allowed himself to tumble from the aircraft’s wing and barely had time to turn his head before he became violently ill. Lauren was fifty yards away buying Miguel some bananas from a fruit vendor who’d followed them from town. The retching sound drew her attention and she raced to Mercer’s side. His face was streaked with sweat and his lips had gone pale. His hands shook, and when he allowed the muscles in his face to go slack, his teeth chattered as if he were freezing. Lauren placed a hand on his forehead. His fever seemed to scald her hand.

“Jesus, are you okay? What’s the matter?”

“One second,” Mercer said weakly. He turned his head again and vomited even more copiously. His whole body shook with the fever. He tried to stand but couldn’t straighten because of the cramps. “A few days ago I went swimming in the Paris sewer. I think I picked up a few swim buddies. Dysentery’s my guess.”

“We need to get you to a hospital.”

“We’ve got an hour before my lower G.I. lets loose, so let’s go.”

Miguel sat next to the pilot on the six-passenger plane but the excitement of his first flight couldn’t overcome his worry for Mercer, who sat in the rearmost seat with his face buried in a plastic trash bag. Very soon the smell made him sick too, leaving Lauren to care for two patients, one of whom was dehydrating before her eyes as his body fought the bacterial infection. Mercer shook as if palsied, his skin already appearing desiccated and his eyes haunted.

For him, the flight was both instantaneous and longer than a nonstop from L.A. to Sydney. His misery was like a black hole that warped time. In the moments between his wrenching heaves and the spikes in abdominal agony, he did manage to tell Lauren about Harry White’s arrival in Panama. Other than that the trip was a blur.

The pilot stopped his grumbling about ruined upholstery long enough to radio ahead so an ambulance was parked at the General Aviation ramp when they landed.

Mercer’s struggle to keep his bowels from voiding ended as a pair of orderlies maneuvered him onto the waiting gurney. Too wasted to care he’d fouled himself, he wasn’t even aware that Lauren and Miguel climbed into the ambulance with him, nor did he realize a saline drip was inserted to replace the fluids his body evacuated at an alarming rate. The only thing he held on to as he slid toward the darkness was that a previous bout of dysentery had taught him the worst was yet to come.

Panama City, Panama

It was the alien feeling of crisp sheets that Mercer first noticed when he regained consciousness. He hadn’t lain on a bed since . . . he thought it was Utah . . . no, Paris . . . but how many days ago? The question remained unanswered as sensations overloaded his body again. He slept.

The next time he came awake, he felt a presence nearby but couldn’t turn his head or even open his eyes. He smelled something pleasant, a combination of flowers and a sweet odor like mint, before the darkness overwhelmed him.

It wasn’t until the third time he remembered coming awake that he could crank open his eyes. From the fog, he saw a square of light to his left. He thought it might be a window, but he couldn’t make out details. A noise drew his attention to his right. A shape. A figure. He tried to wet his mouth with his tongue.

He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling weaker than he could ever remember. When he opened them again, the shape had moved closer and resolved into a man wearing a dazzling white suit, with a solid red tie and elegant straw Panama hat. The eyes were kindly blue and his skin glowed from the light streaming into the room. Mercer’s vision was too blurry for him to tell if he knew the man. It was only when the mysterious person spoke that Mercer felt the jolt of recognition.

“How’s it going, Mercer?” Normally the voice was like gravel pouring through a rusted steel chute, but Harry White asked the question so gently that Mercer wasn’t sure it was him.

“That you, Harry?”

“In the flesh, so to speak,” Harry replied, lighting a cigarette from the tip of the one he was just finishing.

“You aren’t supposed to smoke in a hospital,” Mercer said after Harry gave him a sip of water through a straw. In the dim background, he could hear the sound of harps being played.

“We’re not in a hospital, but I’ll put it out.” Harry nonchalantly ground his Chesterfield into the palm of his hand.

“Jesus,” Mercer rasped when White dropped the crushed cigarette on the floor.

Harry looked at his watch. “Not for a few minutes.”

Confused by that statement, Mercer tried to shake the fuzziness from his mind. His body seemed to be floating freely under the sheets. “Did you use my credit card to buy the suit? You look like a million bucks.”

At eighty years old, Harry White was in better shape than he had any right to expect considering his daily alcohol and nicotine intake. He held himself ramrod straight and Mercer saw no sign of the walnut sword cane he’d given his friend for his last birthday. Regarding him through eyes that refused to focus, it appeared to Mercer that Harry’s face was unlined and the silver razor stubble that normally blurred his strong jawline had been shaved clean. Harry took off his hat and the backlighting looked like a halo around his head.

“This place tends to make you look good.” Harry took a long breath, then reached for his cigarette pack before remembering where he was.

“This place? Where are we?”

“Oh, God. Listen, pal, there’s no easy way to do this so I’ll come right out and say it.” Harry fiddled with his hat, procrastinating for another second. “On the cab ride to the airport to come meet you, an eighteen-wheeler jackknifed on the Dulles access road. My taxi hit the truck doing about seventy miles an hour. The cabbie just couldn’t avoid it. He, ah, he made it out okay, but I didn’t.”

Muzzily, Mercer said, “What the hell are you talking about? Are you trying to tell me you’re dead?”

“I’m trying to tell you we’re both dead, Mercer. Whatever you picked up in the Paris sewer was a lot worse than dysentery. The doctors did everything they could for you, but they just couldn’t save you. It’s funny. Considering all the crap you’ve faced in your life I thought you’d go before me. Now I’m glad I could be here for you. When I woke up from the car crash and realized where I was, my guide was a twenty-year-old kid who blamed me for getting him killed in World War Two.”

Mercer couldn’t comprehend what Harry was telling him. He heard the words, but they made no sense. Dead? He was dead. He felt like shit. Wasn’t pain a sign that he was very much alive? His confusion was written across his face and Harry spoke again as if he could read Mercer’s mind. “It doesn’t work the way you think it does. You’ll feel woozy for a while longer. Jesus or Saint Peter will be here in a while to explain everything. I’ll let you get some rest.”

Harry opened a door at the head of Mercer’s bed. A dark streak brushed by him and leapt onto the bed. It was Miguel. He hugged Mercer fiercely. What the . . . ?

Harry’s saintly demeanor changed in an instant and his voice thundered, “Goddamnit, you little pipsqueak! You were supposed to wait for a few minutes.”

“But he is awake, Mr. Harry!” Miguel squealed, burrowing into Mercer’s arms. “You said I could come in when he was awake.”

“I said you could come in after I was finished talking to him. Oh, well, it’s blown now.” Harry used a handkerchief to wipe pancake makeup from his face. The skin below showed his eight decades of hard living. He moved to the window to open the gauzy curtain that had given the hospital room its heavenly glow. He also shut off a portable tape player that had provided the harp music. Lauren Vanik entered a second later wearing baggy shorts and an oversized Oxford shirt.

“What the hell’s going on?” Mercer looked from one to the other.

“Your friend Harry conned us into letting him pull a practical joke. He said if I didn’t help he’d burn that journal he brought.”

Mercer’s stare fell on Harry, noting the flash of merriment in his old friend’s eyes. “How did you do that thing with the cigarette?”

Harry suddenly looked hurt. “I pull the best joke of my life and you ask me about that old gag? I snubbed the cigarette against a coin I’d palmed.”

“I should have known this was a scam from the very beginning,” Mercer said as the full force of what Harry had just done struck home. This indeed was a caper to beat them all. “If I’d come to in a pool of fire with snakes on my bed and you were wearing a red cape and horns, then I would have believed we were both dead.”

“I thought about that but this building has sprinklers. How are you feeling?”

Mercer ignored Harry’s genuine concern. “I am going to get you for this, you bastard.”

The door opened again and in stepped a man of about forty. Medium height and trim, he had a full dark beard and a bush of thick hair. He wore a white robe and sandals.

“You’re too late, Roddy,” Harry greeted the newcomer. “Miguel already ruined it.”

This time, Mercer couldn’t stop the laughter. Harry had really outdone himself, going so far as to find someone to play a Latin Jesus Christ.

“Good, I feel ridiculous.” The ersatz Jesus pulled the robe over his head. Beneath he wore slacks and a colorful open-necked shirt. He smiled at Mercer. “Welcome back to the living. I am Rodrigo Herrara.”

“Roddy’s father served with me for a time as an engineer,” Harry explained. Before the incident that had claimed his leg in the 1950s, Harry White had been a ship’s captain, first for the U.S. Navy and then on tramp steamers in Asia. “After I got to Panama and learned that you were in the hospital from Captain Vanik, who I might add had the courtesy to meet me at the airport, I looked him up. Roddy’s dad died a few years ago, but he knew about me from his old man. Roddy’s a canal pilot. Or was until recently. He has three kids around Miguel’s age so he and his wife have been looking after him.”

Mercer shook the Panamanian’s hand. “I bet now you’re questioning your father’s choice of friends.”

“Sí.” Roddy Herrara smiled.

“Where am I and how long have I been here?”

“You’re in a private room at the Centro Medico Paitilla, Panama’s best hospital,” Lauren answered, giving Mercer more water. “You’ve been here four days. The doctors decided to keep you drugged while they pumped you full of antibiotics because your reactions to the infection were pretty violent. How do you feel?”

“Weak, but not as bad as I should.”

“Because they kept you hydrated they said you’d come out of it in decent shape. Also, you only vomited for eighteen hours, which I guess is pretty short for bacillary dysentery.”

“Considering Paris is the City of Love, why couldn’t you have gotten VD like normal people?” Harry quipped.

Like any child, Miguel intuitively knew he’d heard a bad word. “What is VD?”

Roddy gave a stern answer in Spanish and Miguel fell silent. “They grow up fast enough without your jokes, Harry,” he admonished mildly.

“What do I know about kids?” Harry said, mussing Miguel’s hair. He whispered down to him, “We’ll talk about it later.”

A nurse came in, snapping a terse order to let Mercer sleep. Everyone left after giving a few words of encouragement until only Lauren remained. She placed her hand over Mercer’s. That’s when he recalled the pleasant aromas from one of his moments of lucidity. Flowers and mint. The floral smell was her perfume. The mint was her toothpaste. For those scents to linger, he guessed she’d spent a great deal of time at his side.

She brushed aside a lock of his fever-brittled hair. “How long did you have symptoms before you got sick?”

“I started fighting it when we were in the tent. That’s why I raced to reach the plane. If I’d collapsed at the lake it would have taken too much time for you and Miguel to go get help.” He looked into her eyes. “But you getting me to a hospital was what really saved my life. Thank you.”

Lauren leaned in to kiss his forehead, her hair like a wave of silk that brushed his cheek. Her skin was flawlessly smooth and her neck so slender it appeared that it couldn’t support her head. Again he found himself fascinated by her bicolored eyes.

“From what Harry’s told me about you, I think you’d have made it without me.” She paused at the door. “When you’re feeling better, we have a lot to talk about. Roddy knows who owns that helicopter.”

Against his doctor’s orders, Mercer checked himself out of the hospital thirty-six hours later. He’d kept down his bland meals and felt his strength return remarkably fast. Because Lauren refused to tell him more of her findings until he was recovered, his desire to get to the truth more than overcame his shaky limbs. She and Harry accompanied him in the short cab ride from the hospital to Harry’s hotel.

The high-rise Caesar Park was located on the beach south of Panama City, a combination executive hotel and tourist destination. Mercer got stares from both groups as his friends led him across the tiled lobby. He could walk all right; it was his pallor that drew attention. True to form, Harry had used Mercer’s credit card to book a three-room suite near the top floor. A maid was cleaning up the countless room service trays when they arrived. Another attendant was restocking the depleted mini-bar.

Mercer collapsed into a plush captain’s chair. “And what’s this costing me a night?”

“More than the hospital room, I’m sure.” Unconcerned by Mercer’s scowl, Harry fixed them all drinks, triple Jack and ginger for himself, a vodka gimlet for Mercer and Glenfiddich in a highball glass for Lauren. “Roddy’s bringing his family to use the pool. When he gets here we can talk.”

Mercer spent the time in the bathroom while they waited, calling out once for Harry to make him another drink as he soaked in the tub. Lauren and Harry had done some shopping on his behalf, because in one of the bedrooms were clothes in his size. He threw on jeans, a polo shirt, and sneakers.

“I don’t trust your newfound consideration, Harry. What are you playing at?”

“I was hoping you’d cover the line of credit I blew at the casino,” the octogenarian breezed. “And let me use this room for a week or so. I haven’t had a vacation since God knows when.”

“You’ve been retired for years and you practically live in Tiny’s Bar.” Mercer’s tone was sarcastic, but teasing. “Your whole life is a vacation.”

Before Harry could launch a protest there was a knock on the door and four noisy children, including Miguel, tumbled into the room followed by Rodrigo Herrara and an attractive woman a few years younger than he. After quick introductions, Carmen Herrara took the eager kids back down to the swimming pool behind the hotel.

“You are looking well,” Roddy opined to Mercer after accepting a beer.

“The doctors said the best thing for me is rest and food, both of which are better here.” Mercer waved an arm around the opulent sitting room. “Lauren said you know something about the helicopter that attacked Ruben and his men. Thanks for coming over and sharing it.”

“I haven’t worked in four months,” Roddy said, the admission underscored with embarrassment. “Coming to this hotel is like Christmas for Carmen and the children. I should be thanking you.”

Mercer found his eagerness to learn more about the helicopter tempered. Despite the loss of his job, Herrara had taken in Miguel without question and Mercer owed it to the man to hear his story. More than that, he realized, he truly wanted to know. Roddy’s voice and demeanor bespoke of a pride not yet crushed by circumstance—a dignity that Mercer respected instantly. “Didn’t Harry say you worked for the canal?”

“I was a ship pilot until my license was pulled following a suspicious accident.”

“Suspicious?”

“Coming out of the Pedro Miguel Locks headed toward the Atlantic, the ore carrier I was piloting suddenly veered into the oncoming lane. We scraped a smaller freighter, putting a hole in her hull just above her waterline. Fortunately no one was hurt. The inquiry found nothing mechanically wrong with my ship so they determined it was my fault.”

Harry interrupted. “Roddy’s said the same thing’s happened to three other pilots in the same place. He said it was like they hit a powerful crosscurrent that forced them off course. The Pedro Miguel is just south of the Gaillard Cut, the canal’s narrowest point, and there are no currents nearby. It shouldn’t have happened.”

“The other pilots were fired too?” Lauren asked.

“Yes, replaced by Chinese men working for a company called HatchCo, Hatcherly Consolidated.”

Hearing the word Chinese jolted Mercer. Jean Derosier said that the man buying up the canal memorabilia at his auction was a Chinese businessman with ties to Panama.

Roddy continued. “That’s how I know about that helicopter. Captain Vanik told me the identification number you saw. It belongs to Hatcherly.”

“Is Hatcherly a Chinese company?” Mercer asked, to verify his suspicion.

“It’s headquartered in Shanghai. The local president is named Liu Yousheng. He’s about my age, but I understand he has a lot of power in the Chinese government as well as an enormous personal fortune. All of the new pilots are Chinese. In fact, most new canal employees are Chinese as well.”

“HatchCo isn’t the company that owns the ports at each end of the canal, are they?” Lauren asked.

“No, that firm is based in Hong Kong, although rumors about their control by the Chinese government run rampant. Hatcherly owns a smaller container port facility in Balboa that was once a United States Navy base. They bought it for one-tenth its value through bribery and intimidation that no one seems willing to investigate. HatchCo also got a lucrative contract to provide pilots and other canal employees. They’re supposed to hire locals but most jobs now are filled by Chinese immigrants.” His tone had become bitter. “Our union makes appeals to the new canal director, Felix Silvera-Arias, but he does nothing.”

“How do you know HatchCo owns the helicopter?”

“The identification number you and Captain Vanik saw,” Roddy answered. “The last letters are HC. Hatcherly owns a number of helicopters. You see them all over the Canal Zone. All have ID numbers ending in HC. They have a huge security force around their complex so I doubt someone stole their chopper.”

Lauren put into words what was burning in all their minds. “They’re the ones behind Ruben’s murder and the mutilation of Mr. Barber’s team.”

“And damned near killed us at the lake with the depth charges,” Mercer added, gratified to finally have focus for his anger. “We can probably add the attack on me in Paris to the list. I can’t believe that the three Chinese professionals who went after me aren’t linked to Hatcherly.” He still didn’t know the identity of the gunman who shot the street kid they’d hired to snatch the journal for them. “Harry, do you have the Lepinay diary?”

“It’s down in the hotel’s safe,” his friend replied, mixing himself a fresh drink.

“Good idea.”

“It was Lauren’s.”

Mercer’s urge was to have Harry fetch the journal so he could read it immediately. Somewhere within its pages there was a key to what was happening. Why else would someone try to kill him to get it? Yet he currently had an advantage his adversaries didn’t know about. The fact that their actions at the lake had been witnessed. They didn’t know he was now on their trail.

Hatcherly’s director in Panama, Liu Yousheng, didn’t have the Lepinay journal, nor could he be sure that the man his assassins had chased into the Paris sewers had emerged on the other side with it. Mercer could imagine Liu writing off the diary and putting the whole affair out of his head. The businessman also didn’t know that the very same witness at the lake had the journal now. This gave Mercer room to maneuver. It would still be a few days before he felt strong enough to pursue Hatcherly Consolidated and Liu Yousheng. He wanted to use that time gathering as much information as he could about the Chinese company and there were two people in the room who could help. If they were willing.

“Roddy, how much has Lauren told you about what happened at the lake?”

“We’ve all had several days waiting for you to regain consciousness to tell each other our stories, even how Harry lets you live in his Washington town house, although I don’t think I believe that part.”

Mercer laughed and shot the innocent-looking Harry a hard glance. “He just acts like it’s his place.”

“If you are going to ask me if I am willing to help, the answer is yes.” Herrara’s normally affable expression hardened. His brows sharpened over his dark eyes with a chilling ferocity. “Carmen and I talked about this after Captain Vanik first helped Harry find us. When she asked me if I happened to know anything about the helicopter and I realized that Hatcherly is involved, I knew I had to help. That is why she and I have taken in Miguel, so you don’t have to worry about him when you go after these bastardos. It is because of them I no longer have a job. We have been living on savings, hoping the union can get me reinstated. I’m trying to sell my boat and we will lose our house if nothing changes.”

“I can pay you—” Mercer began but saw how he had stepped on Roddy’s pride. He covered quickly. “—to watch Miguel until we can find his relatives in Miami.”

Shaking his head, Roddy replied, “What is one more small mouth when you already have to feed three.” But he knew that Mercer was trying to help his family and he desperately needed the money. “I will accept for the boy’s sake.”

“I need to be honest here, Roddy. These guys are ruthless. I’ll keep you out of danger as best I can, but I can’t make any guarantees.”

“You don’t understand, Dr. Mercer,” he countered. “That I may be in danger is exactly what Carmen and I discussed. I know the risks.”

“Thank you.” Mercer turned to Lauren Vanik. “I know you have duties to perform for the embassy, but we could use all the help we can get.”

Lauren twisted her arm over to look at her watch. “As of three hours ago, I am officially on a one-week personal leave. It means I have to give up a vacation to visit my brother in San Francisco next month, but I think this is worth it.”

Mercer captured her eyes with his. “I’ll make it up to you.” In just a few days, the two of them had been through a lifetime and he felt something more than gratitude.

“As for my part,” Harry said, distracting Mercer and Lauren from the look they’d just exchanged. “I will continue to host everyone here in the palatial suite Mercer has so generously given to me when I’m not otherwise entertaining the señoritas.”

“First of all, you decrepit lecher, the only way you’d get a señorita in here is if you paid her—”

“Ah, but prostitution is legal in Panama.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m paying for the suite so it’s mine. You are welcome to stay but if you bring a hooker in here I’ll hide your Viagra.”

“I do not use Viagra!” Harry roared. “Very often.” He turned to Lauren with a wink. “Actually it’s Mercer who pops those pecker pills like candy. It’s made his blood so thin it takes an hour for a shaving nick to stop bleeding. Quite tragic really, young man like him.”

Mercer could see that it hadn’t taken Harry long to charm Lauren. He had that way about him, part stray dog and part Fred Astaire. Before Harry could go any further, Mercer got them back on track. “What do we know about Hatcherly?”

“Quite a bit.” Lauren pulled a notebook from the knapsack she used as a purse. She opened up to the first page. “Once we knew it was their chopper, Roddy and I hit on our sources.”

“I have a cousin who works at their container facility,” Rodrigo offered. “He’s a forklift driver. One of their token Panamanians who’ll probably lose his job soon.”

Lauren checked her notes. “Their facility is fifty-seven acres, with seven thousand feet of berthing space for ships. They plan to add perpendicular slips to triple the frontage but for now they just have a long seawall. While they can handle about two hundred thousand containers a year, they’ve done very little business since opening. According to Roddy their fees are almost double their competition’s.”

“Doesn’t make sense,” Mercer said.

“It gets weirder. Hatcherly just spent a fortune to buy the trans-isthmus railroad from an American company and installed a spur into their port. It’s coupled to an automated unloading and stacking system that can off-load a freight train and move the containers to designated spots until they’re ready to be transferred onto a ship. It’s done with an overhead cableway crane that only requires a few computer operators. They’re currently moving a little cargo by rail but nothing near their reported capacity.”

“That is why my cousin will lose his job. The whole thing is automated.”

“If Hatcherly’s up to something big, they’ll need to do it under cover,” Mercer said. “Do they have warehouses?”

“Several. And they’re huge.”

Mercer turned to Roddy. “Can your cousin get us in?”

“No. They have heavy security, many are former members of Noriega’s brutal Dignity Brigades, the troops responsible for the worst of the Pineapple’s atrocities.” Roddy used the contemptuous nickname of the Panamanian dictator the U.S. military ousted in 1989. The name Pineapple referred to the horrible skin on Manuel Noriega’s face. “The ex-Dingbats”—that name for the Dignity Brigades came from the American soldiers involved in Operation Just Cause—“patrol the perimeter fences, which are electrified and have motion sensors. There are also Chinese guards who regularly sweep the container yard. Somehow Hatcherly got permission to have them all armed with automatic weapons.”

“Bit heavy-handed to protect shipping containers that you can’t steal without a crane and an eighteen-wheeler,” Harry said. “We’ve got to see what they’re up to.”

“My thought exactly,” Mercer agreed. “What about coming in from the water?”

“There are powerful lights on the gantry cranes,” Lauren answered. “When you were in the hospital, Roddy and I went out on his boat. We didn’t get fifty yards from the place before they sent a patrol boat to escort us away.”

“Could we swim in somehow?”

“Maybe, but it would be risky. And we don’t know what kind of security they have on the quay. The whole place really is protected like a fortress.”

“So there’s no easy way in?” The extra security gave Mercer the impression that they were already on the right track.

“There is,” Roddy answered. “Well, not easy. But easier. We can come in the back door, so to speak.”

Mercer raised a questioning eyebrow.

“The railroad. Lauren and I talked about it. We can stow away in a container on a night my cousin is working. They unload the trains with forklifts until their cable crane is fully operational. My cousin Victor can move our container to a secluded spot and let us out. Once we finish looking around, he loads the container back on the train for the return trip to the Atlantic port of Cristobal.”

“How can we get into a container at Cristobal?” Mercer asked, noticing another quirk about Lauren’s eyes for the first time.

When just chatting about nothing of consequence, she turned her head so her warmer blue eye kept her expression candid and laughing. It was as the discussion became substantial that her face shifted so her more intense gray iris dictated her bearing. Her mismatched eyes were the only outward sign of this mental rebalancing. In their own ways, Mercer found both sides of her personality alluring. One was the epitome of Southern grace and deportment, the other a detached coolness that radiated competence. She was like two distinct people somehow reconciled within one.

“I’ve already worked it out.” Lauren leaned forward. “Three months ago an import-exporter I know over in the Colon Free Trade Zone had a son who was getting involved in the drug trade as a courier. He asked me to help set the boy straight. Pretending to be members of the National Police, Ruben and his men broke into his apartment one night. They roughed him up a little, took his passport and said if he tried to get it renewed they’d be back. Needless to say, the kid gave up his dreams of becoming the next Pablo Escobar.” She smiled at the memory. “The old man owes me.”

“And the Chinese guards?”

“Roddy said easier, not easy.”

“We need guns.” Mercer felt his guts slide even as he said it. Once again, he was putting himself in danger for a cause he didn’t yet fully understand. Ever since he’d accompanied a commando team into Iraq to determine Saddam Hussein’s uranium mining capabilities, the threat of violence had dogged him. He never sought it out. It was just there, a circumstance he seemed unable to avoid. But like the other times—Hawaii, Alaska, Eritrea and most recently Greenland—he felt an unnamable obligation to face it.

Lauren thought she recognized the tired look in Mercer’s eyes. Harry had told her some of his past and she knew he did not relish what they may be forced to do. She nodded slowly. “I’ve got that covered too. Roddy, if we’re lucky no one’s going to see us, but if we’re not. . . . Are you sure you want in on this?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I’m fighting for my family, perhaps a better reason than either of you.”

“No,” Mercer snapped. “You’re not coming. You might have a good reason, but you don’t have any combat experience.” He wouldn’t let Roddy orphan his children and widow his wife for this. “Lauren and I know what we’re doing. We’ve been there before.”

Roddy’s face went red with unsuppressed anger. He looked to Lauren for support.

“We can handle this ourselves.” She understood what Mercer was doing. “Your job’s going to be to learn as much as you can about Liu Yousheng. If we don’t find anything at the container terminal, going after him directly might be our only other option.”

Carmen Herrara and the children returned before he could reply. His three kids crowded around him, vying for his attention as they gushed about their day swimming. Miguel went straight to Mercer to show him the money an English tourist had given him for retrieving her sunglasses after they had fallen in the pool.

Reminded of what he was risking, Roddy caught Mercer’s eye. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

Cristobal, Panama

It wasn’t claustrophobia that bothered Mercer as the large shipping container was shunted around the cargo terminal on Panama’s Atlantic coast and loaded onto the flatbed rail-car. The enclosed blackness didn’t affect him at all. If it did he never would have become a miner. What he hated was the disorientation of not knowing what was coming next. A sudden turn by the heavy-duty forklift slapped him and Lauren against the container’s wall and the slam of the box dropping onto the train came with spine-jarring abruptness that left the steel confines echoing.

“What next?” Lauren complained from across the darkness where she’d tumbled.

The diesel locomotive two dozen cars ahead lurched forward to test the couplings. Mercer had just gotten to his feet and had the floor pulled out from under him. He landed on his backside, cursing.

“I should have known.” She turned on a flashlight with a red filter lens. In its glow, her dark hair looked like ink.

“Didn’t Roddy tell the forklift driver to take it easy?”

“I think he was.” Lauren crabbed across the floor to sit next to Mercer as the train jerked again. “I feel like we’ve been stuffed inside an industrial clothes dryer.”

The train’s motion settled to the metronomic clacking of wheels over rails. It was a rhythm Mercer had always enjoyed. For a moment he could forget where he was, what he was about to do, and the Beretta 92 hanging in a nylon shoulder holster.

He and Lauren had ninety minutes before the freight train reached the Hatcherly terminal at Balboa. There, the last three cars would be decoupled while the remainder of the train continued to the larger container terminal farther along the canal. They had gone over their plan for two days straight, knew the layout of Hatcherly’s facility from diagrams drawn by Roddy’s cousin, Victor. Lauren had even taken Mercer to a pistol range to test his assertion that he knew how to handle a weapon. Though she’d beaten him at distance shooting, he had an intuitive aim for pop-up targets that she couldn’t match.

They had nothing to do for the next hour and a half and neither seemed willing, or able, to make idle conversation as the miles stretched out behind them. Mercer’s mind drifted back twenty hours, when he’d been eating off a teppanyaki grill at a Japanese restaurant with Maria Barber.

The meal had been delicious. The company remained as a bad taste in his mouth.

By the time Mercer had felt strong enough to attempt the infiltration, Victor Herrara wasn’t scheduled to work until the next night, leaving Mercer with a free evening. He’d hoped to spend it with Lauren but obligation had forced him to call Maria. A week had passed since she’d learned of her husband’s death, and while he got the impression that the loss wouldn’t cast her adrift, he felt he owed her a call. He didn’t like Maria, didn’t trust her and wouldn’t have called if she hadn’t been the wife of a friend.

She’d answered her phone so cheerily that he’d almost cut the connection. “Hello, Maria. It’s Philip Mercer.”

“Who? Oh, Mercer. Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for your call for ages.” The exaggeration in her voice made him think she’d been drinking.

“I had a little stomach trouble,” he answered warily.

“You’re feeling better now, yes? You promised me we’d go out when you got back.” Mercer recalled they were supposed to meet for a church service for her husband but that wasn’t what she was talking about now. “Are you free tonight?” she asked.

Why he’d said yes would remain a mystery, but he did.

“Wonderful. Where are you staying? I’ll pick you up.”

Mercer knew exactly why he didn’t answer that question. Their earlier conversations had pegged her as a gold digger, and if she learned he was staying at the Caesar Park he’d never get rid of her. “I’m at a hostel loaded with peace corps volunteers near some bus stop. Pretty nasty place, I might add.”

“Oh. Well, do you like Japanese food? I just love how they cook in front of you and do all those tricks with the knives.”

“Sure, that’d be fine.”

She gave him the address of Ginza Teppanyaki on Calle D and said she’d be there at eight.

Maria was sitting at the bar when he arrived and she leapt to her feet when she saw him, squealing like a long-separated lover. Her blouse was open low enough to allow her lace bra to peek out as her breasts slid against each other. Her jeans were so tight that the deep valley where they rucked between her buttocks carried around to the front in an obvious display of her sex. Mercer felt a flash of animal arousal, then annoyance at himself. Not only was she Gary’s widow, but such overstatement was truly vulgar. He had to wipe a smear of lipstick and saliva from his cheek and mentally brush aside her look of annoyance that he’d turned his face at the last instant.

In minutes, they were seated at a large grill table with some German businessmen who swilled thimble-sized sakes. At first Maria delighted at the chef’s skill with a knife and spatula, but when the young Asian missed flipping a shrimp tail into his hat she berated him in angry Spanish.

She would have caused a scene had a waitress not arrived with her third Mai Tai. Mercer had barely touched his beer.

“Do you want to know about Gary’s funeral?” Mercer asked, because she hadn’t.

“I suppose.”

He’d already decided not to tell her the truth, knowing that she wouldn’t care. Also he didn’t want her to have any excuse to see him again. “It went fine. The police arrived a few hours after you left and determined it was a guerrilla attack. My mugging in Paris and Gary’s murder really was just a coincidence. When I escorted Gary to El Real, those three guards I hired stayed behind. I’m not sure why. No one told me.”

“And no sign of Gary’s treasure?” She failed at hiding her avarice behind a neutral tone.

Mercer shook his head. “Listen, I always liked Gary. He was a good man. But I never believed there was a treasure. I’d told him that when he sold his gold mine in Alaska and started looking for lost cities and quick wealth. I think deep down he knew it too, and just kept looking for the fun of it. It was the kind of thing he’d do.”

“Yes, it was,” she agreed with a trace of regret. For herself, Mercer thought, not her quixotic husband. “What about the book Gary wanted?”

“Oh, that,” Mercer said indifferently. “It’s in Washington. I got kind of paranoid and didn’t want to bring it to Panama until I knew what had happened to Gary so I mailed it home from Paris. It seems ridiculous now. If you want it, I can send it to you when I get back.”

Maria’s eyes drifted around the room as she considered her answer. “It meant something to Gary. Not me.”

“I understand.”

“It was in El Real you got sick?” she asked to change the subject.

“On the flight back to Panama City. I went straight from the airport to a hospital. I only got out two days ago.”

“Poor baby.” She placed a hand on his leg. “Are you going to stay in Panama?”

Mercer shifted away as much as the cramped seating would allow. “No reason to. I’ve got a flight tomorrow morning.”

“That leaves us tonight.” The implied invitation made Mercer more than uncomfortable. It made him ill.

Struggling to keep revulsion out of his voice, he replied, “I don’t think so. My flight’s early and well . . .” He trailed off, hoping she’d get the hint.

“Because I was Gary’s wife?”

“Well, yes.”

She lit a cigarette. “Did he think of me when he was out in the jungle wasting money that should have been mine?”

“Maria, I don’t know what happened between you and Gary, but I just want to go home and remember him the way I knew him.”

“And what about me?” The alcohol glint in her eyes turned feral. “How will you remember me? Or will you even think about how he left me nearly penniless? A widow with no future?”

Mercer had had enough of her petulance. Recalling her tears when they reached Gary’s camp, he knew this spoiled image of her was the correct one. Typical Gary. He’d wanted to save a barrio kid and got himself a grade-A bitch. Mercer slapped money on the table edge and stood. “Something tells me you’ll be okay.”

He left the restaurant followed by her shrill curses.

The train’s distant whistle snapped Mercer back to the present. He rubbed his cheek where she’d kissed him as if he could still feel her lips and the tip of her tongue. He shuddered.

“You okay?” Lauren Vanik asked. “Even in here I can tell something’s bothering you.”

He looked to her. How different the two women were.

Thank God. The crimson light distilled her face to ruddy highlights and impenetrable shadow. Her hair was now tucked under a watch cap that matched her black BDUs. She had a mirror poised to begin applying greasepaint.

“Just thinking about my friend Gary and his wife.” He readjusted the fifty-foot coil of climbing rope secured to the back of his web belt.

“I take it your date didn’t go well.”

Mercer hadn’t told her many details. “Not a date. Just a very sad get-together. I wonder if Gary knew what kind of person she was or if she hid it from him on those days he was back home.”

Lauren handed him the wax stick so he could dull any shine from his face and hands. “A woman that manipulative can hide her true self so easily it becomes second nature. And I hate to say that most men wouldn’t pick up on the subtle signs. Another woman can spot a phony in a second, but it’s not in a guy’s nature to look for the small clues. Believe me, your buddy died thinking he had the perfect wife.”

The conversation ended when they felt the train decelerate, the play in the couplings snapping closed like a string of firecrackers. “We’re close,” Mercer whispered, even though a shout would barely penetrate the container’s walls.

Another ten minutes trickled by as the last three railcars were detached from the train and shuttled into Hatcherly Consolidated’s main yard. They heard an occasional muffled yell from outside and the blast from a signalman’s whistle as the train was positioned for the forklifts to unload the two containers placed on each of the cars. Then came a metallic crash and suddenly they were in motion again as the crate was lifted from the train. Hopefully by Victor Herrara. If something went wrong, and he wasn’t the one driving them through the terminal, Mercer and Lauren could easily find themselves trapped in one of a hundred containers lashed to the deck of a ship on its way to the West Coast or Asia.

After bouncing over numerous sets of tracks and kidney-punishing rents in the pavement, the forklift eventually reached its destination and the container was lowered to the asphalt with a hydraulic sigh. Lauren extinguished her light. They waited for what seemed like an eternity until Victor rapped on the container with a hammer—his signal that it was clear.

A moment later the door swung open and Mercer stepped out into the moist night. In front of them loomed an enormous crane specially designed to move freight containers, its boom like a medieval battering ram. All around them towered ranks of containers like steel building blocks. In the distant glow of gantry lights Mercer could see one of the warehouses Victor had drawn on his map, orienting him to the layout of the terminal. Victor had placed them where Hatcherly stored their empty containers, a paved field that stretched for acres.

Victor was larger than his cousin, with dirty hair tied in a ponytail and a rather dim expression. Through the smoke of a dangling cigarette, he and Lauren spoke in low tones. Victor kept looking over his shoulder to where the bulk of the facility’s work was carried out, troubled that he had no excuse for driving the container so far away if a foreman questioned him.

“Sí, sí, sí. Gracias.” Lauren turned to Mercer while Victor looked longingly at the cab of his Kalmar 3500 reach-stacker crane. “We’re in luck. Victor says that there’s some big operation going on in the smallest warehouse. In the past couple of weeks Hatcherly’s completely emptied the building and no one other than a few Chinese workers have been allowed in. Last night a special cargo was brought in from a Chinese freighter. He thinks it’s being transferred out tonight.”

“Does he know what it is?”

“No idea, but he said that security around the building’s been beefed up.”

Mercer recalled Victor’s detailed drawing. “Wait, the smallest warehouse is the one that sits by itself surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire.”

“Yup.”

“Damn.” He thought furiously, finally looking up when he got an idea. Lost in the darkness above them were the guy wires for the cableway crane system, a grid of heavy-gauge steel lines that crisscrossed the terminal like a spider web. “Ask Victor if the cableway goes near the warehouse.”

“Yes,” she translated. “One of the cables passes in front of the building.”

“Can we climb up a support tower to reach the main cables and then crawl over the security fence to the warehouse?”

Lauren asked the stevedore and translated his answer. “Yes, but the cables are eighty feet off the ground so they don’t interfere with the stacked containers or vehicles.” Victor said something else and Lauren blanched under her camo paint. “Damn. The main cableways are made of three wires, two for holding the container grapple and one to supply electricity. It’s always hot.”

Their high-wire act just got doubly dangerous. “Ask him if there’s another way.”

Victor looked Mercer in the eye and said no.

“You afraid of heights?” Mercer asked. Lauren shook her head. “Electricity?” She nodded. “We’re in the same boat. How long until the train comes through to take us back to Cristobal?”

“Two hours.”

“Tell Victor we’ll be waiting.” Before setting off to find one of the support towers, Victor gave them each a pair of leather gloves he kept in his giant forklift.

Once they left the relative security of the deserted container storage area, Mercer began to feel the tension. There were thirty guards patrolling the facility and dozens more workers. Any one of them could shout an alarm. Considering what he knew of the company, he doubted Hatcherly would let them go with a stiff warning. More like a one-way ticket to China in a sealed container.

He drew his pistol and checked that the silencer was screwed on tightly. Lauren padded silently at his side.

Fighting the instinct to climb the first tower they came across, Mercer and Lauren needed to get closer to the warehouse in order to cut the distance they’d need to shimmy along the cableway. Lauren tapped him on the shoulder, pointing to a line of trucks that would provide partial cover. Step in step they moved across an open expanse of cracked asphalt, ever alert for a roving guard. In the distance, a large freighter secured to the quay was lit like a cruise ship, and gantry cranes methodically lowered cargo containers into her hold. The air was sharp with the smell of bunker fuel and diesel smoke.

Bent double, they edged along the row of silent trucks, careful not to let their motion draw attention. Once they reached the lead vehicle, they saw they next had to cross multiple sets of rail spurs. Longshoremen in dark overalls and hardhats worked on coupling a locomotive under the glare of pole-mounted arc lights.

Mercer slid onto his chest and crawled across the filthy ballast rocks, angling to pass on the far side of the train. He rolled off the last rail and into a wild tangle of bushes that had somehow taken root in the oil-soaked ground. Lauren reached him as a small forklift raced past.

“Jesus,” she breathed. “He came out of nowhere.”

“The closer we get to the warehouse, the busier it’s getting.” The approach of another truck forced them deeper into the bushes. The risk of discovery was growing too great and Lauren suggested they climb the next tower they came across. Mercer agreed.

The nearest support structure for the cable crane was fifty yards away. They dodged from their cover, racing hard for another group of containers that was halfway to their goal.

Thirty feet from the closest container, Mercer saw a figure suddenly emerge from around its far side. He raised his pistol just as a dockworker looked up.

Mercer dropped his aim, unable to shoot an unarmed man. He quickened his pace so his boots slapped. He was just ten feet away when the Panamanian opened his mouth to yell a warning. Without slowing, Mercer threw himself in a cross block that slammed into the worker’s chest, crushing him against the container. The man was doubled over, gagging to catch his breath when Lauren ran up and clipped the side of his head with her Beretta. He fell silent.

“Thanks.” Mercer struggled out from under the unconscious laborer. They stuffed the worker in the gap between two containers and waited in the shadows to see if anyone noticed. Everything appeared normal.

The support tower was a skeletal frame resembling a radio mast topped by a set of pulleys and gears for manipulating the cable crane. It reminded Mercer of part of a ski lift. Securing their weapons, he and Lauren climbed the integrated ladder. The machine was so new it had yet to show rust from the tropical humidity. Eighty feet up, they found a precarious perch and a vantage to check their location.

Beyond the terminal lay the main channel of the Panama Canal and on the far bank the lights of another dockside facility. A ship was passing up the canal on its way to the first set of locks at Miraflores, its lights reflected in the black water. Behind them was Quarry Heights, the former headquarters of the U.S. Southern Command. To reach their target, they needed to shimmy a thousand feet and cross over several other towers. The warehouse sat alone in its chain-link redoubt, and all but its roof was bathed in artificial light. Smaller than the other storehouses, it still measured about a hundred feet wide and at least four times as long.

Mercer studied the cableway. The two main lines shooting off into the darkness were about two feet apart. Up close they looked thick and substantial, tight braids of steel wire pulled so taut they felt like iron bars. But when he looked across the port, the wires became like a gossamer lattice over the facility, as insubstantial as thread.

“Are you ready?” he asked Lauren after they’d caught their breath.

“You did notice that they are using this system, didn’t you?” Lauren pointed to where a container glided silently across the night, held aloft by a grapple crane running along the wires.

“Victor said the warehouse is off limits. I doubt they’ll move any containers our way.”

“They’d better not.” Tentatively, Lauren took a step onto the tandem wires, bending over so she could grasp with her hands as well. Just over her shoulder, the electrified third cable seemed to hum.

“Careful not to get too close to the other wire,” Mercer cautioned as he followed her. “Your body may cause an arc.”

The cables were coated in grease and each step demanded attention before weight could be shifted. Their gloves became so slick they took them off, absorbing small cuts from the sharp strands rather than lose the control of direct contact. Like a pair of monkeys they shuffled along the wire, not daring to contemplate the eight-story drop. Below them, workers continued their duties without looking up to see the dark shadows moving along the cableway.

When they reached the next tower, Mercer checked his watch. Half an hour had already passed since their arrival at the terminal. At this pace, they’d only have a couple of minutes in the warehouse.

“I know,” Lauren said when she saw his expression. “I’ll try to push the pace.”

The hunched position cramped Mercer’s back and his legs began to tremble. His hands felt like claws. He looked down and saw an armed guard sheltered by towering walls of cargo pause to light a cigarette. The orange flare of his match looked as distant as a shooting star. That tiny lapse in concentration caused Mercer’s next step to be slightly off. His foot slipped from the wire.

As he fell, his body torqued over, forcing him to release one of the cables to keep his arms from pulling from his shoulders. Dangling one-handed on the greasy wire, Mercer watched horrified as one of his gloves fell from a pocket in his BDUs. It landed no more than five feet behind the Chinese guard. The man looked around slowly then shrugged before continuing his illicit smoke.

Mercer’s first stab of panic had sent enough adrenaline into his system for him to lurch upward to grasp the cable with his off hand. Fortunately his frantic effort wasn’t enough to shake the cables and jar Lauren loose. In fact she didn’t even know he’d nearly fallen. Panting, he hoisted one leg over the wire and muscled himself upright, straddling the two cables for a second to let his heart slow.

Lauren finally looked back. “Come on. We don’t have much time.”

“Right,” he muttered, feeling tendons in his shoulders protest every movement.

Ten minutes later they crossed over the fence surrounding the warehouse, noting that guards had been stationed all along its perimeter, especially around its only gate. A string of large dump trucks idled just outside the building’s main doors.

The warehouse’s roof had just enough pitch to channel away Panama’s nearly seven feet of annual rainfall and was studded with air vents. Its peak lay about thirty feet below the cable. Once in position, Mercer pulled the rope from his back and tied a slip loop in one end. He lowered it until it brushed the edge of the building, then swung the loop back and forth until it caught around one of the vents. It took a dozen tries.

“A cowboy you ain’t,” Lauren teased.

He gave her a good-natured scowl and pulled on the rope to tighten the noose then tied his end to the cable. They could now climb down to the roof and be able to extricate themselves the same way.

A shift in the lighting drew Mercer’s attention. He looked up from his work and saw the mammoth grapple carriage trundling toward them like a mechanical spider stalking prey on its web. In its pincers dangled an enormous crate. It glided almost silently on the cables and the spotlight attached to the rig hit Mercer full in the face. The wires began to vibrate.

“Lauren, move!” They had seconds before the crane either knocked them from the cables or ground them under its guide wheels.

Without hesitation, she reached for the rope and slid down far enough for Mercer to follow. “Keep going,” he hissed. “The carriage will cut the rope when it crosses it.”

Hand over hand she dropped down to the roof. Mercer looked up as the first of the large metal wheels reached his knots. The crane didn’t even shudder. The knife-edged rollers simply sliced through the line. The rope seemed to dissolve in his hands. One second he was eight feet above the roof, secure, and the next instant he was falling through open space. He landed on his feet, bending his knees to keep the metal from rattling.

Lauren had had the presence of mind to haul in the severed rope before its free end dangled over the open doors below them. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“I am until we have to get out of here.” Mercer looked up as the crane dolly rocked to a stop just past the last of the dump trucks. The cableway was hopelessly out of reach. They were trapped.

Captain Vanik seemed unfazed. “One of the first rules of conflict is that plans go to hell the instant they’re implemented. Let’s see what we can see and worry about getting out later.”

She moved out of the spill of light coming from below and found a roof vent large enough to see through. Feeling powerless by the turn of events, Mercer joined her. Through the vent he saw that the concrete floor of the warehouse was littered with more containers. Several men in military-style uniforms drifted in and out of his view. They appeared to be Chinese. He and Lauren moved from vent to vent, getting an idea of the building’s layout. They found a vent large enough to crawl through at the far end of the warehouse. Below it was a darkened second-floor storage level crammed with trunk-sized packing crates. The top of the nearest crate was only five feet below them.

Mercer twisted the cap off the vent and dropped through. He landed silently, his pistol at the ready. Nothing but murky shadow and dusty boxes. Lauren followed and together they crawled to the railing that overlooked the main floor. Along one wall of the warehouse were several large eight-wheeled trucks of a type Mercer didn’t recognize. He assumed the yellow vehicles were specialty cargo-handling cranes like the one Victor drove. Piled along the full length of the other wall was a towering hill of crushed stone that reached almost to the ceiling and stretched under the second-floor deck. A Caterpillar bucket loader sat at the base of the gravel mountain.

In a clear space at the center of the building, workmen were moving wrapped blocks of something heavy into the back of a van. Around them stood six or so anxious guards with assault rifles. Two men in suits surveyed the work from a short distance off, their heads close together as they spoke. Unlike the multiethnic workforce outside, everyone here was Chinese.

“Those weapons are the new Chinese type-87 assault rifles, a copy of the British SA-80 bullpup,” Lauren whispered so softly her voice was like a ghost’s. “Notice how the magazine is placed behind the trigger grip to make the weapon more compact.”

Mercer remained silent, watching.

Realizing he was more interested in the workers than the soldiers, she asked, “What are they loading?”

Each man took just one object from the stack on the floor, and struggled to carry it to the van. It was the small size and great weight that tipped Mercer off. His voice was suddenly hoarse. “Gold!”

No sooner had he mouthed the word than one of the supervisors stepped over and slid the cloth covering off one of the bars, revealing the unmistakable buttery yellow gleam. Lauren drew a sharp breath. Mercer had seen more gold than most people, rough nuggets and ranks of ingots at some of the big mines on South Africa’s Witwatersrand, and still it held him enthralled. He put a quick estimate of forty million dollars on the blocks being loaded into what he now recognized as a disguised armored car.

“Is that from the treasure your friend was looking for?”

Nodding, Mercer whispered back, “They must have found it when I was in the hospital and have already melted it down. For that much bullion they must have a smelter someplace in this building. That’s why none of the Panamanians have been allowed inside.”

“What about the cargo Victor said came in last night?”

“No idea.” The Chinese superintendent made some comment to the worker and they both laughed. The cloth was replaced and the gold bar went to join the others in the armored van.

“They’re going to smuggle the gold out of Panama?”

To Mercer that scenario didn’t make sense. “Why bother with an armored car when they can put it directly on a Shanghai-bound freighter? No, I think they’re going to transfer it to a bank.” Lauren’s exceptional eyes asked the follow-up question of why. He had no answer.

“Here’s something else to think about,” she said. “Those assault rifles the guards are carrying are only issued to China’s elite forces, like the first troops they sent into Hong Kong after the handover from Britain in 1997.”

He failed to see her point. “Meaning?”

“Meaning this operation has probably been sanctioned by the Chinese government.”

Mercer knew that after the drug trade, the second largest source of illegal revenue in the world came from the smuggling of art and antiquities. It was a multibillion-dollar business that garnered few headlines and even less resources to combat. Much of the activities were art forgery and theft-for-hire, but the plundering of archeological digs was fast becoming a huge business in its own right. Especially in South and Central America, where governments didn’t have the means to protect the hundreds of newly discovered sites. Most of the looting was carried out by locals, who would steal one or two pieces from a tomb then sell it immediately for a fraction of its value.

It seemed logical that someone with the contacts and wealth to operate on a larger scale would eventually organize a more systematic pillage. That’s what Mercer thought he’d stumbled across. Beginning with the attack in Paris, he’d always assumed that Gary Barber’s rival for the Twice-Stolen Treasure was a corrupt businessman. Jean Derosier had said a Chinese executive snapped up all the other relevant documents at the auction. That idea was further solidified when Roddy Herrara told them the helicopter belonged to Hatcherly Consolidated, run by a director named Liu Yousheng. Lauren’s revelation that only government troops possessed these weapons threw his assumption on its head.

The intensity of her stare was enough for Mercer to believe her deduction and rethink his earlier conclusions. At the time, Roddy’s suggestion that Liu had influence in China’s government hadn’t made an impression. Now it took on new meaning. Since the dawn of civilization, government officials commonly looted their own nations of treasures. Mercer’s experiences in Africa made him think it was almost a prerequisite. On a vacation to Egypt earlier in the year he’d learned that the tombs in the Valley of the Kings had been sacked shortly after a pharaoh’s interment by a band of thieves headed by the mayor of Luxor, the closest city. History had proven that only King Tut had escaped their well-organized raids.

But if the Chinese government really was behind this, it was no different than the Nazis plucking artwork off museum walls during their occupation of Europe. International law concerning recovered archeological treasures was murky when the origin of the loot was in question. Mercer had no idea who owned title to the Twice-Stolen Treasure—Peru, where it originated, or Panama, where it had remained hidden for centuries? He was damned sure, though, it wasn’t China.

What he was witnessing sickened him. Far from the monetary considerations, he was most bothered by the destruction of the ancient relics that must have been found at the lake. They represented a window to the past that had been melted down to innocuous gold bars so some Chinese commissar could add them to a ledger sheet. Unconsciously his hand tightened on his pistol. Lauren put a hand over his to stop him from doing something stupid. “We have to get out of here.”

“How?”

Lauren surveyed the building once again. Mercer could feel her concentration, almost see her thoughts as she juggled stealth, speed, and odds of success. Her answer came in short seconds. “There’s a shallow trough on top of the gravel pile where it lays against the side of the building. It stretches almost all the way to the front door and will cover us if we stay low and silent.”

“What about the fence outside?”

She had a ready answer. “I didn’t see any insulators so it’s not electrified, and the razor wire on top angles out to prevent people entering, not leaving. We can climb over no problem.”

Mercer glanced over the edge again. The top of the long gravel mound was about six feet from the wall, leaving a gully more than adequate to shield them as they ran for the far doors. The problem was reaching it. Because of the crates, they couldn’t get close enough to the wall to jump over the crest of the pile and land in the trough. No matter how far they leaped, they’d still end up on the mound’s exposed flank in full view of the smugglers. It was a gamble, but he could see no other option.

“All right,” he agreed. “Wait until they’re looking the other way and go. I’ll be right behind you. But be careful, the gravel doesn’t look like it’s settled so you may sink in it like quicksand.”

“Gotcha.”

She waited for the right moment with preternatural calm, her whole body coiled. When she launched herself, her movements were as graceful as a gymnast’s. Her leap took her to within five feet of the hill’s summit, but the impact sank her up to her knees in the loose stones. Even as she began struggling up the mound, Mercer jumped after her. He absorbed a brutal blow by intentionally landing spread-eagle to disperse his weight. Chest aching, he hauled on Lauren’s arm and scrambled for the crest. Dust powdered his clothes and stuck to his greasepaint. A sheet of gravel slid to the concrete floor in a hissing wave.

Mercer rolled over the top and almost had Lauren to safety when he heard a shout over the sound of the idling trucks outside. They’d been spotted.

He expected a few seconds for the guards to organize. He didn’t get it. Two soldiers opened up with their assault rifles the instant the alarm was raised, their weapons echoing in the building’s confines. Lauren began to slither along the trough. The 5.8mm rounds kicked divots in the gravel and blew wedges from the hill’s sharp peak. A shower of pebbles pinged off the metal wall and peppered her back.

He took off after her, feeling the jagged edges of the stone dig into his hands and knees. The air was full of shrapnel and cloying dust. The deafening fusillade suddenly ended. Lauren stopped moving and Mercer was about to prompt her on when a figure loomed to their right, a guard who’d climbed the sloping bank of gravel. Her silenced Beretta spat once and the man tumbled into the trough, prompting a fresh barrage. It sounded like a hundred guns were screaming to get at their rocky defile.

“There’ll be more,” she warned savagely.

Each foot they wriggled forward brought them no reprieve from the scathing attack. The Chinese raked the entire pile, holding their aim only where several of their comrades assaulted the hill to fire down the channel along the wall. Trusting Lauren to keep their front clear, Mercer concentrated on their flanks and rear.

A head appeared over the crest twenty yards behind him. He took a snap shot that plowed into the crest of the mountain and prepared for counterfire. Instead of a burst from his type 87, the Chinese soldier heaved a grenade in a long parabola. The bomb smacked the top of the hill and bounced back down its long face. It landed near the armored car. There was a scream followed by a sharp explosion that rocked the building to its foundation.

Without the need for stealth, Mercer and Lauren jumped to their feet, running hard for the exit. Another grenade sailed into view, a perfect toss that placed it only ten feet in front of them. Mercer rushed forward to grab Lauren around the waist and threw them both out of the ravine. He landed on his back with her clutched to his chest. As they slid down the pile, Lauren cycled through the remains of her magazine to provide cover fire. The second grenade detonated in a gush of gravel that blew across the warehouse like grapeshot from a cannon.

They hit the floor side by side and raced behind the Caterpillar bucket loader. The warehouse’s open doors were clear and they took off, Lauren changing out her magazine without losing stride. The twin grenade blasts were bound to bring reinforcements and they were still trapped inside two different perimeter fences.

“Now what?” she panted.

“This way!” Mercer said as soon as they were outside. Armed men stationed at the gate were just now coming to investigate. He threw himself under one of the idling dump trucks parked near the warehouse and sprang to his feet on the far side. Keeping low in case there was a driver in the cab, he crept forward until he could see the operator’s seat in the wing mirror. Empty. He opened the door and launched Lauren into the tall truck with a shove to the seat of her pants.

“Stay down,” he said and jammed the transmission into gear.

The dump truck snarled when he pressed the accelerator. The cab shuddered. Pulling out of line, the front fender clipped the dump body of the truck in front of them, the sheet metal tearing as easily as paper.

“You do know what you’re doing, right?” Lauren taunted, much more calm than Mercer.

“Hush.” He ground up through another two gears and raced the truck toward the gate.

By the time the soldiers in the warehouse realized their quarry was escaping, Mercer was almost abreast the break in the fence. The troops caught the fleeing dump truck in crossfire, but the vehicle’s thick hide turned away their bullets like the armor on a tank. In the wing mirror, Mercer glimpsed weapons spitting tongues of fire before a bullet disintegrated the glass. And then they were past the gate, careening across the main part of the Hatcherly terminal.

“We have to get to the fence that rings the entire port.” Lauren used the tail of her shirt to wipe camo paint and sweat from her face.

“Which way?” Mercer swerved around a row of containers, scattering the workmen who’d been helping a forklift driver. As yet, he didn’t think the regular workers knew there was a pair of fugitives running around the facility.

“Back through where Victor first let us out. It seemed more deserted than around here.”

Mercer cranked the wheel over. The tires barked in protest and for an instant the truck seemed light on one side before it settled back on its suspension. All around them, startled workers and guards gawked at his driving. One of the guards must have gotten a call over his walkie-talkie because rounds suddenly sprayed the side of the truck. “They’re on to us.”

They were going too fast for Lauren to accurately return fire, which left evasion as their only course. Mercer weaved the truck as best he could. Even empty the rig was top-heavy and tippy. More guards were alerted and it seemed that no matter where he steered, soldiers were waiting in ambush. The windshield had taken a dozen hits or more. He could feel that several tires had been shredded. He found cover by steering toward a parking area littered with ranks of shipping containers.

It was like running a maze, he thought. The containers had been stacked in rows that intersected at right angles, creating canyonlike lanes that seemed to lead nowhere. He couldn’t see far enough to know if he was heading in the right direction. The track was too narrow to turn the vehicle, so he pressed deeper into the labyrinth of containers, hoping to spot an outlet down any one of the numerous side branches.

“Oh, my God!” Lauren pointed ahead with a trembling hand.

Slicing through the air as if by magic, a bright green container swooped down the chasm directly at the dump truck. Above it Mercer could barely see the grapple carriage of the cable crane. The container had been lowered to just a few feet from the ground on stiff hawsers. There was no way he could avoid the head-on collision. Although their arrival from an unexpected corner of the facility had escaped notice, Mercer realized bitterly that surveillance cameras had tracked their escape in the ten-wheeled truck.

Standing on the brakes so the smell of burned rubber became overpowering, Mercer intentionally crashed the truck into one wall of containers, making sure the rear end broke loose and completely blocked the road. The flying container was fifty feet away, silently speeding toward them.

“Out your door and run toward it.”

“Are you nuts?” she shrieked.

“Do it.” Mercer reached across her lap and threw open the passenger door. As roughly as he’d pushed her into the cab, he tossed her back out, jumping to the ground on her heels.

He took her hand and ran at the cargo box, now just ten feet from them. The gap between the container and the pavement was only a couple of feet, and if the unseen technician remotely operating the cable crane realized what they were doing he could drop the box on them with the force of a hydraulic car crusher. Mercer held his breath and dove for the ground, pulling Lauren after him.

The bottom of the box hurtled an inch over his face, its passage stirring dirt from the asphalt. The air became fouled with the smell of stale rust. And then it moved beyond them. Mercer jumped to his feet and didn’t look back at the collision about to take place.

The container was traveling at thirteen miles an hour when it hit the truck, but it was its forty tons of mass that did the damage. The box barely swayed at the first impact. It crushed through the corner of the big rig, tore the front wheel off its suspension and then ripped the sixteen-cylinder engine off its mounts. Fountains of diesel from severed fuel lines ignited like oil-well blazes. Inertia tossed the motor through the cab an instant before the huge crate sliced it from the chassis like an enormous blade. Only when the container struck the dump body did it begin to push the twenty-ton truck across the pavement, rolling it over and over once the back axle had snapped. A lake of burning fuel spread like a flickering veneer. Gravel drizzled from where the container’s skin had split.

By running at the container, Mercer had saved them from being caught up in the carnage.

They turned two corners and put a hundred yards between themselves and the collision before pausing. Mercer was more winded than Lauren, his body not as recovered from the dysentery as he’d believed. She recognized that his strength was flagging and immediately took point, leading them from the high walls of the container maze.

“Look.” She pointed ahead to where the port’s perimeter fence stretched across a field of waist-high grass.

“How are we going to get over it? It’s electrified.” Even as Mercer said this, bullets sparked against the trailer providing their cover.

They dashed to a maintenance shed, swinging around its far side. Lauren unscrewed her pistol’s silencer to get better accuracy and took a two-handed stance, her body hidden, her eyes expectant. A moment later, two guards ran from their cover position. She triggered her weapon twice. One dropped and remained still while the other managed to drag himself behind a pallet of roofing shingles.

“He’ll have a radio,” she panted. “We’ve got to go now.”

“The fence?”

Lauren took off without answering. Mercer struggled to keep up. He felt like he was wading through molasses, his legs were so rubbery. A fifty-foot strip had been mowed on each side of the chain-link fence, creating a killing lane patrolled by the Panamanian guards who once did Manuel Noriega’s dirtiest work. At the edge of the strip, Mercer and Lauren both saw four camouflaged men studying their patrol sector over the sights of their M-16s. Keeping to the tall grass, they tried to find an area not so well defended, their route taking them farther from the main part of the facility. After three hundred yards it was apparent that the ex- Dignity Brigade troopers were perfectly spaced and disciplined enough to remain at their posts despite the gunfire they must have heard.

There was no way out of Hatcherly Consolidated.

“We have to go back and try to get on board the ship at the pier,” Lauren suggested in a ragged whisper.

Mercer looked back at the glow from the quay, now a half mile distant. He spotted three vehicles speeding toward them, each armed with a light machine gun on a pedestal mount. They were trapped against the fence. He turned to her, his voice grave. “We’ll never make it.”

The pronouncement collapsed Lauren’s determination. She seemed to deflate. They hadn’t been spotted yet, but the trucks drew closer and the gunners swept the grass with spotlights secured to their weapons. They had seconds.

Without warning a section of the twelve-foot fence exploded inward. The broken electric field arced and hissed before the whole stockade shorted out and fell silent. Automatic fire raked the two Dignity Brigade guards not blown flat by the detonation. The pursuing trucks skidded to a halt and the three gunners opened up. Streams of tracers cut like lasers. A flaming streak shot from the darkness beyond the fence and one of the trucks somersaulted as the shoulder-fired rocket impacted on its hood.

In the seconds before the two remaining gunners recovered, dark shapes slipped through the breach in the stockade. Their gunfire cut down a pair of Panamanians running along the ribbon of mown grass. In less than a minute, the unknown gunmen had secured a beachhead in the facility. Without knowing who their saviors were, Mercer and Lauren scurried toward the gap.

“Allons! Vite! Vite!” a voice called as the rescuers fired past the fleeing duo and pinned the Chinese behind their trucks.

The extraction was well choreographed. The mysterious commandos fell back in twos but always kept Mercer and Lauren moving toward the fence. There were at least ten of them, each moving silently except when their high-tech guns barked. They maintained cover fire until reaching a dark van parked across the deserted road that abutted the Hatcherly port. The side door was open and a driver waited in his seat. Half the commandos followed Mercer and Lauren into the vehicle while the others ran ahead to another van. The two trucks became anonymous after driving a couple of blocks.

“Thank you,” Mercer said after everyone had untangled themselves and found a seat.

“De rien,” the closest soldier said and shrugged casually.

That was when Mercer realized the troops were speaking French. What in the hell . . . ? And then he understood. Certain who he would find, he crawled over the second-row bench until he was in the space between the front seats. The driver glanced over and smiled.

“They say the Foreign Legion was always a moment too late for a rescue,” the man joked. “I think maybe they did all right this time.”

Mercer just stared at the man responsible for saving his and Lauren’s life—Rene Bruneseau, the security director from Jean Derosier’s Paris auction house.

Hatcherly Consolidated Terminal Balboa, Panama

It was raining by the time Liu Yousheng’s Mercedes reached the secure warehouse, a constant pounding of water that struck the asphalt like hail. The rain looked like Christmas tinsel streaming through the coronas cast by the tall gantry lights and exploded into steam when it touched the hot bulbs. The luxury car twisted around the line of dump trucks and threaded between containers and the pile of gravel, stopping next to the armored car now resting low on its suspension because of its golden cargo. Liu didn’t wait for his chauffeur to open his door.

As a result of a life of near constant work and stress, Liu was thin, almost gaunt, with deep-set eyes ringed perpetually by bruise-dark circles. He appeared older than his thirty-eight years. Not only was his face more matured, worn almost, but he possessed an intensity that seemed to infect those around him and was found in only a few leaders who’d weathered most of life’s storms. He also radiated a decisive energy, an unflagging stamina to keep fighting long after others would have surrendered. He enjoyed a position of wealth and power and worked tirelessly for more.

Greed was not a motivation to Liu Yousheng, and he’d faced down that accusation in countless business magazines. His sole interest was success, the never-ending quest to pit his wits against the global economy and come out on top. Business was more than warfare, he’d once been quoted as saying. Wars were fought between two adversaries while business was a struggle between the individual and everything else. Unlike in war, business alliances lasted only so long as profits were made. Stagger once and the corpse of your company was picked over like carrion before jackals. The other difference he’d pointed out was that all wars eventually came to an end. By definition, commerce, the continuous trade of goods and services, would go on forever.

He stepped from the Mercedes limousine, his face unreadable as he studied the ring of men near the armored car. What remained of the soldier who’d killed himself with his own grenade was an irregular red stain on the concrete floor. Liu hungered for a cigarette but had recently quit. In the wake of nicotine withdrawal he had a nervous tick of blowing on the fingertips of his right hand like a safecracker about to attempt a difficult lock.

At five feet ten inches, he was taller than all the men with the exception of Sergeant Huai and a few of his troops. Yet his slender build and hatchet-thin face made him look smaller, frailer, like a gangly teen around adults. None, however, could match his severity, nor could they avoid the palpable tension coiled within him. As his eyes swept the apologetic faces of the guards, each physically recoiled from the deep-seeing stare, casting their glances anywhere but at their leader. Liu’s eyes finally settled on Captain Chen Tai Fat, who was in overall command of the Sword of South China Special Forces detachment and whose primary responsibility was maintaining security at the warehouse.

Chen was a career officer, competent and professional, but like so many in the People’s Liberation Army, he’d achieved rank as much through nepotism as by ability. His father was a general in the air force, and had Chen’s vision not been less than perfect he’d be flying fighter jets out of Hainan Island. Liu didn’t blame Chen for his birth. He himself had benefited from the accomplishments of his family in a lineage that dated back to Chairman Mao’s famous Long March. What Liu couldn’t forgive was ineptitude.

Standing ramrod straight, Chen waited for what he knew was coming, a dressing down he fully deserved. Thieves had breached his perimeter, and while their attempt to steal anything from the port had been thwarted, he was responsible for the security lapse.

Liu Yousheng blew on his fingers as if they’d been singed. “You said when you phoned my home that the thieves escaped with the aid of missile fire from outside the fence,” he began, and Captain Chen nodded. “And yet you still think they are nothing more than a rabble looking to swipe electronics from a couple of containers?”

Chen blinked, not expecting Liu’s question to come so soft-spoken. “Their weaponry indicates a certain sophistication, sir, but Panama is awash in such weapons—surplus arms from the Contras and Sandanistas on their way to FARC and ELF rebels in Colombia. Rocket-propelled grenades are as common as prostitutes here and cheaper to buy.”

Liu glanced at Sergeant Huai for confirmation. The old soldier dipped his eyes in agreement. Liu continued in a mild tone while menace was building in his expression, “So common thieves have automatic weapons and rocket grenades? Interesting. And how do common thieves know to come into this particular warehouse at this particular time?”

Chen had a ready answer. “Despite our precautions, the Panamanian dock workers all knew that something would be happening in here. Our increased security was a sure tip-off. One of them could have let it slip or could even be working with the thieves.”

“Is there any evidence that we were so betrayed?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you started an investigation?”

“As soon as the thieves made their escape, I had the harbor shut down. All employees are being questioned right now.”

“In your estimation, how much of our activities did these thieves see?”

Chen considered dodging the question but too many soldiers had been in the warehouse and he couldn’t count on them to maintain his ruse if he lied. It was not lost on him that they showed more deference to Sergeant Huai than himself, and because of COSTIND’s dual nature, Liu did hold the rank of colonel in the PLA even if he never wore his uniform. “It is possible they saw a portion of the gold, sir.”

“Close enough to see the seals stamped on it?”

“No, sir. They were on the second-floor storage area. Too far away and the angle was wrong for them to get a good look.”

Liu turned to Huai. “Is this true?”

“I was checking the perimeter fence when the firefight took place but my men agree. The gold was under cover except when one of your assistants pulled the cloth from one bar. The robbers were too far away to see the stamp.”

Turning slightly to regard the two suited men who’d been overseeing the transfer, Liu’s dark eyes silently asked the question of who looked at one of the gold ingots. Both men paled under the scrutiny and many seconds passed before one of the men pushed the other forward. “It was Ping, Mr. Liu.”

“How about it, Ping?” Liu asked affably, the menace suddenly gone from his bearing. “Did you sneak a peek at my gold?”

The young junior executive couldn’t muster enough saliva to respond. He nodded sharply, keeping his head down in supplication.

Liu laughed softly. “Don’t worry about it, Ping. In your position I’d be tempted to want to see it too. One rarely gets the chance to gaze upon forty million dollars.”

Ping looked up, a small smile forming at the corners of his mouth. That was how he saw the discreet signal flash from his boss to the commando sergeant.

Huai pulled his sidearm and fired with the weapon still at the level of his waist. The bullet hit square on Ping’s right kneecap. As he buckled, Huai fired again and the other knee shattered in a cloud of blood and bone chips. The junior executive sprawled awkwardly on the concrete, screaming at the unbelievable agony until his body overwhelmed his brain’s ability to deal with the pain and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

Liu gave the other executive a speculative look, and was satisfied that he’d made his point when a wet stain bloomed at the man’s groin.

“Lest you forget that this is a military operation and I will not tolerate mistakes, let Ping’s punishment be a reminder.” Liu’s voice encompassed all those assembled. “We aren’t in Hong Kong or Shanghai. We are in a country that until a few years ago was America’s puppet. Because the Panamanians have only recently gained their freedom from the United States’ imperialism, they are wary of any outsider, especially us. Panama is a Catholic country whose citizens see communism as an affront to their God. Our investments in Panama’s infrastructure are welcome. We are not.

“I have designed Operation Red Island to keep our actual involvement to a minimum for this very reason. One slip, one whispered rumor about what is happening and the people will take to the streets. It’s something they love to do. Omar Quintero is this country’s most unpopular president since Noriega. Until he can better consolidate his power base it won’t take much to push this country into chaos. Captain Chen?”

Chen stepped forward. “Sir.”

“You see what happened to a man who took an unauthorized look at the gold. I want even worse to happen to the thieves.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sergeant Huai, what about the American from Paris who turned up at Gary Barber’s river camp? Mercer?”

“We lost him after he left the restaurant last night because those drunken tourists rammed our car, but he was spotted at the airport late this morning boarding a flight to Miami. If you still want the journal he bought we will have to dispatch a team to the States.”

Liu considered the proposal. “That won’t be necessary. We have enough old manuscripts to legitimize our discovery if someone ever wonders how we found the treasure. The one he bought is of no consequence.” Hatcherly’s director in Panama moved back toward his car. “Just in case Captain Chen fails to find our thieves, I want the gold out of this warehouse immediately and everything else cleared within forty-eight hours.”

Chen opened his mouth to voice an opinion but Liu cut him off. “I’m well aware of our transport guidelines. What can’t be removed from this building in two days should be stored in another location at the terminal until you can get it out. Don’t violate the guidelines but don’t leave anything in here either.”

“Yes, sir.”

Settled in the back of the Mercedes, Liu Yousheng dug around the mini-bar until he found a container of antacid liquid. He took three heavy swallows, wincing as his stomach gave one more volcanic heave. Thirty-eight was too young for an ulcer, he thought. But thirty-eight was also too young for this kind of responsibility. As he liked to do when the pain was bad, he mentally drew out the flowchart of power within Hatcherly. He enjoyed reviewing the incremental steps he’d climbed. The only people ahead of him now were the president of the entire HatchCo conglomerate, Deng Hui. Then came General Yu, the man who controlled all of COSTIND. Yu’s only superior was the defense minister in Beijing, and at the top of the pyramid was China’s president. Liu had already climbed twenty positions and had only four more to go. If he pulled off Red Island, he was assured the presidency of Hatcherly Consolidated. They’d have to make him a secret general for that, moving him that much closer to the chairmanship of the Commission on Science, Technology and Industry for National Defense. He estimated that it would take only two years to move up from COSTIND to the defense ministry.

The pain in his stomach subsided.

He regretted crippling Ping. Shattering the junior executive’s legs was far too harsh a punishment for his error in judgment. A simple reprimand would have sufficed. Liu had done it as a demonstration to the rest of the men rather than retribution for a stupid mistake. If anyone should have suffered, it was Chen for letting the thieves into the container port in the first place. Being forced to use Panamanian troops at the outer perimeter to keep Hatcherly’s local partners happy was no excuse for the would-be burglars getting into the warehouse.

There were no critical junctures to Operation Red Island because every phase was equally important. Now that Liu’s forces were taking more active roles, he couldn’t afford inattention. Ping’s mutilation was a reminder.

He had to maintain control and discipline, and make sure everything stayed on its tight schedule. Any delay could lead to Beijing pulling out of the entire operation. Red Island had been a gamble that few in the highest echelons of the government believed in. They had only allowed themselves to be persuaded to authorize it because Liu had ensured there would be no downside. He could feel the pressure mounting. The gold would last only so long.

The limo dropped into a pothole and Liu cursed. He wasn’t a xenophobe or even a racist, but he had learned to hate all things Panamanian in his months here. From the constant rain that left oppressive humidity when it cleared, to food that made his ulcer roil, to the grubbing bureaucrats who were never satisfied with their bribes, Liu hated it all. But he despised the people most.

Had it not been for the United States’ desire to build the canal, Panama would still be a backwater province of Colombia. The Americans had literally created the country from nothing. Theodore Roosevelt had defended their staged revolt from Colombia with gunboats, and had recognized the fledgling nation even as the ink was drying on their constitution. Since that time the United States had poured in billions of dollars, making Panama a true cross-roads of commerce. Granted, Liu could understand the people’s frustration at being treated as second-class citizens by the gringos, but second class to the most powerful nation in the hemisphere was better than first class in a Third World cesspool. And it was inevitable that Panama would slip that way again.

Singapore was the only country near the equator with a decent standard of living; all others had succumbed to a tropical malaise that left them far behind the industrial world. Liu understood that dozens of factors conspired to make this happen, but the reason he most believed was that the tropics bred laziness. The approach of winter in northern latitudes had created urgency in farmers to plant and harvest in a desperate race to beat the first frost. This work ethic had carried forward into the industrial age and created the prosperity found in Europe, America, Japan, Australia and parts of northern China.

In contrast, the belt surrounding the equator never had such urgency. Dry seasons provided a similar bounty to the rainy ones. There was never a compelling reason to rush. And this too had spilled over into the industrial age. There was no pressure to complete a project because the next day would be the same as the last. Liu didn’t blame the people for how their societies evolved, but he hated that they resisted adapting to northern ways. They expected the world to adjust to their schedule. Bankers in Panama City felt nothing when they made clients wait for hours while they lingered over lunches or mistresses. Such laxity seemed to be endemic and he feared that his own people were being infected. Back home, Ping would have never dared look at the gold.

He felt certain that tonight’s demonstration would buy him a few more weeks of commitment. That would be all the time he needed.

The safe house was located in a quiet neighborhood to the north of Panama City. The building was an indistinguishable one-story cement bungalow with small windows framed in pitted aluminum and a low pitched roof with a long overhang to keep rain from the single door. The rest of the homes on the street were identical with the exception of owners’ tastes in pastel paint. The safe house was a faded pink.

Rene Bruneseau had refused to answer any of Mercer’s questions until they were in the building, but that didn’t stop Mercer from figuring out a few things on his own. One was that Bruneseau worked for one of France’s spy agencies, most likely the DGSE. How else could he explain the presence of the Foreign Legion troops?

Disjointed by the turn of events, Mercer needed to take a measure of control if he was going to reestablish his equilibrium. That was why as soon as the blocky Frenchman turned to face him from across the threshold, Mercer fired a punch to Bruneseau’s unshaven jaw that sent the larger man first into the open door and then onto the floor.

“That’s for nearly getting me killed in Paris,” Mercer hissed, his pistol magically in his hand. He held his aim steady on the Foreign Legion soldier who was closest to him. “This isn’t your fight,” he warned.

From the threadbare carpet, Rene glared for a moment and then nodded, tension running from his body. He made a gesture to his soldiers to back off. “I suppose I deserved that, Dr. Mercer.” He heaved himself to his feet, cracking his jaw to the side. “Nice punch. Your friend Jean-Paul Derosier said I shouldn’t underestimate you. I think he doesn’t know the half of it. But instead of blaming me, you should thank me for saving your ass twice in two days. Tonight at HatchCo and the night before when two of Hatcherly’s pet Dingbats trailed you from the Japanese restaurant.”

Still reeling from Bruneseau’s rescue, Mercer could only return a blank look.

“Did you think they wouldn’t have you under observation?” the Frenchman continued. “Liu’s people have known every move you’ve made since your arrival in Panama. He’s built a hell of a network in a very short time. But so have I. Remember your dinner companions?”

“The German guys at our grill table?”

“The beauty of the Legion, no? Men from all over the world. They’re some of the troops who pulled off your extraction tonight.”

“Who’s German?” Lauren asked, having just ducked under the curtain of rain falling from the eaves. She hadn’t seen the exchange.

“No one, Captain Vanik,” Bruneseau replied. “An earlier misunderstanding.”

She caught Mercer’s eye and saw he was as much adrift as she felt. The after-action adrenaline hangover and the surprise that French spies were operating in Panama left her shaky. She’d hoped that Mercer could anchor her and sensed for a while that he could not. Bruneseau led them into a cramped living room stripped of everything but a pair of couches and the dirt outline of a crucifix that had once adorned a wall. A coffee table sat between the couches. The ashtrays littering it overflowed. A soldier came in from the kitchen with a box of cold beer bottles and set six of them on the table before retreating to a back bedroom for their debrief. Mercer and Lauren were left alone with Rene Bruneseau.

The spy used a Swiss Army knife to open three of the beers and passed over two. “Okay, to answer your accusation—yes, I did set you up in Paris with Jean Derosier’s help. Do not blame him. My government didn’t leave him much choice.”

“You wanted to flush out whoever was buying up all the Panama diaries?” Mercer already knew the answer and only wanted confirmation.

“That’s right.”

“But why?” Lauren asked. “What’s your interest?”

“To put it frankly, Captain”—Bruneseau lit a cigarette and held it in the underhanded French fashion—“because your country no longer shows any interest, despite evidence that the People’s Republic of China is buying up huge chunks of Panama and will very likely have control of the canal within a year.”

Lauren wasn’t satisfied with the answer even though she knew it to be true. “Again, what is France’s interest?”

Bruneseau suddenly looked at her with renewed interest, as if she’d just passed some unwritten test. He inclined his head in admiration. “Very good, Captain. I think our friend Mercer here would have left it at that, but you want more. Why is that?”

“Because France has never shown any interest in Central America, nor have you ever seemed particularly alarmed at China’s recent geopolitical growth. And finally because few French ships transit the canal and very little of your GDP depends on raw materials that pass through here. Your geography insulates you from what happens in Panama.”

“Meanwhile,” Bruneseau cut in, “America accounts for sixty to eighty percent of all goods that move through the canal and yet you dismantled your presence here. Actually you abandoned it, leaving behind about three billion dollars in assets, including a rather sophisticated antenna array and listening station atop Ancon Hill.”

Understanding dawned on her. “Ariane.”

Rene toasted her with his beer. “Since I didn’t say it first, I suppose it’s all right if I said yes.” He glanced at Mercer. “Do you understand what we are talking about?”

The Frenchman wanted to treat Mercer like a fool, revenge perhaps for the sucker punch. Mercer wasn’t going to play his game. “Because the European Space Agency launches their Ariane rockets from Kourou, Guyana, in South America, you see a Chinese listening post in Panama as a potential threat.”

“Wouldn’t you? Not all of what Ariane does is civilian and a great deal can be learned of our capabilities with a tracking station that can intercept our rocket’s radio instructions.”

“So France is finally willing to stand on the wall to guard against China’s growing influence.” An angry flush had risen on Lauren’s face. “About damned time some of our allies saw what was happening.”

Bruneseau let the insult pass, watching Mercer’s reaction.

Mercer had yet to respond to this explanation because it seemed off somehow. Until he and Lauren could speak alone, he let it pass. “How does all this involve me?”

“To answer that I need to explain a few things. In the years since your country turned over the canal, Panama has been bought up bit by bit. It started small, a few businesses, a couple of deals, but the pace has accelerated. The principle telecommunications company recently sold a forty percent stake to a Chinese firm. Only Chinese companies are given mineral exploration rights. An American railroad corporation was forced out of their ownership of the trans-isthmus line by Hatcherly Consolidated, who are also about to complete an oil pipeline that runs from coast to coast. Hatcherly has even muscled a quasi-legitimate Hong Kong firm for control of one-third of the Balboa container port.”

“Quasi-legitimate?”

“The company’s called Hutchinson Wampoa. There are unsubstantiated rumors that they are controlled by the government in Beijing. Who knows? However, there are no such rumors about Hatcherly. Their ties to COSTIND, and thus China’s military, are well documented. Another fact not in dispute is when mainland companies invest in a country, those nations soon switch their diplomatic recognition away from Taiwan in favor of the communists.”

“You see that happening here?” Mercer asked.

“Never would have happened under former president Ochoa. He was a rabid anti-communist. No one is sure about Quintero because no one knows who really engineered his suspicious election. We can’t ignore that the promise of free markets hasn’t reached the poorest and most disenfranchised and that Marxism is on the rise in Latin America all over again because of this. Perhaps Quintero may yet lean that way.”

“So you’ve established that China is showing a lot of interest in Panama and that the United States has done very little about it. That still doesn’t explain why you involved me.”

“Because for months I never knew who was pulling the strings here. Up until Hutchinson Wampoa was forced to give up part of their harbor, I thought they were behind the systematic expansion. Afterward I realized it was Hatcherly. Liu Yousheng is China’s point man.”

“So you concentrated your investigation on him?”

“Precisely. By the time I knew it was Liu, he’d already made overtures to buy the journals from the family who owned them, just weeks before the auction. We had to scramble, which was why the operation in Paris got away from us. We had to get Hatcherly to show themselves in such a way to start an aboveboard criminal investigation, trapping Liu’s agents in France as a way of exposing him in Panama.”

“Using me as bait.”

“Monsieur Derosier said you could look after yourself. Also we had agents at the gallery and at the Crillon Hotel where he said you normally stay. When you told Derosier that you had different lodging, the best I could do was follow you.”

“When the punk tried to steal the journal you knew it was Liu’s men making their move.”

“Correct. I also didn’t think you’d catch him so I shot him.” That answered one of the many questions that had dogged Mercer since that night. But still dozens more swirled in his head. Bruneseau continued, “Before we could secure the area, you’d ducked into the catacombs trailed by the Chinese assassins. I wasn’t aware that you’d survived the sewers until your name was flagged at Charles de Gaulle airport when you left France. I assume the gunmen are . . . ?”

“Down the drain.” Mercer’s deadpan joke was lost on the spy. “How did you know those men came from Liu and Hatcherly?”

“Because we’d followed them from Panama. Liu’s interest in old journals and diaries was something we couldn’t explain. It was an anomaly in his actions that we felt was somehow important. Honestly it was just a guess since all other attempts to infiltrate his empire have been disasters.”

“Are the journals important?” Lauren asked.

Bruneseau gave a Gallic shrug. “We don’t know why he wanted them or what he’s done with the ones he bought. Like I said, his organization has proved to be impenetrable.”

“Not exactly,” Mercer said, rubbing in the fact that he and Lauren had gotten in.

The Frenchman’s voice darkened. “We managed to get two men into the terminal two weeks ago. One’s corpse was fished out of Lake Gatun by a sightseeing boat and we think the other had already washed into the Pacific. We’ve kept their facility under observation, which was why we were there tonight to rescue you. I still don’t know how you managed to get in.”

“Locked ourselves in a container at the rail yard in Cristobal and had an inside man let us out when the train reached the port.”

“Clever,” Rene replied after a moment’s consideration. “And what did you learn?”

“Not so fast,” Mercer said. “You still have a lot to answer for. You explained how you used me in Paris, but not why. Why me and not one of your own people?”

“We didn’t have time to establish a legitimate cover, and in discussions with Derosier he mentioned that you would be there to buy the Lepinay journal for a friend already in Panama, a Mr. Gary Barber.”

“Who you know is dead?”

“Yes, we understand you discovered his body and helped organize his funeral.”

That statement told Mercer that Bruneseau didn’t have all the answers he thought he did. He hadn’t been at the funeral, but the agent would have thought so if his dinner conversation with Maria Barber had been overheard. Which the spy had already admitted had happened. He realized that the French had certain pieces of the puzzle and he and Lauren had others. He had to decide if he wanted to share, and to do that he had to slough off his feelings over how he’d been treated. Mercer wanted nothing more than to tell the spy to screw himself and walk out the door, but his heart told him that getting to the bottom of Gary’s death was more important than his anger.

He and Lauren exchanged a silent glance. The brief moment their eyes locked asked and answered the question of trust. They didn’t have a choice. “I lied at dinner,” Mercer said. “I never went to the funeral. Lauren and I were trapped on a lake above Gary’s camp by a helicopter belonging to Hatcherly Consolidated.”

It was gratifying to see he could unsettle the Frenchman. Bruneseau shouted to the back room. “Foch, get in here!” A few seconds later one of the Legionnaire commandos entered. He was a little older than the others Mercer had seen, and while he wore no rank on his black uniform, Mercer guessed he was the officer in charge of the detachment. He had sandy hair and watchful blue eyes, and a European kind of good looks that better suited a model than a soldier. “Lieutenant Foch, this is Dr. Mercer and Captain Vanik of the U.S. Army. Foch is my number-two man. Tell us exactly what happened at the lake.”

Mercer hesitated, wondering if telling them everything was the right thing, and then he plunged in, recounting the entire story from his arrival in Panama to the discovery of the gold bars in the Hatcherly warehouse and how they assumed they were part of the Twice-Stolen Treasure. Lauren added a few details he’d forgotten. By some unspoken agreement neither mentioned Roddy Herrara or Harry White.

“Can you use the agent at the port again?” Lieutenant Foch asked when the story was done.

“No,” Mercer said at once. “For one thing I won’t risk him, and after tonight whatever Hatcherly’s hiding will be gone. There’s no reason to reenter the facility.”

“You think we should track the gold?” Bruneseau was into his fourth cigarette.

“If Hatcherly has an Achilles’ heel in Panama, it’s that. I think whatever they’re up to here revolves around the treasure. Checking out the lake again is an obvious place to take up the chase. I haven’t had a chance to read the Lepinay journal but it’s clear Liu believes something in it is important.”

“You have the journal with you?” Foch asked.

“It’s in my hotel. I can get it anytime.”

“No, you can’t,” Bruneseau said. “You left Panama this morning.”

The statement was baffling. “Excuse me?”

“After some of my men derailed the ex-Dingbats following you out of the restaurant by smashing into their car, I had a soldier who resembles you take a flight to Miami once he was certain he was being followed by Liu’s people. We weren’t the only people eavesdropping on your conversation. They picked up his trail near where you told Maria Barber you were staying at a hostel.” Rene shifted in his seat. “Also, I read the journal in Paris before Derosier turned it over to you. There’s nothing in it.”

Impressed by the French agent’s thoroughness, Mercer still scoffed at this final pronouncement. “And how exactly do you know that? Do you have an engineering background? Geology? Hell, do you even know who Godin de Lepinay was?” Bruneseau’s silence was Mercer’s answer. “I didn’t think so.”

Foch tensed at Mercer’s tone while Bruneseau remained impassive. A silent minute passed before the spy cleared his throat and leaned forward. “You believe there may be something in the journal I missed?”

“I’m saying it’s possible.”

“Are you willing to share whatever you learn from it?”

“If you’re willing to back me up when I return to the lake.”

“When we return to the lake.” Lauren touched Mercer’s leg in a gesture of solidarity.

“I suppose I owe you,” Rene said with an undercurrent of resignation in his voice. His investigation into Hatcherly had gone nowhere and Mercer was offering a new way to restart it. “I can’t pull too many men away from Hatcherly’s container port so I will give you two plus Foch and myself.”

Mercer nodded. “Fair enough. When?”

“We can leave tomorrow afternoon. You two can spend the night here.”

Mercer whispered to Lauren if she had a cell phone on her. She said it was at home. “I’ve got some things to take care of first,” he said to Rene. “We’ll meet back here at noon.”

“You can’t return to the Caesar Park Hotel. Liu’s people may think you’ve left Panama but it’s an unnecessary risk returning to such a public place.”

“We’ll sleep at Lauren’s apartment.” It was the first she’d heard of this and her eyes widened.

“Okay. As far as we know, Liu isn’t aware of her involvement. It should be safe. One of my men will drive you over and pick you up at noon.”

“Until tomorrow, then.” Mercer stood. He was filled with an urgency that hadn’t been there only moments before, buoyed by a sudden inspiration that he needed to check out.

Forty minutes later, Lauren twisted the key into the lock of her apartment, located in a high-rise building that overlooked the Bay of Panama. Since the government paid the rent, her apartment was on a lower floor and the windows faced landward.

“Are you going to tell me why you needed a phone?” she asked.

“In a minute.” Mercer went straight to her telephone and dialed the Caesar Park, asking the operator to connect him to Harry’s room. As he waited, he studied Lauren’s living room. The furniture looked like it came with the place and Lauren had put out only a few personal items, family photos mostly, including one of her in scuba gear wearing a one-piece swimsuit that showed the muscular curves of her body. He turned from the picture before she saw his interest. Harry picked up on the fifth ring. “How’d it go?”

“You were supposed to wait by the phone for my call,” Mercer complained.

“I was in the crapper. Food down here is killing me, I think my assho—”

Mercer cut him off before Harry could get any more graphic. “I get the picture.”

“So how did it go?”

Sketching out the details, Mercer summed up by asking if Harry and Roddy were willing to do a little work.

“Whatcha got in mind?”

“The dump trucks. The armored car is long gone, I’m sure, but I want you and Roddy to follow one of the dump trucks. Their presence at the port doesn’t make any sense and I think they’re connected somehow.”

“Roddy’s here right now and his car’s down in the hotel garage. We’re on it.”

“Before you leave, check out of the Caesar Park and find another hotel.”

“Why? I like it here. This place is a palace and I must say it suits me.”

Mercer laughed. “Hate to tell you this, pal, but you’re even outclassed by a roach motel. It’s obvious that both the Frogs and Liu Yousheng have been watching me because my dinner with Gary’s wife turned into a spectator sport. Yet somehow neither group knows about you and Roddy and I want to keep it that way.”

“So I’m going to be the ace in the hole, huh?” Harry liked the idea.

“It’s a step up from your normal role of a drunk in the gutter.”

“Hey, I only passed out in the gutter that one time coming back from Tiny’s,” Harry protested. “Do you have to keep bringing it up?”

“Payback for the thing at the hospital.”

“Then we’re even?”

“Not even close,” Mercer said with a grin, hanging up after Harry said he’d move in with Roddy’s family for a few days. He’d keep the journal until after Mercer came back from the River of Ruin.

“ ‘A drunk in the gutter,’ what is it with you two? Are you ever nice to each other?”

“That was being nice.” Mercer sank onto Lauren’s couch with an exhausted sigh. “Now you know why I wanted to make the call away from the safe house?”

“You didn’t want Bruneseau overhearing. You don’t trust him?”

“There aren’t too many spies I do trust. Present company excluded. Once we reach the lake and I’ve got evidence that Hatcherly is plundering a Panamanian archeological site I don’t want anything to do with him. And as far as China taking the canal? It was a mistake years ago for the U.S. to give it away so I couldn’t care less what happens to it now.”

“Bullshit!” Lauren spat, not letting his lie hang in the air for even a second. Mercer cocked an eyebrow, secretly pleased that she had seen through him. “I’ve been watching you for the past few days,” she went on, “and I think I know what makes you tick. Bruneseau has dangled another challenge in front of us and you can’t wait to take it up.”

“Am I that obvious?” Mercer smiled at her fury.

“Why else would you have sent Harry after those dump trucks? You’ve already guessed Hatcherly is up to something beyond gold smuggling. You said that crap about not caring what happens to the canal because you want to drop me the same way you’re going to drop Bruneseau.”

“This isn’t your fight,” Mercer said seriously.

“Don’t try to push me aside because I’m a woman,” she returned hotly. Unlike many women who mask their sexuality by defensively crossing their arms over their breasts, Lauren stood with her hands on her hips, her chest out proudly. “This is as much my fight as yours.”

“I want to keep you out because you are a commissioned officer in the United States Army who could lose everything by helping me.” Mercer raised his own voice to match hers. “Not because you’re a woman. I’m trying to protect your career, not your gender.”

Lauren glowered then suddenly backed down because she saw that he wasn’t lying. Mercer wasn’t the type to step over the line between chivalry and chauvinism. Her voice softened. “Thank you for that, but it’s my career. Besides, I have a secret weapon to get me out of hot water with the army.” She paused, a little embarrassed. “My father is a general.”

The admission came as a surprise, as were the implications. He couldn’t resist teasing her. “And you’re not above crying, Daaaddyyyy!”

She bristled, having spent her career dodging rumors that her father had paved the way for her promotions. Knowing it wasn’t true and with nothing to prove, she had still taken tough postings to stifle her detractors, deliberately staying away from duties that would have fast-tracked promotion. It rankled that she’d been forced to sabotage her own career because her father happened to be a general.

Then she saw that Mercer wasn’t serious, and couldn’t possibly know what was said behind her back. Her expression turned sheepish. “I’ve never needed to but the option’s always open. And if you repeat that to anyone you’ll be digesting your teeth.”

Mercer realized he’d hit a sore spot. He could imagine the hell she’d gone through being the daughter of a general, like being a student in a school where a parent was the principal. Only this wasn’t school. This was her entire life. He wished he’d held his tongue. “Deal.”

Lauren nodded and something silent passed between them. She knew one of his deepest secrets and now he knew the root of her pain. It was more than either expected to share and yet they had. She turned away before she blushed. “Give me fifteen minutes in the shower and the bathroom’s yours. I think I’ve got a couple beers in the fridge if you want one.”

The sting of the shower slowly washed away the exhaustion that cramped her muscles and caused her joints to stiffen. She luxuriated under the spray, soaping and rinsing her entire body twice and digging her fingers through her hair until her scalp went numb. Even as her entire being craved sleep, she thought about the man in the other room. He was unlike anyone she’d met before. Handsome, yes, but that wasn’t what she found so compelling. It was the way others listened to him. People sensed his confidence and responded automatically. Bruneseau was a trained spy but by the end of their talk he was taking orders from Mercer, a geologist. Her father was a little like that.

Where’d that thought come from? Stop it, Lauren, she chided herself, thinking a Freudian would be having a field day with that idea.

She recalled the way he’d looked at the picture of her in a bathing suit and how she’d liked how it made her feel. With a quick gesture, she twisted the tap to cold, and the thermal shock on her skin scattered any further thoughts in that direction.

By the time she had toweled off and stepped from the bathroom to tell Mercer the shower was his, he was asleep on the couch, still smelling of sweat and combat. Lauren pulled a spare blanket from a linen closet and draped it over him. Even in sleep his jaw was firm. She resisted the urge to touch his face, to feel the rasp of his thirty-hour beard. She killed the lights and went to her own bed.

Panama City, Panama

Mercer had always carried a clichéd mental picture of the French Foreign Legion. In his mind, they were still lonely guardsmen in isolated sandstone forts blistered by the Saharan sun and doomed by overwhelming odds. Gary Cooper in a kepi and Berbers on camels wielding Saracen swords. What he’d seen the night before, his and Lauren’s rescue from Hatcherly, had helped dispel the image. He now realized he was in the company of an elite fighting force as well trained as the SEALs or Green Berets.

The two soldiers accompanying them to the lake were in the safe house living room when he and Lauren arrived, their FAMAS assault rifles disassembled and blindfolds over their eyes. With a sharp command from Lieutenant Foch, the men fitted the weapons back together, their hands a blur of rote action. Foch clicked off his stopwatch when the last man cocked his gun and held it out for inspection.

“Two seconds quicker than last. Do it again.”

While the men pulled the rifles apart again, Lauren Vanik frowned at Foch. “Do you think it’s a good idea running disassembly drills with weapons we may use in combat later on?”

Foch gave her a patronizing smile. “Of course not. Those rifles are with the men’s kit. These are just trainers. Don’t worry, Captain, we know what we’re doing.”

Rene Bruneseau came into the living room from the back of the house. Like his men, he wore civilian clothes. “Good morning, Captain Vanik, Mercer. May I offer you coffee.”

Because he and Lauren hadn’t gotten to sleep until three in the morning, Mercer quickly agreed to the offer. The coffee Lauren had made for him was watery instant and had done nothing to jump-start his body.

Over cups of rich French roast, Bruneseau laid out their plan. The Legionnaires had a helicopter stashed at a deserted plantation beyond the ruins of Veija Panama, the old city that the pirate Henry Morgan had sacked in 1671. They would carry an inflatable boat to a point above El Real. There they would transfer to the boat for the remainder of the trip up the Rio Tuira. Before reaching the River of Ruin, they would stash the Zodiac and flank around the volcanic mountain, climbing it from the opposite side from where its waters disgorged down the falls that Mercer and Lauren had climbed earlier with Miguel.

As Rene explained his strategy, Mercer loaded film into the camera he’d bought on the way to the safe house. He’d also purchased a four-hundred-millimeter telephoto lens, the largest the camera shop stocked. He hoped to get shots of Hatcherly’s plundering of an important archeological site. At Lauren’s suggestion, they would take that evidence to the curator of the Reina Torres de Aruez Anthropology Museum, where she felt they’d get a better response than from Omar Quintero’s shaky government. Quintero had only been in the Heron Palace, the presidential residence, for six months following his corruption-tainted election and had yet to solidify the congress or the bureaucracy.

Mercer doubted Liu Yousheng would show himself at the lake, but if he could photograph some other key Hatcherly people, he could put an end to the plunder as well as give Bruneseau his first break in peeling away the other levels protecting the shadowy company. The plan was simple, and relatively safe—a lot smarter than sneaking into a high-security container port. The power of the telephoto lens meant they could stay well back from any excavation Hatcherly had at the lake and still shoot rolls of damaging film.

The only danger came from the trek through the jungle. The driver who’d picked them up at Lauren’s apartment had told Mercer that the Legionnaires were members of the Third Regiment based in Kourou, Guyana, the Legion’s jungle warfare specialists. The fact that they were tasked with protecting the Ariane spaceport lent credence to what Bruneseau had told him last night, but Mercer couldn’t shake a suspicion. Something was said last night, a slip of some sort that had pushed his doubts into overdrive.

He’d hoped the answer would come in his sleep, as was often the case for him, but he’d been dead to the world from the moment Lauren went into the shower until she’d tapped his shoulder and admonished him about the volume of his snoring two hours ago. Talking with Bruneseau hadn’t jogged anything loose. Frustration at not naming what bothered him caused his shoulders to tense.

Lauren noticed him wince as he rolled his neck. “Are you okay?” she asked, wrongly assuming it was the first tinges of fear affecting him.

He returned his attention to her and Rene. “Yeah, sorry. My mind was somewhere else. When are we leaving?”

“Sundown is around seven tonight,” Bruneseau explained. “We’ll time it so we drop the Zodiac at dusk and run up the river under the cover of darkness. We have night-vision goggles to avoid any boat traffic, though I don’t expect any. We’ll spend the night with the craft then march to the caldera before first light.”

“Where’s the chopper going to be when we’re at the lake?” Lauren asked.

“At the airport at El Real with ‘engine trouble.’ It’s painted like a sightseeing helo so it won’t attract much attention.”

“That’s a twenty-minute flight if we need an emergency evac.”

“I know.” The Frenchman didn’t look any happier about this than Lauren. “There’s no other place to hide it up there.”

“All right. What kind of chopper?”

“JetRanger 222.”

Lauren nodded. Before she’d taken up intelligence work, she’d flown the Bell 205, known in the army as the UH-1 Huey. Although she hadn’t been behind the stick in four years, she felt confident that if anything happened to the pilot, she could handle the helicopter.

“Extended tanks?”

“Non. We will top off the fuel in La Palma, which gives us more than enough range to get back to Panama City. Once Mercer has his evidence we will backtrack to the inflatable and motor back to El Real where the chopper waits.”

“Sounds good to me,” Lauren opined.

Mercer considered the hundreds of things that could go wrong, saw no way around them, and agreed with Lauren. “Let’s do it.”

They spent the next two hours with Lieutenant Foch, since he would lead the raid, poring over maps and briefing the Frenchmen on the terrain around the lake. Like many in the Legion, Foch had claimed to be from Quebec to get around the rule that only foreigners could serve within the elite corps. Keeping with another Legion tradition, Mercer knew not to ask Foch’s Christian name. He found he liked the soldier, who was unpretentious and more than willing to listen to a civilian, probably because Mercer had already proven himself by breaking into Hatcherly.

The team rested in the safe house until the afternoon, when they loaded up one of Bruneseau’s vans for the drive to the helicopter. The forty-minute ride took them through Panama City and along the coast past the old city along the Pan-American highway toward the isolated town of Chepo. The village used to be the terminus of the highway, the last stop before the impenetrable jungles of the Darien Gap. Many Panamanians still considered anything beyond the dingy town as terra incognita.

Before reaching Chepo, the van swung off the road and traveled for another thirty minutes along a dirt track that was increasingly hemmed in by jungle. Rounding a last corner, they broke into a partial clearing where waist-high grass had been beaten flat under where a Bell helo sat on its struts. At the edge of the jungle lay the crumbled walls of a plantation house. Creeping vines seemed to be tugging the ruined structure back into the earth.

They had to strip out the chopper’s rear seats to manhandle in the deflated Zodiac. Bruneseau would fly up front with the pilot, leaving Mercer, Lauren, Foch, and two other Legionnaires to shoehorn themselves into the cargo area. The van’s driver would wait at the plantation for their return the following day and coordinate communications with the rest of the detachment in Panama City. They took off a half hour after their arrival. An hour later they refueled the JetRanger at the small airport in La Palma. Because no one had changed into fatigues yet, they maintained their cover as sightseers headed back into the Darien Gap. Only when they were airborne again did they change clothes. Though she didn’t seem fazed by the close proximity to the men, Lauren maintained her modesty by buttoning her camouflage shirt over the black T-shirt she’d been wearing. Waterproof bags containing weapons, combat harnesses, and other gear were secured to the Zodiac and would be retrieved once they were on the river.

Using a map clipped to his kneeboard, the Australian-born pilot cut across a number of the Rio Tuira’s twists, keeping the nimble chopper so close to the jungle canopy that Mercer could see monkeys howling at them from the tops of trees. Once, they startled a clutch of parrots that took off like a fleeing rainbow.

The constant whine of the helo’s turbine and the resonant thrum of the rotor blades made it impossible for Mercer to think beyond what his senses took in—the smell of sweat from so many people piled together, the feel of a metal bracket pressed against his spine, the aftertaste of a spicy lunch served at the safe house, the centrifugal sloshing of his body as the JetRanger swayed through the humid air.

He closed his eyes for what felt like a few seconds, and when he opened them again he could see that the day had gotten noticeably darker. It was always like this in the tropics, he knew. The sun did more than set; it raced for the horizon as if pursued by an eager night. He glanced at his TAG Heuer. 7:20. Bruneseau had timed their flight perfectly.

The forces on his body changed as the jet-powered helicopter began to slow. The river was off to their right about a quarter mile away, a darker wound in the dark jungle. Rene Bruneseau swept the stretch of water with an infrared monocular, looking for the telltale glow from a boat’s motor or a human body. Mercer could see him mouth something to the pilot over the helo’s comm system and the JetRanger crabbed sideways toward the Rio Tuira.

This was it. They were going in and suddenly Mercer’s mind filled again with all kinds of thoughts. His hands turned slick and his heart raged like a trapped animal. In a startling moment he realized it wasn’t fear infecting him. It was the anticipation he usually felt at the verge of answering some disturbing question. The reason Gary Barber’s corpse was mutilated and why he’d been attacked in Paris was waiting down in that jungle and he was eager to get it.

As soon as the helicopter scuttled out over the river and its blades whipped concentric circles into the calm black waters, the side door was thrown open and a Legionnaire yanked the lanyard that inflated the heavy raft at the same time it was shoved out the opening. The Zodiac expanded as it pinwheeled to the water, weighted so it landed bottom-side down with a wet smack. In the glow of a diffused landing light, the first trooper leaped the fifteen feet into the river next to the now fully inflated raft.

Bruneseau opened the copilot door and jumped, followed by a spill of the others, Lieutenant Foch taking the last slot in the deployment. As soon as Foch cleared the helicopter, the pilot doused his light, increased power, and banked the chopper back into the night. The entire maneuver had taken twenty seconds.

The fall from the JetRanger drove Mercer deep underwater. His boots sank into the silt bottom for a frantic moment until he kicked himself free. He broke the surface and cleared lukewarm water from his eyes. Two of the Legionnaires had already rolled themselves into the rubber boat and the others were clinging to its bulbous freeboard. He swam to them and was helped in by a powerful grip on his arm. Bruneseau grinned. “Piece of cake.”

Mercer guessed the French operative was relieved to be finally doing something after so many weeks of simply watching the Hatcherly container port. His plan to flush out Liu Yousheng by involving Mercer hadn’t worked the way he’d wanted, but at least this new avenue of investigation had been salvaged from that debacle. He seemed grateful.

“Piece of cake,” Mercer agreed. The jungle sang with insects, birds, and dozens of unnamed night creatures. The moon was a pale sliver glimpsed only at the right angle through the thick canopy.

The waterproof bags were hauled aboard and equipment was distributed. The combat harnesses the Legionnaires used incorporated rappelling rigs as well as a rescue harness in case they needed to be pulled out by fast-ropes from the helo. Mercer didn’t recall if the JetRanger was equipped with them or not.

Lauren noticed his interest in the rigs and answered his unspoken question. “I saw them when we loaded. If the pilot leaves off the cargo doors, two ropes can be dropped from a push button in the cockpit.”

“Let’s hope we don’t need them,” Mercer said as he made sure his borrowed Beretta was snug against his hip. The camera with its long lens went into a padded pack he swung onto his back.

Foch took up a position in the bow with night-vision goggles clamped over his eyes and the two enlisted soldiers began to paddle the Zodiac against the sluggish current. They couldn’t risk using an outboard motor because the sound would carry far beyond Foch’s vision. Bruneseau was at the transom, watching their wake for any craft that might overtake them. The last of the daylight had long since faded, leaving only a strip of stars above them in the otherwise infinite darkness. If not for the screech of animals and the chirps of insects, it was easy to imagine they were paddling through outer space.

Five miles into their trek, Lieutenant Foch made a quick hand gesture and the paddlers reacted instantly. He’d seen something through his goggles. They’d been traveling close to the right bank and at Foch’s signal they angled the raft closer to shore, holding their paddles inches from the river so that any water dripping from the blades wouldn’t make a sound. A ripple of tension washed through the team.

A minute later, a piragua, a native dugout canoe, glided out of the gloom upstream with two natives working the paddles as silently as ghosts. The Indians never paused from their steady rhythm and never saw the six armed people less than twenty feet from them. As quickly as they appeared, the natives vanished downstream again and the raiders let out their breaths. They waited several minutes before starting out again, just to make sure the canoe didn’t double back.

For four hours they moved against the current, each team member taking turns at the paddles. As a point of pride when their turn came up, Mercer and Lauren managed to eke out a faster pace than any of the others without compromising their stealth. An hour after taking the paddles, Foch placed a hand on Mercer’s arm to stop him from going on. Lauren paused as well. The lieutenant silently pointed to their right, where a tiny stream fed into the river. Mercer and Lauren obediently rowed them to the brook. Like Venetian gondoliers they used their paddles to pole them up the shallow stream. Five hundred yards into the jungle, a three-foot waterfall blocked any further progress.

“Good enough.” Foch spoke so quietly that even just a few feet away his words were more of an impression than a noise. “We’ll stash the boat here and head out on foot at dawn.”

“Where are we?” Lauren asked.

“According to my map and this”—he held up a GPS receiver—“we’re five miles below where the River of Ruin joins the Rio Tuira. I believe this stream is fed from water coming off the back side of the volcano.” He and Mercer had fixed the route during their earlier conversation.

In the few minutes it took to rig a mosquito netting all six people had become smorgasbords to countless stinging insects. Only the one soldier ordered to remain awake on guard duty seemed to care. The others were asleep in seconds.

Dawn was a half hour away when they were woken by their picket. They took ten minutes to take care of their bodies’ needs, refill their canteens with purified water, and give their weapons a final check before their march up the stream. The soldier who’d stayed awake all night would remain hidden with the Zodiac, his stomach filled with caffeine pills. Foch took point and the other soldier, a German named Hauer, had the drag slot. Keeping to the stream bank allowed them to move easier through the jungle and maintain a constant fifteen-yard separation without getting lost in the dense undergrowth.

They hoped to be back at the boat in four or five hours, yet everyone carried enough equipment and food to sustain them for a few days. Neither Mercer nor Lauren was armed with anything heavier than their pistols.

Humidity rose with the sun. The air became so thick Mercer felt like he could drink it. Rather than refreshing his system, each breath seemed to suck away his strength. The stink of rotting vegetation clung to the back of his throat. And he had to discipline himself not to slap at the bugs that bit into his exposed hands and neck. The Legionnaires appeared immune to the discomfort, as did Lauren Vanik. Mercer suffered in silence.

Bruneseau was the oldest person on the patrol, carried twenty extra pounds in his gut and had a two-pack-a-day cigarette habit, yet when Mercer looked behind to check on the spy, he was moving with the suppleness of a jungle cat. He wasn’t even sweating that hard. In contrast, Mercer’s skin felt slick with perspiration and he had to wipe a continuous stream of salt water from his eyes.

The rain forest was too tangled for them to see more than fifty paces in any direction and dripping leaves hovered just feet over their heads. Sunlight was filtered by the greenery, making shadows more murky and ominous. Everything had an indistinct quality, as if viewed from underwater, like they were swimming through a tidal pool rather than walking through a jungle. Only occasionally would a shaft of light penetrate the canopy and beam against the forest floor.

For an hour they hiked along the stream, contorting their bodies around obstacle courses of fallen trees and bushes to avoid making the tiniest sound. Foch finally came to a halt, hunkering down to await the others. He pointed up the hill that had slowly emerged from the jungle. It was the lower flank of the volcano. Above them was the lake. He allowed the team twenty minutes to rest, moving to each person to pantomime questions about their physical condition. No one spoke. Liu Yousheng could very well have guards stationed on the mountain’s rim looming hundreds of feet above them.

Foch went out first, slithering through the jungle on his stomach, his FAMAS assault rifle clamped in his hands. After moving only five feet away, it was as if he’d been swallowed. Ten minutes later he returned, sliding backward with exaggerated slowness. He didn’t rustle a single branch and barely moved the grasses growing along the slope of the mountain.

He pressed his mouth to Mercer’s ear. “There’s no one on top of the hill, but I could hear machinery from inside the caldera. I assume something’s happening on the shores of the lake.”

“Liu’s excavating equipment,” Mercer whispered back. Foch nodded.

“They sound like they are on the far side. I think it’s safe for all of us to go up.” Foch gave a thumbs-up to Bruneseau, Lauren, and Hauer.

Following in the path he’d blazed, the team crawled up the hill, moving out from the jungle cover for the last hundred feet below the summit. The grass growing along the slope was at least a meter tall, dense, and as stiff as aluminum. It sliced into skin like knife blades. More insects feasted on the shallow wounds. Once in the open, the sun beat down like a hammer, but when Mercer looked up he could see a wall of black clouds moving across the sky. Rain wouldn’t be far behind.

The storm would provide excellent cover, but would make the hike back to the Zodiac a miserable slog.

Elbows and knees aching from the crawling climb, Mercer reached the crest of the hill. Before he could take even a second to gather his bearings, Foch dragged him into the protection of a small fold in the earth and waited to haul the others behind cover when they reached the top. Only when he knew he couldn’t be observed from below did Mercer concentrate on the vista spread out below him.

The broad lake was fifty feet beneath their natural redoubt. He could clearly see the small island at its center. It looked undisturbed. Lauren moved next to him and they exchanged proud smirks, both thinking of how they’d cheated death that night. Only when he scanned along the shore could he see anything different about the isolated body of water.

From this distance, it looked like an entire army of laborers was tearing into the walls of dirt surrounding the lake. The shafts that Gary had dug over the past months were puny in comparison to these vast excavations. Hatcherly—and he assumed it was Hatcherly—had airlifted excavating machines to the lake, where they ripped huge furrows out of the mountain with their hydraulic arms. Waste dirt was bulldozed into the lake and brown stains of mud bloomed from the shore. Workers in hard hats helped guide the vehicles while others, natives it looked like at this extreme range, sifted through mounds of spoil with hand-held screens. Men with automatic weapons watched over their labors, vigilant for the gleam of gold in the overburden.

Long canvas tents had been erected for the workers, along with a field kitchen, and latrine pits and a garbage dump for the refuse generated by at least a hundred humans. There was a sleek helicopter resting on the beach, its rotor blades as limp as palm fronds, and several aluminum boats with outboard engines tied to a dock made of empty fuel barrels and sheets of plywood.

Mercer’s fears that the looting of archeological sites had turned high tech were dead-on. Hatcherly had erected a town for their robbers, brought in supplies from Panama City in the chopper, and, because of the remoteness, could operate with virtual impunity.

All the discomfort he’d endured getting to this point fell away as his anger grew. He wasn’t aware of the cuts on his hands or the raw insect bites on his neck. He felt nothing but horror at what was happening below him. His lips curled into a cruel smile. Once he had his evidence, at least this part of Hatcherly’s activities on the isthmus would be over. He pulled the pack from his shoulders and withdrew the camera. He snapped off half a role of film before turning to Bruneseau.

“I can’t see faces from this range,” he whispered. “We need to get closer.”

Foch had heard the request. “We can crawl back over the peak of the hill, circle around to just above the main part of the camp and take your shots from there.”

“Let’s go.”

They backtracked to the jungle edge and used its cover to flank the mountain, climbing back up only when they were exactly opposite the camp area. This time Mercer led them up the hill, making sure each movement was thought out before it was executed so that he made no noise, not that anyone inside the volcano could hear them over the diesel growl of the excavators. From the uneven crest of the mountain, he could distinguish faces. The guards and the men working the machinery were all Chinese. Only the lowliest laborers were dark-skinned Panamanians.

As he watched the work, he hoped to see at least one person who seemed to be in charge, but none of the men below distinguished themselves. They worked like drones, having direction, but no control. He had the camera focused on one promising man, a bit older than some of the others, who was talking with a bulldozer driver when Lauren tapped him on his shoulder. She was pointing toward one of the tents.

He saw who she was pointing out immediately. I know you, Mercer thought as he zeroed in on the figure in the lens. He wore khaki pants and a bush jacket here, but a few nights ago he’d been in the warehouse in a suit. He’d been with the other executive who’d peered at the gold. Mercer took ten pictures, the camera cycling film as if it had a motor drive. The Chinese executive appeared to be in walkie-talkie communications with a pair of surveyors working with a laser transit a quarter of the way around the lake.

That’s when Mercer realized the problem with what he was seeing below him. Hatcherly was still digging holes all over the place, working in a systematic approach that would eventually encompass the entire area. There wasn’t one spot where they were focusing all their attention, not one site that had proved to be the mother lode of the Twice-Stolen Treasure. Liu hadn’t found the gold yet. He was still searching.

Meaning the ingots Mercer had seen in the warehouse came from—where?

Rather than answering questions about Hatcherly, this trip was creating even more.

He felt a tug on his pant leg from Foch who lay a little farther down the mountain’s flank. The Legionnaire had been speaking to Bruneseau and had just slipped a piece of unidentified equipment into a large cargo pouch secured to his harness. He moved closer so he could whisper to Mercer.

“Monsieur Bruneseau and I have to get into the camp,” Foch breathed. “There is one tent they are using for administration. Bruneseau needs to get inside.”

This change in plans was a complete surprise, but Mercer’s initial shock gave way to anger and his jaw tightened. When laying out their strategy, they hadn’t talked about actually going into the camp, but now he saw it had been the Frenchman’s intention all along. “Are you out of your mind?”

Foch didn’t seem to care about Mercer’s reaction. “You will wait here with Hauer until we get back.”

“We have what we need,” Lauren protested. “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

“I’m sorry, Captain.” Bruneseau was unapologetic. “I have to get down there.”

“You’re jeopardizing our entire mission!”

“Getting in there is our mission,” the agent replied sharply.

Without another word, the two men crawled into a gully scored on the inside of the caldera and began moving down toward the back of the camp. Once they reached the broad beach, they paused behind a collection of fuel drums until they could cover the open ground to the closest tent. Reaching it, they both vanished under its loose side. A minute later, they ran out the front of the dormitory tent and found more shelter near a pile of dirt twenty yards closer to the square administration tent. From there, they would need to cross another thirty yards of open ground to get to their target.

Mercer cursed. They’d never make it. He had no idea why they were taking this risk but knew it was a mistake. Feeling a strong premonition, he knew he had to act. Never having control over this sortie, he took it now.

“Corporal Hauer,” he said to the young Legionnaire. “Call the chopper and get it in here.”

“Why? What for? Foch will be back in a few minutes.”

“He’s going to be caught in a few minutes. Call the damned chopper.”

The soldier was about to protest again when his radio came to life. The volume was just high enough for Mercer to hear the whispered French.

“Foch, this is Levesque.” Levesque was the Legionnaire who had remained with the Zodiac. “I’m two hundred meters downstream from the boat. There’s an armed patrol approaching. I’m backtracking now, but if they stay along the stream bank they’re going to find the Zodiac. What do you want me to do?”

“Levesque. Hauer. Foch’s in the camp. He can’t respond.” The young Legionnaire hesitated, unsure what to do. He was a soldier, not an officer, trained to follow orders, not issue them. He was completely out of his element. “Um, ah, can you take them out?”

“Negative. There appear to be four of them maintaining good separation.”

“This is turning to shit,” Mercer said with suppressed fury. “Call in the damned chopper before it’s too late.”

“Don’t argue,” Lauren hissed when Hauer wavered. “Just do it.”

“Wait one, Levesque.” Corporal Hauer changed radio frequencies and used the helicopter’s code name. “Shepherd, Shepherd. This is Hauer. Come in. We need you. Over.”

The pilot responded instantly. “Roger, Hauer, this is Shepherd. I heard Levesque’s call and have already started engines. ETA is twenty minutes. Where’s the rest of the flock?”

“Um, all over the place. Just get airborne, we’ll figure an evac point in a minute.” He switched back to Levesque. “Helo’s inbound. Give me a sit rep.”

“They’re on me in about four minutes. I can get away but they’ll find the boat.”

Mercer grabbed the radio from the soldier. “Levesque, no matter what happens you can’t let them alert their base. If you do we’re all dead. Take out the radioman, keep them pinned for ten minutes then get the hell out of there. Head toward El Real and we’ll pick you up from the river.”

The radio clicked once in acknowledgment. The patrol must have been too close to risk his voice giving him away.

Even at a distance of a mile or more the crack of a single pistol shot was distinctive. It was answered by a rip of gunfire from an automatic weapon, and then came the smoother buzzsaw sound of a FAMAS. Levesque had engaged.

Down at the lakeshore the sound of the firefight was muffled by the trucks, but it would be only minutes before Levesque disengaged and the patrol recovered their radio and contacted the base. Foch and Bruneseau were trapped but didn’t know it yet.

Hauer began to tremble, overwhelmed with a fear that all the training he’d endured couldn’t prepare him. The others in his detachment had faced combat before. He alone was the novice and cursed that he’d volunteered to follow Foch to the lake. He noted how Lauren listened to the sounds of the battle far away and maintained her surveillance of the camp, watching to see the moment the guards were alerted.

Her presence stabilized him. He remembered the incoming helicopter.

The only place the JetRanger could get close enough to pick them up was along the rim of the mountain, an exposed area that would draw a tremendous amount of fire as soon as the aircraft appeared. And then there was his lieutenant and the spy down below. They’d never make it out. Hauer hesitated, thinking, but not finding a solution. “Ah, where do we bring in the chopper?” he asked finally.

Mercer had been considering that question since Foch and Bruneseau had slipped into the camp. “Tell him we’ll be on the lake.”

It was a calculated gamble. Once the patrol reported their contact, he hoped the last place Hatcherly’s guards would search for other soldiers was within their own perimeter. It would have been smarter just to fade into the jungle and link up with the helo later, but Mercer couldn’t abandon Foch and Bruneseau. It was clear they’d held back a critical piece to this puzzle and he was determined to find out what it was.

With no plan of his own, and seeing the conviction in Mercer’s direct gaze, the trooper relayed their intentions to the pilot, praying that the American knew how to keep them alive until the chopper could reach them.

There was a lull in the distant gun battle—an eerie moment of silence that ended with the crump of an explosion. Mercer winced, certain that Levesque had just been taken out by a grenade.

There was no going back.

Even as Lauren and Hauer watched the camp, he kept his eyes on the jungle behind them.

Movement at the edge of the underbrush caught his attention. Without waiting to see what it was, Mercer cleared his pistol and fired three quick shots. He shoved Lauren over the crest of the hill and pulled the trigger again, laying down suppression fire for Hauer to get clear. The movement had resolved itself into a three-man patrol. He pitched himself over the summit as return fire from the jungle shredded the spot where they had lain a moment ago, tongues of flame from Chinese weapons flickering in the dark forest.

Lauren fired back with her Beretta. They were trapped within the caldera and had just a few seconds before they were spotted by a keen-eyed guard watching the workers on the beach. Hauer looked to Mercer.

“Into the gully. Come on.”

At a trot, Mercer led them off the escarpment and into the ravine Foch had used earlier. So far no one had heard the gunfire, but the patrol they’d just engaged would be on the radio at any moment. In seconds, the base was going to be a hive of confusion. They ran for the dormitory tent and slid inside. It took several seconds for Mercer’s eyes to adapt to the murk and for him to realize the rows of bunks were empty. They hadn’t been detected.

He put the radio to his lips. “Foch, this is Mercer. Levesque was discovered by a patrol and the chopper’s inbound. Get back to the first tent you went through. We are leaving!”

When Foch replied, anger thickened his accent. “What are you doing?”

“We’re blown. We have to get out of here.”

Lauren moved to the front of the structure and watched the camp through a flap in the tent’s side. “Mercer, I think the call just came in from the patrol. I see the guy from the warehouse yelling orders to some of the guards. Wait. Now he’s dialing a satellite phone.”

“Calling Liu for instructions.”

“That’s my guess.”

“Do you see Foch or Rene?”

“Yeah. I think they realize the jig is up. They’re behind a pile of sand about sixty yards away waiting for the compound to clear out a little. Here comes Rene.” Lauren stepped aside and a few seconds later the spy exploded through the gap, his face red with exertion, his barrel chest pumping like a bellows.

“What . . .” he wheezed at Mercer. “What have you . . . done? What happened to . . . Levesque and the raft?”

“We have to assume the Zodiac is so much rubber confetti by now,” Mercer answered grimly. “And I’m afraid so is your man.”

Foch raced into the tent, if anything even more angry than the spy. “I told you to wait up the hill.”

“We were just spotted by a patrol. We couldn’t wait and with Levesque dead we couldn’t go back.” Mercer wasn’t going to back down. “Chopper’s here in five minutes. I’ve ordered him to pick us up in the middle of the lake, the only clear area around us that’s out of range of the Chinese.”

Bruneseau sneered. “And the guards are going to let us swim out there?”

“The boats.” Mercer fought to keep his voice level. “There are two of them at the dock. We can grab one in the confusion and be out of range before they know we were even here.”

On the brink of losing control, the French spy took an aggressive step toward Mercer only to be stopped by Foch. “He’s right. We don’t have time for a different plan. The boats are the only way.”

The makeshift dock was a hundred yards from the dormitory tent and the Chinese guards appeared to be preparing for a frontal assault along the caldera’s rim. They were digging themselves in for an all-out battle against an army of commandos, never suspecting that their adversaries were already behind them. The few workers standing between the tent and the lake were a nonfactor.

Foch clicked on his radio. “Shepherd, this is Foch. What’s your ETA?”

“GPS says six minutes. Should be able to hear me in five.”

“Roger.” He was angry, frustrated, and feeling trapped by the Chinese and the circumstance.

No one saw the Chinese soldier slither under the back of the tent and didn’t know he was there until he opened fire. Corporal Hauer was the closest to him and he jerked under the hammer-blow onslaught of high-velocity rounds. Most were absorbed by his body armor but it took only one bullet to find its way through. He was dead when he hit the dusty ground. Lauren whirled at the sound and killed the prone guard with a double tap from her pistol.

“There’s going to be more,” Mercer shouted, hyped on adrenaline. He scooped up Hauer’s FAMAS. The barrel was cold, the clip full. The boy hadn’t fired a single shot in his one and only fight.

Unwilling to leave his dead comrade behind, but with no choice given the situation, Foch checked the compound. There was a cluster of guards far enough away that he thought they could make the dash for the dock. He motioned the others to the door. The four survivors met one another’s eyes with a fatalistic determination. Either they would make it or they wouldn’t.

Bursting into the sunlight, they ran for the lake in a tight group. A dark-skinned native worker gasped as they ran past but was too startled to raise any kind of alarm. The wall of bullets Mercer was sure they’d run into never came. The guards farther down the beach never turned and in fifteen seconds they reached the wooden jetty. Their weight made the structure bob on its barrel pontoons.

Lauren leapt straight into the largest aluminum skiff and began working on the engine while Foch knifed away the tie-down lines. Mercer and Bruneseau knelt near the skiff, eyeing the beach through the sights of the assault rifles. At the extreme edge of what he could see, Mercer detected a lot of movement around the Chinese helicopter. They were prepping it for flight, probably to support the patrol that had killed Levesque.

“I know. I know,” Rene said when Mercer pointed over with his chin. “If they get airborne while our chopper’s picking us up, we are finished.”

The twenty-horsepower outboard sputtered to life at the first pull on the cord. The three men jumped in just as a barrage of rounds pummeled the beach and the dock. The patrol that had first spied Mercer and Lauren had circled around the dormitory and targeted them at the boat. Mercer could see one of them screaming into a radio.

With its throttle twisted wide open, the flat-bottomed boat shot from the quay in a tight arc, Lauren guiding it out toward the middle of the lake. As their vantage shifted, Mercer could see that the Chinese helo’s blades were already turning. He could see five or six troopers in its cargo hold.

From around the island in the middle of the lake came an inflatable boat loaded with soldiers who must have been guarding a work party. Lauren saw them first and shouted, “Son of a bitch!”

The Chinese were well out of accurate range but fired anyway, hoping for a lucky hit. Tiny geysers erupted wherever a bullet struck the water. Because the Chinese controlled the middle of the lake, that one craft managed to box them in. Every passing second ate into Lauren’s maneuvering room. She turned away, steering the boat toward where the lake drained down the waterfall. The falls were a quarter mile away. Beyond was a yawning chasm backed by the tumult of the approaching storm.

The Legion pilot had kept his craft on the deck until reaching the caldera, so when he swooped over the lip of the mountain no one had heard his approach. He was just there, like an avenging angle. Without any offensive weapons, there was nothing he could do about the boat pursuing his team so he kept his concentration on his comrades. At an altitude of only fifty feet he could clearly see that if Lauren stopped to wait for extraction the Chinese in the Zodiac would overtake them. He would have to make the pick up on the fly.

He radioed Foch with instructions as he pressed the button that deployed the ropes from each side of the chopper.

“D’accord.” Foch nodded at the radio and addressed the others. “Prepare for a fast extraction.”

“Make it damn fast,” Mercer said. The falls were four hundred yards ahead. They’d be over them in thirty seconds. The storm continued to rush at them, a pulsing wall of black clouds discharging an unimaginable amount of rain.

The shrill whine of the outboard was drowned out by the deeper beat of the JetRanger as it thundered just above the hurtling boat, the pilot matching speed even as Lauren dared slow a bit. A pair of bullets plowed into the skiff’s engine. The two-cylinder faltered. The Chinese had halved the distance to their quarry.

The heavy nylon ropes dangled from the chopper like the tentacles of some enormous jellyfish, jerking and jumping in the rotor downblast. Foch managed to grab on to one, but the other swayed just out of reach. The pilot made a small adjustment and the line swept across the fleeing craft. A metal snaplink struck Mercer on the back of the head and would have pitched him overboard had Lauren not seen it happen. She flicked the motor over so the boat swayed sharply. He fell back in, a trickle of blood oozing from his torn scalp.

Foch snapped a hook from the rope onto Mercer’s combat harness and then snapped in Lauren. They were fifty yards from the falls. Bruneseau knelt at the stern, firing controlled three-round bursts that the Chinese all but ignored. They were coming on at full speed and pouring out a steady fusillade, mistakenly concentrating their fire on the boat.

The lake, smooth out in the open, became choppy as it was sucked through the cataract. A fine mist obscured the gap where the waters vanished down the side of the volcano. Mercer felt a few drops land on his skin.

Secured to the chopper, he stood again to add his FAMAS to Bruneseau’s weapon. He fired on full auto, brass and cordite smoke erupting from the gun like it was tearing itself apart. Foch finally got hold of the second line. With fifteen feet to go before the speeding boat launched itself off the mountain, he lunged over to lock Bruneseau to the line.

“Hold on!” Lauren screamed as the lake suddenly vanished below them.

They went airborne.

For the first fraction of a second, momentum kept the boat in a straight trajectory before gravity began to pull it out from under them. It started to fall away, tipping toward the bow like a diver off an Acapulco cliff. Because Lauren was secured to a hook higher up on the rappelling rope, she was the first to be plucked from the falling craft. One second she was riding in it with them and the next she was hovering in the sky as the men continued their descent.

Then Bruneseau’s harness came taut and he too was pulled from the boat. The pilot was fighting the added weight, flying the chopper down the falls with the skiff because he knew that at least one of his team hadn’t snapped on. There was maybe another second before the craft smashed into the first set of rocks in the ladderlike falls. He had no choice but to pull up.

Mercer sensed the decision made high above him and threw himself onto Foch, wrapping his arms and legs around the Frenchman in a tight embrace and waited to see what would happen first.

The skiff hit the first boulder an instant after Mercer felt the harness dig into his shoulders and groin. He and Foch had been lifted clear just as the aluminum boat disintegrated against the rocks. The motor tore free of its mounts and tumbled off into space, its tiny prop still spinning as if it could fly. The hull was turned into so much scrap that washed down the remainder of the falls like a battered soda can.

The sharp pull of the rope sent them arcing through space before the line came tight again, a brutal repeat of the initial jerk. Their motion set the line spinning. When he could look back at the falls, Mercer saw the boatload of Chinese soldiers follow the skiff. They had misjudged their speed, the distance, and the relentless pull of the water. Two men managed to hold on to the inflatable until it bounced off the rocks. One of them even maintained his grip after that first impact before he was smeared against a boulder. The red stain that had been his life’s blood was washed away in an instant. Two of the guards were like limp dolls as they fell from pool to pool. The fourth had landed atop a pinnacle of rock so that his spine had folded backward on itself and his arms trailed in the water.

“Snap yourself in,” Mercer shouted to Foch over the rotor beat and the wind of their forty-knot speed. The first drops of rain pelted him like gravel. He slitted his eyes against the sting.

The soldier struggled for just a moment before he clipped his harness into one of the closed hooks. Mercer relaxed his grip. “Thank you,” Foch said simply as he sagged against the line, drained.

“Don’t thank me yet. Liu’s chopper’s going to be after us in a minute.” Mercer caught Lauren’s eye and smiled up at her. Her hair whipped around her head like electric discharges as she dangled below the chopper. She gave him a thumbs-up. Bruneseau was on his own line, high enough above Mercer and Foch that they wouldn’t slam into each other as the helo turned toward Panama City.

“We can’t stay here,” Foch shouted the obvious. “If we’re chased, the pilot can’t maneuver with us dangling like this.”

Mercer and he began to climb together, a difficult trick because both were tired and the wind was a constant buffet. Lauren saw them coming closer, understood what they were doing and began to haul herself hand over hand. Bruneseau too started up. It took a few minutes to scramble into the rear of the chopper, and in that time all of them saw the dark speck lift away from the volcanic peak. The chase was on again.

Above the Darien Province, Panama

Sergeant Huai watched the four commandos climb into their helicopter through a pair of binoculars he held steady against the door frame of the company chopper. He was impressed. Most people couldn’t maintain enough balance to keep from spinning on a rappel line and these four managed to climb against the wind. Not an easy feat.

On a purely professional level, he had to give them credit for the entire operation, even if they had lost two people. He had no idea how many were still out in the jungle, but it seemed that even if there were only the six he could account for, they’d done a good job. This time there were no Panamanian troops that could be blamed for the security breach. These six had gone up against some of the best in the Chinese military and had not only made it in, but two-thirds of their force had made it out again.

He wasn’t worried that they would actually evade him. Two choppers armed with heavy machine guns would be taking off from the Hatcherly facility within a few minutes. The JetRanger would be trapped between them, allowing him to respect what they’d accomplished without worrying about long-term damage if they did escape to tell their tale.

At the warehouse a few nights earlier, Captain Chen had suggested that the force who’d infiltrated the port was a local gang of thieves or gunrunners. Watching as the JetRanger was pulled deeper into the storm, Huai knew that he was facing something else entirely. These people fought like trained commandos. His first instinct was American Special Forces, SEALs, or maybe Marine Recon—a chilling thought because it meant their security was blown. Liu Yousheng had kept Operation Red Island well compartmentalized and yet Huai knew that if the Americans were onto even this part of it, the entire mission might be finished. Destroying the chopper and its occupants was of primary concern, but equally important to Huai was identifying the commandos. While he knew they wouldn’t be carrying any identification, he was familiar with other, subtler signs that would give away their nationality. Types of uniforms, equipment and weaponry could be false flags, while a corpse couldn’t hide its skin color, tattoos or dentistry.

With his helo closing the gap to the fleeing JetRanger, Huai thought about his report to Captain Chen. Chen had turned into a real bastard since his screwup at the warehouse. He was looking to shed some of the blame onto his men and he’d like nothing more than tearing Huai apart for this latest lapse if only to regain Liu Yousheng’s favor. Not that Huai believed the Hatcherly executive would be impressed that Chen could yell at one of his own men. Huai thought he understood Liu. The official wanted results and didn’t care how he got them. So long as the JetRanger was destroyed, he wouldn’t be bothered with the details.

And taking down the enemy chopper was only a matter of time.

Gasping to regain his breath, Mercer finally rolled out from under the others in the cramped hold of the JetRanger. His uniform was soaked after only a few minutes in the deluge and more rain continued to whip through the open door frames. An occasional burst of lightning seared his vision. His first concern was Lauren.

“Are you all right?” he yelled over the engine noise and the steady pounding of rain. He helped her into a sitting position.

She looked miserable with her hair plastered against her head yet threw him a saucy smile. “Never better. How about you?”

“I owe you one for the boat. If not for your fancy driving, I would have gone overboard.”

Lauren disregarded the praise. “Your head okay?”

Mercer fingered the knot at the back of his skull. His hands came away bloody but he knew the wound wasn’t bad. “It will be after a stitch or three.” He looked to where Bruneseau sat with his back against the rear bulkhead. A burst of anger made him forget the minor cut in his scalp. “You gonna tell me what the hell you were playing at back there?”

The French agent began to slide over to where he could climb into the cockpit. “Later,” he said brusquely. “We’re not clear yet.”

“Hold it.” Lauren shifted her position to block the spy. “Do you know how to fly a chopper?”

“No.”

“Let me up front. These missing doors are killing our aerodynamics and speed. The Chinese helo’s gonna be on us soon. Your pilot will need the extra set of hands.”

“You fly?” Mercer asked.

She nodded, pleased that this skill seemed to impress him. “My rotary ticket hasn’t been punched in a few years, but . . .”

“Okay,” Rene said after a moment’s thought. While Lauren crawled into the cockpit, Bruneseau pulled two pairs of headphones from a rack and handed one to Mercer. With his face a blank mask, Foch worked on the weapons, filling magazines from those that were half depleted. Mercer wasn’t surprised by how hard he was taking the deaths of his two men. The Legion prided itself on its esprit de corps and its unwavering dedication to its own. The loss was devastating.

Once on the comm loop Bruneseau asked the pilot, an Aussie named Carlson, about their situation.

“We have maybe five minutes on the other chopper, sir,” he replied in French with an Australian twang. “Looked like a Gazelle to me. She’s faster than us and we can’t hide in this storm forever.”

“Options.”

The JetRanger shuddered and lost fifty feet in a sudden downdraft. The winds whipped predominantly from their left but gusts came from every direction. The storm had turned the leaden sky into a riot. Lauren sat in the right seat with her hands hovering over the controls, ready to assist Carlson at any moment. She asked that they speak in English.

“We are talking about our options, Captain Vanik,” Carlson said. “The Chinese Gazelle is closing and this storm won’t cover us all the way to our base at Chepo.”

“Don’t forget,” Mercer interrupted, “they’ll probably have choppers at the port. If Liu’s smart, he’ll have them airborne and on an intercept course.”

“Proverbial rock and hard place,” the pilot said.

Lauren was the first to develop a plan. “Forget Chepo. It’s too isolated. We’ll fly the ridge of the continental divide. If we’re lucky we can lose the Gazelle and head to Panama City from the west after crossing the canal. If Liu’s other choppers manage to catch us they’ll have to disengage once we’re within radar coverage of Tocumen Airport.”

“You mean to outflank the inbound helos from the port?” Mercer pictured a map of Panama in his head and followed Lauren’s course.

“If they find us over open ground, we’re dead. We need to reach an area where they won’t be so anxious to shoot us down.”

“Do it,” Bruneseau ordered.

Carlson banked northward and tentatively dumped altitude, he and Lauren both straining to peer around the curtains of rain for the mountains that ran like a spine through Panama. Foch had shortened the rappelling ropes to create safety belts for himself, Mercer, and Bruneseau and now sat facing backward with his FAMAS on his lap. Trusting the pilot, but Lauren more so, Mercer joined him on the floor and covered the other open door, watching their tail for the first sign of Hatcherly’s Gazelle. They could see perhaps a half mile into the storm, and occasionally one would tense as they thought they spied something solid emerge from the towering clouds, only to relax again as the phantom merged back into the tempest.

With their circuitous route, it would take more than an hour to reach the canal and another few minutes to reach the shelter of Panama City.

Once they found an altitude where they could judge the topography, the pilot took them into the valleys that twisted through the continental divide, maintaining a dangerous proximity to the jungled hills. With each steep bank, Mercer felt his straps dig into his flesh, forcing him to grab a handhold to maintain his balance. It was like riding backward on a roller coaster only there were no tracks. One moment he was thrust halfway through the yawning door frame and the next he was lifted bodily toward the hold’s ceiling or dumped into Bruneseau, who hunched between the pilots’ seats. Not a roller coaster, he thought. A turbine-powered rodeo bull.

Only Lauren and Carlson spoke as they continued toward the canal, short sentences of arcane aviation language that Mercer didn’t bother to follow. He kept all his concentration on their tail. After thirty minutes his vigilance hadn’t flagged. Until they were safely on the ground again, he wouldn’t let himself believe they’d lost the Gazelle. So he continued to scan the sky, waiting, hoping he didn’t—

“There!” he shouted as the pursuing Gazelle burst from a wall of clouds into a small clearing in the storm. For a moment its wet paint gleamed before it plunged into a bank of fog.

“How far back?” Lauren’s tone was composed, a sharp contrast to Mercer’s frantic yell.

“Hard to tell. Maybe a quarter mile.” Mercer felt the JetRanger fall lower into a valley, its whirling blades less than a hundred feet from the overgrown flanks of a nameless mountain.

“Hold on,” Carlson said after he’d already thrown the chopper into aerobatic maneuvers its builders never intended. His control over the JetRanger was masterful.

So was that of the Chinese pilot of the Gazelle chasing after him.

The surreal game of cat and mouse was played amid the folds of the earth and the rain-laden clouds of the tropical storm, two areas any sane pilot would avoid. Instead Carlson flew deeper into both, dogged by the Gazelle. Fifteen minutes further into the chase, with the canal another ten minutes away, submachine-gun fire was added to the equation.

Foch was the one who saw the fire coming from the other helicopter. With the extreme range, he was unconcerned and only motioned to Mercer about it without disturbing the two pilots. For the moment there was nothing they could do. Both watched the sleek Gazelle follow their trail like a bloodhound on a scent, a perfect mirror of every movement Carlson made and every turn Lauren pointed out.

Neither noticed the two other shapes flying in a loose formation that appeared through the storm until they opened up with door-mounted .30 calibers. Two streams of tracer fire cut directly behind the JetRanger, laserlike streaks of light that Carlson recognized. He threw the helicopter over so quickly that Foch was left dangling in space before the floor of the cargo hold pivoted back underneath him. The next spray of fire sliced the air where the JetRanger had been a second earlier.

The lead chopper, the Bell that had dropped the depth charges at the lake, swung in between the Gazelle and the Legionnaires’ helo while the other slid behind Sergeant Huai’s aircraft in a line astern formation. The door gunner could only get a bead on his target when they made sharp turns and even then he had only scant seconds before his own craft followed the other around and his angle was lost.

Foch fired off a few rounds. At five hundred yards, he had no hope of hitting his target; he just wanted the pursuing pilot to know his quarry had fangs.

“Now what?” Bruneseau spoke for the first time in half an hour.

“How about we pray they get struck by lightning,” Lauren said tightly. For a while she’d been helping Carlson with the controls, compensating for the storm’s turbulence while he kept them on course. “Or they strike it!”

Cutting across the valley was a high-tension electrical line, a power feed from the Madden Dam only three miles to the south. From this distance the transmission cable was as slender as a thread and Lauren would have missed it if not for the large rubber balls spaced across its length as a warning to low-flying aircraft. Intuitively, Carlson knew what she meant and kept the JetRanger on course and at an altitude to crash into the power line. If the pilot behind them was following normal procedures he’d be searching the sky for such obstacles but Lauren prayed he was too intent on the hunt.

At ninety knots, and in uneven wind conditions, Carlson got as close as he dared before lifting the JetRanger up and over the cable. The chopper’s skids cleared the line by eleven feet and he immediately dropped them back to his original altitude in hopes of tricking his pursuer that his maneuver had been the result of wind sheer.

Carlson had had fifteen seconds to prepare for the maneuver. The pilot behind him had four. Nowhere near enough time.

Only when the chopper he was chasing rose suddenly did the Chinese pilot see the red-colored sphere its bulk had hidden. He had an instant to notice the others strung across the valley like beads. Training told him to dive, to allow gravity to assist him as he tried to avoid the obstacle, but instinct overrode this and he heaved back on the cyclic and stomped the rudder to compensate. The chopper’s skids hit the line. In a light-speed blink, a finger of electricity jumped into the gunship, opening the path for tens of thousands of volts seeking ground. There was no place for it to discharge so the power continued to pour into the crippled craft that dangled from the sagging cable. Delicate electronics were fried first, and that included the electrical impulses in the brains of its occupants, the synaptic bursts that created thought.

Brains were boiled within skulls, blood within tissue, skin within clothing and finally the aluminum body of the helicopter began to melt. The blinding arcs of electricity and the pop of air exploding from the thermal onslaught erupted from behind a mist of ozone, charred metal and flesh. The chopper burned like a meteor when it finally dropped from the power line and plowed into the storm-swollen stream in the valley’s floor.

The Gazelle and the second gunship were forced to break away to avoid the flaming wreck, giving the Legionnaire team a few moments’ respite. Carlson, Bruneseau, and Mercer each congratulated Lauren for the maneuver even if it was the pilot who’d pulled it off.

They linked up with the Chagres River, the main source of water that fed the Panama Canal, about two miles before it spilled into the man-made waterway. They were still twenty-five miles from Panama City and no one felt the earlier confidence that the choppers would break off the chase once they reached the town.

“Oh, merde!” Foch screamed as the second gunship flashed into view. It flew at a slight angle so the door gunner could bring his .30 caliber to bear.

The first blast missed the JetRanger by a few feet. The second came almost immediately and ripped into the tail, producing the metallic snarl of hardened ammunition meeting delicate machinery. By the time Foch leaned out to look for the gunship, it had swooped out of view.

“Mercer, your side.”

Mercer felt more than saw the black shape settle in off the starboard side of the helicopter. Before he was certain, he fired anyway. His assault rifle felt puny compared to the barrage that slammed the chopper again. Heavy rounds passed right through the open cargo door and several more ripped into the metal that protected the JetRanger’s critical main transmission.

“Lauren, get us on the deck,” he yelled, changing out an empty magazine.

In a gut-wrenching dive, the chopper raced for the swollen waters of the Chagres, coming level only when they were mere feet from its boiling surface. Almost immediately Carlson popped up again as they leaped over a trestle bridge that supported the trans-isthmus railroad and one lane of automobile traffic. Had a train been on the bridge they would have smeared themselves against its side.

About to turn to the left toward the Gaillard Cut and Panama City, Carlson saw that the Gazelle had managed to cut him off and hung just above the canal with a cluster of armed troopers at its open door. Six assault rifles opened as one, six bright eyes that continued to wink as the first of the 5.8mm rounds found their mark. He jinked as bullets cut through the Plexiglas canopy, managing to keep everyone alive for a moment longer.

Here the canal was flanked by gentle slopes that had been recently peeled back in an effort to stem the remorseless avalanches that had plagued the waterway since its construction. It resembled a lazy river more than an engineering marvel. Still, Carlson couldn’t trade off his speed for altitude to pull them out of the canal.

He cut right, away from civilization, and had to swing around a massive container ship headed toward the canal’s choke point at Gaillard.

From the door of the chopper hurtling just fifteen feet above the green water, the container ship appeared to be a solid wall of black steel and multicolored containers that seemed to stretch to the horizon. The cargo vessel’s wing bridge towered sixty feet above them. A burst from the gunship missed the JetRanger and exploded in a blossom of ricochets against the ship’s thick hide.

While the canal’s locks were one thousand feet long and more than a hundred wide, her builders had envisioned several ships at once passing into them, not vessels built to the lock’s monolithic proportions. Even with the widening of the Gaillard Cut to 624 feet, the original plan of continuous two-way traffic had been abandoned. Navigation was too tricky to allow the PANAMAX ships, those vessels designed specifically to maximize the space in the locks, to pass each other in the canal’s tightest point. As a result, PANAMAX freighters, tankers and even the new fleets of super cruise liners transited in daylight hours and only in one direction at a time, while smaller ships used the canal at night and could transit in either direction.

No sooner had the JetRanger rocketed past the stern of the container ship than she had to swing wide to avoid a tanker headed straight for her. Rising from the mist beyond was an eighty-thousand-ton cruise ship glistening like a white wedding cake. It was a procession of Goliaths.

“Where now?” Carlson asked over the intercom, his voice tight even as his hands on the controls remained relaxed.

“Stay away from the cruise ship,” Lauren answered. “We can’t risk them getting caught in a cross fire.”

Bruneseau grunted as if he thought using the passenger vessel as cover was a good idea.

“Right,” the Aussie said.

“How about Gamboa?” Mercer suggested. He’d seen the town on the map and knew it was the headquarters for the canal’s dredging operation. He hoped there was a chopper pad or field nearby where they could set down.

Lauren agreed. “Better than anything else out here.” The recently leveled banks were too exposed to gunfire from above to risk a landing.

In the five-hundred-yard gap between the tanker and the cruise ship, the Chinese helicopter came at them again. This time the chopper angled in so the door gunner could fire down at the JetRanger. Much of the barrage hit the water like so many pebbles tossed into a pond, but enough bullets hit the helo to cause a skip in the engine.

“Oil pressure dropping,” Carlson said. “That burst was fatal.”

Gamboa was a half mile farther up the canal.

Resisting the urge to fire up at the gunship because his bullets would hit their own spinning rotor, Mercer was impotent as another blast of .30 caliber sprayed across the JetRanger. Like magic, small holes appeared in the ceiling and floor of the helo as rounds passed right through. One was only three inches from where he crouched and he could smell the scorched metal before the odor was whipped away. The turbine’s steady whine deepened. It was grinding against itself, unbalanced and ready to come apart.

Trailing a dilating plume of oil smoke, they streaked past the eight-hundred-foot cruise ship. Like fans at a stadium, a wave of arms shot up along the ship’s rail as stunned passengers watched the JetRanger’s progress, then turned in unison as the two choppers chasing her came into view.

With a quick scan, Lauren checked the cockpit gauges and knew that they’d never make Gamboa. The only alternative was setting down on the water. They might be able to hover long enough for her and the men in the hold to get clear but Carlson would surely die when the blades hit. And then what? They would be stuck without cover while the gunship stood off and machine-gunned them one by one. There had to be another alternative.

She looked up just as another massive cargo ship rounded a corner in the meandering canal and Lauren knew what she had to do. “Carlson, there!” She pointed ahead.

The vessel lumbering through the canal was a utilitarian box set on an unstreamlined hull. Without porthole or window, she rose from the waterline to her top deck in sheer walls of steel—a height of 87 feet, making her barely wider than she was tall. Her single deck was an expanse of metal measuring 750 feet long by 106 wide, punctured by a one-story pilothouse hunched close to her blunt bows. Her hull was painted in rust-streaked green while the deck was a faded yellow. By the thick red band showing above the waves, Lauren could tell she was running near empty.

She’d spent enough time in Panama to recognize the ship as a car carrier, probably deadheading back to Japan or Korea from Europe. Within the enormous box of her hull would be between eight and twelve decks, connected by ramps, for her load of automobiles. Some of these ships, she knew, could carry up to seven thousand cars and their holds resembled the parking garage at an urban airport, only fully enclosed and capable of traversing the globe at twenty knots. There would be loading ramps at her stern and starboard midships that could be lowered like medieval draw-bridges to allow vehicles to be driven directly to their assigned parking spaces.

As they got closer to the auto carrier, she saw where the ship’s funnel rose like a pimple at the vessel’s stern. Near it was an access box for a staircase. If they could land close enough to the stairs they might make it into the steel confines before the gunship cut them down.

Another rattle of autofire hit the JetRanger and suddenly she could no longer feel Carlson’s hands on the controls. She looked over. The Aussie pilot had let go of the sticks and clutched at his thigh, his fingers already slick with blood. Contorted with pain, he met her eye and nodded.

“I have the controls,” she said.

“How bad?” Bruneseau asked over the intercom, leaning farther into the cockpit to check on his man.

“Leg,” Carlson panted. “Bullet’s still in there. Oh, Jesus.”

Mercer hadn’t seen what had happened. The gunship had swung across the side of the JetRanger right into view. He fired a full clip, joined by a long burst from Foch, who was still strapped in at the other door. The gunship broke off, turning her tail to gain distance before twisting back again, her door gun pounding.

“Where’s the Gazelle?” Mercer shouted, a fresh magazine ready to be slapped home.

“I don’t know!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lauren cut in as the struggling chopper clawed its way up to the deck of the car carrier. “Prepare for a crash landing.”

“Gather the weapons,” Bruneseau added. “Run for the stairs as soon as we hit.”

The engine coughed again as Lauren fought to gain enough altitude to clear the ship’s railing, still thirty feet above the helicopter. They were less than a hundred yards from the slab side of the car carrier, and it seemed the vector she’d chosen wouldn’t be enough. She goosed the engine again, wincing as it skipped, her concentration solely on getting them down safely.

Like a thoroughbred taking a fence, the JetRanger gathered itself at the last moment and flashed over the railing just as the engine quit. The rotor’s momentum gave just enough lift to avoid a fatal crash but the skids hit the deck hard enough to snap one strut and pitch them forward. Sliding across the rain-slicked surface, the aircraft hit a stanchion and stopped dead. Carlson managed to shut off the fuel as the men in the hold scrambled out into the storm. The Gazelle was closing fast from two hundred yards off, while the gunship was out of sight below the side of the ship.

Ignoring the plight of the others, Bruneseau ran for the staircase door. Lauren had already hit the quick disconnect on her safety harness, so when Mercer yanked open her door, she jumped down, ducking because the chopper’s lop-sided position allowed one arc of the turning rotor to cut just three feet from the deck. He pushed her toward where Bruneseau held open the stairway door and swung around to help Foch, who’d just eased the pilot out of the chopper.

Without warning, the gunship appeared over the railing. Her rotors kicked up a tornado whirlwind that drove sheets of rain across the deck. Because of the wall of swirling water, the gunner’s aim was off by a few feet. He had to muscle the .30 caliber to correct. Mercer was holding up Carlson’s right arm, which left his own right hand free. The range was fifty feet and even one-handed he couldn’t miss. He raised his FAMAS on its sling and began firing even before he had centered his aim. Sparks exploded along the ship’s railing in a trail leading toward the hovering chopper. The Chinese door gunner was almost set when the trail reached him. His body bucked against his safety straps and jerked like a marionette as Mercer poured in the fire. He only went slack when the gunship heaved itself away from the auto carrier.

“Come on,” Lauren’s alto sounded over the rain and the echo of combat. The Gazelle was fast approaching.

With Carlson between them, Mercer and Foch ran for the stairs, hunching under the rounds Bruneseau sprayed over their heads to keep the Chinese troop copter at bay. Once safely inside the stairwell, Mercer slammed the door. The stairwell was a steel shaft that dropped straight down for eleven decks, with scissor stairs that cut the distance in steep zigzags. Heavy doors led to each of the separate decks. Mercer passed Carlson off to Rene and reached for the fire ax clipped to the wall. He turned back and with one perfectly placed blow wedged the blade into the gap between the door and the jamb.

“That’ll hold them for a few minutes.” His breathing was already returning to normal as adrenaline drained from his bloodstream.

“I got us here, boys.” Lauren’s face glistened and her eyes shone with the triumph of her successful landing. “It’s up to you to get us out again.”

“There should be a lifeboat one deck above the waterline,” Mercer informed them, hoping the auto carrier was outfitted the same as the super tanker he’d once been on near Seattle. “It’s launched down a rail like a bobsled. If we can reach it we might be able to get away.”

“If the Gazelle lands, it won’t be able to take off in time to catch us before we reach shore, but what about the gunship?”

Bruneseau had a valid point. Mercer was about to say that he suspected the other chopper would clear out. The crews on all three ships that had witnessed the aerial duel would be contacting the Panamanian authorities. He didn’t think Liu could afford to answer the kinds of questions they would ask if his chopper was identified. Before he could voice his reply, bullets pounded the door and harmlessly bounced away.

“Later.” Foch rebraced Carlson and started down the stairs. “Let’s go.”

They’d descended just two decks when an explosion blasted down the shaft, a heavy wall of hot air that was immediately sucked back up due to pressure change. The door had just been blown from its hinges by a grenade or satchel charge. A dozen rounds were fired into the antechamber at the head of the stairs, and when the Chinese received no return fire, they’d come pouring down the stairs like banshees.

Burdened by the injured pilot, the team would never be able to stay ahead of the troops. They had to get out of the stairwell.

Mercer opened the next door they reached, waved them through and closed it gently behind them. All five of them stopped short when they first encountered the cavernlike cargo deck, struck dumb by its enormity. In front of them stretched an enclosed space large enough to store eight hundred automobiles in rows marked on the floor like a parking lot. Yet the deck was empty, its uniformity only broken by support columns as thick as trees and structural baffles that shored the long walls like a cathedral’s buttresses. Because the area was one hundred feet wide and eight hundred long, its low ceiling felt unnaturally squashed, like some subterranean realm where untold tons of earth bore down on them. The few lightbulbs merely served to accentuate the shadows and add to the eerie claustrophobia. Only when their eyes adjusted to the dim light did they see a ramp amidships that descended from the deck above and curled around to connect to the next one down. Similar ramps were next to them at the stern. The air tasted metallic.

“Formidable!” Foch had never imagined such a structure.

A moment later, what sounded like a dozen feet raced past the door and continued down toward the bottom of the ship.

“Once they realize we’re not down there,” Lauren said, “they’ll be coming back up to check each deck.”

“We should seek out the crew,” Bruneseau suggested.

Mercer looked at him sharply. “Negative. We involve them and they’re as good as dead. After what we’ve seen, the Chinese won’t hesitate to kill a few civilians to stop us.”

The agent’s face reddened, angered at Mercer’s presumption of authority. “What do you suggest?”

Looking around the echoing hold, Mercer sought inspiration and found nothing. All he knew was that standing by the door was the quickest way to get caught. “Follow me,” he said without a clear plan and began running toward the distant set of ramps.

The others had no choice but to keep up.

The equipment slapping against his uniform sounded like a one-man band to Mercer as he jogged to the amidships ramp, certain that the pursuers would burst through the door at any second. He started up the gentle slope. Carlson slowed the others so they reached him seconds later. They eased the injured man to the deck. Lauren looked at Mercer, her eyes at once quizzical and confident. She lifted a brow.

“I’m thinking, I’m thinking,” he answered, peering farther up the ramp and wondering what lay on the deck just out of view. He strode up the rest of the way and his answer crouched before him in a spectacular shade of blue so deep that it seemed to absorb the light cast by the bulbs secured to the ceiling girders.

Appreciated by auto enthusiasts as near perfection in vehicle design, and by art lovers who responded to its low-slung crisp lines, the beauty of the Bentley Continental R was undeniable. It seemed unable to suppress its luxury in even these drab surroundings. With a curb weight of three tons, the English-built touring sedan easily managed a top speed of a hundred and fifty miles per hour thanks to a whisper-quiet turbocharged V-8. Unparalleled in safety, comfort, and style, the only thing keeping such a magnificent machine from every garage in America was its base price of $275,000.

Mercer had never considered himself a “car guy,” even if he did drive an XJS Jaguar convertible. But the smile that spread across his face as he gazed at the Bentley was one part desire and one part gratitude. He knew how to get them to the lifeboat and do it in style. He turned to motion the others up the ramp and strode to the Continental. The paintwork was like satin when he brushed his hands on the flared fender.

“Looks like someone in Asia is getting themselves a new toy,” Lauren said as she took in the car.

“They might not like the condition it’s going to be in when it gets there,” Mercer remarked offhandedly and stripped protective plastic from the windows. “Anyone up for a little ride?”

Foch stared at him. “It can’t be that easy.”

Mercer didn’t say a word, just swung open the driver’s door and eased himself into the leather seat. Because so many cars were stored on these ships, it was logical that the vehicles’ keys were left in the ignitions. Once he’d turned the key, the only indication the engine was running was the smooth jump on the tachometer. The Bentley purred.

He gave Foch a disarming smile. “It can be that easy. The Chinese will concentrate their search near the stern. We just drive down these midship ramps until we reach the deck where the side loading door’s located. From there we motor on down to the stern and hop into the lifeboat.”

“Why not just walk?”

“Screw that, mate,” Carlson said. His face was pale and clammy. They hadn’t had time yet to tie a tourniquet, something Lauren did now with the pilot’s belt, so he’d lost a lot of blood.

Bruneseau opened the rear door and slid in to help Carlson into the backseat without jostling his injured leg any further. Lauren passed around the front of the car and stepped in next to Mercer. Settling into the opulent car, she couldn’t resist saying, “Okay, James, once I’m done at the salon, I want to do a little shopping along Fifth Avenue before the cotillion.”

Mercer chuckled. “Is this rotten attempt at humor normal or a reaction to stress?”

“Drive on, or you’re fired,” she shot back haughtily. “And don’t dirty the seats with that unlaundered uniform of yours. I’ve warned you about that before, James.”

Tipping an imaginary driver’s cap, Mercer said, “Yes, ma’am,” and put the car in gear.

Reining in the powerful engine so he wouldn’t chirp the Pirelli P-Zeros, Mercer took them down the slope and around to the next ramp. Foch and Bruneseau lowered their windows so the stubby barrels of their FAMAS rifles poked over the sills. Around they went, corkscrewing down four more empty decks. At each landing, Mercer paused to study the stern of the ship, checking to see if the guards had yet doubled back up the emergency stairwell. So far nothing.

Reaching the seventh deck they found it half full of BMWs of every size and color, a glittering array that sparkled like jewels. As Mercer began to twist around to keep descending, he saw two figures dash from around a car. He stomped the gas and the rear end of the Bentley twitched before traction control took over. A shout reverberated off the hold’s steel walls followed by the buzz of the Chinese type-87 assault rifles. The unexpected confrontation had left their aim off by several dozen feet but served to alert the rest of the team scattered throughout the huge ship. Bruneseau didn’t have time to fire back.

Mercer fishtailed the sedan around the corner, popping the brakes with his left foot while gunning the throttle with his right. The heavy vehicle bottomed out on the end of the ramp, leaving a shower of sparks as he repeated the trick and threw them into a four-wheel drift that cooked rubber from the tires. Stomping the accelerator again he almost had them down another level when a second two-man patrol near the stern spotted them and fired a wild barrage. The Bentley twisted out of sight.

Carlson whimpered with each violent turn.

“They know where we’re going,” Rene said as Foch prepared to fire out the window when they hit the bottom of the next ramp.

“No shit!” Lauren shouted back in a tone that sounded defensive of Mercer and derisive of Bruneseau. “What’d you expect?”

Mercer ignored the exchange and concentrated on his driving. Not knowing how many troops the Gazelle carried, he decided to get off the ramps and make a run for the stern on the next level.

The undercarriage scraped the deck again. Using his control over the pedals he managed to keep the Bentley in a low gear as he shot between rows of Volkswagens. The engine began to wind up, and when he took his foot off the brake the automatic transmission shifted and suddenly they were accelerating past forty miles per hour. Ahead was a wall of steel and a line of Jettas facing outward. So many years playing with his Jag in the crazy traffic around Washington taught him how to judge distances and speed better than most and he twisted the wheel at the precise moment. The car drifted closer to the little Volkswagens but missed them by inches as he lined up for the stern ramp. A lone soldier was at the bottom of the slope and looked up just in time to see the Bentley bearing down on him. He dove over the edge of the ramp and had almost vanished from their view when Foch put two rounds into his body.

Mercer turned at the next deck and had to drive around the lifeless body sprawled across the hood of a Mercedes ML-320 SUV. Unlike the other decks, which had eight feet of headroom, the ceiling here lofted at least twenty feet. Halfway down the length of the vessel, Mercer could see the drawbridge door cut into the starboard side of the auto carrier. Next to the larger stern ramp was a symbol indicating the lifeboat station was one deck closer to the waterline.

He also noted that this level was nearly full of cars. Only two long alleys running toward the bows allowed any kind of movement. He suspected that the next deck down would be even more fully loaded to keep the ship’s center of gravity low. He braked at the stern ramp. “Everyone out.”

“We have one more deck to go.”

“Use the stairs. I don’t think we’ll have any room to maneuver the car down there.”

Lauren reached for the door then noticed Mercer hadn’t shut off the engine. “Don’t even think about it,” she said sharply, a strong hand on his wrist ready to pull his hand from the steering wheel.

He didn’t meet her eye. “If I don’t distract them, you’ll never get clear.”

“We stay together,” she snapped.

“On the midship ramp!” Foch pointed with his rifle to where two men ran at them. He was about to fire but Mercer reached behind him and pushed off his aim.

“Get going, the car’s blocking their view.” Behind the idling Bentley was a door to the stairwell. “Keep sharp but it should be clear. I think the gunship’ll be gone by now.”

“What about you?” Lauren’s eyes had dilated.

Fear or concern, Mercer mused. “I have no intention of sacrificing myself. Just be ready to pick me up.”

“How are you getting off?”

Mercer pointed to the upright loading door in the distance. “I’m going to fly.”

“Are you out of your—”

He cut her off with a shove when Foch and Bruneseau reached the staircase door with Carlson. Reluctantly she joined them and Mercer took off with a squeal of rubber.

The big Bentley was just a few inches narrower than the alley left between ranks of Mercedeses and he misjudged the gap, clipping the front of one SUV only to careen into the rear of another opposite it. Both side mirrors were sheared off by the brutal hits. Four more times he pinballed back and forth before centering the Continental. Idly, he estimated each hit would cost about ten grand to repair. The soldiers coming down the ramp saw him approach, held their fire until they were ensured hits, then opened up. The body of the Bentley absorbed the light rounds like armor and Mercer barreled at them without check. Only when they saw that fracturing the windshield and blowing out the four headlamps weren’t going to slow the relentless charge did they think about their own safety.

Like hunters facing a rampaging elephant, the two Chinese turned and started back up the ramp. Mercer was thirty feet behind and closing fast. One soldier managed to leap out of the way at the last second; the other was clipped in his hip and hit an unforgiving steel bulkhead fully eight feet above the deck. He was alive but his pelvis was shattered.

Mercer spun in a tight one-eighty and drove down the ramp again, racing across the deck for the loading door. He misjudged his skid and the car’s fender crumpled against a buttress. The contact hadn’t done any more than ruin more of the Bentley’s coachwork but a series of airbags exploded around him. Although the bags deflated almost immediately, the damage was done.

He cursed his stupidity.

The only thing making his plan to jump the car from the hold into the canal even remotely possible was the protection afforded by the multiple airbags. Without them the impact would be like hitting a concrete wall at forty miles per hour. He wouldn’t trust his life on the Bentley’s seat belt alone. The deploying of the bags meant he was stuck on the ship.

With an angry jerk he jammed the transmission into reverse and backed toward the stern ramp. Even as his own predicament became critical, he still had to think about the others. If he didn’t keep the Chinese occupied, they’d never get clear. He powered up the ramp, leaning on the horn to draw the attention of any of the roving soldiers.

Once he thought he saw one of the Chinese troops, but it turned out to be a member of the ship’s crew. He tried to shout to him to find cover but the Japanese crewman didn’t look like he understood. Mercer flashed his FAMAS and the man scampered away like a startled deer.

He was on level five when he came across a group of Chinese near the amidships ramps. There were four of them, perhaps all that remained on board, clustered around a Mercedes SUV like the one that had broken the fall of their dead comrade. Seeing one of them open the driver’s door, Mercer recalled this deck had been empty when they’d passed through a few minutes earlier.

The other soldiers scrambled into the SUV and suddenly the truck was in motion. The ML-320 accelerated with the suppleness that Mercedes is famous for and halved the distance before Mercer could react. He punched the gas and shot up another of the stern ramps, feeling the Bentley come airborne at the crest before smashing down on its suspension. In the rearview mirror he saw the SUV giving chase and he smiled grimly. He was getting what he wanted. The others would get away. But at what price?

Hitting forty miles an hour again, he raced for the midship ramp. He ignored the distraction of the pursuing Mercedes and motored up one more deck before turning back to the stern, launching the luxury car across the hold like a javelin. This time he didn’t care that his approach to the downward ramp was off and the car slid into a bulkhead, crumpling more metal.

For five minutes he taunted the Chinese as they raced through the ship, keeping them close enough to maintain the chase but staying far enough ahead that they couldn’t get an accurate shot. He knew that he’d never get enough of an advantage to reach the top deck. Not that the open deck would afford him any help. Because of the ship’s towering height, a leap over the side would be fatal. The most he could hope for was to buy Lauren time. He figured it would take her and the others ten minutes to launch the lifeboat and get clear of the auto carrier—maybe fifteen in total to reach Gamboa.

Mercer could have kept this up long enough except Sergeant Huai, driving the Mercedes, had other plans. When they sped down to the deck where the other SUVs were parked, he ordered two of his men to take vehicles and try to corner the Bentley by blocking off both sets of ramps several levels up. He lost only a few seconds in his pursuit and quickly reacquired the luxury sedan without its driver becoming aware that the noose was tightening.

Several more Japanese crewmen and a few officers in white uniforms had appeared in the holds, unsure about what they were seeing but feeling some compulsion to keep witness to the wanton destruction of so much of their cargo. When they reached Tokyo, they would have to explain to a great many people why dozens of cars had been totaled. Even they had a hard time believing a car chase had erupted within the confines of their ship between terrorists who’d arrived on helicopters. One officer even videotaped the battered Bentley being pursued by the ML-320 with hopes of assuaging irate car owners. And perhaps selling the tape to a television show.

Tempted to throw a jaunty wave to the cameraman, Mercer instead showed his weapon in hopes the crewmen would take cover. Yet they remained rooted like slack-jawed statues. He checked his watch, noted it was barely eleven o’clock in the morning. He also saw he’d given Lauren her fifteen minutes. If he hoped to survive the chase, it was time to end it now and surrender, hoping that the Chinese would rather interrogate a live prisoner than dump overboard the body of a dead one.

He was amazed, after what he’d been through since last night, that he had lasted as long as he had. Driving an unfamiliar car through the steel confines of a cargo ship required a level of concentration that he was rapidly losing. Now that he was ready to give up, it seemed his body had anticipated it and was beginning to shut down. His eyes burned from fumes and exhaustion, and he felt as deflated as the airbags draped across his lap.

He planned to park the shot-up Bentley in the middle of one of the open levels and wait next to it with his hands raised. Just in case the Chinese weren’t accepting captives, he wanted to get clear of the Japanese sailors and steered toward the midship ramp. He was doing twenty miles per hour when he reached the gently sloping ramp, and for a split second his concentration wavered, focusing again on the sailors as they watched him drive away.

Refocusing on the ramp, he saw the black snout of a second Mercedes SUV barreling toward him. Mercer didn’t have time to even take his foot off the gas. Panicked, he cranked the steering wheel without looking where he was headed. The Bentley’s left wheels dropped off the ramp with a crash as the other two maintained traction for a second longer and the heavy car began to roll onto its side. There was enough speed for the car to drag across the deck in a painful rending of metal before it flipped onto its roof and halfway to its wheels again. It settled back onto its roof and lay with its wheels turning desultorily in the air.

The seat belt did its job keeping Mercer secure, so all he suffered was a moment of disorientation and a crack on the head from the door pillar. Gravity pulled him out of the seat and he crawled from the overturned vehicle. Before the two SUVs braked in front of him, he had his fingers laced on his head.

Three soldiers jumped from the trucks, two with assault rifles, the other covering him with an automatic pistol. Mercer saw he was older than the others and guessed he was in charge. Taking heart that they hadn’t already shot him, and not knowing what was coming next, he gave the man a tired smile. “Tell your sales manager that this car just wasn’t up to my standards. Maybe I’ll take the Rolls-Royce instead.”

The soldier’s glacial expression didn’t change as he motioned Mercer to his feet. Mercer stood, a little shakily, and waited. The Chinese leader was shorter than him, but with a heavier build. He looked nearly fifty, but that in no way detracted from his physical presence. Mercer could tell he was a professional, a veteran in his country’s service, and about the toughest looking son of a bitch he’d ever seen.

The vet moved past Mercer and peered into the overturned car. His expression was grim when he looked back at his captive. The two men sized each other up for what felt like a long time.

“Sorry, pal,” Mercer said. “One of us is as good as you’re going to get.”

“Where?” Sergeant Huai barked. He didn’t understand Mercer’s exact words but got the meaning—gone.

Mercer never saw the blow coming. Sweeping a leg between Mercer’s, the old soldier pounded the heel of his hand into his sternum and dropped him to the deck. By the time Mercer realized what had happened, Huai was kneeling by his side with his pistol jammed against his throat hard enough to make Mercer gag.

“Where?” Huai asked. He showed no trace of exertion.

It didn’t matter anymore. Lauren had to have realized Mercer wasn’t coming and by now she was safely at Gamboa. Bruneseau would be securing ground transportation even if they waited around to see if somehow he did escape. His reason for resisting was gone, but he hoped there’d be more to come.

Angering his captors any further would gain him nothing and would likely make any follow-up interrogation that much worse. Not that he believed there was such a thing as mild torture. Mercer studied the dark eyes boring into his. The soldier seemed to be searching for a reason to pull the trigger. Mercer wouldn’t give him the excuse.

“Lifeboat,” he croaked. “They took the lifeboat as soon as we landed. I stayed behind to distract you.”

The soldiers engaged in a quick conversation in Chinese, refining the translation of the answer. Huai turned back to Mercer without easing the pressure on his pistol. “Where they go?”

“Cruise ship,” Mercer replied without hesitation, feigning total defeat. “Unless you’re willing to slaughter three thousand people, they’re gone.”

Huai didn’t need to hear the rest of the explanation. He heard the words cruise ship and understood the others were beyond his reach. Equal measures of anger and fear coursed through his body. Liu Yousheng was going to kill him. There was no alternative, and for a moment the old sergeant considered not going back. But thirty years in the military had all but erased thoughts of personal safety. He’d taken an oath those many years ago and his decades of service had strengthened it, built it up, made it into an armor that excluded all other considerations. He had to go back and face his superior. That was what he’d been trained to do. He could only trust that learning what his prisoner knew would be enough to save him from Liu’s wrath.

That took care of his fear. His anger he took out on the man lying beneath him. Without warning, Huai threw a punch to the point of Mercer’s chin that contained only half his strength yet was more than enough to knock him unconscious.

Without handcuffs, it was easier to guard a comatose prisoner than a motive one.

“Throw him in the back of the truck,” he ordered his men. “Just in case, we’ll check the lifeboat station then get to the chopper.” He plucked a walkie-talkie from his belt and called to the other driver he’d sent out to corral the Bentley, ordering him to police the ship for the body of their one comrade and the other who’d been critically injured. He then called the pilot waiting in the Gazelle to get ready to clear out.

Ten minutes later they took off. The Gazelle flew west, where Liu had another secret project under way, thirty minutes behind the gunship he’d ordered away from the canal when he’d landed. In his wake he left a JetRanger helicopter crashed onto the car carrier’s roof, about two hundred spent shell casings, and a million dollars’ worth of luxury automobiles that looked like they’d all lost a demolition derby. Huai had confidence that when the vessel’s master reported the incident to the authorities, Liu’s government contacts would deflect any investigation toward drug smugglers or modern-day pirates.

That would explain away what had happened here, but what about what had occurred at the lake? Three other people had seen the excavation. They probably knew what it meant and would report it straightaway. It was a costly failure, to be sure, but again Liu might be able to save the operation. He had so many on his payroll that the nature of the excavation could be disguised. In order to do that, Liu would need to know exactly who the American trussed up in the hold worked for.

As a professional soldier, Huai knew the importance of interrogation even if he found the methods barbaric. He had no problem engaging an enemy in a fight and using any means necessary to accomplish his goal. It was a soldier’s calling. But torturing a captive to extract information was the work of another breed of men altogether—men without any sense of honor or the sacrifice of combat. They were like vultures who descended on battlefields to pick apart the bits of useful offal. They would crow over a piece of information, carry it back to their shadowy masters still covered with the blood of their victims as if it were a badge of courage.

A political officer had been sent with Huai’s detachment to Panama. It would be his job to handle the questioning sessions. Sun was his name, and no one was willing to spend enough time in his presence to learn his first name or his proper rank or title. He was simply called Mr. Sun, an irony not lost on the few soldiers who knew the English word. Sun was the darkest man any had ever met.

With a cadaverous skull sucked in at the cheeks and temples, he appeared to have no flesh at all. His skin was so dry that flecks often fell away when he moved, like a lizard caught halfway through a molt. Whatever his skin affliction, it also affected his hair, so his scalp was covered by a patchwork of graying follicles he combed over to hide the bald spots. His head was too large for his slender body, as if a burden to his thin neck. Huai guessed that Sun was in his sixties but the man’s odd appearance could hide an age swing of ten years either way.

In an unguarded moment on the flight from China, Captain Chen had confided in Huai that Sun had headed the Chinese program to interrogate American pilots shot down during the Vietnam War. Because of advances in technology and tactics, the prisoners China had kept following the Korean War had long since outlived their usefulness. The last of them had been put to death in 1959. Needing a new source of intelligence concerning Western military doctrine, the PLA saw an opportunity in the jungle conflict and paid the North Vietnamese with arms and training for hundreds of pilots. The first, an A-6 Intruder pilot, had arrived at a facility in central China in 1966 and lasted until 1971. During the course of the program, Chen had heard that Sun had overseen the torture of more than two hundred men, and had only lost funding when the last of the aviators died in 1983. Since then he’d been “working” with dissidents and most recently with suspected leaders of the outlawed Falun Gong spiritual movement.

Wiping his face and head, Huai glanced at his prisoner. The man had regained consciousness and gazed idly out the window. He almost looked like he was enjoying the flight. The American saw that he was being observed and gave Huai a little smile, then winked.

And the man wasn’t faking it, Huai thought. He must know what was coming, and yet didn’t seem concerned. By allowing himself to be captured, the American had to realize that he’d be interrogated, tortured, and yet had chosen it over simply letting Huai’s men gun him down. The captive seemed content with his choice. If not anticipating, at least accepting of the inevitable outcome.

Sheer bravado or real courage?

Huai shuddered, knowing how Mr. Sun would find that answer on his quest for the truth.

The Canal Zone, Panama

An hour had passed since Mercer had driven away aboard the auto carrier. In that hour they had dropped down the near-vertical rails that launched the freighter’s podlike lifeboat and waited for ten tense minutes for one of the ship’s loading ramps to open. It was Bruneseau who motored them toward the repair docks at Gamboa, satisfied that he had given Mercer enough time and that the geologist was not coming. The Gamboa harbor was where the canal operators kept some of their tugboats, as well as the 350-ton crane barge Titan. Away from where workers repaired large buoys that bobbed along a seawall, the French spy had hot-wired an employee’s battered Chevy while Foch and Lauren helped the injured pilot. Bruneseau took the wheel for the drive to the Legion safe house in Panama City.

It was just moments into that ride, as they crossed the trestle bridge they had almost hit with their helicopter, that they saw the auto carrier again as it continued toward the Pedro Miguel Lock. From the ship’s towering deck they spied the Chinese Gazelle lift away toward the west, all of them certain that Mercer was on board, but only Lauren Vanik feeling that he was somehow still alive.

Panama’s military had just begun their response to the distress calls from the ship and a handful of army vehicles passed them on the road, headed toward the lock where the ship would likely be detained for an investigation. They were in the outskirts of the city when they spotted the first military chopper headed for the canal—far too late to go after the Gazelle.

Now they were safely at the house. Carlson was being looked after by a medic who had the skills to remove the bullet fragment lodged in his thigh. The corpsman singled out Lauren for stemming the pilot’s blood loss with a tourniquet while still maintaining a trickle of circulation in the lower limb. She had spent the time riding to Panama City ministering to the man. In her rage against the French, her aid to the pilot had nothing to do with compassion. She simply needed something to keep her from being overwhelmed by grief and anger.

Two of the off-duty Legionnaires went out to dump the stolen car downtown while the rest huddled over Carlson in a back bedroom, leaving Lauren alone. Restless, she stripped off her fatigue blouse and stood over the kitchen sink splashing palmfuls of water over her face. The cool water soaked the neck of her T-shirt and beaded like diamond chips in her long lashes. She could feel hot tears mingled with the water, greasepaint and sweat.

She couldn’t define what Mercer had become to her in the few days she’d known him. It had been so long since she’d had such a reaction to a man and she didn’t trust herself enough to dwell on it. During her tour in Kosovo, she’d learned to insulate herself from her feelings. To become too close to comrades or those she’d been charged to protect made the inevitable losses unbearable. In order to face the horror and the pain she had to prevent them from getting too deep. That lesson had cost her part of her soul, she knew. By insulating herself from the agony, she’d had to sacrifice what brought her the deepest joy, too.

The passage of time was mending that gap and maybe this was the first instance where her heart had broken through the shield she’d built around it. She wasn’t sure, and wouldn’t allow herself to think specifically about Mercer, gladdened that anyone had gotten through. She clung to that thought, drawing from it, using it to find the will to act. For the past hour, events had moved her along because she’d had no choice. Now, standing at the sink, she knew it was time for action.

Mercer had programmed Rodrigo Herrara’s number into her cell phone so she could dial it with the press of a button. Roddy’s wife, Carmen, answered. Without going into details, Lauren told her that she needed Roddy and Harry White. She gave directions to the safe house, which wasn’t too far from the Herraras’ home in Panama City’s El Cangrejo neighborhood. Carmen said the men were in the back-yard with Miguel and would be on their way in minutes.

Bruneseau’s actions at the lake—his reckless need to get into the compound—was an indication that the French mission in Panama went beyond a concern for radio interception antennas. But until she knew what it was they were looking for, she decided not to call the U.S. embassy. The ambassador had bought his post with financial contributions to the current White House administration, so he didn’t have the clout in Washington to forward any report she gave him. The CIA station chief was a hopeless drunk who was marking time to his retirement and Lieutenant Colonel Bancroft, her military superior, wouldn’t jeopardize his chance to put eagles on his shoulders by acting on what Lauren had found out. Maybe if she had concrete evidence—but for now he’d do nothing. That left her with Frenchmen she didn’t trust, an old man and an out-of-work canal pilot.

She was at the front window drinking from a second bottle of water when an older Honda Accord pulled into the driveway. She recognized Roddy behind the wheel and Harry sitting erect next to him. It was only when she opened the door that Rene Bruneseau came out of the back room.

He glared at seeing the two men enter the safe house. “What is the meaning of this?”

His size and intimidating build may have stopped most people in their tracks but Harry White brushed past him with such a casual contempt that the spy retreated a step. “Where’s Mercer?” he asked Lauren in a brusque tone that couldn’t cover his concern.

“Captain Vanik,” Rene snapped, “who are these men?”

Harry wheeled on Bruneseau, poking the heavier man in the chest with every third word. “I’ll ask you the same question in a second, but first I want to know where Mercer is.” It had taken him two seconds to gain control of the situation.

Lauren felt a rush of comfort that Harry was here. More than an ally, the feisty octogenarian was an advocate who wouldn’t stop until Mercer was safe. Had Bruneseau not been in the room, she would have hugged him. “The Chinese have him,” she answered. “They took him away in a chopper.” She paused, unsure how to tell him that she didn’t know Mercer’s condition. “We don’t know if he’s . . .”

White ignored the implications of her voice trailing off. “Took him on a chopper from where to where?”

“From a ship in the canal. They were headed west.”

“I thought you guys were going to the volcanic lake?”

“It’s a long story,” Lauren replied.

“That is enough!” Bruneseau snapped. “Captain Vanik, you have compromised our safe house and our mission by inviting these two men. I will not permit you to tell them any more.”

“As of right now,” she said hotly, her well of strength seemingly replenished by Harry’s presence, “your mission, whatever it is, means nothing to me. I am getting Mercer back. I suspect you will do nothing to help me, but you damned well can’t stop me either.”

“What she said,” Harry echoed and settled onto a couch, his body language dismissing Bruneseau. He lit a cigarette. “You said it was a long story. I’ve got all day to hear it.”

The Frenchman wouldn’t let his point drop. “I cannot believe your unprofessionalism. These men are civilians.”

The rage Lauren had been holding in since the canal exploded. “My unprofessionalism? Don’t you dare lecture me. You and Foch were the ones who tried to infiltrate Liu’s camp at the lake and nearly got us all killed. You still haven’t explained what you were looking for, and don’t give me some cock-and-bull story about Chinese listening posts.”

“I will not answer your questions.”

“But I will.” The voice came from the hallway leading to the bedrooms. It was Foch.

“Lieutenant!”

“I am sorry, monsieur. They deserve the truth.”

Although the two men switched languages, there was little difficulty following their argument. Bruneseau’s anger did nothing to blunt the Legionnaire’s resolve, even when faced with what sounded like a direct order. When it was over, the spy leaned against a wall with his arms crossed. It was evident by his expression that Foch was going to pay for what he was about to reveal.

“Eleven weeks ago, a shipment of spent uranium fuel was transported from Rokkasho in Japan to the reprocessing plant in France owned by Cogema.” Foch overrode the startled gasps and the quick looks of confusion directed at him. “The route, like the previous one hundred and sixty times such a load has been moved, took the specially designed double-hulled ship through the Panama Canal. The fuel was stored in what are called type-B casks, huge drums about twenty feet long and weighing over a hundred tons. About six tons of spent uranium are carried in each cask. Since 1971 about thirty-five thousand tons of spent fuel have been transported in these and other types of containers.

“This is all sanctioned by the International Atomic Energy Agency under guidelines drawn up in the 1970s,” Foch explained when Lauren drew a breath between her teeth at the amount of radioactive material routinely shipped around the globe. “When the ship arrived in France, and each cask was reweighed, one came up five hundred pounds light.”

“Jesus Christ! You lost five hundred pounds of radioactive fuel?” Harry said.

Foch nodded. “There are two ways this could have happened. Either it wasn’t loaded in Japan or it was taken from the ship during its run to France. French regulators are working with the Japanese at Rokkasho to see if the problem occurred at the plant—”

“And you’re working with Bruneseau to see if it was somehow taken off when the ship passed through the canal,” Lauren finished for him.

“It is an unlikely scenario,” Bruneseau scoffed. “The ship never stopped on its way through and only three pilots came on board to guide it. Not enough men to open one of the casks and steal a deadly fuel assembly weighing almost two hundred kilos.”

“But you were still given orders to check it out anyway?”

“My government wanted every contingency investigated.”

“How big is the ship that carried the fuel?” Roddy Herrara spoke for the first time.

“One hundred and four meters, about three hundred and forty feet,” Foch answered after Roddy told him he had been a canal pilot.

“A ship that size,” Roddy said, “would only need one pilot.”

“Except for its extraordinary cargo. Surely they’d bring in extras to help.”

“Maybe one other,” the Panamanian replied. “Not two.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bruneseau said. “Even two men couldn’t have done it alone. There’s no way the uranium could have been taken off the ship here. The safety monitors on the vessel never recorded a spike in radiation, the ship’s officers said that the pilots never left the bridge and the security tags on the cask hadn’t been tampered with. The five hundred pounds of missing uranium was not on board. The Japanese screwed up by shorting the load when they put the fuel into the casks. It’s a clerical error.”

“You’re probably right, sir,” Roddy said respectfully, “yet you seem to have stumbled onto something here or you wouldn’t be so vehemently pursuing your investigation.”

Bruneseau remained silent for a moment. “I’ll grant you something’s going on, but it’s not about a lost shipment of uranium. We focused on Hatcherly because of their connection to China’s military, but in the weeks we’ve been monitoring them with gamma detectors we’ve found nothing. Their activities at the lake were something we didn’t know about, and yet there was no evidence of radiation at that location either.” He turned to Lauren. “You’re right when you said my mission has nothing to do with yours. I don’t care that Hatcherly Consolidated is robbing this country blind or that they’re about to complete a Chinese takeover of the Panama Canal. Your country should have considered that when they gave the damned thing away. As I told my superiors when they sent us here, the whole trip is a waste. Nous sommes fini, ici. We’re done here.”

“Señor.” A little of the respect had drained from Roddy’s voice. “I am not saying that it is likely that your ship was tampered with in the canal, but I think you should know it is possible. Many times during a transit, tugboats are used to nose a ship into a lock. Depending on the time of day your ship went through, enough men could have boarded the vessel from the tug and broken into one of these casks.”

“Don’t you think I’ve had men sweep all the tugs looking for residual radiation?” Bruneseau retorted. “That’s the first damned thing we did when we got to Panama. I’m telling you the casks weren’t tampered with. The missing uranium is still sitting in Japan and eventually some clerk will find the error that wrongly listed it on the ship’s manifest.”

“You’re willing to take the risk if you’re wrong?” Harry growled.

“If there was a risk, no. But there isn’t.”

“And what about Mercer?” Lauren had gone bitter, knowing how the agent would reply. “Don’t you owe him something for using him to gain access to more of what Hatcherly is doing? I thought the Legion always took care of their own?”

“And I,” Rene pronounced, “am not with the Legion.”

Lauren looked to Foch, imploring. The soldier seemed to have gone as far as he was willing. He couldn’t meet her gaze. “Neither was Mercer. I am sorry, Captain.”

“You cowards,” she hissed. “Mercer risked his life not knowing what you were looking for and you’ll just abandon him now that you think you’ve been on a fool’s errand.”

“Even if we wanted to help,” Foch offered, “we don’t know where Hatcherly took him or even if he’s still alive.”

Harry White leaned forward, his eyes drilling Bruneseau to the wall even as he spoke to the whole room. “I know where they’re taking him.”

Rodrigo Herrara nodded. “Sí, we know.”

A feeling of hope surged through Lauren’s body. Her breath seemed to catch in her throat. “Where?”

Harry, never one to let an opportunity to be the center of attention pass, ground out his cigarette and ceremoniously lit another. He decided against opening the whiskey-filled flask at the top of his sword cane. With Mercer in danger, time was of the essence.

“Okay, after your little romp in the container port, Mercer asked Roddy and me to find out where those dump trucks were bringing all that gravel from and why. No surprise, we didn’t find a trace of the armored car. Liu probably stashed it that night after moving the gold someplace else. Bank most likely.

“Anyway, Roddy and I waited outside Hatcherly’s gates all the next day and into the early evening before the first of the dump trucks left the container port. They drove out of the city and across the canal on the Bridge of the Americas toward Penonome to the west.” He gave Lauren a significant look. It was the same direction the Gazelle had taken. “About twenty miles past that town they turned onto a private road belonging to Las Minas del Viente Diablos. The Twenty Devils Mine.”

“A mine?” Lauren asked, having never heard of the place. “What kind of mine?”

Harry looked pleased with himself and his detective skills. “We talked to a peasant walking along the highway. Told us it’s a gold mine.”

“I know there’s a big copper mine between Santiago and David but the gold mines in Panama were in the Darien Province and have been closed for a century.”

“The place is little known,” Roddy interjected. “After we discovered that is where the trucks are going, I phoned the ministry that oversees mines. I wanted to question some officials but I was refused a meeting. I got only as far as a low-level clerk who told me that the mine has been in operation for six months and that it’s partially owned by a foreign company. He wouldn’t tell me which country nor would he tell me how much gold they’ve extracted.”

“At the lake,” Lauren said, “we discovered that Liu Yousheng hasn’t found the Twice-Stolen Treasure yet. Is it possible the gold Mercer and I saw at the warehouse came from this Twenty Devils Mine?”

“I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion quite yet,” Harry said enigmatically.

“This is a waste of time,” Bruneseau dismissed the whole line of inquiry. “We don’t know where the Gazelle went after it left the auto carrier. As for the trucks at the port? Hatcherly is a maritime company. They could be shipping ore for the mining company.”

Harry smirked, as if he was setting up the French agent. “A minute ago you said that you’d take no chances if Liu had stolen the atomic fuel and stashed it someplace in Panama. What if the mine is controlled by Hatcherly and that’s where the helicopter took Mercer? Would you be willing to check it out?”

“It could have gone anywhere.”

“Too true,” White agreed. “But we have evidence that something about that mine isn’t kosher, a strange link between it and the warehouse. Remember the gravel in the warehouse?” The others waited expectantly while Harry drew out the moment. “Hatcherly isn’t moving it to a ship from the mine. It’s the opposite actually. It appears that the gravel is brought in on ships and is then transported to the mine.”

“Huh? Why?”

Looking around the room, Harry said, “Only way to find out is to go and see for ourselves.”

He didn’t need to add that his interest was finding Mercer, not why Hatcherly was playing bizarre shell games with dump-truck loads of gravel.

The Twenty Devils Mine Cocle Province, Panama

A blast of icy water exploding against his groin wrenched Mercer from a drugged sleep. The cold and shock following six hours of unconsciousness in a dank cell was like a hit from a runaway truck. Mercer rolled across the floor to get away from the jet of water but whoever directed the fire hose kept the pressure on, tumbling him against a concrete wall like a street cleaner moving a piece of flotsam.

A voice called an order and the streaming water stopped as abruptly as it had started.

Mercer forced open his eyes, blinking into powerful handheld halide lights that burned his vision like lasers after so many hours of darkness. He turned away and the blaze of red behind his lids faded as the lights were dimmed. He heard another command and boots moving away. Tentatively he levered open an eye again. His eyesight came back from beyond the blistering afterspots on his damaged retinas. The room was lit by a single-bulb fixture clamped to the ceiling. The halide lamps had been used to further disorient him. He wiped water from his face, allowing a little to trickle into his mouth.

Since his capture, he’d been given nothing to eat or drink. A hood had been placed over his head on the helicopter after he’d been given a hypodermic of sedative, the Chinese denying him a sense of place as well. They’d left him dressed in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts.

His lower belly throbbing from the pulsing blow to his testicles, Mercer shuffled to his feet, watching for a reaction from the single guard left at the cell’s open door. The impassive Chinese soldier was in uniform and cradled a type- 87 bullpup assault rifle, the type Lauren told him meant he was part of an elite fighting force.

There was no furniture in the cell so Mercer leaned against the wall, crossing his ankles and arms in an attempt at a relaxed pose. A vortex of thoughts churned in his mind as more of the drug wore off, but it was important that he give no outward sign of his growing anxiety. He slicked back his hair with the palms of his hands and idly picked at a fingernail. His antics made no impression on the stone-faced guard.

Before he considered his own circumstances, his mind turned to Lauren and the others. He could only assume his sacrifice had guaranteed their escape. The Gazelle hadn’t circled back to the auto carrier and he hadn’t seen any other choppers in the area before he’d passed out. The Chinese couldn’t know how many people were with him, nor their identities. He had to keep that secret, he knew, but wondered how long he could maintain his silence. Mercer had no delusions about what was to come.

He didn’t know where he’d been taken—someplace west of the canal, but that told him nothing. If he didn’t know, it was unlikely Bruneseau or Lauren knew either. Meaning?

Meaning I am in some very deep shit because the cavalry won’t be coming.

He was on his own and about to face an interrogation at the hands of a Chinese organization who seemed more than willing to kill those who got in their way. Thoughts of clichéd water-torture scenes from old movies filled his imagination. Mercer had no idea how long he’d be able to hold out. The reasonably high tolerance for pain he’d developed because of the dangerous nature of his work would do him no good if they used drugs on him. He’d read enough spy novels to know there was no defense against some of the exotic cocktails developed to extract information.

He tried to think if he had any advantages in this situation. Because they didn’t know if the authorities were closing in, the Chinese would probably want information quickly. He didn’t know if that helped, but it was something. He then tried to think what Liu Yousheng would want to know so he could then purge it from his mind. Liu didn’t yet know he had captured the man who’d foiled him in Paris, nor did he know the Foreign Legion was on to him. Mercer felt divulging his own identity wouldn’t matter but he had to protect Lauren and the others.

Why the hell had Rene gone into the camp? Mercer wondered, then forced the thought out of his head. He had to clear it completely—erase the past few days in order to convince Liu that he knew of nothing beyond Gary Barber’s mysterious death.

For ten minutes Mercer made a show of ignoring the soldier, using the time to let his mind calm down and his body to recover from the fire-hose onslaught. Then came a commotion beyond the open door and a moment later another Chinese, this one dressed in an expensive business suit, entered the cell. Mercer gave him a passing glance, noting his slender build and rather tired eyes, before returning his attention to a particularly bothersome hangnail. He finally bit at the sliver of skin and spat it on the floor. A drop of blood welled from the tiny wound.

“Wouldn’t have a Band-Aid, would you?” Mercer asked, finally paying attention to the executive. He’d already assumed he was in the presence of Liu Yousheng.

“That cut will soon be the least of your worries,” Liu replied. “Do you know where you are and who I am?”

Mercer looked around the cell, as if seeing its utilitarianism for the first time. “Well, this hotel doesn’t look familiar, but you do. I’ve seen your commercials for dog food on TV. Aren’t you Pup E. Chow?”

“I expected more than insults from you, Dr. Mercer,” Liu said. “You are Philip Mercer, aren’t you?”

“Sorry. My name’s Al Abama, from California. I was taking one of those adventure cruises from Europe aboard a car carrier with my sister, Carol Ina. She lives in Wisconsin.” Mercer smiled. “Check the passenger manifest if you don’t believe me.”

Liu shook his head, as if disappointed in his prisoner. “Your acquisition of the Lepinay journal started out as a minor distraction in Paris. But suddenly you’ve become a rather significant obstacle. I’m curious how you accomplished this feat.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Interestingly,” Liu continued as if Mercer hadn’t spoken, “the two bodies we recovered at the lake don’t appear to be American. One had a tattoo we traced to a German motorcycle gang called Das Gremium on his shoulder. I had assumed you were working with the CIA. Maybe I was wrong. Care to comment?”

“Not particularly,” Mercer said, and then his voice hardened. “Let’s cut the bull. I know who you are. You know me. All I wanted was to discover what happened to my friend Gary. I know now that you had nothing to do with his death. It was a freakish accident. I have no quarrel with you, and if you let me go I’ll be on the next plane back to the States and you can do whatever you want down here. I have no connection to the CIA, the FBI or even the ASPCA. I can’t hurt you. There’s no need for you to hurt me.”

Liu almost seemed to consider Mercer’s plea. “It is possible that you are telling me the truth.” Menace filled his every word. “But even if it were, it wouldn’t matter. Your meddling has cost me too much already. More importantly, you have forced me to act in ways I rather wish to avoid. I prefer bank transfers and balance sheets, not bullets. It is because of you there has been so much bloodshed. I am working a business deal and you’re acting like an American cowboy, shooting first and asking questions later. Had you understood that my actions here will prevent countless deaths later, you wouldn’t have involved yourself the way you have.”

“Tell me what you’re doing,” Mercer invited. “Maybe we can come to an understanding.”

“That time is past.”

“Then kill me now!” Mercer’s startling shout rocked Liu back. “Quit these stupid games and put a bullet in my head. I’ve got nothing you want so end it right here.”

“Again”—Liu smiled, pleased at what he thought was the first crack in Mercer’s studied calm—“I don’t think that’s true either. I think you have a great deal to tell me.” He called out for more guards.

Mercer allowed the soldiers to overwhelm him, reserving his strength for when the interrogation started. A moment later he was cuffed to a stretcher and carried down a cinder-block corridor to another cell. This one was as cool as the previous one, making Mercer guess they were underground. The stretcher was placed on a metal table and additional restraints were put in place to keep him completely immobile. The guards cleared out.

Liu moved to the head of the table. “We won’t see each other again, Dr. Mercer, so I will do you the honor of wishing you a peaceable journey.”

From his supine position, Mercer couldn’t see the other man who stepped into the room but got a real bad feeling just from the distaste that showed on Liu’s face.

“You have my list of questions, Mr. Sun. Get them answered.” Liu stepped from the room, purposefully staying as far from Sun as he could.

A skeletal head suddenly loomed into Mercer’s view. Had Mercer been able, he would have recoiled. The face was cadaverous, sunken and shriveled like a mummy. Flakes of skin spilled off like thick dandruff. The man’s breath enveloped Mercer in a stench like rotted meat. Mr. Sun’s teeth were nearly black. Sun traced a finger along Mercer’s cheek, marveling at the elasticity of his skin. The finger felt like a claw from a dead bird. Mercer noted angrily that the man was wearing his TAG Heuer watch.

“I haven’t been friends with an American in a long time.” Sun spoke decent English in a voice filled with wonder, like a child’s. It made Mercer’s flesh crawl. “There was one we found smuggling weapons into Tibet about six years ago, but he could only be my friend for a little while so I don’t count him. My last real American friend was an air force pilot who came to me during the end of your war in Vietnam. We were friends until 1983.”

The realization that this Mr. Sun considered the victims of his torture as friends made Mercer swallow reflexively. Whatever psychological problems allowed Sun to torture another human had become something worse, he realized. Sun liked what he did, needed it, for all Mercer knew. Despite the cell’s low temperature, sweat began to run from his pores.

“My last American friend kept a secret from me at the end,” Sun continued, his black eyes losing focus as he recalled the airman he had mutilated long ago. “He let a fingernail grow without any of his guards noticing. One night he sharpened it on the wall of his cell and used it to cut through the tissue under his tongue. We found him the next morning. He had swallowed his tongue to suffocate himself.” He returned from the memory. “Toward the end, our conversations were not that good, but I still think of our earlier times together. I never figured out how he could keep speaking for so long. For years he kept it up. Remarkable.”

Mercer realized by “speaking” Sun meant screaming. The conversations were between Sun’s instruments of torture and the pain they invoked.

“Anyway,” the interrogator continued, “I have you now. We can’t be friends for very long, I’m afraid. Mr. Liu is pressed for time. Still, I think our talks will be interesting.” Sun unrolled a black cloth next to Mercer’s head. It contained a collection of fine acupuncture needles. Hundreds of them.

On the auto carrier, when Mercer had given himself up, he’d known something like this would be in store. He’d willingly traded the promise of torture for a little more time alive. Seeing Sun for the first time, and his needles, he wondered if letting those soldiers kill him wouldn’t have been smarter.

“There are many ways to get someone to talk,” Sun said conversationally. “The threat of death is usually enough for most people. Because of your situation, you know your death is inevitable so that won’t work. Mutilation is another way. People fear permanent injury as much as they fear dying. Again, permanent for you is only a day or two. Not much of a threat, eh?”

“Works for me,” Mercer rasped, his throat so dry it felt like he’d swallowed the contents of an hourglass. “What do you want to know?”

When Sun smiled, a shower of skin flakes fell from around his mouth. “I think you make a joke with me. Our conversation hasn’t even started yet. In your situation, my job is to make you believe that death is better than what I will do to you. To reach that goal you must first answer my questions. Answering me is the only way I will give you death. Do you understand?”

Sun didn’t wait for a reply. Using a technique forged long before recorded history he began inserting needles into Mercer’s body, first breaking skin with a quick flick of his fingers then twisting them deeper. Mercer had braced himself for pain but felt nothing but a minor discomfort as each needle was drilled a short way into his body. He felt no ill effects as Sun inserted forty needles into various parts of his body. Most were on his neck, chest, and stomach, while others had been stuck between his fingers and at each ankle.

“There.” Sun stepped back to admire his handiwork. “The meridian paths are open. Your body hasn’t been this connected to itself since it was just a few cells suspended in your mother’s womb. The needles allow impulses to flow so freely that your brain is actually working harder to maintain a steady flow of your life force, your chi, between all the newly opened locus points. It’s like a power plant that suddenly has to supply dozens of additional homes. Do you feel a little more tired?”

“Screw you.” That pathetic rejoinder was the best Mercer could come up with. Sun had rewired his nervous system and brought him to a plateau of hypersensitivity that left him more vulnerable than anything he’d ever felt before. He could feel his body in ways he’d never experienced. He could sense the tingle of his hair growing and the pulse of blood through the tiniest capillaries. His fear, too, felt amplified.

Sun bent so his foul breath caressed Mercer’s face. “There are special houses in China where highly skilled women use this technique to bring men to unobtainable levels of ecstasy. In the state you are in right now I can insert another two needles and you would not believe the pleasure.” Sun’s voice dropped to a reverent whisper. “There’s an old story of a vengeful concubine driving an emperor insane by forcing him to an orgasm that lasted for eight straight days.”

He straightened. “That is not to be your fate.” With a deft move he slid a needle into a spot on Mercer’s shoulder and suddenly a lightning bolt seemed to explode in Mercer’s mouth as if all his teeth had shattered. The sensation was so far beyond pain that it had no name. It stripped away a layer of rationality like a sheet of paper from a notebook.

Sun withdrew the needle and the agony stopped instantly, leaving Mercer’s mouth numb and swimming in saliva. “I should have warned you that the pathways are not as direct as you might suspect. Feel what happens to your heart when I place a needle here.” Sun twisted a thinner needle behind Mercer’s ear.

Mercer’s state made him more than aware of his heart. He could feel each beat, each opening and closing of the valves, and the tremendous wash of blood in his aorta. With a little concentration he felt he could almost control it. Sun showed him he could not.

As the tiny needle hit a specific nerve in the soft area behind his right ear Mercer’s heart simply stopped. There was no beat, no surge, nothing. He was dead. Yet he could think and see and feel himself dying further. But there was no surge of panic. He couldn’t pump the adrenaline that controlled such a reaction. Terror filled his eyes, widening them to impossible proportions, imploring his indifferent torturer to give him his life back. Sun left the needle in for two seconds that felt longer than eternity. When it was pulled free and the nerve pathway it had blocked reopened, Mercer’s heart jump started itself and beat on as if nothing had happened.

“Now you know what I can do to you,” Sun said. “I will give you this one chance to answer Mr. Liu’s questions.”

“Ask,” Mercer said, unable to believe the defeat in his voice.

Sun placed a micro-recorder on the table next to Mercer’s head. “It was you who saw the gold shipment at the Hatcherly warehouse.”

“Yes.”

“Who was with you in the warehouse?”

“A CIA operative named Felix Leiter.” Mercer lied in his defeated monotone. His acting was Oscar quality. “That’s all I knew him as.”

“Was it a CIA team who helped you escape at the fence?”

“No. They were mercenaries flown in from Bogota.”

For fifteen minutes, Mercer spun a tale of CIA intrigue, adding details like code names and the location of fictitious safe houses. He told Sun the story that Liu Yousheng would want to hear, about how the United States was fumbling blindly, not understanding what was happening. He made it sound as though his contact would most likely back off now that Mercer was captured because this operation wasn’t officially sanctioned by Langley.

Sun had conducted hundreds of interrogations and knew how to probe a story from a dozen directions looking for inconsistencies. His questions came rapid-fire and continued for an hour in which Mercer piled lie on top of lie in a web that was as complex as it was delicate. Through it all, Sun couldn’t trip up his victim. Not once did Mercer slip. Each answer served only to back up an earlier fact. The code names didn’t change, addresses remained the same, and timelines, which are the hardest to keep straight, remained linear and plausible.

Mercer judged Sun perfectly. Despite the ruined skin and lifeless eyes he sensed a change in Sun’s emotion during the second hour of questioning that signaled the torturer was satisfied he’d extracted the truth from his victim. The session was coming to an end, which meant so would Mercer’s life. He’d bought himself a little more time but knew that continuing the charade would buy him no more. It was time to fight, and pray he could survive what Sun would do to him.

“You mentioned how the mercenaries came to Panama,” Sun asked for the eighth time.

“They flew in from Medellin on a charter plane.” The mistake was intentional, a tiny gaff that the interrogator recognized instantly.

The deranged acupuncturist looked at Mercer sharply, a deadly look that made it easier for Mercer to let fear flood across his face. “You said the mercenaries came from Bogota. Now you say Medellin.”

“I can’t remember,” Mercer stammered, making his guilt even more apparent.

Because of how he’d been strapped to the table, Mercer couldn’t see that Sun was poised over his left hand with one of his needles. For a fraction of a second, Mercer felt the needle twisting into his flesh and then it felt like a blowtorch had been applied to his scalp. He could almost hear his hair burning away and smell it turning to ash. The pain raced across his scalp like a spreading pool of burning fuel. He convulsed against his straps at the unholy agony, clamping his jaw to keep from screaming, to keep the flames from pouring down his throat.

But there was no fire. It was an electrical stimulus that created the pain, a figment of his own body chemistry. No matter how he tried to rationalize that idea, the pain burned through, crystalline and savage.

Sun lowered his face over Mercer’s. “Speak to me,” he soothed. “Let me hear you speak.”

A whimper escaped past Mercer’s lips.

“Yes, like that,” Sun coaxed, almost sexually.

Turning his head as much as the restraints allowed, Mercer screamed into Sun’s ear as loud as he could, a shriek that would have damaged the hearing of a younger person. Sun stepped back and slid the needle from Mercer’s hand. No anger, no annoyance, no sign that the scream bothered him.

“Bogota or Medellin?” The needle went back in along Mercer’s ribs and another went near his nipple on the opposite side of his chest.

It was as if the two points were joined through his torso by an electric current. To Mercer, his flesh felt like it was being cored out, drilled from his body by the pain.

His first slip had been intentional, but Mercer’s second mistake was an accident. “Bogota,” he gasped.

Had he stuck with the new lie and said Medellin, Sun would have been forced to pick apart the story piece by piece, possibly going easier on Mercer.

Instinctively Sun had seen through all the deceptions and knew that the truth was that Mercer had made up the whole story. “Very good,” he congratulated with genuine surprise.

“You almost had me. Now we get to start from the beginning, only this time I’ve already given you your one chance.”

Needles went in, connecting nerve points that evolution kept intentionally separate, opening pathways for agony never meant to be endured.

How long it went on, Mercer would never know. Lost in a raging flood of pain, time had never had less meaning. Like an artist, Mr. Sun played Mercer’s body against itself, generating agony upon agony with his slender needles, cleverly multiplying the anguish at times and backing it off at others but never leaving his subject free. Only occasionally would he ask a question, and even then he wouldn’t wait for an answer. He was lost in a command performance, conducting an orchestra of sensation to generate the maximum amount of pain.

Through it Mercer fought, retelling parts of his earlier story and then just maintaining his silence when it became too much to think straight. But he knew that was the object of Sun’s work, to empty him of everything except the pain so that he would beg to answer a question.

A needle between his fingers had made his eyeballs seem to collapse like they had been pierced and their fluids drained away. It was the worst yet. Sun added another needle that felt like a smoldering ember had settled in Mercer’s lungs. Each breath became a fiery torture. Mercer was losing himself to the pain. One more element, the barest touch, and he knew he’d never recover.

He had to find something to hold on to, an anchor to keep him rooted to the rational world that existed beyond the agonized shell of his body. Like a swimmer tossed in the surf, he had to find a rock to cling to that kept his head above the drowning pain. Images cascaded in his mind, thoughts of what meant most to him.

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 reached 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.

Very carefully, he stepped off his bucket so the dangling conduit slid down to where he held the two wires. He made sure his insulated pads fit inside the pipe, then slowly drew the conduit over the wires. As delicately as a sommelier pulling the cork from a fine bottle of wine, Mercer eased the pipe away. If any of the insulating scraps came off, the hot feed would arc in the pipe, shock the hell out of him, and trip the breaker. He took five full minutes to slide the conduit from the wires, sucking in his first deep breath when the ends freed themselves and dropped to the floor. Mercer set down the heavy piece of steel, got on all fours, and located the wires by sweeping his hand along the concrete.

Once they were safely out of the way, he retrieved the heavy metal pipe. Moving like a blind man, he located the door. He measured where the knob was, hefted the pipe and brought it down with all the force in his body. His hands stung from the blow. He checked the handle. The direct force of the impact had loosened it.

Four more times he beat on the knob until the tortured metal simply fell away. A beam of light from the hallway shone in on the floor through the mangled lock mechanism, enough illumination for him to use his screwdriver to free the bolt from the door casing. A little hip check to the door and it swung open. He was free.

“Let’s see Houdini top this.”

Mercer had been left naked and armed with only a foot-long shiv and a piece of pipe. He had no idea what lay outside this building. For all he knew, the exit would dump him on a busy street in Panama City or Hatcherly’s terminal facility or some location he wasn’t even aware of. None of this mattered for a few seconds. He’d accomplished more than he had any right to expect.

Gripping his rudimentary knife and club like some post-modern Neanderthal, he set off down the hallway, ready for whatever came.

The scene around Roddy Herrara’s kitchen table couldn’t have been more morose. A gloom had settled over them that nothing seemed able to dispel. Roddy drank black coffee while Lauren sipped from a water bottle. Only Harry drank liquor, Jack Daniel’s from a shot glass he recharged from a bottle he’d bought. The other two adults looked like they wanted to join him but couldn’t make the effort to reach for the bottle. Miguel was the worst of the four.

The boy sat in his own chair but had moved it so he could be closer to Roddy. His face was desolate, inconsolable. His dark eyes, once bright, had dulled from the crying. Lauren would have given anything not to have told the boy that Mercer was gone.

He’d been so excited when they returned from the safe house, expecting that the object of his hero worship would be with her and Roddy and Mr. Harry. Even at twelve he was perceptive enough to read their drawn faces. It was a testament to his inner strength that he hadn’t started crying until Lauren stooped to enfold him in her arms and mutter apologies in Spanish.

His tears brought hers to the surface.

The pall of hopelessness that settled over them back at the safe house had come from a single phone call from the French embassy. When the call came through, Bruneseau, Foch, and the other Legionnaires were planning their operation to infiltrate the Twenty Devils Mine. Much of what they accomplished was based on speculation about the site, but they’d nailed down the details of reaching the facility and getting back out again.

And then the phone had rung. The communications officer at the French embassy located at the very end of Casco Viejo peninsula didn’t even know what the code phrase he related meant. Bruneseau did and told the assembled soldiers and civilians.

“Like I said earlier.” He had a twinge of superiority in his voice. “The missing uranium wasn’t missing after all. That call was the embassy. The team of regulators in Japan found that the fuel wasn’t put aboard the ship. In fact there was no fuel at all. A glitch in the computer that controlled their scales added extra weight to the containment cask in Rokkasho. The scales in France were perfectly calibrated, so it appeared that two hundred kilos were missing, when in fact they were never there.” He lit a celebratory cigarette. “Our mission in Panama is over. We’ve all been recalled. Me back to Paris and Foch and his team to their regular barracks at the Ariane spaceport.”

Lauren gaped. All her work convincing the agent to rescue Mercer, or at least look for him, had been nullified by the call. She could see that Rene Bruneseau would do nothing now except put the whole debacle behind him and hope it didn’t hurt his career. If Mercer had survived the car carrier, she knew he wouldn’t last long in Liu’s clutches. The French represented her only chance at mounting a credible rescue. Now it was gone.

“You won’t do anything to help him, will you?”

“I have my orders,” Rene replied in the classic dodging of personal obligation behind professional responsibility. She’d heard it countless times in her military career. Blindly following orders had doomed millions to senseless deaths and that list was about to include Philip Mercer.

Foch wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“This won’t end here.” She had no idea what that threat meant or how hollow it sounded but she needed to say something. She stormed from the safe house, unable to be around the Frenchmen any longer. A few seconds later, Harry and Roddy joined her and they drove in silence back to Roddy’s house.

For the first hours back at Roddy’s they’d talked about mounting their own rescue. Lauren explained that going to the embassy would be a wasted gesture and that it would take days, if not longer, to hire locals. Her main contacts in the mercenary underworld had all died when the Hatcherly helicopter had used depth charges to release the CO stored in the lake.

Now they sat with their thoughts, each feeling empty for the same reason.

Carmen Herrara was in the living room, knitting on the couch while her children played on the floor with coloring books. Framed behind her was an elaborate picture of Jesus, and only slightly smaller and a little lower on the wall was another of famed boxer and local hero Roberto Duran. She put down her knitting when the doorbell rang. Her eyes flew to her husband.

It was after eight P.M. Not knowing who would knock at this hour, he told her to take the children into the back of the three-bedroom home. Lauren moved next to the front door, her Beretta cocked and the safety off. Roddy swung it open and jumped aside.

“If Monsieur Bruneseau knew we were here, he’d kill us.” Behind Lieutenant Foch stood four of his troopers. Parked in the street was a rented moving van. “Mercer might not have taken the Legion oath,” Foch continued, “but he saved my life and Carlson’s. I . . .” He looked back at the deadly expectation on his men’s faces. “We won’t leave him behind.”

The pause after his declaration lasted for many seconds as the emotions in the room swung one hundred and eighty degrees. Leave it to Harry to finally shatter it.

“ ’Bout time you sons a bitches showed up,” he called from the kitchen. “Foch, you’re even easier to read than Mercer. Knew you were coming the whole time.”

“If you knew they would help,” Lauren’s challenge was filled with delighted relief, “how come you’ve been sitting there as hangdog as the rest of us?”

Harry recharged his empty shot glass. “Needed an excuse to bend the elbow a few times. Now get your asses in here and let’s figure out how we’re going to get him back.”

The Twenty Devils Mine Cocle Province, Panama

For soldiers trained in the jungles of Guyana, the four-mile night march from where the Legionnaires had baled out of the rental truck wasn’t enough to raise their heartbeat, though they did sweat in the brutal humidity. A passing rain squall couldn’t soak their uniforms more than their perspiration already had. Determined to keep pace with the lean commandos, Lauren was glad they hadn’t asked her to take point. Trailblazing through the clinging vegetation was like struggling through a nightmare. That job had gone to a Serb named Tomanovic.

Because of her experiences in the Balkans, Lauren was leery around the big man. He had the look she’d seen countless times in Kosovo, the mix of pride and defiance and hidden rage. She could easily imagine him torturing Albanians or massacring Muslims. Foch’s assurance that Tomanovic had been in the Legion long before the ethnic clashes didn’t alleviate her uneasiness. She couldn’t shake the fact that he looked like so many other mass murderers she’d seen. Still, Lauren was professional enough to place some trust in the French officer and followed the silent line of soldiers moving through the bush.

They had already verified that the mine’s main gate had heavy security, so flanking around it and approaching from a less-guarded quarter was their only option. Forced to cut across the grain of the land, daylight wouldn’t have made the hike much easier. Eroded by millions of years of rain, the terrain surrounding the mine was so wrinkled that every step was taken either uphill or down. Adding to the discomfort was the heat, humidity, and the insects that swarmed in dense clouds.

Over the rise of the final hill in their march, artificial light clung to the ground and reflected off the low cloud cover. The mine was a twenty-four-hour-a-day operation and massive lamps had been erected around the pit to illuminate the work. It was like the glow of a sports stadium.

Lauren had no trouble interpreting Foch’s hand gestures as they neared the crest of the hill. Like the Legionnaires, she shifted away from the lieutenant and approached the summit on her stomach. She crawled forward through the underbrush, using the short barrel of her borrowed FAMAS assault rifle to move aside some dripping leaves that blocked her view. When she could look across the valley separating them from the next hill, she paused to sweep the facility with binoculars.

The mine looked like she’d expected, though she’d only seen pictures of similar installations on television. Directly below their position, a squad of bright yellow earthmovers worked along the bottom of the terraced mountain. On the valley floor behind the raw cut were administration buildings, open-sided maintenance sheds, and large industrial-looking structures she assumed had something to do with ore processing. She could see a parking area for employee vehicles and an empty chopper pad. The haul road out of the valley meandered to their left, where it eventually intersected the main highway about five miles away.

In a separate enclosure within the main compound, she saw the entrance to what looked like an underground bunker. It was little more than a trench dug into the ground, but she could see the outline of the subterranean structure and several ventilation shafts poking up through the compacted soil.

It wasn’t until she focused closer at the men near the heavy equipment that she realized the scale of the operation. The dump trucks were far larger than the ones she’d seen at the Hatcherly port. These rigs would never be allowed on a regular street. She realized they must have been assembled right here. Each truck was bigger than a house, supported on six twelve-foot-tall tires and had a dump bed that looked larger than a swimming pool. The drivers’ cabs were at least twenty feet off the ground and accessible via a staircase that rose diagonally across the billboard-sized grilles. The excavators and loaders that stripped material from the mountain were equally proportioned. Just the bucket on one front-end loader was as long and even taller than the pickup truck parked next to it. Another machine that she couldn’t identify was even larger than the rest. Standing on multiple crawler treads, this towering behemoth had a mechanical arm that gouged fifty-ton bites out of the mountain.

It looked like the mine was being worked by mechanical dinosaurs.

Dispelling her awe at the enormity of the mine, she put her attention on the security of the facility and realized immediately that this place was well fortified. Three-man patrols worked the fenced perimeter of the main compound, while others mingled with the workers and still more moved outside the fence. In just a few minutes she counted twenty-three armed men.

“Pssst,” Foch hissed and the soldiers retreated off the crest of the mountain and regrouped fifty feet down the backside of the partially excavated hill.

“Combien du soldats?” he asked.

“English, please.”

“How many soldiers?”

“I counted twenty-three,” Lauren offered.

“Thirty-eight,” the French soldiers chorused, having seen many that Lauren had missed.

She felt chagrined, but that was why soldiers backed each other up.

“Looks like our only way in is down the face of the excavation.” Foch waited for anyone to contradict him with a better idea. No one did. “There aren’t as many lights farther along our right flank. We’ll descend there. The ground looks brisé, ah, broken up, but the terrace effect of the mining should make it easier.” He looked to Lauren. “Pièce du gâteau.”

“Piece of cake,” she mimicked.

Foch outlined his plan, which amounted to little more than getting down onto the valley floor, finding cover and waiting for an opportunity to search the mine. Of the structures they’d observed, they agreed that the underground bunker seemed the likely place for Mercer if he was indeed here.

The big Serb, Tomanovic, took point as the team hiked laterally along the backside of the mountain until they reached an area that wasn’t currently being worked and was therefore quiet. The move took them farther from the underground bunker, so they’d have to cross back once they reached the valley floor.

They were like shadows against the dark earth as they slid down the first of the giant steps that made up the terraced face of the excavation. The twenty-foot drop was rendered safe by the working face’s sixty-degree angle of repose and the churned-up soil at each level, which absorbed the shock. There were eight levels to descend and when they reached the valley floor, the soldiers had their backs stained red by the clinging soil.

Their infiltration had gone unseen.

The bunker was two hundred yards away across a no-man’s-land littered with mounds of dirt, gravel, and an army of construction equipment. In the blaze cast by high-intensity lights, the vehicles looked like enormous insects, yellow army ants mindlessly bent on their task of leveling the landscape. From where they crouched behind a pile of overburden waiting to be trucked away, they could just see the bunker and the five men approaching it. Four were uniformed guards, while the fifth man, much smaller than the others, appeared to be a civilian.

They weren’t sure who he was, only that he wasn’t Liu Yousheng or any of his COSTIND cronies who ran Hatcherly.

No more than fifteen seconds after the group disappeared into the hole, one of the soldiers reappeared blowing a whistle whose shrill cry was lost to distance and the rumbling din of the trucks. Yet the call must have been heard because the alarm seemed to carry across the compound in a wave. Very quickly additional guards began pouring from a block of dormitories. More dangerously, additional lights snapped on that bathed every square foot of the mine, including the mound of dirt shielding the French team.

“Vic, get to the top of the hill,” Foch ordered the big Serb.

Tomanovic moved upward without a word.

“What do you think happened?” Lauren asked while they waited behind cover.

“Seemed they were headed down to a secure area and didn’t like what they found,” a Legionnaire said.

“Or what they didn’t find,” she corrected. “That’s got to be where they were keeping Mercer. Maybe he escaped.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

They waited in silence until Vic came back to report. “High alert now, sir.” His English was better than his French, though both were heavily accented. “They sweep outer fence with searchlight. As you hear, mining equipment still runs. More men are at the underground bunker. Civilian looks pissed.” He pronounced it peeced.

“We need to get out of here.” Foch’s face was grim.

“Whatever just happened has made this place très dangereux .”

Three hundred yards behind them was the road out of the mine. A wire security fence manned by four Chinese barred unauthorized vehicles from gaining entry. Because the gate was so distant and the hour so late, none of the commandos gave it any thought until the sound of an approaching truck grew louder than the racket of the excavators in front of them. As one, they turned and saw that a 6x6 military truck had passed through the gate and was headed straight for them. As the team scrambled to the far side of the hill, the truck stopped less than thirty yards away. Two waves of soldiers peeled from the back of the soft-topped truck.

Unlike the other guards stationed at the mine, these men were Panamanian. Lauren could tell by the cut of their uniforms and the M-16s they carried.

Two unforeseen events, the alarm raised at the bunker and the arrival of reinforcements, had rendered the rescue operation a disaster and made their retreat questionable. The Panamanian soldiers quickly assembled in a sweep line, with each man no more than twenty feet from two comrades. At a command that didn’t carry to the French, the troopers began a steady march across the graded valley floor.

“Merde!”

The commandos had just a couple minutes before the sweep line reached them. If they ran in the opposite direction, they would run into a sweep line being formed by the Chinese soldiers. They were trapped. The mound shielding them was like a blister on the hard-packed ground a hundred feet from the base of the terraced cliff. Maybe one of them could cover that distance without being detected, but not all six.

“Oui,” Lauren said, her throat tight, “merde.”

“Top of the hill,” Foch ordered. The team scrambled up the loose mound of mine waste, giving them a twenty-foot height advantage and an open field of fire. From a clandestine rescue, their mission was about to become a desperate last stand.

“Pick your targets. Officers, NCOs.” The lieutenant’s words were unnecessary. Those under him, and Lauren, knew what was expected. The Panamanian sweep line was twenty yards off, the Chinese a bit farther.

In a hopeful inspiration, Lauren said, “Concentrate your fire on the locals. They won’t have the level of training as the Chinese. If we can punch a hole through their ranks, we might be able to steal their truck.”

“Bon idée.”

There was a precious second when it appeared that the skirmish line would walk right past the hill, but then a Panamanian sergeant shouted at one of his troopers and the man angled toward the mound. Lauren couldn’t believe this was happening. In another thirty seconds she was about to enter a fight for her life. Even Kosovo hadn’t been this bad. She bit into her lower lip and watched the Panamanians approach over the sights of her machine pistol.

“Camerone Hacienda,” Tomanovic whispered. It was a rallying cry for the Legion, the site of a battle in which three officers and sixty-two regular troops held off an army of two thousand Mexicans during a war of imperial expansion under Napoleon III. In the end, like so many battles in Legion lore, the French were defeated, but only after the last five surviving Legionnaires fixed bayonets and actually charged the approaching Mexicans. The anniversary of the 1863 battle is still celebrated by Legionnaires each April 30.

By some sixth sense, Foch waited to fire until the very instant the rear gate on a dump truck slammed closed with a sound that covered the single shot. The soldier twenty feet from the base of the hill crumpled, his M-16 falling from his already dead fingers. There was a short pause, a moment in which his comrades waited to see if their buddy was kidding around. The French ended the moment with a deadly barrage. Seven of the twenty-five Panamanian troops went down before the first returned fire.

“Vic, Gerard, couvrez nos derrières!” Foch shouted as tracer fire crisscrossed the mine.

The two Legionnaires swiveled around in time to stop a sudden surge of Chinese soldiers approaching from their rear. The top of the hill became a redoubt with a commanding view. There was no cover for either the Chinese or the Panamanians and both groups quickly retreated before either side lost enough men to allow the French to escape.

“They’ll regroup and be back,” Lauren shouted, her ears ringing from the short but intense cross fire. Her gun was hot when she changed out its depleted magazine.

For five minutes, the Chinese and Panamanians sniped at the top of the hill, pinning the Legionnaires but not drawing the return fire they hoped would waste what they knew would be a limited supply of ammunition. The French picked their targets well, single shots that either killed outright or seriously injured. They knew, though, that this stalemate couldn’t last.

“Options?” Foch asked.

His men replied in sullen French, too tense to care that Lauren wouldn’t understand. Not that she couldn’t follow what was happening. She knew their options. None.

From across the compound she saw that the siege was about to end. A camouflaged pickup truck careened from around an office trailer. In its bed was a heavy machine gun. A .50 caliber if she wasn’t mistaken by the distance and the artificial lighting. The small arms the French carried were enough to keep ground troops at bay, but the machine gun could shred the top of the hill from a range they’d never be able to match. She also spotted an enormous front-end loader lumbering across the mine toward their makeshift breastwork. Its deep scoop looked like an enormous scythe.

She shouted a warning as an arc of fire reached up and out from the machine gun like water from a hose. The top of the hill came alive with bullets and ricochets and dirt kicked up by the fusillade. With the Legionnaires pinned by the sustained fire, the ground troops once again advanced on the hilltop. The top of the mound was coming apart, shredded by the heavy bullets so that the slight depression at its summit that shielded the commandos was about to be exposed. The Frenchman, Gerard, raised his FAMAS rifle to fire back blindly and had the weapon torn out of his hands by a blast from the machine gun. He lost half of his trigger finger as well.

The pickup lurched to a halt, which gave the gunner a more stable platform from which to direct his fire. Using the .50 caliber like an excavation tool, he concentrated his aim at one spot just below the crest of the hill. The heavy rounds began ripping a wedge out of the soil. It would take a few seconds, but once a breach was formed the commandos trapped on the hill would be exposed to the deadly stream of bullets.

The Chinese and Panamanian soldiers halted their advance to watch the inevitable.

No one paid any attention to the Caterpillar 988 bucket loader wheeling across the facility like a rampaging animal. It appeared that it was going to drive straight for the French position, but at the last second the driver spun the articulated machine and aimed it at the Chevy pickup truck.

At sixteen feet, the immense bucket was wider than the truck was long. With an easy touch on the controls, the unseen operator lowered the blade as he careened toward the pickup. The bucket scraped away the top inch of dirt as it slid under all four of the Chevy’s tires. The Chinese driver screamed as the view out his window became a solid wall of steel. The gunner was a moment too slow trying to jump clear. Once the truck was tucked inside the bucket, the operator effortlessly hoisted the vehicle off the ground. The big Cat had barely slowed as it lifted the pickup.

Snarling, the loader raced across the mine, a smear of thick smoke belching from the turbocharged six cylinder. Because the bucket was held level, the gunner managed to scramble to the pickup’s tailgate, but at a height of seventeen feet and moving at nearly twenty miles per hour, he balked at jumping clear. Then he understood what the operator intended and steeled himself. His foot slipped as he leapt, and he fell right in front of the six-foot-tall tire. The fifty-ton loader crushed him into the hard-packed soil as easily as a footfall smears an insect.

In the cab, the operator had raised the bucket high enough so he could see under it. He slowed the vehicle as he neared the working face of the open-pit mine. Just before the bucket sliced into the mountain, he tipped it forward. The pickup began to slide out as the machine crashed into the hill. The bucket’s open mouth carved into the hillside like a cookie cutter, taking a bite out of the earth. The force of the impact crushed the pickup and drove its mangled remains into the mountain. When the loader backed away, the truck was left embedded fifteen feet off the ground. A mixture of fuel and the driver’s blood drizzled from its shattered body.

On the mound, the French had reacted to their salvation much quicker than the Chinese and Panamanians. They opened fire, clearing a path for the loader to reach them. The mine’s defenders scrambled from the renewed counterattack. A few tried to shoot the Cat 988, but their rounds ricocheted harmlessly off the bucket the operator had lowered like an armored shield. Other rounds that hit the tires or body of the rig were absorbed without causing damage.

With the loader coming up behind them, Lauren and the others concentrated on keeping the Chinese from assaulting their hilltop from the front or flanks. Because the ground beneath the mound was so open, no one could get in range to prevent the rescue. The loader reached them a few seconds later, its driver powering the big excavator partially up the hill and lowering the bucket so the Legionnaires could simply leap into it.

“You guys call for a taxi?” a naked Mercer shouted from the loader’s cab.

After spending nearly eight hours in a metal culvert not far from the explosives bunker the Chinese used as his prison, Mercer was familiar with the mine’s routine. He’d watched intently all those hours, hoping for a break in the security patrols that would allow him to slip into the jungle. His uncomfortable wait, amid stinging insects and a visit from a curious snake that he’d hoped to God wasn’t a deadly fer-de-lance, had been for nothing. The mine was too well guarded and his opportunity never came.

He’d hoped that a chance would present itself when dusk came and a new work shift took over, but the scheduled relief crews came an hour before sunset and the dozens of sodium lamps that lit the facility came on long before any shadows appeared. He’d resigned himself for a longer wait, probably until Mr. Sun returned to the bunker and discovered his breakout. He hoped that in the first moments of panicked confusion he could find a way past the guards.

From his position, he could see the steps descending to the bunker prison and watched as Sun and four soldiers ducked into the fortified storehouse. He crawled partially from the culvert, checking the position of the patrols outside the perimeter fence and the nearest dormitories where he’d seen more soldiers performing afternoon drill. As soon as one of Sun’s men emerged from the bunker and blew his whistle, Mercer rolled out of the culvert and crawled bareassed across the dirt. He’d covered ten yards when he heard the distinctive crack of automatic fire from the far side of the facility.

Without seeing who was firing, he knew what was going on. Somehow Lauren had come for him. There was no other explanation. The firing intensified. From the duration and direction of the shots, he realized that Lauren, and most likely a few of Bruneseau’s Legionnaires, were pinned. This wasn’t a running fight, but a pitched battle. There was nothing between Mercer and freedom except one hundred feet of open ground, yet he turned and began moving toward the sound of the fight. He couldn’t leave them. He’d counted at least fifty Chinese guards earlier and knew his friends wouldn’t last without his help.

With everyone’s attention focused on the fight, Mercer approached a Cat 988 front-end loader. There were several other machines next to it, big Hitachis, but he was most familiar with the American-made behemoth. The driver had idled the machine and stood on a platform outside the cab watching the battle. The engine noise covered any sound Mercer made and he reached the vehicle without being seen. Rather than climbing the integrated ladder to reach the cab, Mercer hauled himself up a massive tire, using the deep tread as hand- and footholds. The driver never knew he was there until Mercer launched himself over a safety rail and slammed the Panamanian back into the cab. Hyped on adrenaline and exploiting the element of surprise, Mercer punched the man unconscious with two well-aimed blows. He tore the man’s shirt off his back and ripped off his shoes before tossing the limp figure to the ground.

Mercer wanted to partially dress himself but saw a pickup truck pull away from the soldier’s dormitory. In the bed was a Browning .50 caliber mounted on a pedestal. As Mercer watched, the gunner racked back the cocking handle.

He pumped the Cat’s throttle, reminded himself of the controls of this model excavator and took off in pursuit. Once the pickup was destroyed, he wheeled toward the trapped Legionnaires. As he recalled his history, the Legion didn’t have a very good record when it came to making their last stand in forts, like at Dien Bien Phu or any number of desert campaigns. The difference now, of course, was that he was arriving in a fort powered by a five-hundred-horse Cat turbo-diesel and could eat the ground at nearly twenty-five miles per hour.

He took the loader partly up the hill and positioned the scoop so the soldiers could remain well protected as they leapt in. He gave Lauren a smile when she stared at him at the controls. She stood slack-jawed after Mercer’s first quip.

“Come on,” he said, “the meter’s running.”

In a wave, the four Legion soldiers plus Foch and Lauren jumped into the massive bucket. A rattling fusillade hit the back end of the articulated excavator. The engine cowl was more than thick enough to deflect the shots but Mercer needed covering fire from the Legionnaires if he hoped to get them out of here. He lowered the bucket so it was at eye level to the cab and cranked the loader away from the small hill. Rather than drive out of the facility, he kept the heavy rig in reverse and backed them down the mine’s access road. Shielded on all four sides by the bucket, the Frenchmen and Lauren began firing down at any soldier who presented himself. From their vantage, the Legionnaires were impervious to any small arm short of a missile launcher. The loader had indeed become a mobile fort.

Looking over his shoulder, Mercer steered them away from the mine, swerving the loader around mounds of mine waste and purposely clipping the front of the 6x6 truck that had brought the Panamanian reinforcements. Even the glancing shot from the Cat blew out the truck’s front tire and bent its axle.

He knew that Lauren and the others were getting a rough ride in the bucket, but they maintained a steady rate of fire to keep the guards pinned, buying precious time they would need when the Chinese got reorganized and came after the fleeing loader in faster trucks.

The haul road wasn’t much wider than the front-end loader. There were no shoulders, just muddy irrigation ditches on each side of the dirt strip that would toss the occupants out of the bucket if Mercer misjudged. Approaching the chain-link fence and security shack, he hit the horn, alerting the Frenchmen that they had targets behind them.

The four Chinese guarding the gate held out for a few seconds as the loader bored down on them, but couldn’t match the intensity of fire coming from the elevated bucket. They disappeared into the jungle and didn’t reemerge until the machine had smashed through the fence and roared past.

Because they had left the area lit by the sodium lamps and clouds hid the moon, Mercer could barely see where he was going. He had to get the rig turned so the headlights pointed in their direction of travel. Around a shallow corner he spied an open lot used for storing construction trailers. He pounded the horn again and whipped the loader into the gravel expanse, slamming the joystick steering column to its opposite lock and thumbing into the first forward gear as the machine came to a sudden stop. He had them going again in a moment. He also raised the bucket to its maximum height so the Legionnaires could fire over the cab at anything coming in their wake.

Using one hand to keep the Cat 988 on a straight stretch of road, Mercer slid his arms into the stolen shirt and loosened the laces enough so he could slip his feet into the shoes. He was beginning to feel they had a chance.

The twin headlights cut deep enough into the darkness for Mercer to see that they were approaching a deep gorge. The steel bridge across it was wide enough to accommodate the loader, but it didn’t look strong enough to handle the weight. Machines like the 988 and the big dump trucks he’d seen were usually trucked in on semitrailers and assembled on site. Though new, the bridge was simply too delicate to handle even half of the loader’s weight.

He slowed as he approached the bridge. The gorge wasn’t as deep as he’d first thought and the bridge wasn’t more than forty feet long, but it was enough to prevent them from going on in the loader. He lowered the bucket and powered down the engine so the Legionnaires could hear him.

“Out, now! And get across the bridge,” he shouted. “The loader won’t make it. From here we walk.”

“What about you?” Lauren shouted back.

“I’ll be right behind you,” he reassured. “No repeat of my stunt on the ship. I promise.”

As the Legionnaires led Lauren across the bridge, Mercer looked back up the haul road. In the distance he could see the lights of an approaching vehicle. He scraped one of the concrete abutments as he eased the loader partially onto the bridge. Over the engine vibration he could feel the metal bridge protest the tremendous load he was putting on it. Once he’d reached what he thought was the weight limit, he lowered the bucket and then used the hydraulic power of the machine to press the front tire off the ground. The bucket’s hardened steel teeth sank into the asphalt.

He shut off the ignition and pulled the key, and with an easy underhand toss threw it into the gorge. Unless the Chinese had a heavy-duty wrecker, the Cat 988 was going to block the bridge for a long time to come. He took a second to lace the shoes before joining the others.

Lauren threw her arms around him even as they started jogging up the road away from the bridge. Her lips were hot and wet on his. “Ya mind telling me how you managed that?” Her excitement had thickened her Southern accent.

Mercer was a bit stunned by the passion of her greeting but was no less delighted. “Give me just a second.” He switched to French. “Foch, est-ce qu’il y a une barricade devant nous?”

“Quoi?”

“Is there a barricade ahead of us, something blocking this road from the highway?”

“Ah, oui. Well guarded, too.”

Mercer frowned. “Those soldiers have probably been alerted by radio already. If we don’t get clear of the road we’ll be caught between them and whoever gets past the loader.”

“D’accord.” Foch pulled a small encrypted radio from his fatigue blouse. “Monsieur Herrara, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m still here,” Roddy Herrara said from behind the wheel of the rental truck. “An army vehicle passed by a few minutes ago but you said not to call you.” He’d parked a mile beyond the mine’s access road as ordered by the French lieutenant.

“We’ll be with you in about fifteen minutes. We’re coming in from the jungle so don’t be startled.”

“Sí. I’ll be ready.”

Foch led the team off the road and back into the jungle, indicating that Tomanovic should take point. The taciturn Serb was the most skilled at finding the hidden game trails through the bush. Lauren took the slot behind Mercer during the march and even in the dim jungle her position afforded her an unexpected but delightful view. Whenever Mercer stepped over a log or ducked under a branch, his naked backside peeked out from under his stolen shirt. She couldn’t stop her eyes from darting every time it flashed like twin pink moons. His was the cutest tush she’d ever seen, making her blush and want to goose him at the same time. Reaching the truck, she couldn’t resist giving a quiet wolf whistle when Mercer clambered into the van’s enclosed box. He tugged at the tails of his shirt and shot her an embarrassed smirk. The soldiers called a few ribald comments.

Once Mercer and the Legionnaires were tucked into the cargo area, Lauren pulled on a pink shirt she’d borrowed from Carmen Herrara and took her seat next to Roddy. She wiped the greasepaint from her face and tamed her dark hair with a clip. By adding a little garish makeup any passing army vehicle or police car would think the van’s driver had gotten himself a puta for the night. Lauren needn’t have bothered with the disguise. They saw nothing suspicious all the way back to Panama City and her buoyant mood made the drive seem to take half the time as the run to the mine.

Roddy Herrara’s House Panama City, Panama

Carmen was asleep on the couch when her husband led Lauren, Mercer, and the Legionnaires through the front door. They entered with the raucous jubilation of a victorious football team. She blinked awake and her cry of happiness that Roddy was home safely woke Miguel and her own children. The tidy room filled with their joy. Gerard, who’d lost part of a finger, received sympathy from her and another round of good-natured teasing from his comrades for being the only casualty. For five minutes there were shouts and cheers and hugs all around. Even Harry, whose idea of a demonstration of affection was not scowling, gave Mercer a slap on the back.

“I owe you for getting me through that.” Mercer spoke over the reverie so just his old friend could hear.

“It was a group effort,” Harry demurred, surprised by the depth of emotion in Mercer’s voice.

“Not for the rescue. For something else I’ll tell you about sometime.”

Like a puppy starved for attention, Miguel tugged at Mercer’s arm, ending the moment and leaving Harry to wonder. “I knew you would come back,” the boy said for the tenth time. His tone was stubborn, as if his earlier doubts hadn’t been his true feelings.

It was little wonder that the trauma of losing his parents had evolved into a fierce devotion to Mercer. He had rescued Miguel from the jungle, made him laugh for the first time since his family was smothered, and brought him to a place of stability where there were other children his own age. Mercer had become a larger-than-life character in the boy’s mind and the thought that his hero would go away like his parents was too much for his fragile emotions. Despite his declaration of faith in Mercer’s return, he clung to him as tightly as he’d ever held anything in his life.

Mercer was not unaware of what he’d become to the boy. Not being a parent didn’t prevent a certain swelling within his chest. For the first time in his life, he knew the feeling a father had when a child looked up to him. He caught Roddy’s eye and a secret thing passed between them. The silent acknowledgment of what a child’s unquestioning love really meant. Mercer envied him.

The reunion moved into the kitchen. The smell of gun-powder and sweat was chased out the window by an electric fan and the aroma of hastily prepared food. Beers were passed around and the seating rearranged to accommodate such a large group. Savoring their success, everyone told stories of their role in the rescue. Mercer’s took the longest to tell. He glossed over the agony he’d endured and still the others hung on every word. His ingenuity at escaping the cell brought a toast from Lieutenant Foch and an offer to join the Legion.

When the stories were done, Carmen Herrara herded her children back to bed. Her attempts to make Miguel follow went unheeded. She understood better than the boy how he needed to be there with Mercer as proof his hero was safe. She let him remain with the adults while she herself went to bed after giving Roddy a tender kiss.

Sensing that the celebration was about to become a strategy session, Foch detailed two of his men to return the rental van to the parking lot they’d stolen it from and sent the other soldier to watch the house’s perimeter. It wasn’t that he feared they’d been followed from the mine, only that what was about to be said was for officers, not enlisted personnel. Gerard’s wounded finger had been tended to in the van, the stump cleaned and bandaged. The painkillers had taken effect so Foch let him sleep on the couch.

The beer was gone. Grudgingly Harry produced his bottle of whiskey and poured a round for everyone.

“You think that’s such a good idea?” Mercer asked, waving his glass at the tiny one Harry had poured for Miguel.

“Are you kidding?” Harry snorted. “My grandfather gave me booze when I was Miguel’s age and look how I turned out.”

“Exactly,” Mercer mocked.

Harry thought about it for a moment, glanced down at his rumpled shirt and stroked the rough stubble on his jaw. “Yeah, you got a point there. Sorry, kid.” He downed Miguel’s little shot and sipped at his own.

Mercer checked his watch and cursed silently when he remembered his torturer had stolen it. The wall clock said it was half past midnight. He’d slept for only an hour in the truck. While his body was exhausted, his mind buzzed with the lingering effects of adrenaline and a whir of ideas that were just now coming into focus. Rather than let everything fade, he knew now was the time to discuss their next moves, not in the morning when the frantic edge had worn off. Around the table, the eyes that met his were equally ready.

All except Harry’s. He had a smugness around him like he already knew all the answers. The octogenarian lit a cigarette, knowing Mercer was watching him. He seemed to savor the anticipation he was creating.

“You have something to say?” Mercer finally asked, knowing Harry was willing to burst before revealing whatever secret he harbored.

From behind a jet of smoke Harry said, “The gravel you found at the container port didn’t come from the mine.” He sat back, ready to accept Mercer’s praise for solving that little mystery. The others also looked to Mercer, waiting for a reaction about what they’d discovered in his absence.

“I know it didn’t.” Mercer’s answer brought startled looks all around.

Harry suddenly deflated. “What? How did you know?”

“I know the gravel didn’t come from there and neither did the gold. That place is no more a gold mine than you are a poster child for clean living. It’s a sham.”

“What are you saying?” Lauren placed her elbows on the table. “We all saw it. It has to be a gold mine. All those men. The equipment. Those big trucks.”

“It’s window dressing,” Mercer stated. “An elaborate stage setting to convince investors and government officials that Liu has found a gold vein in the jungle. Considering the expense he’s put into it I bet he’s even had geological reports faked to compound the ruse. I’ve seen this done before, usually as an investment scam. A shady mine operator fakes some reports, salts ore samples with gold dust and leaks the findings to the public. When the mine’s stock value goes sky-high, he secretly sells out and vanishes. A week or a month later some regulator goes in with an independent geologist and discovers people have lost millions of dollars over a worthless hole. I’ve personally delivered that kind of bad news to pension fund managers who’ve just lost a bunch of little old ladies’ retirement accounts.”

“You think Liu is attempting the same thing here?” Roddy asked.

“It can’t be,” Lauren opined. “We saw the gold at the warehouse.”

“And it was on the television,” Roddy said. “A big ceremony earlier today with President Quintero where he showed off a bunch of newly minted bars for the media. They even had a new Republic of Panama seal.”

“We all saw gold, yes. That doesn’t mean it came from the mine. The geologic evidence I saw from the culvert doesn’t support a gold vein anywhere near where they’re working.

If you want, I can bore you with details, but it won’t change the fact that the gold we saw came from someplace else. Trust me.”

“Don’t forget the gravel was being shipped to the mine from a ship,” Harry added. “That kind of supports Mercer’s theory.”

“Right. More props for Liu’s stage. I recall it seemed high in quartz, one of gold’s trace elements, so it probably came from an active gold mine. Liu would want samples on hand in case someone gets too interested in his mine. More proof they’d hit the mother lode.”

“If the gold isn’t from the mine, and it isn’t part of the Twice-Stolen Treasure from the lake, where did it come from?”

Foch had hit the crux of the enigma.

“I’d guess the same place the gravel came from,” Mercer said. “China.”

Lauren’s face creased with confusion. “But why? This seems too elaborate for investment fraud.”

“I don’t think it is.” Mercer shrugged. “I don’t know what he’s up to.”

“What about a smuggling operation?” Harry offered. “What if they’re going to use the mine operation as a cover for sneaking that Inca treasure out of Panama?”

“I’d considered that,” Mercer said. “But if Liu planned to smuggle out all the gold, why legitimize his discovery at all? Why not just take the gold from the lake and ship it straight back to China? By pretending it came from the mine, he has to pay a good portion of the proceeds to Panama’s government in licenses and taxes. He’d lose half the gold’s value plus the expense of creating the mine in the first place. He’s too slick for that. It has to be something else.”

“What?”

“Let us look at the facts.” Roddy ticked off his fingers as he spoke. “The Chinese have built a fake gold mine. They have brought in gold and ore, probably from China, to make it appear legitimate while they look for a huge treasure buried near the River of Ruin. Once they find the Twice-Stolen Treasure they will likely pretend that that gold came from the mine. By reporting it as coming from the mine, he will have to pay tens or hundreds of millions of dollars unnecessarily. Do we agree so far?”

The others nodded, waiting for Roddy to continue, believing he’d found a pattern.

“Well, those are the facts.” The former canal pilot lowered his fist. “I am sorry I don’t know what they mean either.”

Amid the defeated exhalations, another round of drinks was poured. Miguel had fallen asleep against Mercer, his smooth face turned away from the light, his snores soft in the adults’ frustrated silence.

“What could Liu gain by just giving all that money to the government?”

“More local power than he already has.”

Roddy shook off Foch’s suggestion. “With the amount of money Hatcherly Consolidated has poured into my country, Liu already has as much power as any man in Panama. Unless he wants to be named emperor or something.”

Lauren picked up the thread. “Plus, if he wants to get further into President Quintero’s good graces he could simply turn over all the treasure. Once they find it,” she added.

“You’re saying that Liu wants to maintain control of the gold so he can dole it out more slowly?” Harry’s question was answered with a nod. “Well, we all know that politicians have pretty short memories. Let’s say Liu gives them the treasure all at once. What do you bet in a year none of ’em recall Liu’s generosity when he wants the go-ahead on some other scheme? By holding back part of the gold he can keep Quintero or whoever’s in power on a pretty tight leash.”

Foch suddenly saw what Harry had figured out. “By keeping them grateful, he can keep them, ah, obedient, yes?”

“For years.”

“No,” Mercer said. “For as long as the treasure lasts. The supply isn’t inexhaustible.”

“Ah, guys,” Lauren drawled, inspiration flashing in her magical bicolored eyes. “What if we’re coming at this backwards.”

“What do you mean?” Foch accepted a cigarette from Harry.

“We’re assuming that Liu’s plan is to just give money to Panama in exchange for some later concession. But Roddy mentioned that Hatcherly already walks on water in the government’s eyes and I’ve heard pretty much the same thing since I rotated in. Hatcherly doesn’t need to give them anything.” She paused, as if unsure.

“Okay.” Mercer drew out the word to help her draw out the idea.

“Rather than ask something of Panama later, what if they plan to take away something now and use the treasure to compensate?”

“You’re talking about the canal?”

“What else?” She gathered herself, warming to the wild idea as she explained. “Think about it. Hatcherly is just going to give the government millions of dollars in gold when they could have just snuck it out of the country. They already control container ports, a pipeline, the railroad, and a dozen other businesses. The only thing they don’t directly run is the canal. Maybe the gold is payment to take it over too.”

“Captain Vanik,” Roddy interrupted, “the Canal Authority pays my government roughly two hundred and thirty million dollars a year. If Liu is given control of the waterway he might be able to match that in gold revenue for a couple of years, but like Mercer said, the treasure will eventually run out. And then what?”

He’d pointed out a fatal flaw in her idea but she refused to give up. She was convinced she was on to something. “Maybe they only want control for a couple of years.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” She blew a frustrated breath. “Maybe they want to shut it down or something.”

“They couldn’t do it.” Roddy was on familiar territory and spoke with authority. “Part of the treaty that handed the canal back to Panama was that the United States maintains the right to use military force if open navigation is threatened by an overt act. If Liu intentionally shut down the canal American marines would hit the beaches within days to reopen it.”

“I thought I read somewhere that U.S. intervention is dependent on Panama allowing them to land,” Foch said.

“That’s just a technicality,” Roddy said, dismissing the idea.

And then Mercer saw the whole thing. It was as if Liu’s entire operational plan was laid out in front of him. He knew exactly what the Chinese were after. He’d been leaning back in his chair and shifted so suddenly the legs snapped against the floor. “It is a technicality, yes, but a very important one. If a shutdown isn’t an overt act, the U.S. can’t come in without an invitation.” He focused on Roddy because of the former canal pilot’s expertise. “Let’s say Liu wants temporary control of the canal but can’t act in the open. His next best option would be some covert act of sabotage. Something short-term that won’t look suspicious and can’t be tracked back to him.”

“All right.” Dubious, Roddy had seen enough of Mercer to go along with him.

“How would he do it?”

“Oh, God, I’ve never really thought about it before. The obvious thing is going after the locks, but they’re so massive that anything short of a nuclear strike can be repaired in a couple of months.”

“Too short of a time frame,” Harry interjected. “And not very covert either.”

“The Gatun Dam on the Atlantic coast is what holds back all the water ships use to transit the canal. It’s vulnerable. During World War Two there were antitorpedo nets strung in front of it and antiaircraft artillery emplacements around it. Boats today are kept away by law and buoys.”

“Is there any way to damage it?”

“Oh, sure, ram a ship into the spillway. Problem is that such a breach would likely drain a few million acre-feet of Lake Gatun, the canal’s reservoir.”

“Overkill,” Mercer thought aloud.

“Overkill,” Roddy agreed. “It would take many years for natural rainfall to refill the lake to the point ships could cross the isthmus again.”

“So what does that leave us?”

“That leaves the Gaillard Cut, the canal’s narrowest point.” With a pencil Roddy sketched out the shape of Lake Gatun and the canal. Like a twisting tentacle growing from the body of an amoeba, the main part of the waterway stretched from the lake and wended between the continental divide on its way to the Pacific Ocean. Where the canal was its narrowest, between two mountains he labeled Contractor’s and Gold, he wrote in its width: 624 feet. “It looks like a big number,” the pilot added, “but it really isn’t when you consider a lot of the ships we move through there are a third longer than the cut is wide. Those mountains loom over even the tallest vessel and it’s like an oven in there during the summer with heat radiating down into the cut. Even with the widening, it’s too tight to allow the big PANAMAX ships cross-directional passage.”

“I’ve seen the cut,” Lauren said as she looked at the rough drawing. “It would take a hell of an explosion to blow enough rubble into the water to block it. During the widening project completed in 2001 the final blast used something like sixty thousand pounds of explosives.”

“You forget it was spread over a few hundred yards of the canal,” Roddy countered. “A concentrated shot could do enough damage to at least partially fill the canal.”

“Let us say for the sake of your argument”—Foch looked at the others as he spoke—“that Liu wants to shut down the canal for a couple years while it is redredged. We still don’t know why he would do such a thing. Why jeopardize his legitimate gains in Panama with a subversive act of terrorism? What does he gain?”

“He controls the oil pipeline and railroad,” Harry replied. “With the canal out of action he’d be the only game in town. Be a hell of a business.”

“Ah, yes.” The Frenchman nodded. “He’d be able to double or even triple his freight charges. Shippers would have no choice but to pay if they wanted to avoid the extra fourteen-thousand-kilometer trip around South America.”

Mercer had already considered and rejected that motivation. “Rail tariffs represent about half as much money as Liu would give in gold subsidies to keep Panama afloat until the canal opened again. That’s not the reason, although moving freight on the trans-isthmus line could help defray some of the costs of his operation and maintain an international shipping presence here.” He turned to Lauren, who looked exhausted. “You were the first to think about Liu exchanging the Twice-Stolen Treasure in return for being allowed to knock out the canal. Any ideas?”

She stifled a yawn and shook her head. “For now I think we should worry about the how of this thing rather than the why. Liu’s strategy will reveal itself once we learn his tactics.”

Mercer smiled. “First law of combat?”

“Nope. Second law. The first is that bullets always have the right-of-way.”

This got a chuckle all around and the intensity seemed to drain from the discussion. It was nearing two in the morning, time to call it a night. Most of them had been awake for thirty hours or more.

Lieutenant Foch declined Roddy’s offer for he and his men to spend the night. The Legionnaires had to return to their safe house and face whatever punishment Bruneseau had for their disobeying orders.

“Will you still be able to help us?” If he was going to stop Liu, Mercer desperately needed the Legion’s help. It showed in his voice.

“I do not know. Until a few weeks ago Bruneseau was a stranger to us.”

“You will tell him what we’ve learned?” Lauren asked in a tone as desperate as Mercer’s.

“I will tell him. It may do no good. I get the feeling that he is more interested in his career than, ah, what is your saying, sticking out his neck.” Then he added soberly, “I do not concern myself with legalities in this matter. I don’t need enough evidence to convince a court of law that Liu is dangerous. However we have yet to gather enough proof to convince anybody of anything. This is all speculation on our part. Captain Vanik, would you be comfortable bringing this to your superiors?”

She was embarrassed to admit that she wouldn’t.

“You understand my difficulty as well. Bruneseau’s only concern was the missing nuclear waste. I do not believe we will be able to change his mind about leaving.”

“Could you talk to your superiors in the Legion?” Mercer asked.

“I am but a lieutenant,” he said, meaning any report he wrote would be filed and forgotten.

“What if we can get more proof? Something definitive?”

“I don’t know what you could find, Mercer,” the Frenchman answered honestly. “Because nothing has happened yet, there is no . . . smoking gun.” Foch looked pleased at his use of the American idiom.

Mercer swore at his own weakness. He was too tired to draw a conclusion from everything they’d discussed, even though he felt it was tantalizingly close. He closed his eyes, trying to get his mind around the solution he knew was there. His expression darkened and Lauren placed a concerned hand on his arm.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, damnit!” He paused. “Sorry.”

No matter who he paid off, Liu couldn’t lace the Gaillard Cut with explosives and expect investigators to believe it was anything other than an act of terrorism. The U.S. government would come down here like the hounds of hell. How else could he do it? Come on, Mercer, come on. Think. Oh, sure. Ram a ship into the spillway. Roddy explaining how to breach the Gatun Dam. The last shot used sixty thousand pounds of explosives. Lauren talking about the canal widening. The ore carrier I was piloting suddenly veered into the oncoming lane. Roddy again, back in Harry’s hotel room, describing the suspicious accident that cost him his job.

Three disparate threads and only one logical conclusion. Mercer looked first at Lauren and then at Foch. “Do you or one of your men have scuba diving experience?”

“I have some,” the Frenchman replied at once, overriding his confusion at the odd question. “Corporal Tomanovic has more. He dives all the time.”

“Can you spare him for twenty-four hours?”

“What’s this all about?” Lauren bristled because Mercer had asked about men who dove while he knew from the picture in her apartment that she was a diver.

“I think I know how Liu plans to blow up part of the Gaillard Cut. I think the proof we need is waiting for us at the Pedro Miguel Lock.” Mercer noted the anger in her eyes. He could tell she was silently accusing him of some misguided bit of gallantry to protect her from danger. He had no such intention. “Don’t worry. I’m not excluding you. I’ve only been diving a few times, nowhere near enough to make me comfortable about going into the canal. If Lieutenant Foch lets Vic join us, you’d be his dive partner, not me.”

Her anger became mild concern as she thought through what Mercer proposed. Entering the busy waterway, where the locks weren’t much larger than the hundred-thousand-ton ships that regularly passed through them, would be the most extreme dive she’d ever attempted. She searched Mercer’s face, finding within herself the trust to know he wouldn’t ask if this wasn’t critical. “I’m your girl.”

“Why the Pedro Miguel Lock?” Harry asked.

“For one,” Roddy answered, having guessed Mercer’s plan, “it is the closest to the Gaillard Cut and is also the canal’s most isolated. There are no towns around and no one goes there to watch the ships like they do at Miraflores. More importantly it was coming out of that lock that the ship I was fired over was delayed for fifteen minutes. No reason was given and a short time later it veered out of control. If Liu is doing something to the ships to cause these accidents, that is the place.”

“Ah.”

“I can’t imagine that Liu’s plan doesn’t have something to do with the mysterious accidents Roddy and other pilots experienced,” Mercer said. He turned to Foch, his cocked eyebrow asking the question.

“Vic is yours. I’ll cover for him with Bruneseau. When?”

“What do you think, Lauren? You’ve got the experience.”

“Early morning or late afternoon is best. The angle of the sun and its glare will hide the glow from a dive light. None of us are in shape to do it at dawn.” She looked at her watch. “Which is four hours from now. Let’s say tomorrow just before dusk.”

Roddy had a suggestion. “So you don’t draw attention by entering the water from shore, I know someone who keeps a powerboat at Limon on Lake Gatun’s east shore. You can meet him there and he’ll take you through the cut to the Pedro Miguel. His boat can be your dive platform.”

“Would he do it for you?” Mercer asked.

“He’s Carmen’s brother.” There was no need to elaborate. In a country such as Panama, nothing was more important than the family bond.

An hour later the ringing telephone jolted Mercer from sleep and for that he was grateful. He’d been deep into a nightmare, a virtual replay of his torture, only this time Mr. Sun hadn’t restarted Mercer’s heart before applying additional needles. Mercer was dead yet could feel the unbearable pain of his body turned against itself. Each new agony, piled on top of all the others, made him pray his brain would stop functioning. It was starving for the blood his heart no longer pumped while still providing him with every crisp pain. Death was not a release, no matter how much he hoped for it.

At the second ring he came awake enough to feel his body was so bathed with sweat that he needn’t have bothered with the brief shower he’d taken before collapsing on Roddy’s sofa. Through the panic, he felt his heart pounding against his ribs and fell back into the cushion with a relieved sigh. His lungs pumped air like a pair of bellows.

“Mercer,” Roddy whispered sotto voce. “Are you awake?”

“And alive,” he panted, disturbed by the vividness of the dream and the hollowness it left in his chest. Terror lurked right under the surface, ready to fill that emptiness if he didn’t force it back.

“Lieutenant Foch is on the phone.” Roddy crossed the dim living room, his parental sixth sense allowing him to navigate the minefield of discarded toys. “Here is the cordless.” He padded back to his bedroom.

“Yes, what is it, Lieutenant?” Mercer’s voice rasped.

“We’re back at the safe house. Bruneseau isn’t here.”

Mercer swung his legs off the couch, the rush of air tingling his sweat-matted hair. “Has he already left for France?”

“His luggage is still here, although his passport is missing.”

Mercer dismissed the missing passport. Like most knowledgeable international travelers, the spy would take the precaution of carrying it all the time. Mercer did whenever he was overseas. “Maybe he’s at the embassy.”

“I called his cell phone and spoke to him. He said that’s where he was, but after we talked I had another question and called his cell again. He didn’t answer. I then phoned the embassy to get him for me. The duty officer hadn’t seen him. I had security check their logs. Rene Bruneseau hasn’t been there in five days.”

This got Mercer’s attention. “He lied to you?”

“Oui.”

“Pourquoi?” Unconsciously Mercer had switched to French.

“Je ne sais pas,” Foch admitted. “When we spoke, he didn’t seem to care that I had taken some of the men tonight. Nor was he interested that you wanted Tomanovic tomorrow.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing. Just that he had some loose ends to take care of before he could leave Panama and that we should make our own way back to Guyana.”

“Any idea what these loose ends might be?”

“Monsieur Bruneseau did a lot of work without us,” the Legionnaire explained. “Our job was mainly to watch the Hatcherly container port. He’d spend his days, and some nights, elsewhere. I assume cultivating contacts, but now I’m not sure.”

Mercer paused before responding. He’d worked with CIA agents in the past and thought he understood the spy mentality. Most took the concept of need-to-know to the very limit, oftentimes to their own detriment. “Did you tell him what we planned to do tomorrow?”

“Just the broad outline.”

Something told Mercer this was meaningless. He didn’t like Bruneseau. The French agent had used him, after all, but he didn’t think Rene would do anything to impede what they were trying to accomplish. Tonight, Lauren had told him how Bruneseau was ready to lead the rescue at the mine and only backed out when he found his primary mission was over. Not helping save Mercer made the Frenchman a bastard, not a threat.

“I don’t think we have to worry,” Mercer said at last. “Rene doesn’t know what we’re planning. If everything goes well, by tomorrow evening we’ll have the proof we need for Lauren to go to her superiors.”

“Okay. To be safe, I am going to close up this house and relocate. I’ll have Bruneseau’s stuff brought to the embassy. You and Captain Vanik should pick up Vic at the main bus station in the Cinco de Mayo Park at, say, nine-thirty. Don’t worry, he’ll recognize Roddy Herrara’s Honda.” Foch hadn’t come out and said he didn’t trust his superior, but the precautions meant the Legionnaire wasn’t taking any chances.

Operationally, it was a sound plan. It also made Mercer think about putting Roddy and his family into a hotel for a while. The few hundred dollars for a suite was a small price for peace of mind. He couldn’t bring himself to imagine anything happening to this generous family. Mr. Sun couldn’t create a torture even half as painful.

“Okay,” Mercer said with deepening apprehension. “I’ll be in touch before we reach Pedro Miguel.” He clicked off the phone.

Mercer settled back into the couch, wrestling with his doubts. There could be dozens of reasons why Bruneseau had dismissed the Legion soldiers. He really could be closing out his case or he might have been embarrassed to admit he was with a prostitute when Foch called. There was no reason to believe that Liu Yousheng had turned him, yet with so much at stake, Mercer couldn’t dismiss that idea.

When he finally drifted back to sleep, the nightmares returned. Only this time it was Rene Bruneseau who manipulated the acupuncture needles.

Lake Gatun, Panama

The boat was a twenty-four-foot Wellcraft, old but well maintained. The elements had yellowed her fiberglass shell, contrasting with the recently repainted red strip along her waterline. Her stern was molded into bench seats that hid the engine and partially insulated its throaty growl. Accessible between the two front seats was a forward cabin outfitted with two beds, a tiny kitchen, and a small cubicle for a chemical toilet. She was perfect for a romantic weekend cruise on the lake, where thousands of secluded bays and uninhabited islands beckoned.

Behind the powerboat a wake of white foam spread like an elongated arrow on the glassy green water. The overnight rains had ended and the morning haze had burned off. The sun beat mercilessly. The breeze of their twenty-knot speed kept the four people on the boat from wilting in the heat.

Had Mercer been able to forget what lay at the end of this journey, he would have cracked a beer and enjoyed himself.

He stripped off his shirt, leaving him in just shorts and sneakers. He watched with fascination as the unusual coast-line rolled by. It was tough to imagine that the immense body of water wasn’t a natural formation. Lake Gatun, in fact all of the Panama Canal, represented an unprecedented triumph of human engineering over a nearly insurmountable obstacle. Geology had separated the Atlantic from the Pacific three million years ago and now they were connected across a lake floating eighty-four feet above sea level. That the canal was nearly a century old made it that much more impressive.

From the boat’s speeding deck, Mercer found himself hard pressed to find evidence of the lake’s unnatural birth. Farther on, past Gamboa where the canal narrowed toward the Gaillard Cut, its man-made nature revealed itself, but here it looked like any other lake in the world. It wasn’t until he looked closely at the islands that he could tell they had once been hilltops and the lake’s meandering shore the flanks of mountains. There was little evidence of erosion and only a few small sections of beach. Also, the vegetation covering the islands contained few aquatic plants. There were no marshes or wetlands, as he’d expect to see. The jungle simply stopped at the water’s edge where it ran out of soil. Outside the shipping lanes, he occasionally saw the tips of old telegraph poles sticking from the water’s surface, birds perched on the rotting wood. They were remnants of the old rail line that had been submerged when the lake formed.

He imagined that this is what the world would look like if the polar ice ever melted. The endless parade of ponderous freighters and tankers only enhanced that impression. It was easy to think that the last remnants of humanity were borne on their great hulls like a flotilla of modern-day Noah’s Arks out of some post-apocalyptic science-fiction scenario.

Juan Aranjo, Carmen Herrara’s brother, kept them well outside the buoys that marked the shipping lanes as they sped away from Limon toward the Pedro Miguel Lock. He spoke no English and seemed content in silence rather than engaging Lauren in conversation.

Lauren’s cell phone chimed.

She waved for Mercer to answer it. She and Tomanovic were checking over the equipment she had rented at Scubapanama, the country’s premier dive shop, where she was known.

He dug it out of her knapsack. “Hello.”

“Mercer, it’s Roddy.”

“Are you guys out of the house?”

“We just got to our new hotel. The kids are getting spoiled by your generosity. Even Miguel wasn’t so disappointed about you leaving him behind when he found there is a pool here. And Harry’s already working his way through the mini-bar.”

Mercer smiled at that image. “Have you heard anything from Foch? There was no answer when I tried calling him from Limon.”

“No, I haven’t,” Roddy said. “A couple of his men made sure we got to the hotel safely but I haven’t spoken with him. However, I did get a call this morning from a friend of yours. Maria Barber.”

That was the last person Mercer had ever expected to hear from again. “Really? What did she say?” A thought occurred to him and concern crept into his voice. “Hold on, how did she know to call you? She thinks I’m in D.C.”

“Don’t worry. I asked her the same thing. She tried your home in Washington and then took a chance calling me. She said you’d told her about me when you two had dinner.”

Mercer had worked to purge the whole ugly night from his memory so he didn’t specifically remember that part of their conversation. “What did she want?”

“Besides you?” Roddy teased, then turned serious. “She claims she has some information about her husband’s death.”

“Did she say what it was?”

“No, she wanted to talk to you in person. I told her you were going out on Gatun with my brother-in-law and couldn’t be reached. I have her number if you want to call her.”

“How did she sound?”

“Like she’d started her morning with a couple of Bloody Marys.”

Mercer’s mouth turned downward. “Keep the number. I’ll call her when we’re finished.” Or maybe he wouldn’t call her at all. It was unlikely she had any pertinent information. She was probably just drunk and lonely, and looking for affection. His pity for her went only so far.

“Where are you guys?” Roddy asked.

“According to the chart Juan showed me, I think we just passed Barro Colorado Island. We’re going to hold up near here until late afternoon. I don’t want us hanging out near the Pedro Miguel Lock longer than necessary.”

“Good idea. The Canal Authority hasn’t banned pleasure boats from approaching the locks, but with the heightened security they could ask you to leave if they get suspicious. Call me when you’re done.”

“Will do,” Mercer said and killed the connection.

Ten minutes later, Juan Aranjo cut away from the shipping buoys and motored toward the shore, tucking his boat into an isolated bay far from where they could be seen. He took them under an overhang of thick palms to hide them from aerial observation and the noontime sun. After killing the engine, he tossed a small anchor over the side. The jungle was a riot of bird calls.

Lauren declined his offer to use the cabin so Juan went below to sleep through the afternoon. Like soldiers anywhere in the world, Tomanovic found a corner to curl up in. The gentle sway of the boat and the shaded warmth lulled him immediately to sleep.

“All your equipment check out?” Mercer asked Lauren quietly.

“We’re good to go.” If she was nervous about diving near the lock it didn’t show in her voice. Lauren gave him a level gaze. “Can I ask what really happened to you at the mine?”

Mercer’s stomach clamped. All morning he’d convinced himself that he could put the incident out of his mind. The frantic preparations—getting the dive gear, picking up Tomanovic and meeting up with Juan—had kept him occupied. Now that they had a couple of hours with nothing to do but wait, he’d hoped the memories would remain suppressed. Lauren’s question brought the whole thing back in brutal clarity.

“Why do you ask?” he hedged.

“Something tells me that the description you gave us in Roddy’s kitchen wasn’t the whole story.” She paused. “From the bedroom Carmen let me use I could hear you moaning and thrashing in your sleep.”

Mercer wasn’t comfortable giving voice to what bothered him. He’d witnessed so much ugliness and death that it would take a lifetime to talk it out. Instead, he steadily purged it himself, banishing it to the darkest corners of his memory where only nightmares dwelled. He knew that it was an ill-advised attempt at denial, but somehow it seemed to work.

She’d asked the question without guile, not understanding how much he didn’t want to recall the torture. As he took a minute to gather his thoughts, Mercer slowly realized he was grateful. Somehow she’d sensed that this incident wasn’t going to go away without help.

“This is going to sound weird, but he took something from me.” He chuckled. “And not just my watch.” Their eyes met. “He killed me, Lauren. I was dead. He did something with his needles that stopped my heart from beating. I could feel it lying in my chest, the rhythmic thumping I’d always taken for granted was gone. I could feel that I was dead.”

Lauren went pale. She didn’t know what to do with that information. It was far beyond anything she’d ever heard before.

Mercer continued, “I went someplace that no one is supposed to return from. And you know what? It wasn’t anything like what you’ve heard. I didn’t hover over the room looking down at my body. I was still there on a slab with a madman standing over me. There was no heavenly glow, no friends to guide me to the afterlife. There was nothing except the inevitability of oblivion. I don’t know what to think about that.”

After a moment, Lauren said, “You weren’t dead.”

Although she spoke with absolute conviction, Mercer recognized the empty assurance. Her words rang of a childhood spent at Sunday school and of regular church attendance. “Please, Lauren. You weren’t there.”

“There is no way he could stop and then start your heart with a couple of acupuncture needles. It’s impossible.”

“Are you stating scientific fact or defending your faith?” It sounded harsher than he intended. He regretted it and was relieved when she let it pass.

“How do you know your heart stopped? Did you really feel it in your chest or were you aware because there was no pulse in your ears?”

Mercer had to think about that. The torture had been so vivid in his mind, but that detail eluded him.

Lauren’s next question added to his confusion. “Do you remember hearing anything when you say your heart was stopped?”

“I don’t think so,” he replied after a moment. “Sun wasn’t talking or anything.”

“There’s your answer. Sun didn’t speak because the acupuncture needles paralyzed your inner ears, more specifically the tiny hairs in your cochlea that turn sound vibrations into a signal your brain can recognize. When he blocked those nerve impulses, he prevented your brain from feeling the rush of blood near your cochlea. Your heart was pumping just fine—you just couldn’t tell.”

“But . . .” Mercer began to protest then stopped himself. Her explanation was simple and logical. It made more sense than Sun having the ability to arrest his heartbeat. And yet he knew deep down that something fundamental had happened to him, something that he couldn’t name. So what if Sun had tricked him into believing he’d died? The feelings his torture created in Mercer were no less crippling.

He felt like he stood on a precipice, wanting to take the leap that might help him find what Sun had taken, while part of him desperately wanted to pull back. He knew the void was too great. It was full of too many monsters. Too much pain. He wasn’t strong enough to push past his own doubts.

He couldn’t look Lauren in the eye when he lied. “Maybe you’re right. Sun didn’t take anything from me. His little hoax, making me think he’d stopped my heart, fooled me into giving it to him.”

Lauren reached across the deck to take his hand. “Whether he took something or only made you think he did, you have to believe that you are whole now.”

“You’re not going to let me get away from this, are you?”

“No. For two reasons. I’m about to put myself in danger and I need to know you’ll be there to back me up.”

“If I couldn’t support you, I wouldn’t let you dive today. You have to know that.” Mercer had never meant anything more in his life. He would not let her down.

“All right.” She nodded. “Good.”

“And the second reason?”

“I’ll tell you that one after the dive.” While her voice sounded like she’d let this matter drop, her eyes did not. She smiled to dissolve the severity of the moment. The slight gap between her teeth acted like a counterpoint to the flawlessness of her beauty. To Mercer it only made her more attractive.

She rolled her arm to look at the matte-finished dive watch she wore instead of her regular Rolex. “Since we’ve got some time before we go into the water, I’m going to follow Vic’s lead and catch some sleep. Last night wasn’t one of the more restful I’ve had. Are you going to be okay?”

Mercer rummaged through a satchel he’d brought and extracted the leather-bound Lepinay journal. He held it up. “I still haven’t read this damned thing. I think now’s a perfect opportunity. But do me a favor. If you ever meet Jean Derosier, the guy who sold it to me, don’t tell him I took it out on a boat. He’d kill me for exposing it to the elements.”

“Deal.” She stretched out on the bench seat with a bundled dive bag as a pillow and seemed to slip away after a few seconds.

Mercer watched her sleep. He both marveled at and was frightened by her instincts about what Mr. Sun had done to him. He wondered if it was female intuition or if it physically showed on him. He hoped the former but suspected the latter.

He cracked open the journal. The smell of the old pages was strong, a scent that Mercer always associated with knowledge. Without an English-French dictionary, he could only get a vague sense of some of what Godin de Lepinay wrote more than a century earlier about his travels in Panama. Yet he was confident that he would understand more than Bruneseau when he had looked through it in Paris. Rene read it with the eyes of a spy.

Mercer’s saw it the way the author intended—as an engineer.

Three hours later, with the sun sinking toward the west, Mercer closed the book. Reading the faded script had started a dull ache in his temples. Before he woke the others he washed down a couple of aspirin with water from a bottle. Baron Lepinay wrote in a rather flowery style, odd for a man of science, and Mercer was sure he’d missed a lot of the subtlety in the text. Also, Lepinay compared geologic and geographic features in Panama to others he was familiar with in France. He’d written things like a particular hilltop reminded him of Mont Mouton. Mercer couldn’t know if there was even a place called Sheep Mountain in France or what it would look like.

Still, the journal didn’t contain a single reference to missing treasure, Incas, or anything else Liu Yousheng had shown interest in. It was little more than a travelogue, with details on how Lepinay would build a lake-and-lock canal. For Mercer it was a remarkable historic artifact, but it offered nothing about their present situation. The only thing even remotely close was a passage about visiting an extinct volcano in the north of Panama that sounded a bit like the one above the River of Ruin, including a lake and island. Lepinay didn’t have a geologic background and didn’t know that similar volcanic lakes dotted the globe. He was especially impressed with the smoothness of the lava tubes that had once belched molten rock from deep in the planet’s interior.

Mercer returned the journal to his bag, feeling a nostalgic twinge for the first time he’d explored such a feature at a volcano in Hawaii. He was sure that if Liu knew its contents, he wouldn’t have bothered trying to steal it in Paris. He had a perverse desire just to mail it to Hatcherly’s president with his compliments.

Putting aside his dismay, he called out to Lauren and Vic. It was time to get going. Juan lumbered up from the cabin, his shirt unbuttoned down to his navel so that his sweaty belly spilled over his belt line. He went forward to haul up the boat’s anchor.

“Oh, hey,” Lauren exclaimed after wiping sleep from her eyes. “Did you find anything in the journal?”

“Not one damned thing,” Mercer said. Lauren’s expectant look dimmed. “It was interesting from a certain point of view, but I couldn’t find anything that would compel Liu to send gunmen to steal it. Maybe he really is interested in canal history.”

Lauren shot him a doubtful look. Mercer shrugged as if to say anything’s possible.

Juan switched on the fuel pump and keyed the ignition. The motor came to life. For the remainder of the trip down the canal, Tomanovic and Lauren had to remain out of sight. The idea was that Mercer was to act like a photographer who’d hired a local’s boat to take pictures of the ships using the lock. To enhance the deception he still had the camera and lens he’d brought to the River of Ruin.

Lauren and Vic ducked into the cabin to don half-millimeter Henderson microprene body suits, more as camouflage than thermal protection, as Juan pulled them away from their secluded anchorage and headed back for the main channel. They passed a couple of excursion boats lined with camera-wielding tourists in addition to the normal parade of oceangoing transporters. The sun continued its dive for the horizon. Its reddish glow mirror-flashed off the water whenever a wave turned to the proper angle.

Exiting Lake Gatun, they started down the narrower reach toward the Gaillard Cut and the Pedro Miguel Lock. Because the exclusionary marker buoys for the big ships left only tight lanes along the banks, Juan kept his craft tucked to the right shore, on the opposite side of the canal from Gamboa. Beyond the wide twists in the waterway, Mercer could see the looming massif of the continental divide. The closer they got, the narrower the canal became and the more the landscape revealed its artificial nature. The hills that once fell in lazy slopes to the water had been partially leveled and stepped back so they resembled the terrace farms Mercer recalled from trips to Asia and Africa. Jungle vegetation was just now reclaiming the land. This was the latest in a century-long effort to stem the landslides that had plagued the canal since the moment the first steam shovels began tearing open the passage.

One hundred and five million cubic yards of dirt had been excavated from the Gaillard Cut alone, fully half of all material unearthed for the canal project. An early description of the sheer volume of rubble removed to build the Panama Canal stated that if it were compacted into a column with the base the size of an average city block, it would climb to 100,000 feet. Or put another way, the overburden would fill a string of railcars long enough to circle the globe—three and a half times. As Juan Aranjo’s boat motored farther into the cut, Mercer felt that no guidebook comparison could possibly depict the awesome scale of the project. He’d seen many of the world’s engineering marvels, the Great Pyramids, the Coliseum in Rome, the Golden Gate Bridge, Hoover Dam, the Channel Tunnel. All of them paled next to this.

Towering to their right, they passed what remained of a particular hill that had been blasted to the exact shape of the step pyramid at Saqqara. Then they reached the actual continental divide. Mercer was astounded to think that he was in the middle of a mountain range that stretched from the tip of South America all the way to northern Canada. Walls of andesitic basalt rose in stepped-back cliffs five hundred feet above the placid water. These were the remains of Gold Hill and Contractor’s Hill, the highest mountains near the canal and yet the lowest the early engineers could find when they surveyed the route. Holes had been drilled into the rock and reinforced concrete plugs inserted to add stability, and still there was evidence that rockslides continued to occur. The canal was a little more than six hundred feet wide and it seemed the tops of these stone massifs weren’t much wider, looming like the sides of the artificial canyon this was.

From the deck of the small boat, he had to tilt his head all the way back as they motored between the shadows of these man-made cliffs. The recent rain had saturated the veneer of soil on top of the hills, so water cascaded down the faces of the hills in white horse-tail streaks.

“Pretty amazing, huh?” Lauren asked from the entrance to the cabin. The black microprene suit clung to her body like a second skin.

Mercer had to force himself not to stare. “I was just thinking that when they were digging the cut, the temperature must have been about a hundred and twenty degrees.”

“The heat was about that bad, yes, but what bothered them most were the landslides. Months of digging could be refilled in just one avalanche, burying steam shovels and train tracks and men. I read it was so unstable that not only would mud slide into the dig, but at times, the bottom of the cut actually bulged upward because of the weight of the mountains next to it.”

Mercer visualized the titanic weight of the two hills pressing into the soft substrata and causing an upthrust between them, like pinching two ends of a balloon to expand its center. It was rock mechanics on the largest scale.

They watched in silence for a few minutes. Lauren finally spoke. “On the drive over, you were kind of vague about what Vic and I are looking for down there.” Behind her, the Serb used a whetstone on the blade of his dive knife. “Care to give me something specific?”

“I’m not sure,” Mercer said. “Roddy told us that all the ships that suddenly went off course had been delayed coming out of the west lane at Pedro Miguel. He and the other pilots didn’t report anything wrong with the ships’ steering. No one had tampered with the auxiliary controls or anything like that. Roddy and I think that maybe something was attached to the hulls of these ships to cause the course changes.”

“A submersible?” she asked doubtfully.

“I know it sounds farfetched, but how would you go about changing the direction of a twenty-thousand-ton ship? Remember, none of the vessels that went off course were PANAMAX ships. They were smaller freighters passing through the canal at night. This would give a submersible the room to maneuver and, depending on how it was designed, the power to alter the course of such a vessel. The sub could be moved into position as soon as the lock doors open. The ship is then held up for a few minutes while the sub is attached. And when the time is right, it uses its engine to nudge the freighter off course.”

“Why go through all that when it would be cheaper, and easier, just to pay off a couple of canal pilots to cause these accidents?”

“If Liu does close the Panama Canal the subsequent investigation is going to be massive. He can’t risk those pilots being questioned and can’t kill them either because that would be more suspicious. Also, by staging a string of such strange incidents he’s created a pattern that would explain away an explosives-laden ship he intentionally rams into the canal’s bank.”

Lauren’s brow creased as she considered Mercer’s explanation. He could tell she was reluctant to believe his idea. Her nod was more to say that he should go on than that she bought the scenario. He saw that their relationship had suffered in some fundamental way because of his reaction to the torture. He didn’t know what he could do or say to reassure her that he was still thinking clearly. Nothing, probably, until he did finally come to grips with what Sun had done to him.

“I’ve got to hand it to Liu,” Mercer continued, putting aside her uncertainty. “He’s damned thorough. He’s planned dozens of moves ahead, and remains flexible enough to react to our presence. Every contingency I can think of, he’s already considered. Any investigation into a catastrophic explosion will show that American-trained canal pilots have a history of screwing up. Following the trail of gold he’ll pay to Panama only leads to a mine that looks legit. If the canal is closed for a couple of years, the fact that Hatcherly Consolidated has container ports and bought a rail line and has almost finished an oil pipeline will seem like a case of right place right time, not something deliberate.”

“It all seems so convoluted.”

“It is, and that’s the beauty of it. It’s too complex to be plausible and yet there’s no other explanation.” He paused. “Anyone with enough motivation and explosives could blow up anything in the world. The trick is getting away with it. That’s what separates a lunatic from a calculated terrorist. We’re not dealing with suicidal fundamentalists. These are rational people who want to survive the attack and enjoy their rewards. That’s why it has to be so complex. Liu’s got this operation planned to the final detail and is weeks, maybe only days from pulling it off.” His eyes bored into hers. “Lauren, do you realize that if I hadn’t been suspicious about how Gary Barber died the investigation would have ended in the jungle with that police officer you don’t like. No one would have any idea that a Chinese company, ostensibly owned by their government, was about to shut down the Panama Canal in such a way that the United States would be unable to react.”

“Señor,” Juan Aranjo interrupted.

Mercer looked up. Like an oasis of technology in the middle of a primeval jungle, the Pedro Miguel Lock lay just ahead. Their little boat was now on the Pacific side of the continental divide so the terrain had flattened into gentle slopes covered in golden grass and palms. On the east bank a shantytown of corrugated buildings abutted the chain-link fence that stretched along this section of the waterway. Laundry swayed from lines stretched across the squatters’ village, and behind it was the railroad and the trans-Panama highway. Closer to the side-by-side locks sat a mooring site for the small boats pilots used to reach the ships they were to guide, several parking lots, and two long warehouses. These structures were maintenance sheds for the electric trains that towed vessels through the locks. The trains ran on tracks laid on the edges of each thousand-foot-long lock chamber and on the sixty-foot-wide wall that divided the two concrete basins. Up to six of these engines, called mules, were needed to guide their unwieldy charges into and then out of the locks so that neither was damaged. It was up to the canal pilots to coordinate a ship’s own motive power with that of the mules, and to maintain proper tension on the heavy towlines to see the vessel transit the lock safely.

A tanker had just passed out of the right lock, giving Mercer a view down the length of the chamber to the tops of the mitre doors that held back Lake Gatun. They closed inward in the shape of a flattened V so the angle helped spread the tremendous load they held at bay. From Roddy he’d learned that the doors were sixty-five feet wide, seven feet thick, and were hollow so that they floated to make opening them easier. Each individual gate weighed upwards of seven hundred tons. And here at Pedro Miguel, both lock chambers had two sets of doors on the downstream end so that if one were somehow broached, there wouldn’t be a catastrophic failure that could conceivably drain the lake.

From the low vantage of Juan’s boat, Mercer couldn’t accurately gauge the scale of this amazing system, nor could he see the mile-long Miraflores Lake beyond. On the far end of that lake was a pair of double locks built in stair-step fashion that raised or lowered ships a total of fifty-five vertical feet from the level of the Pacific Ocean.

As he watched, the freighter in the left-hand lock began to rise perceptively, levitating as gravity dumped eight and a half million gallons of water into the chamber. In just a few minutes, the level within the lock reached that of the cut and the massive doors swung outward. The mules heaved on their lines to pull the ship out. Once the steel hawsers were cast away from the vessel, white water erupted at its stern as its huge propeller powered it away.

Mercer looked down at Lauren once again. “We’re here. We’ll wait for twenty minutes or so for the sun to go down a bit more and then put you and Vic in the water.”

“Okay.”

Juan knew his role as tour guide and began pointing out features for Mercer to shoot with his camera. Not that there was any film in it. He tried to determine if there was any unusual activity going on at the lock, but all seemed normal. A continuous procession of ships lumbered by. None of them were cruise liners or PANAMAX freighters because it was getting late and the sun would be down by the time they reached the Gatun Locks on the other side of the country.

Mercer dutifully acted like he was burning through pictures, all the while his stomach tightened with tension. He hated that he was asking Lauren and Vic to do something of which he himself was incapable. It wasn’t in his nature to let others put themselves at risk, but this was too important to trust his rudimentary diving skills. All during the wait he checked on her as much as he dared without acting too unusual. Her outward calm didn’t seem to be hiding anything more than a natural sense of anxiety.

After twenty-five minutes, Lauren said the angle of the sun was right for their dive. The surface of the canal was a flickering sheet of reflected sunlight, as if the water had turned to flame.

“A cargo vessel is about to come out of the right lock,” Mercer informed her out of the corner of his mouth. “Its bulk will prevent anyone at the lock from seeing you scramble over the side as long as no one’s on the ship’s wing bridge. I’ll keep watch, and as soon as I say go, get yourselves into the water.”

Vic stood behind Lauren on the short stairs rising up from the cabin so he could help her maneuver off the boat with the big air tank on her back. A belt of lead weights draped from her waist and a buoyancy compensator hung from her neck. Lauren and the Serb had already pulled on hoods that matched their dive suits and had their masks in place. Both carried their flippers, which they would slip on their feet once they were safely under water.

Taut muscles in Lauren’s arms and shoulders made slender crests in her suit. From behind the mask, her eyes were steady. “When water flushes through the lock’s access pipes,” she said, “we’ll face some pretty tough currents that’ll cut into our bottom time. Even at minimal consumption these tanks have a maximum of sixty minutes of air. Scubapanama didn’t have any of the bigger ones I wanted.

Vic and I’ll be back exactly forty-five minutes after we go in, and that’s pushing it far beyond what’s safe. Understand?”

“Three-quarters of an hour. Gotcha.”

She touched his arm. “I mean it, Mercer. Expect us in forty-five minutes, but if we’re not back in sixty, we ain’t coming back. There is no leeway in these numbers. If you don’t see us in one hour, you won’t see us at all. Promise me you’ll get your butt out of here.”

Mercer held her gaze for a second, nodded, then raised his camera to study the freighter through the long lens.

The ship’s captain and canal pilot must have stationed themselves on the far side of the vessel because only a pair of Panamanian soldiers acting as guards stood at the wing-bridge rail. One waved down at the little boat and Mercer turned the camera away, not wanting to give them any reason to remain. The rest of the four-hundred-foot ship appeared deserted.

Mercer watched the two bored troopers surreptitiously and the instant they moved away from the rail to return to the air-conditioned comfort of the bridge, his voice cracked, “Now!”

Tomanovic moved so fast he was nearly carrying Lauren and her sixty pounds of gear as he lunged up the steps. When he reached the gunwale, he grasped her around the middle and spun around so that when he tumbled over the side he shielded her body with his. They hit with a small splash and a boil of bubbles. A few moments later, two gloved hands rose from the water and gave the divers’ circular okay signal by touching thumb to index finger.

The hands vanished and the water churned slightly as the two finned away. Mercer pulled Lauren’s Rolex from his pocket and noted the time. Forty-five minutes, she’d said. They’d be back up at seven-eighteen.

The sensation was like falling into a bottomless bathtub because the water was blood warm. Lauren twisted in liquid space and tucked her knees to her chest to slip on her flippers before adding air to the buoyancy compensator. She and Vic found their equilibrium at the same time and both slid toward the surface to give Mercer a signal that they were all right. She bled a little air from the vest, allowing her to drop back into the void. They leveled off at forty feet, deep enough for much of their exhausted breaths to dissipate. She immediately equalized the pressure in her ears and behind her face mask. Through the murky water, Lauren could feel the throbbing engine and thrashing propeller of the freighter passing abeam of them.

Because she was used to ocean diving, it took her a few moments to get used to the difference in buoyancy the freshwater gave her and its silty taste. Visibility was pretty bad, maybe twenty feet, but would give her enough warning if there was anything in the water with them. There was little current this far from the locks, yet Lauren was prepared for the suck of water once one of the chambers began to fill.

Together, she and Vic began swimming in easy strokes toward the lock.

Her PADI instructor once told her that scuba was the sport for the lazy. Do nothing fast and don’t waste energy you might need later. It was advice she’d never forgotten.

Using just the strength in her supple legs, she kicked through the milky emerald water toward the distant concrete structure. Vic stayed at her side. Above them, the setting sun had turned the surface into a distant plane of crimson mercury. Below lurked an impenetrable gloom.

Mercer’s assurance that he was okay rang in her mind. She wouldn’t have gone in the water if she didn’t believe him. He was up to this mission, yet she still harbored a lingering doubt. He had been damaged in that torture chamber in some way he refused to acknowledge. It was a male thing, she felt, the unwillingness to admit pain. She’d seen it in her father, her brothers, and all during her military career, especially in Kosovo. Like most men, Mercer would stupidly spend days or weeks working it out himself rather than save time by talking.

Lauren wanted to help him. She remembered him talking about his childhood in Africa and knew he was capable of expressing his feelings. If she could—

Focus, damnit, she admonished herself, concentrating on her breathing. She had her own priorities right now.

After ten minutes of swimming, a shadow formed in front of her and Vic. Like coming across a sunken building, they approached huge walls of cement that quickly filled their vision. The front of the twin locks.

Vic jerked a thumb downward. Lauren nodded and the two sank farther into the abyss, coming up on the bottom at fifty-five feet. The floor of the canal was barren stone, swept clean by the remorseless tidal action of the locks filling and draining. It looked like a desert. Not a piece of trash, leaf, or stick in sight. The bottom of the locks sat on a massive concrete foundation ten feet above them. The steel doors were like those guarding a giant’s castle, utterly impregnable.

Flanking each set of doors were culverts formed within the cement, each bigger than a subway tunnel. These eighteen-foot-diameter pipes were the inlets through which water entered the lock. Feeding off them inside the lock’s walls were fourteen evenly spaced branches, each large enough to accommodate an automobile. These cross-passages stretched under the chambers themselves, and from them a total of seventy separate stem valves rose into the floor of the lock to evenly distribute the flow of water. The apertures in the lock’s floor in which the stem valves sat were ostensibly the smallest component of the whole mechanism and yet each was four feet square. All this piping could fill a 110,000-square-foot lock at a rate of two feet a minute. The billions of gallons that drain from the canal each year are replaced by seven feet of annual rainfall recharging Lake Gatun through the Chagres and other rivers.

Lauren hung suspended, mesmerized by the scale of what she was seeing. Age had darkened the concrete to a dull black, but the main feeder pipes were darker still, somehow malevolent, like haunted caves from a child’s nightmare. Despite the warm water, a chill ran up her spine and she whirled around, certain she was being watched.

Vic signed if she was all right and she acknowledged that she was. Her heart refused to slow and her breathing had accelerated. Again, she looked around. This time she caught a flicker of movement. Something was out there, another patch of darkness that wavered just beyond her view. She strained to see it, beaming her dive light in its direction. Nothing.

Come on, girl. Get a grip.

And then it came, resolving out of the murk, driving at them with the speed of a torpedo. Lauren got a brief impression of something silver before it was upon them. Even with the distortion of the water, it was at least eight feet long, powerful. She screamed into her mouthpiece, choking as she took a mouthful of water.

Vic’s hand lunged out to grip her shoulder, the touch enough to calm her. She blinked and realized their attacker was one of the tarpon that regularly got caught in the canal. The monstrous fish with its underslung jaw broke off its investigation and carved a tight circle around them to return to its hunt for a way out of the freshwater trap.

Lauren gave Tomanovic an embarrassed shrug. She readjusted the equipment that had shifted during her violent thrashing, making sure to note her air consumption. She compared her gauge to his. They were about even.

She looked back at the doors above them. It was hard to believe that something that large could move, yet they began to swing outward on hinges that weighed nearly twenty tons apiece. She could feel the movement of water as newly installed hydraulic rams forced them apart. A freighter or tanker would be drawn out from within the lock by the mules in just a few minutes. After that the doors would reseal themselves and the water within the chamber would drain into Miraflores Lake to lower the level for the next vessel coming up the thirty-foot stair.

Once that next ship was secured inside the lock and the doors closed, more than eight million gallons of water would be sucked through the intake pipes to raise it up to the level of the Gaillard Cut. The rush would create a surge more powerful than the worst rip current, a force that neither Lauren nor Vic could ever hope to fight. They’d likely be crushed within the labyrinth of tunnels under the lock and their corpses would eventually flush through the system like so much trash.

It was time to find the submersible.

Keeping the dive lights angled downward so they wouldn’t show to guards and workers above, they began scouring the bottom of the canal, looking for anything out of place, some piece of evidence that ships were being intentionally diverted by something kept here at Pedro Miguel.

If she and Vic couldn’t find evidence, they’d all have to rethink their theory about what Liu Yousheng and Hatcherly were trying to accomplish in Panama. Maybe this really was an elaborate smuggling scheme that had nothing to do with the canal. It could be that was what was bothering Mercer, Lauren realized. The idea that his theory could be tossed out the window and he wasn’t in on the investigation. From their first night on the River of Ruin, she knew he was a man who valued his self-reliance and she doubted he’d accept someone else’s conclusions without investigating on his own.

That wasn’t a male thing, she thought. That was a scientist thing.

Get your head back in the game, Lauren.

Above them, the long dark shape of a freighter pulling from the lock cut the scarlet reflection on the water’s surface. At its stern was an area of roiling vortices as its prop thrashed to build up speed. The hull was coated in barnacles that would drop off by the time the ship exited the Gatun Locks on the Caribbean side of the canal. Like the tarpon, they couldn’t survive long away from their natural saltwater environment.

The area she and Vic had to survey was much larger than Lauren had anticipated, and they had about ten minutes before they needed to retreat away from the intake tunnels for the duration of the filling process. The shaft of light from their dive lamps drilled a cone through the murk that only reached twenty-five feet. By swinging side to side, they cut fifty-foot swaths back and forth across the bottom, eyes tracking the sweeping beams. Vic pointed out a couple of industrial shapes, old equipment dumped off to the side of the lock gates, but nothing resembling a submarine or large underwater propulsion platform.

They’d been under for twenty-two minutes. By working from the lock back toward the boat, they shortened the distance needed to return, giving them another twelve minutes, including a couple for decompression. Lauren began to feel the futility of their task. There wasn’t anything down here. Mercer had been wrong. She didn’t think Roddy Herrara had lied about his accident to cover incompetence, but whatever happened to him and the other pilots who’d been fired had nothing to do with this lock.

Intent on their search, Lauren and Vic didn’t notice that the huge doors had closed. In another three minutes, the valves that controlled flow into the chamber would open. The lane they were cutting across the canal was just beyond the danger point where it would suck them in.

Neither did they notice that they were no longer alone.

Six amorphous shapes had moved into position above them, hovering like wraiths. At a signal from one of them, the six swooped downward in pairs, slicing through the water with the ease of sharks.

Lauren was the first to feel that something was wrong. It was the same sixth sense that had anticipated the tarpon charge. She flipped onto her back and gazed upward just as the frogmen plunged down at her and Vic. They wore black wet suits. Four held knives while the other pair carried spearguns. Bewilderment immobilized her for just a moment before her combat training took over.

She flashed her light at her dive partner, alerting him, then reached for the knife strapped to her thigh. If not for the spearguns, Lauren would have pumped more air into her buoyancy compensator and rushed past them for the surface. Instead she dumped air and raced for the bottom. Vic dove with her, swimming on his back so he could watch their stalkers. He held his knife across his chest.

The two divers with spearguns halted their advance twenty feet off the bottom, taking up positions that covered their partners as they continued downward in pursuit. The angle of the hunt took everyone closer to the locks.

Lauren found rocky footing on the bottom, bracing herself for the rush of attack. As the distance closed, she saw that the divers were Chinese. A frogman lunged from above and to her right, a straight slash that she easily ducked because her flippers were wedged against a stone and gave her leverage. She swept her knife as the diver tried to twist away. Dark blood bloomed in tendrils from the gash in the man’s calf.

She swam after him. The wound slowed the Chinese diver enough for her to catch up. Unable to brace her body for a killing strike with her blade, Lauren slashed again, opening another cut below the man’s double tanks. He spun over to face her. Lauren parried his attack, the clash of metal on metal muted by the water. With her free hand she reached for his dive vest, found what she wanted and with a squeeze filled the bladder of his buoyancy compensator like a balloon.

The frogman shot upward like a rocket, effectively taking him out of the fight for a couple of minutes. Lauren panted through her regulator.

Tomanovic struggled with the other three Chinese divers. One of them was bleeding from his shoulder while the other two looked unscathed. They had Vic surrounded in a cordon large enough for one of the divers above to shoot the Serb with his speargun. Lauren stroked into the battle, coming up behind one of the Chinese. She feinted going for his air hose, and when he moved to protect it she pumped up his vest so he began to rise uncontrollably. This time she stayed behind her victim as they ascended toward the two armed divers, using him as a shield.

Had the Chinese been a larger man, stronger, she wouldn’t have been able to smother his writhing attempt at escape. She held on tight, steering them to slam into his partner. The blow barely distracted either man, but Tomanovic used those few seconds to back away from the men who’d nearly captured him.

Lauren was now embroiled in a fight that resembled an aerial battle from World War One. She and the two frogmen tumbled through the water, pursuing one another and fleeing at the same time, defending and attacking in a ball that continued to shrink as each tried to get an inside advantage. The speargun had been nullified by the closeness of the combat, but knives flashed in the glare from the wrist lights the Chinese wore. It seemed no one could get the advantage to end the struggle.

The second speargunner watched the squirming ballet, waiting for an opening.

Vic launched himself from the bottom of the canal, ignoring the two divers who came after him. The speargun swiveled at him when he was spotted and still he kept coming. The Chinese diver steadied his aim, waited until his quarry was less than five feet away and pulled the trigger.

The Serb had judged his attack perfectly, his experience almost allowing him to read the mind of the man with the gun. He anticipated the shot by a full second. The arrow left a silvery streak of bubbles in the water as it slid along the length of his body, missing his torso as he contorted to the side. It continued harmlessly into the depths, its power diminishing by the drag of the water.

He swam past the gunman and somersaulted so that he hung inverted just above his target, keeping himself protected from the two divers with knives and at the same time giving him access to the speargunner’s air hoses. He sliced through the first one before the man realized Vic was still nearby. The Serb was just feeling for the second hose through the torrent of bubbles when an unimaginable pain exploded in his groin. A knife had been thrust nearly to the hilt from above. The blade entered below his testicles, ripping open his scrotum, cutting apart the large nerve cluster and scraping along the cradle of his pelvic bone.

He’d forgotten about the sixth diver, the one Lauren had launched toward the surface. He’d come back and exploited Vic’s vulnerable upside-down position.

Like an octopus that uses ink to escape a predator, the diver Vic had almost cut off from his air supply slipped away in the clouds of blood that pumped from the juncture of Vic’s legs. The man whirled, finding his adversary hanging limply in the water. Tomanovic was still alive but wouldn’t be for long as the lifeblood billowed from his body. Centering his aim, the Chinese frogman moved in to smash the butt of his empty speargun into Vic’s face mask hard enough to shatter the glass.

He’d clamped a hand over the air venting from his severed hose and was about to assist his partners still battling Lauren when a dull boom echoed through the water. He’d been stationed at the lock long enough to know what the sound meant. A ship was about to be lifted. The floodgates were opening to fill the chamber.

Disregarding the safety of his partners, he started swimming away as fast as he could, the two others holding formation with him.

In the odd rendering of time that is combat, the sixty seconds Lauren had been struggling with the other pair of divers had felt like an hour. As long as she stayed close to the speargunner, she wouldn’t be shot and the other with the knife couldn’t come in on her. Not that she’d gotten away unscathed. A couple of slices like razor cuts had split her suit and skin.

She felt the vibration pulse through the water and suspected what was about to happen. The other two knew it as well and tried to disengage. Rather than take the opening presented as the gunner turned to fin away, Lauren thrust-kicked after him, realizing for the first time how close they’d drifted to the locks.

All the Chinese were swimming toward the largest of the old machines dumped near the lock and the clarity of her adrenaline high allowed her to see that it wasn’t old at all, only painted oxide red. It was a modern diving bell, a pressurized chamber that permitted the frogmen to remain underwater for hours. The piece of junk next to it wasn’t an antique either. What she’d thought was a large-spoked wheel on one side of the truck-sized artifact was actually an enormous impeller on a specialized submersible. Mercer had been right!

The surge hit so strongly that it nearly stripped her mask over her head. In an instant she lost her forward momentum and was being drawn backward. The two Chinese were only a couple of feet ahead of her and they too were caught in the pull. The mechanical gates that controlled flow had cracked open. The current was already stronger than any Lauren had faced.

She couldn’t help looking back at the intake tunnel that was sucking her in like some horrible mouth. For a couple of seconds Lauren futilely resisted the force with her arms and legs. She swam faster than the Chinese divers and in a moment all three came abreast of each other. Yet it was a race to remain stationary. The gates opened farther and the current doubled, then doubled again. There was no way to resist it. They were caught, like flotsam in a whirlpool, and no amount of struggling could fight the pull. One of the frogmen dumped his weight belt in hopes he could float free. The second it took to slap at the buckle cost him several feet.

Lauren knew what she had to do.

They were twenty feet from the opening, accelerating toward it each second. There was no way she could prevent herself from going in. She could only hope to survive the ride. She committed herself by breaking her swim rhythm and grabbed for the diver next to her. Her grip slowed the beat of his leg. An instant of panic caused him to stop swimming altogether. Lauren torqued her body, bringing them broadside to the surge with him closer to the lock. Like a pair of kites caught in a sudden updraft they lost all control, flailing, pulled backward even faster than before. They smashed into the slower diver and all three tumbled in the jet of water. Lauren maintained her position behind them by holding on as tight as she could.

The rush of water sounded like a liquid hurricane. Lauren pressed her mask against the shoulder of the man in front of her and clamped her jaw on her mouthpiece.

Their target was eighteen feet in diameter but luck would have it that they were just to the right of the opening so they were drawn in at an angle. Lauren ducked her head as they were swept inside and felt the jolt as the first diver in line had his skull split open by the impact with the pipe’s concrete lip. The fountain of blood caught in the dive lights swirled in countless back-eddies.

Just one scrape against the lining of the tunnel would be enough to peel flesh down to the bone so Lauren fought the men, not the current, always keeping her body protected as they scuffed along the conduit. It was like holding on to a mattress while falling down a cliff. Disoriented by the endless tumble, she lost all sense of direction. The bubbles from her regulator danced like dervishes.

A light swept ahead and Lauren saw that amid the wild flurry of motion the draw of water being sucked down into the cross-culverts was pulling them across the tunnel. They’d already passed at least half of the fourteen inlets. It was only a matter of time before one of them pulled them in.

Like an animal working at a piece of meat, the torrent tossed them wildly and still Lauren managed to keep the two Chinese in front of her. Either the one in the middle, who she could feel was still breathing, didn’t understand her intentions or was too paralyzed by fear to resist. A roar like a subway rushing through the darkness filled her head. As they flipped again, the wrist light showed they careened scant inches from the left side of the pipe. Lauren had two seconds to brace herself. One of the ten-foot cross-culverts was just ahead and she knew this one was going to grab them.

When they hit the rim of the ninety-degree angle, the staggering collision blew her mouthpiece from her lips, her lungs emptying in a gust of pain. The corpse of the partially decapitated diver took most of the impact, the pressure of two people behind forcing the last of his blood to erupt from the ruin of his skull. The middle diver absorbed the rest of the blow, his rib cage shattering like glass.

Pressure held them to the concrete wall for an instant before the current yanked them in again. They dropped a short distance in a wrenching swoop as Lauren’s lungs ached to breathe. She couldn’t feel her mouthpiece but knew it was waving around her like a tentacle. The tunnel leveled out and an instant later they flashed beneath the first of the stem valves that fed water into the bottom of the lock chamber.

One of the bodies was pulled from her grip and forced up through the opening.

The water had lost part of its force, giving Lauren the courage to let go of the second corpse with one hand to snag her regulator. Her lungs were on fire. She could see the mouthpiece curling in front of her, but couldn’t coordinate her movements to grab it.

The end of her flipper hit the top of a lifter valve sunk partially into the floor of the tunnel and was torn off her foot. The hit sent a bolt of agony from her ankle. The last reserve of air she’d managed to hoard escaped in a silent scream. They streamed by another valve. Lauren could feel the counterforce of water entering the culvert from the second feeder tunnel located in the seawall dividing the two locks. Her forward progress slowed further. She lunged for the regulator again, forgetting all about her scuba training and the proper technique for retrieving a lost mouthpiece.

She needed air. The darkness spreading across her vision was in her head, not the surrounding water. Her lungs convulsed, a sharp draw that felt like her diaphragm had torn. She was about to drown.

One last desperate reach and she found the regulator. Gripping it tight, she shoved it past her greedy lips. The first taste of air almost made her cough. The second was like heaven.

Then the body, which had drifted below her, smashed into the third valve and the regulator was jerked from her mouth. She hadn’t realized she’d been drawing breath from the frogman’s tank. His body, and its life-giving regulator, vanished behind her and again she found her lungs nearly empty. The current pushed her closer to the tunnel’s ceiling.

She reached the center valve, banged hard against the edge of the opening with her air tank, and was suddenly floating in water that seemed as tranquil as a pond. She’d made it! She was inside one of the great lock chambers, eight hundred feet down its length from where she’d entered. Above she could see the silvery reflection of high-intensity lamps mounted above the facility. She just wanted to lay there and watch the dance of light on the underside of the water. Her back ached, her ankle screamed and she was so dizzy she could no longer think. Just lay here for a minute.

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. “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 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.

“That’s true.” Mercer studied Foch. “But I don’t plan on giving her the opportunity to tell him and I’m relying on you and your men if things do get hairy.”

“You believe that Maria Barber can give you the evidence?”

Mercer nodded at Rene and took a long draw off his beer.

“What if she doesn’t know anything?” The agent continued to probe for holes in Mercer’s plan.

“Wouldn’t it be enough that she told the Chinese about us being on Lake Gatun tonight? Even you can see the causative link. It’s safe to infer from there that everything else we’ve deduced must be close to the truth.”

“Meaning,” Harry said in a lecturing tone, “that the Chinese will be in economic control of a country that’s close enough to the United States to lob nuclear missiles from.”

Mercer hadn’t listened to his friend. He’d laid out his arguments to Bruneseau and sat waiting for an answer, drained by the emotional toll this day had taken. But something broke through his exhaustion and he leaned forward. “What did you say?”

“That unless we stop them, China’s gonna run Panama the same way the Soviet Union used to run Cuba.”

“And it’s close enough that a medium-range nuke could hit the States.” Mercer’s voice went vague. He suddenly launched himself from his chair. From the suite’s desk he grabbed a piece of stationery and plucked the pen Harry always carried in his shirt pocket for doing crossword puzzles.

“What are you—?”

“Shut up.” Mercer cut off Rene’s question and excluded everyone else in the room as he thought back to when he and Lauren had been in the Hatcherly container facility. The secure warehouse. It was where Liu had stored the crushed ore he was using to make the mine look legit. Near it had been some strange trucks. They’d looked like some kind of special cargo transporters, painted yellow like most of the other vehicles at the port. It took him five minutes to sketch one of the massive trucks, detailing its eight heavy wheels and the crane attachment on its low bed. When he was done he showed the picture to Bruneseau. “Recognize it?”

The French spy went pale. “Where did you see this?”

“There are eight of them about ten miles from where we’re sitting,” Mercer answered.

“You know what this is?”

“I do now, thanks to Harry.”

“What is it? What’d I do?” the octogenarian asked, not liking that they were talking like he wasn’t in the room.

Bruneseau held up the picture so Harry, Roddy, and Foch could all get a look. Only the Legion officer recognized it. He sucked a breath through his teeth. “That’s the transporter for a DF-31 intermediate-range nuclear missile.”

“Road portable,” Rene added, borrowing the pen to sketch in a rocket sitting on the back of the big truck, “with the ability to cold launch a missile with about two hours’ notice. Guidance package automatically compensates for wherever it’s erected. New intel reports give it a range of thirty-two hundred kilometers because of an improved solid propellant.”

“About two thousand miles,” Roddy said. “Such a missile could hit New Orleans, Dallas, Atlanta. Or Washington, D.C.”

“China doesn’t have the technology to hit us with weapons from the mainland so they’re going to park eight of these shorter-range missiles here. Once they control Panama’s economy and the canal all we can do is lodge diplomatic protests.”

“We could blockade,” Harry offered, “like Kennedy did with Cuba.”

“No way,” Mercer replied, once again in awe of Liu Yousheng’s audacity and genius. “This isn’t some isolated Caribbean island. Eleven thousand ships a year pass through the canal, representing flags from just about every maritime nation on earth. With the canal out of action for a couple of years, Hatcherly Consolidated will still be able to move roughly seventy percent of that cargo on their railroad and oil pipeline. We’d disrupt the entire global economy by enforcing a blockade.”

“But it would be China’s fault,” Harry persisted.

“Yet we’d be the ones sending cargo ships on a ten-thousand-mile detour around South America. How long do you think world condemnation is going to remain focused on China’s acts when it’s a U.S. fleet costing countries their seaborne commerce?”

“By making their temporary stoppage of the canal look like an accident, Hatcherly can deflect an American reprisal,” Roddy said, “so long as they have my government under some sort of control. No doubt President Quintero is involved. My question is what happens when the waterway’s reopened after a year or two? By treaty, the United States could come in and take it by force to ensure nothing ever happens to it again.”

Bruneseau answered, “The question should be what the Chinese want to accomplish in those two years by stationing nuclear missiles here.”

“Well, they’re always going on and on about Taiwan,” Harry said from the mini-bar, where he was dumping Jack Daniel’s onto the thin film of Coke he’d already dribbled into his glass.

“You mentioned Cuba,” Mercer said to his old friend. “I think you’re on to something. The whole reason Khruschev put missiles there in the sixties was to get the United States to pull our recently deployed Atlas rockets out of Turkey. While history records that Bobby and Jack won the particular game of nuclear chicken, few people remember that shortly afterward we brought those missiles home. In effect, the Russians got exactly what they wanted. And apart from a few sleepless nights, it didn’t cost them anything.”

“You think China is putting missiles here only to offer to remove them again if America promises not to interfere with the takeover of Taiwan?”

“That’s precisely what I’m thinking,” Mercer answered Foch.

“But in our case, China is paying a very high price. They’re going to have to subsidize Panama with hundreds of millions of dollars once they take out the canal.”

“It won’t cost them a dime, Rene. They’re getting the right to plant nukes here and they’re paying for it with gold looted from an ancient treasure.”

“If Liu finds it.”

“You saw the equipment he had at the volcanic lake above the River of Ruin. He’ll find it.”

“And if it’s not there?”

Mercer looked him in the eye. “It’s there, all right. If I had a few hundred pounds of dynamite I could show it to you.”

“What?” the four men said as one.

“I know where the treasure is,” Mercer said coolly. “There’s a clue in the Lepinay journal that jogged my memory about something I saw at Gary’s camp. But that’s not important right now. We need to focus on Liu.”

It was testament to their professionalism that a billion dollars in gold and precious gems couldn’t hold their interest beyond a couple of sighs and a few thoughtful grunts.

“You’re right. The treasure can wait.” Bruneseau made his decision. “By identifying ICBM launchers at Hatcherly’s warehouse you’ve given me enough to take to my director. Getting Maria Barber to admit she told Liu about tonight will only add to the evidence.” He turned to Foch. “You’ll help Mercer pick her up.”

“No need to make it an order,” the Legionnaire replied. “Tough part will be keeping my men from killing her for what happened to Vic.” He caught Mercer’s concerned scowl. “Don’t worry. I can keep them in check.”

They spent the next half hour, before Mercer fell asleep on the couch, formalizing a plan to grab Maria the next morning. Harry chuckled to himself after the others had gone. With Mercer on the sofa, he got the bed, the opposite of countless nights he’d crashed at Mercer’s home.

He covered his sleeping friend with the comforter from the bedroom. “I hope that couch’s more comfortable than the damned leather thing at your place.” His voice was as gentle as he could make it. “Sleep well. You deserve it.”

El Mirador West of Panama City

Built by a narco-trafficker currently serving the first of eight consecutive life sentences in a Miami prison, the elaborate estate called El Mirador, the Lookout, had been purchased by Liu Yousheng for a fraction of its value. There were dozens of such abandoned luxury homes in Panama.

Overlooking a sugar sand beach, the main house loomed atop a promontory and resembled a piece of modern sculpture, all angles and primary colors. Because the odd-shaped house had sat unoccupied for several years before Hatcherly acquired it, the landscaping had become overgrown, ragged with encroaching jungle. Liu had had a one-hundred-meter perimeter around the house and its outbuildings mowed flat. While not unappealing aesthetically, the open area was meant to give guards open lanes of fire if the house were ever assaulted.

Liu cared nothing for the architecture of the place, didn’t even bother to repaint the exterior to hide its outlandish silhouette. What drew him to this particular abomination was its isolation—the driveway was eleven miles long—and that the estate had a heliport with a hangar.

Approaching the well-lit porte-cochere, his limo’s headlights swept over two cars parked a short distance from the house’s front door. He recognized one from Hatcherly’s motor pool, and the other belonged to Omar Quintero, Panama’s president. There was also a black van in the driveway near the two vehicles. Sergeant Huai and Captain Chen stood by the van’s open rear doors as the limo purred to a stop. Beyond them all was darkness and shadow. Even the moon remained hidden.

Next to Liu in the rear of the limo, Maria Barber was curled up with her head resting against the rear door. Her coffee-colored breasts were almost spilling from the top of her loose blouse and the angle of her legs allowed him a view of her lace panties if he was so inclined to look. He wasn’t.

“Maria, we’re here,” he said and tapped her shoulder.

She muttered in her sleep, licked her lips and slowly came awake.

“I’m sorry, lover,” she cooed when her eyes fluttered open. “After what you did to me in your office, I just couldn’t stay awake.”

Liu didn’t believe her. He knew she’d feigned sleep so she wouldn’t have to talk to him on the long drive to the house. She still loved the money and gifts he gave her, but she could no longer maintain the pretense that she loved him. It was just as well. He’d grown bored of her too. She’d fulfilled her usefulness and he only kept her around now because sex with her was simpler than engaging prostitutes.

Stepping from the vehicle, Liu walked to the back of the van and looked at what Huai and Chen had brought him. His voice betrayed his disappointment. “Not exactly what I had in mind but I suppose it will do.”

“Sir.” Captain Chen made a gesture to Liu asking him to turn around.

Coming out the front door of the house was Panama’s new president, Omar Quintero, and the director of the canal, Felix Silvera-Arias. Behind them stood General Yu, the head of COSTIND. Liu nearly choked. In the military hierarchy of Hatcherly and COSTIND, Yu’s only superior was the defense minister himself. Not knowing why Yu was here, Liu didn’t take his presence as a good sign. A jet of acid erupted in his stomach. He wanted to reach back into his car for his Mylanta.

“Mr. Liu,” Felix Silvera-Arias greeted him from several feet away. “Your General Yu graciously invited us out for a meeting. I have never seen your home before. Quite interesting. Why, isn’t that—?”

With a sharp glance, Liu cut off the canal director when he realized that Maria was still with him. Felix had enjoyed the ministrations of two of Maria’s friends following a dinner a few weeks ago and was aware of the role Maria had played in their operation. Her death should have been ordered weeks ago because of what she knew. He had to get rid of her before Felix mentioned her name or Yu became suspicious about her identity.

“Get into the car,” he hissed at her.

“But I’m tired.” She pouted. “I want to go to bed.”

He shoved her into the vehicle, his anger at her masking his fear of Yu. “Shut up, you stupid puta.” He tapped the button to lower the divider separating the driver’s compartment and addressed his driver. “Take her back to her apartment then get back here as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

Liu slammed the door on her protests.

“I’m sorry about that, gentlemen.” He spoke English, the only language they all shared. “Had I known you were coming I wouldn’t have hired some, ah, entertainment.”

President Quintero made a dismissive gesture as if he understood, but General Yu’s scowl deepened. Shorter than the others, but with a much more commanding presence, it was for the general’s benefit that Liu had made the excuse. Liu took a deep breath, wincing at the pain in his stomach. He had to get control of himself and the situation. He spoke a few words to Captain Chen and then started toward the others. He shook hands with the president and Silvera-Arias and snapped a perfect salute to Yu.

“I am honored by your visit, General.” Liu barely succeeded at sounding genuine. Rather than honor he felt terror. As far as he knew, the general had never set foot outside China. Liu blew on his fingertips as if they’d just been burned.

“Perhaps,” Yu grumbled. “Let us go inside.”

The four men moved into the cool interior of the house. In the large living room, a pair of half-finished drinks stood amid condensation puddles on a glass-topped table. The minimal furniture was sleek, whites and chromes mostly. The walls were bare of any decoration, as if the design of the house was art enough. Yu sank into a separate chair while the two Panamanians took their places on a sofa facing the cocktails. Although they were the most powerful men in the nation, even they were subdued by Yu’s menacing aura. They waited for the general to start the conversation.

Liu desperately wanted something to settle his roiling stomach, and every second the silence dragged on made it worse. His abdomen made an audible twist. The autonomy he’d enjoyed since first coming to Panama was at an end. That much was clear. What he didn’t know was what controls Yu was about to place over him and what that meant for his career once Operation Red Island was complete. He felt his place within COSTIND suddenly slipping.

Felix Silvera-Arias finished off his drink in a nervous gulp while President Quintero, elegant in a tailored suit despite what must have been an urgent summons to this meeting, wiped his glasses on a scrap of silk he then returned to his breast pocket. Like Liu, the canal director wore casual slacks and a loose shirt. Both Panamanians possessed the studied polish of longtime politicians. They even resembled each other slightly—they were cousins. Felix owed his new job to the president and Quintero owed his presidency to the backroom machinations orchestrated by Silvera-Arias—and Liu.

Yu, squat and pugnacious in a suit he made look as regimented as a uniform, had neither an insider’s élan nor a politician’s charm. His rank was the result of years of unwavering discipline and success. And in a culture that revered age, Yu was just sixty-four years old. He had a great deal further to go within the Beijing power structure.

“Mr. President, Mr. Director,” Yu started formally. “If you could excuse Yousheng and I for a moment, we need to speak in private.”

There was a second-long pause when the leader of Panama thought he was expected to leave the room. Instead, Yu stood and beckoned his protégé to follow. They took up seats on the far side of the room, where even if the two Panamanians could understand the language, they couldn’t overhear.

“When I am finished,” Yu spoke softly in Chinese, “translate what you feel necessary to keep those two satisfied. There is a new resistance developing within the portion of the People’s Congress who know about what you are attempting here. They feel that your plan will antagonize the Americans rather than deter them.

“Our president has been informed about this and is beginning to rethink our position in Panama. I believe he’s going to order COSTIND to pull out of Operation Red Island.”

The news was devastating, but Liu knew better than to interrupt.

“I understand nearly everything is in place to execute the plan with the exception of finding the buried treasure. Is that true?”

“Yes, General.” Liu spoke formally, hoping there was still a chance to salvage Red Island. “Gemini has been in the Bay of Panama awaiting transit for a couple of days. Our submersible is ready to deflect the ship preceding Gemini through the locks. Everything at the mine is as it should be, and the government here has already accepted the first shipment of bullion from home as down payment for what we will recover near the River of Ruin.”

“But no gold has been found at the volcanic lake?”

“That is correct, sir,” Liu answered at once.

“Why?”

“I overestimated the abilities of local troops to act as guards and have needed to use more of our own soldiers. I’ve spread them too thin, sir. I’ve lost efficiency in all aspects of the operation because of this.”

“And you’ve needed extra guards?”

Liu gave the other two men a significant look. “This is a lawless country, sir. Thieves have attempted to infiltrate our container port and the Twenty Devils Mine.”

Yu seemed convinced by the ready answers. They agreed with his own sense of what he’d seen of Panama since his arrival just a few hours earlier. “Very well.” The general went silent for a moment. “I need an honest assessment, Yousheng.” His use of Liu’s first name was meant to impart trust. If anything it made the Hatcherly executive even more suspicious. “How far can we safely push up the timetable without jeopardizing the mission? Don’t give me an answer you think I want. I want the truth.”

Liu wasn’t fooled into believing there was a truthful answer to that question. The general was looking to execute Red Island before China’s president canceled it, but wanted to leave a scapegoat, someone to blame, if it didn’t go well. By answering, Liu was being maneuvered into that sacrificial role. If he delayed implementation too long and Red Island was canceled, his future in COSTIND was over. He’d be lucky to get a job as a dock worker. On the other hand, if he pushed it too close and it failed, Yu would have him killed long before he returned home.

His career, his very life, was coming down to this moment. “I can implement the plan in three days,” he said, shaving five days from the original timetable.

“Can it be done the day after tomorrow?” The general’s eyes bored into his. His meaning was clear. Red Island will be executed the day after tomorrow.

“Yes,” Liu said, then qualified his answer. “But only if the DF-31 missiles are here. We can smuggle the warheads later, they are smaller, but those rockets need to be in Panama before the canal is closed. Afterward there will be too much scrutiny to offload them.”

Yu glanced at the compliant president and canal director. “You think they will pursue a vigorous investigation?”

“Not them, but even if the Americans are denied the right to place troops here, they will send in covert teams of investigators. Hatcherly’s warehouses will be watched closely. It’s too much of a risk to unload the missiles after such a team arrives. The Americans shouldn’t be underestimated.”

“That’s why you didn’t want the warheads brought in until after the canal was closed?”

“Yes, sir.” Liu was heartened to see that Yu understood the subtleties of the operation. “It’s likely that the United States will send a group from NEST, that’s their Nuclear Emergency Search Team. Even under the best shielding, a nuclear warhead may be detected by their sophisticated equipment. I’ve heard they can identify trace radiation from medical X-ray machines that haven’t been used for years.”

Yu grunted.

Liu continued. “If the rockets were here, we could proceed with the rest of the operation and then bring in the warheads after a few weeks. But I believe the DF-31s are still in China, yes?”

Liu saw immediately that he’d been outmaneuvered. Yu gave no outward sign, but he could feel it. The missiles were already in Panamanian waters, or would be by the next day.

The general didn’t need to state the obvious. “You have an enclosed dry dock at the Hatcherly facility that you plan to use for their unloading?”

Liu swallowed. The operation was going ahead a full week before his schedule and he couldn’t stop it. His only choice now was to put his full efforts into seeing it through. “Yes, General. There’s a ship in it now, ostensibly for a refit, but it’s a COSTIND vessel we’ve been keeping there as cover.”

“Have it moved out,” Yu ordered through the cloud of a freshly lit cigarette, his dark eyes squinting. “The vessel carrying the missiles, a refrigerator ship named Korvald, will arrive tomorrow night.”

“And the warheads?”

“Are still in China. As you suggest, we’ll ship them in a few weeks.”

“Ah, General. The gold? I have enough from the supply you gave to me at the beginning of the operation to make one more payment, but after that . . .”

“You will get no more from COSTIND. It is up to you to find the treasure. That is all there is to it.”

Liu stopped himself from protesting more. He knew the general wouldn’t be swayed by any argument he could devise.

There were over a hundred and fifty men scouring the volcanic lake and the banks of the River of Ruin. He’d always known it was only a matter of time to find it, but time was the one thing now taken from him.

Liu nodded at the two Panamanians pretending not to be offended that they’d been excluded from the conversation. “I will negotiate to extend the bullion you’ve given me. I should be able to buy a few more weeks.”

Yu just shrugged. He had no interest in those kinds of details. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

“I don’t think so, sir. My geologists have assured me that the ground in the Gaillard Cut has been sufficiently saturated with water to ensure liquefaction when the explosives go off.”

Implementation of Red Island had been designed to coincide with Panama’s rainy season so that the land had soaked up a tremendous amount of water. Under the onslaught of the special explosives they were to use, the wet ground would become a liquid slurry unable to support its own weight. The principle was the same that caused such devastation during earthquakes. Structures on solid rock fared well during a temblor but buildings on reclaimed land were severely damaged because the soil seemed to dissolve in a process called liquefaction.

Liu continued. “Most of the crew have already been taken off Gemini and the submersible is ready to retrieve the remainder once everything is in position.”

“What about the diving chamber near the lock?”

“Explosive charges are in place to destroy it as soon as the men have attached the diverter submersible to the ship we intend to use to block the canal.”

“And you know which ship that will be?”

“Yes, sir. Like Gemini, it’s a bulk carrier registered in Liberia. She’s named Mario diCastorelli and is already on station and ready to go through the canal. She’s loaded with Portland cement and scrap steel. When Gemini explodes she should roll over and that cargo will turn into a solid mass weighing about twelve thousand tons. Removing just her hulk alone will take several months.”

“Well thought out.”

“Thank you, General.” Liu was startled by the compliment. “It was an idea I had after first making this proposal to the minister of defense.”

“Who is crewing the Mario diCastorelli?”

“As the name implies she’s owned by a shell company in Italy with Liberian registration. Her crew is mostly Filipinos with Greek officers. They have no idea what’s in store for them. Gemini will detonate less than a hundred feet from their ship. Just before the explosion, the submersible will dock at Gamboa to unload the divers and the crew from Gemini. It will be scuttled there. All the men will be driven straight from Gamboa to Cristobal on the Atlantic coast, where a ship will spirit them away.”

“And it is the last piece of physical evidence?”

“That’s correct. The diving bell and mini-sub are the last links. At some point during the redredging operation, their remains will be quietly retrieved and disposed of.”

“You’ve thought this out well, Yousheng. I’m pleased. With the exception of finding the gold, everything has gone remarkably smoothly. Just for the sake of argument, could you maintain control of Panama after the canal is closed if you don’t find the treasure?”

Liu shook his head. “For the short term, perhaps, but it’s not sustainable. Panama’s economy depends on transit tariffs far and above what we can provide through taxes on using our railroad and pipeline. Without the money, the country will descend into chaos. Quintero would be overthrown and his likely replacement would invite American troops in to keep the peace and see that the canal is reopened.”

“But if we keep them afloat economically, they will resist when the Americans pressure them to allow them in?”

“That’s why we’ve paid Quintero and Silvera-Arias. It’s up to them to defy any U.S. pressure.”

“They’ll hold up?”

Liu looked at his superior. “As long as the money keeps flowing, they’ll do what we want. By the time we reveal the missiles to the American government, our position here will be unassailable.”

“A well-thought-out plan,” Yu repeated.

Knowing that if it succeeded the general would take all the credit, Liu was certain that if it failed, that failure would rest on his shoulders alone. Such was the way of Chinese politics. But success meant Liu would forever be attached to the general as he continued his rise in Beijing.

“Go tell our Panamanian friends about the change in schedule.” Yu stood. “I’m returning to the city. I have an early flight in the morning.”

Meaning you won’t be anywhere near the action when it comes, Liu thought bitterly. But this was the price he had to pay. A man like General Yu had already proven himself again and again. Now it was Liu’s turn. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you know what time you will detonate Gemini?” Yu asked as he led his subaltern toward the door without any thought to President Quintero or Director Silvera-Arias.

“My explosives experts tell me that when it is overcast, the pressure waves bounce back from the sky and amplify the detonative forces. So it will depend on the weather on the day after tomorrow, General.”

“Very well. I look forward to your call telling me it is done.”

Liu snapped another salute. “It will be my honor.”

The wily old general didn’t return the salute as he wandered over to the sedan he’d commandeered from Hatcherly for this visit. Liu waited until the vehicle’s taillights faded down the long drive, absently blowing on his fingers. Then he went in search of Captain Chen. He found the leader of the commando group just returning from one of the outbuildings.

“Tell Sun to get to work as soon as he gets here,” Liu barked. Yu had set a near-impossible task, made worse because of the situation Liu had intentionally kept from him—the Special Forces, or whoever they were, who’d been interfering at every turn. “Yu’s ordered the timetable pushed up. We have about thirty-six hours.”

The soldier couldn’t hide his shock. “Is that feasible?”

“It damned well better be,” Liu said. “And sometime tomorrow morning I want Maria picked up and disposed of.”

“You mean . . .”

“You know damned well what I mean. Kill her.”

Liu could feel the pressure mounting: a lead weight in his gut and a burning ache behind his eyes. That was why he had no compulsion about ordering his lover’s murder. Even an hour ago, the thought had given him pause. No longer. Too much was at stake to care about his conscience or anything else. Same went with using Mr. Sun’s talents. Having Mercer tortured had bothered him on one level, surely not enough to stop him from ordering it, but the feelings were there. That too was gone now. He would use any assets open to him to see Red Island’s successful completion.

Red Island. He’d even picked the code name, as an allusion to what the Soviets had attempted in Cuba. Of course they had wanted their missiles discovered, otherwise they would have camouflaged them rather than leave them in the open for U-2 spy planes to find. The Cuban Missile Crisis had been a game of nuclear brinkmanship: remove yours and we’ll remove ours. What he had in mind was much subtler.

Nuclear blackmail—back off when we take Taiwan or eight American cities get carbonized.

The Radisson Royal Hotel Panama City, Panama

Mercer struggled awake shortly after dawn. He was far from refreshed. His back ached from the night spent on the couch and as soon as he remembered the events from the day before, his soul felt stripped. A shower and coffee from room service did little to revive him. He was standing at the picture window when Harry shuffled from the bedroom. The old man was naked save a pair of baggy boxers and his fake leg.

“Morning,” Mercer said.

“Bah,” Harry snorted, a cigarette already burning between his fingers. He grabbed the coffee cup from Mercer’s hand on his way to the bathroom and slurped noisily without a backward glance.

He emerged ten minutes later and grunted again as he moved to the bedroom. He returned to the main part of the suite only when he was dressed. “Morning, Mercer,” he said pleasantly, his transformation from hungover curmudgeon to moderately robust curmudgeon complete. “If I’m going to steal your coffee, for Christ’s sake put some sugar in it.”

Mercer couldn’t help but laugh no matter how badly he was hurting inside. Harry had that effect on him. “There’s more on the tray.”

Harry lit another cigarette.

“Second of the day already?”

“Third.” Harry drank from his own coffee and even recharged Mercer’s empty cup. “So what’s the plan?”

Mercer raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m giving Maria an hour or so to sleep off whatever excesses she might have indulged last night before going over. Right now I’m going to call General Vanik and tell him that his daughter’s dead.”

Harry looked away. “Guess that would be the right thing to do. I’ll leave you alone.” He grabbed the complimentary newspaper from the room service tray and went back to the bedroom.

Taking Lauren’s cell phone, Mercer punched in the code for her father’s private line. After two rings a gruff but gentle voice answered, “Morning, Angel.”

Vanik must have caller ID, Mercer thought. “Ah, General. This isn’t Lauren. My name is Philip Mercer.”

Ten seconds passed. Mercer could almost feel Vanik thinking through why someone was calling him this early and on his daughter’s phone. He knew to give the general time to put it together.

“She’s dead.” There was no question in his voice. It was almost as if he’d expected it.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Mercer didn’t know what else to say. He had to explain the circumstances if he was going to get help stopping Liu Yousheng, but now wasn’t the time. God, when was?

He heard Vanik whispering a prayer: “. . . in the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ. Amen.”

“Amen,” Mercer echoed.

“Lauren told me who you are, Dr. Mercer, and what’s been going on,” Vanik spoke tonelessly. “We talked the night before she went with you to the lock. It happened there?”

“Yes, sir. The Chinese were waiting for her and her dive partner. Four frogmen emerged from the water a little over an hour after she and a French Legionnaire went in.”

“I see.” The grief was right under the surface. Mercer could sense it. Yet General Vanik managed to keep it in check. Somehow. “Since Lauren called me, I did some checking on you. You’re the geologist who went into Iraq as part of Operation Prospector to make sure Saddam hadn’t mined his own uranium?”

“That’s correct.” Mercer assumed in the years since the Gulf War that information had been partially declassified, at least to ranking army staffers. “I accompanied a Navy SEAL team.”

“And you’re about to start work at the White House?”

“Yes, sir. As a special science advisor.”

“John Kleinschmidt is a golfing partner.” Kleinschmidt was the president’s national security advisor. “His deputy, Ira Lasko, recommended you for the job?”

“Admiral Lasko and I were involved in a mission a few months ago in Greenland.”

“I’ve seen his report,” Vanik said. “Why’d my daughter die?”

“Sir?” The first blush of emotion in the general’s voice startled Mercer.

“It’s a simple goddamned question. Why did my daughter die?”

“Because the Chinese are about to plant nuclear missiles in Panama. They killed her because she knew part of the story.”

“Come again?” Lauren hadn’t known about the nuclear angle so this was the first the general had heard of it.

“What we first thought was an attempt to destroy the canal has turned into something more. The CIA will be getting a call shortly from DGSE, the French intelligence agency. Lauren and I were working with one of their spies. They are going to confirm our findings. In a Chinese-controlled warehouse, Lauren and I stumbled across eight DF-31 strategic missile launchers.”

“Were they armed?”

“Not yet, but I’m sure they will be soon. Things are moving pretty fast down here.”

General Vanik blew out a long breath. “All right. You’d better start from the top.”

Keeping the briefing as concise as possible and avoiding mentioning Lauren’s name, Mercer laid out their findings, starting with the book auction in Paris and ending with the upcoming meeting with Maria Barber.

“You think she knows something?”

“I do, sir. I think she can provide enough proof to nail Liu.”

“Question is, who’s gonna do the nailing?” Vanik said, his Southern accent emerging more as the conversation went on. “There’s gotta be some higher-ups in Panama’s government involved. Don’t think they’re gonna want to hear your story.”

“Do you have any suggestions?” Mercer asked crisply. If the general could subvert his feelings of loss, at least temporarily, Mercer owed it to him to do the same.

“I need to check with the CIA and our own intelligence yahoos, see if they’ve detected anything going on with China’s rocket forces, like if a few of them were moved recently. For now just sit tight, talk with that woman, then call me back when you’ve found something.” Vanik paused. “She was a good girl, wasn’t she?”

“The best, General,” Mercer replied. What else could he say?

“I’ve lost hundreds of men. Vietnam, Kuwait, Bosnia, a dozen ops you never heard of. I’ve always understood my responsibility and I’ve always carried on. I don’t know. It’s all such a damned . . .”

“Waste,” offered Mercer.

“There are a lot of people in this world who like nothing more than killing and there are precious few who are willing to stop them. I hear you’re one of ’em. So was Lauren. Don’t seem right.”

“It isn’t.”

“Shit,” Vanik drawled. “If I hadn’t been a soldier, she’d be alive right now.”

“With all due respect, that isn’t true. I knew her a short time, but I learned that your daughter was her own person. You didn’t pressure her into the military, nor did you pick her duty stations. Lauren chose her path.”

The line remained silent.

“Maybe, but it doesn’t make it easier. Call me when you have something,” the general said hastily. “I’ll do the same.”

The phone went dead. Mercer shut it off. “I’m done, Harry.”

“How’d it go?” Harry asked when he returned from the bedroom.

“As well as it could, I suppose.” Mercer noticed that his friend had filled in half of the crossword from the Spanish-language newspaper. “What the hell are you doing? You don’t speak Spanish.”

Harry held up the puzzle. “I’m putting in English words with the right number of letters and making sure they mesh.” He shrugged. “Better than nothing. In fact I’ve gotten myself in a bit of a jam. Know any six-letter words with the middle ones r and f ?”

Despite his jumbled emotions, Mercer needed just a second. “Try barfly.”

Harry looked at him sharply, wrote it in, then with a malicious glint said, “That’ll work if I change eighteen across from donnybrook to”—he gave another significant glare—“douchebag.”

Mercer smiled, grateful for the repartee. “You don’t have enough letters. Has to be douchebags.”

“You’d think so,” Harry muttered, “but there’s only one of you.”

Fifteen minutes later, Foch arrived with Rene Bruneseau and a pair of Legion soldiers. All wore civilian clothes that hid the bulges of their handguns from untrained eyes. Mercer called Roddy Herrara up to the suite so he could phone Maria to make sure she was home. Roddy disguised his voice so she wouldn’t recognize him and hung up as soon as he’d woken her, apologizing for dialing the wrong number. He gave the men a thumbs-up.

It was time to snatch Maria Barber.

When she first realized she was still alive, she didn’t even remember what had happened at the last second. She remembered sinking. She seemed to recall seeing a light, but that was it. Everything else was blank.

No, that’s not true. The more she regained consciousness, the more the memories returned. The light came from a wrist lamp strapped to the body of the second Chinese commando who’d entered the intake tunnels with her. She remembered falling toward the dead diver and pulling his regulator to her mouth. She’d just filled her lungs when the divers who’d earlier avoided the sucking torrent entered the lock from the open doors. She had been in no condition to put up a fight.

They took her someplace. Where?

“A diving chamber,” Lauren Vanik whispered through chapped lips.

The Chinese had a diving bell near the lock that the frogmen used while they worked underwater. While the four men who’d survived the fight returned to the surface, she’d been guarded by another two for a few hours. Back on the surface she was gagged and blindfolded and then tossed into the back of a van.

Now she was awake, tired but alert. She levered her eyes open. They were about all she could move. She was strapped to some sort of frame, a bed maybe. Her legs were splayed and her arms were secured over her head. She could tell she was naked. The air was stifling and the absolute darkness was cut by a sliver of light leaking from under a door she could see if she tilted her head.

When she tried to speak she managed just a hoarse croak. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Come on, you bastards,” she yelled. “Get it over with.”

A minute later she heard footsteps outside the door and a key being inserted into a lock. When the door swung open, she could tell by the angle of the sun it was just past dawn and that she hadn’t been taken to the Twenty Devils Mine. The landscape outside her cell didn’t look familiar. She also saw that her prison must have been a garden shed. There were racks for tools bolted to the wall and from somewhere close she recognized the taint of fertilizer.

The man who entered was Chinese, a soldier in a uniform without insignia. He was old enough to be an officer, but had the hard look of a drill instructor. She guessed he was an NCO. When the sergeant turned on the overhead lights he made sure his gaze didn’t wander from her face.

“Very gallant of you,” Lauren sneered.

“Your strength,” the soldier said not unkindly. “Keep it.”

Lauren knew what she was in for. She’d known as soon as she realized she’d been tied up. The terror of Mercer’s stories about the acupuncturist filled her mind. Strangely, this veteran soldier seemed bothered by her fate. Why else would he have warned her just now? She wondered if she could use that concern.

“You can help me,” she pleaded. “Don’t let them touch me.”

The soldier’s eyes dropped.

He felt shame. Was it enough? Would he let her go?

“You know what he’ll do to me. You’re a soldier. Like me. Where is your honor?” Her cry was met by silence. “Please. You can’t let him do this to me. The other man. The American. He’s in a hospital. He hasn’t spoken since his escape. He’s a vegetable.”

Sergeant Huai was unable to hide his revulsion.

“It’s true,” Lauren continued. “Mercer is his name, but he can’t even remember it. Listen. I don’t care anymore about what you’re doing in Panama. My country doesn’t care. Please, let me go.”

“I cannot.” Huai answered.

“Then kill me.” Lauren’s eyes blazed, not knowing she echoed Mercer’s exact words when he was first faced with torture. “If that’s what it takes to prevent that sadist from raping and torturing me then do it. Kill me now!”

“Sun no rape.”

“Bull! It’s a proven method of torture. He’ll do it.”

“Sun, ah . . .” Huai pointed at his crotch. “No longer a man.”

“But he’s man enough to stick needles in my body that will destroy my mind. Is that how you people fight? Is that your way?”

“Not my way. Sun’s way.”

“You’re the same. If you let him do it you’re just as bad as he is.”

That concept made Huai pause again. Lauren was sure she was on the right track. The NCO had the look of a man who fought his nation’s enemies on battlefields, not in horror chambers. If only she could get through to him, weaken him.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “You’re not the same. You’re a soldier. He’s a monster. It’s not your fault that your country uses men like Sun. You only follow orders. Just like me.”

“Yes. Orders.”

“And when you get home and tell your wife about what he did here, you can tell her that you were ordered to let a woman get tortured to death. She will see the honor in that. She will think you are a hero.”

Was there indecision in his eyes? Lauren was almost certain it was there. Her ploy was working. Huai looked outside then back at Lauren. He was about to make a move when another soldier stepped into the shed. Younger than the sergeant, he also wore a uniform without insignia. The newcomer barked an order and the NCO saluted. He gave Lauren one last look, and left.

“What is your name?” The young officer spoke clearer English and had no compulsion about studying Lauren’s nude form.

“Vanik, Lauren J. Captain. United States Army. 05894328.”

“Who are you working with?”

“Vanik, Lauren J. Captain. United States Army. 05894328.”

Unfazed by her response, the officer asked several more questions that Lauren answered by giving her name, rank, and serial number. “Enough,” he said at last. “You will answer our questions in due time. A specialist will be here shortly. I recommend that you tell me everything now.”

“Screw yourself,” she hissed.

The officer turned smartly and relocked the cell after stepping out. Lauren was left with her fear and her disappointment. She’d been close with the sergeant. So close. Had the officer not arrived maybe he would have let her go. Now the opportunity was gone. Mr. Sun would arrive soon and it would be over for her.

She’d always considered herself a brave person, having faced down countless dangers and physical hardships, but she held no illusions about resisting the kind of torture in store for her. The army classes she’d taken in psychological warfare told her that there really was no way to hold out forever against physical abuse. And what the acupuncturist did went far beyond the mere physical. Mercer had escaped before being subjected to a second round with Mr. Sun. Lauren doubted she’d get such a chance. For her there’d be no escape once Sun got to work on her.

She spent the next ten minutes, until her cell was opened again, fighting her imagination. Each time she saw what was coming, her heart would race and she’d hyperventilate. The heat was only partially responsible for the sweat coating her skin.

When the cell door swung open, she looked back to see a cadaverous Chinese man wearing dark gray trousers and a long shirt of the same color. What hair remained on his large cranium was as fine as spider silk. In his skeletal hand he clutched a rolled-up piece of black cloth. Lauren noticed immediately that Mercer’s TAG Heuer watch dangled from Sun’s emaciated wrist.

With him was a Panamanian dressed in fatigues. Lauren guessed his age at fifty, for his face was lined, but his hair was a thick lustrous black and his body was still trim. Above his mustache, his nose was large and bony and his eyes were lifeless black spots. She recognized him immediately.

He was Hugo Ruiz. A major under Manuel Noriega in the G-2, Panama’s murderous secret police. Ruiz had once been a deputy warden at La Modelo Prison, responsible for running tours of the facility so well-heeled sadists could watch the degradation heaped on the inmates. His specialty was organizing the gang-rape indoctrination of new prisoners and selling cocaine and peasant women to inmates who performed for his guests. Ruiz had also trained under Nivaldo Madrinan, Noriega’s chief torturer, perfecting dark skills that few could believe humans capable of.

For a while the CIA believed Ruiz had been executed during a purge before Noriega’s ouster, but in 1992 he’d been spotted in Cuba, where he’d once been part of a smuggling operation to ship the dregs of the island’s population to Miami. The latest reports had him selling his interrogation skills to Colombian FARC rebels. That he was back in Panama now meant he had secured a place within President Quintero’s regime.

“Ah, Señor Ruiz,” Mr. Sun said to his companion in English, “I didn’t realize we’d be making friends with a woman today.” He sounded delighted.

Lauren remained motionless, resisting the urge to flinch when Sun unfurled his cloth and adjusted the hundreds of needles it contained.

Ruiz studied her closely. “And a buena one at that. I look forward to seeing your techniques in practice. Your instruction over the past days using cadavers wasn’t very satisfying.”

“But necessary,” Sun said as he examined Lauren’s skin, awed by its suppleness. “So soft,” he whispered intimately. His breath was a fetid caress. Bits of skin fell on Lauren like scaly ash.

Lauren’s flesh crawled and she had to bite her tongue to keep from screaming.

“Young lady, you have caused a number of problems for us in the past week. My job is to see how many of those problems go away with your death. Before we are through, you will tell me exactly who you are working with, how much you have seen and what steps you and your superiors have taken to stop us.

“Now I realize that you aren’t aware of Gemini’s location, nor could you know that it will be detonated in the canal tomorrow, but you must know many other things. Like what is in the Hatcherly warehouse and how the Twenty Devils Mine is, a, ah—what is the word?—a fraud. Do you know these things?”

Sun took up the first of his needles and lectured to Ruiz, “Watch closely at the angle the needles enter the body. It is not as important establishing the first of the connective links within the nervous system, but later the technique helps you better generate and control the pain.”

Just before he slid the first needle into Lauren’s throat the cell door opened and the officer who she’d seen earlier spoke with Sun in Chinese. They talked for a moment before Sun returned the needle to the cloth.

“I am sorry, Señor Ruiz,” he said and wiped his palms on his pants. “Mr. Liu wants to see me before he returns to the city. I will be about fifteen minutes.”

Lauren recognized the gleam in Ruiz’s expression when he looked down at her. “I understand, Señor Sun. Perhaps I will get started without you.”

“As you wish.” Sun bowed before following the young officer into the sunshine.

No sooner had the door closed than Ruiz punched Lauren in the side of the head. “Buenas noches, puta.”

Lauren’s head lolled and her mouth went slack. Ruiz struck her again to make sure she was out, then grabbed one of the acupuncture needles. He forced it into her thigh. She didn’t move when he worked the needle a little farther into her flesh.

Satisfied that she would remain unconscious, Ruiz studied her for a moment, distressed that his body did not react the way he had hoped it would when he’d first seen her lying naked on the table. He knew what he had to do. A lifetime spent forcing sodomy on his victims had left him incapable of even raping in the normal fashion. To get at what he wanted he needed to roll her over.

He flicked open her pupils, saw they were pinpricks and hastily unstrapped her legs before moving around the platform to untie her hands. He was just about to turn her over when Lauren sprang.

She swept up a handful of the needles Sun had left next to her and rammed them deep into Ruiz’s left eye. Before the scream could form in his throat, she was up, clamping one hand over his mouth and using the heal of her other to drive the tiny spikes deep into his skull. The Panamanian butcher was dead before he hit the concrete floor. “Buenas noches, bastardo.”

Lauren ignored the blood dribbling from the tiny puncture in her leg when she got to her feet. She swayed against a wave of blackness. She had to sit back down for a few minutes to regain her equilibrium. Her temples throbbed. Once she was sure she wouldn’t collapse, she crushed her distaste and stripped Ruiz out of his uniform. The clothes weren’t that oversized on her, with the exception of his jungle boots, which she stuffed with handkerchiefs the pig had kept in his pocket. She cinched his gun belt and secured it around her waist, checking that the old Colt .45 Ruiz carried was loaded and had a round in the chamber.

She took a couple more steadying breaths. Her head was pounding now and no amount of massaging would ease the ache. She was sure she’d get a black eye out of the ordeal and considered it more than a fair trade for what she could have faced.

Opening the cell door a crack, Lauren looked out across the grounds of what she realized was a luxury estate. She smelled the salt of the ocean and heard it crashing someplace in the distance. Apart from the swaying of some palm trees she could see no movement anywhere in the sprawling compound. Near the front of the large house she saw a pair of sedans, but what drew her attention was the garage midway between the garden shed prison and the modern home. One of its doors was open and the front of an SUV peeked out.

With no cover protecting her approach, Lauren began running for the garage as fast as she could. Her feet flopped painfully in the boots while Ruiz’s gamy body odor wafted from the uniform.

She hadn’t yet covered half of the one hundred yards when Mr. Sun walked out of the big house and paused under the porte-cochere. He peered at her as if the distance was too great for his old eyes. The range was much too far for a pistol shot so Lauren smothered the urge to shoot at him. Sun called to someone in the house. The sergeant who seemed distressed by the acupuncturist’s tactics appeared. The distance wasn’t too far for his eyes and he drew his sidearm.

Lauren threw herself to the ground, rolling across the stiff grass as a pair of shots split the air above her. She spun back to her feet and continued charging. The sergeant held his aim for a second—why, Lauren would never know—but it gave her the time she needed to dive again and throw off his aim once more.

Maybe he was letting her go, or at least giving her a chance, in order to make up for his own feelings of distaste about the torturer. Whatever the reason, Lauren reached the corner of the garage before he could fire again. The other Chinese troops running from the house couldn’t target her either. She blew off the garage’s side-door lock with the Colt. The SUV was a green Ford Explorer and, blessing of blessings, Liu trusted his security staff enough to leave the keys in the ignition.

She had the engine running before the first of the Chinese led by the sergeant were a quarter of the way to the garage. The troops carried type-87 assault rifles. The automatic weapons crackled the instant she pulled from the garage. Glass exploded around her and no matter how low she ducked in the seat she felt she presented a huge target. Flooring the big truck so the V-8 growled, she tore across the lawn away from the advancing soldiers, the 4x4 giving excellent traction despite the dew covering the grass.

More rounds hit the back of the truck, shattering the rear windshield, but each second increased the range and decreased the accuracy. Lauren dared sit straighter. She twisted the wheel to get back on the driveway and floored the gas.

She had no idea what kind of force Liu had at the end of the meandering drive, but she was sure they’d been alerted by radio that she was coming. She was also sure that in a few minutes guards would give chase in the sedans.

With the speedometer reading eighty miles per hour, she drove with single-minded purpose, keeping her focus on what was coming up, not what was already behind.

Every few seconds she had to wipe her sweaty hands on the front of her uniform. She saw the car phone clipped to the center console when she reached down to engage the air conditioner. Now wasn’t the time, but having the phone gave her spirits an added lift. She had to tell Mercer that Liu planned to destroy the canal the next day using a ship called Gemini.

After ten miles, she spotted the end of the driveway. A guardhouse constructed of wood sat at the juncture of a main highway and Liu’s access road. A chain-link fence topped with razor wire stretched parallel to the highway and a heavy gate had been closed across the drive. The trio of guards had also maneuvered a pair of matching SUVs to bolster the gate.

Lauren hesitated for a second then mashed the accelerator again. As she approached the gate she fired off her Colt’s magazine, keeping the guards down for the seconds she needed. Ten yards from the barricade, she eased off the gas and gently turned the wheel, mindful that the sport utility wasn’t known to be nimble.

She ducked an instant before the front of the truck smashed into the guardhouse. Wood and cheap furniture exploded around the hurtling vehicle like they had been tossed aside by an enraged bull. The truck barely slowed and continued through the far wall with so much momentum that Lauren had to slam the brakes to make the turn onto the highway. The black marks in the asphalt indicated that the traffic entering or leaving Liu’s compound came from the right, leaving Lauren to believe that was the way to Panama City. A minute later she saw her assumption was correct. A road sign said she was thirty miles from the capital. As soon as she reached a long straightaway she pressed the button on the steering wheel that activated the car phone’s voice-recognition program and she asked it to dial her cell phone number.

She couldn’t wait to hear Mercer’s voice.

The difficulty in snatching Maria Barber began with her anger at being woken for a second time when Mercer and Bruneseau hammered on her fourth-floor apartment door.

Lieutenant Foch and two Legionnaires waited in a van outside the nondescript apartment house.

She came to the door after five minutes of pounding. She was yelling at them in Spanish even before swinging open the door. She wore a tattered housecoat, her hair was awry, and her breath was sour with stale alcohol. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. Whatever beauty she’d once possessed was being washed away by the booze.

Seeing her, Mercer felt a hot stab of anger surge through his body. Maria was partially responsible for Lauren’s death and had callously told Liu about her husband’s discovery, knowing that Gary and everyone else living with him on the banks of the River of Ruin would be murdered. That a quirk of geology had killed them first didn’t absolve her in his mind.

She continued her tirade, not bothering to identify who had disturbed her. Mercer stood rooted, his lips compressed in a white line and his eyes narrowed to angry slits. He let her go on for a few more seconds then slapped her across the face. The blow was just enough to stun her into silence.

“Mercer!” she cried when she finally recognized him.

Rene and he pushed her into the dingy apartment and closed the door.

“What are you doing here?” Maria clutched at her robe.

Two empty wine bottles sat on a coffee table next to a dinner plate overflowing with cigarette butts. Wads of tissue like the bodies of dead birds littered the floor next to the sofa. Maria had been crying the night before as she tried to drink away some pain. Mercer felt no sympathy. Gauzy curtains diffused the light streaming through the window and cigarette smoke still swirled in the stuffy room.

Lapsing into a wary silence, Maria watched as Mercer made a slow circuit of the living room, peering at the cheap curios she displayed. There were open spaces on the walls where photographs, probably of her and Gary, had until recently hung.

Mercer’s body vibrated with the effort it took to put up a calm front. “He was right, you know,” he said when he could finally look her in the eye. “Gary, I mean. There was a clue in that book I brought from Paris. The Twice-Stolen Treasure is at the lake very close to where he was working.”

Maria blanched. She staggered back and dropped onto the sofa. Keeping her face to Mercer, her hands searched out, then lit, a cigarette. “I always knew he would find it.” She couldn’t muster enough conviction to cover the lie.

“Don’t bother, Maria. We know everything. About you and the Chinese. How you gave up your husband for whatever Liu promised you. I assume it was money, but I don’t really care. I also know you called Liu yesterday when you found out I was still in Panama and had gone out on Lake Gatun.”

To her credit, Maria didn’t continue the charade. Instead her voice turned furious. “And that son of a bitch tossed me aside last night like I was a whore.”

Rene stepped closer to her. “You are a whore, Madam Barber.”

She threw him a halfhearted curse in Spanish.

“Get dressed,” Mercer ordered. “You’re coming with us.”

“Like hell I am.”

Mercer’s urgency to get away from the apartment suddenly grew. Liu Yousheng wouldn’t be satisfied with just breaking up with Maria. She had information he needed protected and only her death would ensure silence. He was somewhat surprised that she was still alive now. “I can’t promise to keep you out of jail, but I can save your life. Liu is going to have you killed the same as he’s killed a lot of other people involved in his plot.”

“I don’t care.” Plucking a fresh tissue from a box she dabbed her eyes and blew her nose.

Mercer yanked her off the couch and shoved her toward the back bedroom, pushing her through the door into the dim room. The bed was unmade and mounds of clothes threatened to topple from chairs and dressers. A mirror, razor blade, and a rolled dollar bill sat on the nightstand. Mercer’s expression twisted with disgust. “I’m giving you one minute to get some clothes on or so help me God I’ll drag you out of this building naked.”

“That’s all men want from me anyway,” she sobbed.

“Keep your self-pity and get dressed!”

With eyes a mix of contempt and fear, Maria shucked off the robe. If she was looking for Mercer to react to her nudity, she didn’t get it. She snorted and threw on panties, jeans, and a T-shirt that strained against her chest. He handed her a pair of sneakers. Back in the living room, they found Rene on his cell phone.

“We have trouble,” the agent said to Mercer.

“What’s up?”

“Foch said a car just pulled up outside. There are three Chinese men in it. They’re talking right now as if finalizing a plan. Also an army patrol is just down the block. Ten men at least.”

“Shit!” Mercer and Rene drew their weapons. He gave Maria a look as if to say I told you so. “Is there a fire escape?”

Her bravado evaporated. “No, the elevator and stairs are the only way up.”

“What do you think, Rene?”

“Three men? One will come up the stairs, two in the elevator. One of them will remain in it so he can hold the car while the second comes to the apartment to kill her.” He put the phone back to his ear. “Foch, wait until they enter the building then send in one of the men. As soon as two of the Chinese get in the elevator tell him to take out the man coming up the stairs. That’s how we’ll be coming down.” He turned his attention back to Mercer. “We’ll be gone before the Chinese in the elevator know we have Maria or that army patrol hears anything.”

Rene opened the apartment door and checked the hallway, which was clear. With Maria between the two men, they moved toward the enclosed stairway. Like the rest of the building it was cement and they clearly heard a door opening four floors below. That would be the first of the Chinese. A moment later the door swung open a second time and someone whistling the opening bars of “La Marseillaise” entered. The Legionnaire.

Mercer glanced at Maria, trying to judge how she was handling the situation. He had just an instant to recognize the defiance before she screamed. “Help! Help me, please.”

With a startled grunt, the Chinese soldier climbing the stairs began racing upward. Bruneseau unceremoniously punched Maria in the stomach to choke off her shouts. Mercer readied himself in case the Legionnaire couldn’t stop the assassin in time.

Before the soldier came into view, everyone in the echoing stairwell heard the racking slide of his weapon being cocked. Mercer used his knee to buckle Rene and Maria just as an eruption of automatic fire burst up from below, sparking off the cement in a maddened swarm of ricochets and cement shrapnel. The soldier then turned because the next fusillade sounded like it was fired down the stairs.

Amid the deafening roar, Mercer heard Lauren’s cell phone ringing in his pocket.

He also heard a keening wail of a mortally wounded man down below. The French soldier had been hit.

“Merde!” Bruneseau looked ready to kill Maria for giving them away.

Mercer chanced opening the stairwell door and spied a Chinese assassin armed with a silenced automatic running down the hall. His partner, who’d been waiting in the open elevator car, raced after him, pulling one of the compact type 87s from under a coat.

Lieutenant Foch must have heard the gunfire outside, but Mercer didn’t know how close the Panamanian patrol was to the building. He didn’t know if Foch and his partner could storm the place. He had no choice but to go on the assumption that he and Rene were on their own.

He fired through the partially opened door, startled that the snap shot actually hit the lead gunman. He fell awkwardly, clearing a lane of fire for the other assassin. Mercer slammed the door as bullets from the assault rifle pounded the metal. Another burst exploded from below.

The phone chimed again. Bruneseau laid down suppressing fire and peered around the corner of the scissor stairs. The Chinese commando had ducked out of view. The gunfire against the closed door abated, probably because the gunman was checking his wounded comrade.

Maria had regained her breath, but wisely realized her only chance of surviving the next few seconds lay with Mercer and the heavyset Frenchman. Bruneseau fired down the stairwell again and slithered forward. The gunman had retreated at least one flight, maybe hoping to lure them down or to wait for his partners to break through the steel door. The air swam with acrid clouds from the spent ordnance.

Then came a sound more incongruous than the ringing cell phone. A single shot from a silenced pistol. And then a wet voice. “Monsieur Bruneseau, tout clair.”

The Legionnaire gunned down in the first seconds of the exchange had survived and had either climbed up behind the Chinese assassin or had lain in wait for him to come down. Mercer grabbed on the door handle to keep it closed while Rene led Maria down the stairs. He gave them a few-seconds lead then took off after them, leaping from landing to landing as he spiraled toward the first floor. Fear and adrenaline buzzed in his veins like champagne. He was halfway down when the door above opened and the Chinese gave chase. They were too far back to stop him now.

He leapt to another landing and would have fallen down the remaining stairs had he not clutched for the railing. Like a horrible Rorschach blot, the floor was painted in blood. The Chinese soldier had been hit in the side of the neck and much of the blood in his body had pumped from the grisly wound. Through the red pool, Rene and Maria’s footprints continued past the gruesome scene.

Lieutenant Foch stood at the bottom landing, his wounded man thrown over his shoulder. He had an automatic in his free hand and waved Mercer toward the small lobby. The third Legion trooper had pulled the van to the front of the building. Rene was already bustling Maria inside.

Mercer gave the street a perfunctory scan. Uniformed soldiers of Panama’s National Police were at least a hundred feet away and showing no interest in the apartment house. The only thing that had gone in their favor all morning. He waited for Foch and helped him gently lay the bleeding soldier across the van’s middle bench. The two clambered in and the driver pulled from the curb.

Mercer looked out the rear window in time to see the uninjured Chinese gunman rush from the apartment building. He quickly pulled the type 87 from view and plucked a phone from his jacket pocket.

Mercer threw him the finger. “How’s your man?” he asked Foch.

“Three hits, two in the stomach, one in the thigh.” Foch tore off his shirt and used it to stanch the blood. The wounded Legionnaire moaned as pressure was applied to the oozing holes. “He needs a hospital.”

Mercer addressed the driver, “Head toward Avenue Balboa on the waterfront. That’ll take us to the Paitilla Hospital.”

Although they were far from safe, Bruneseau didn’t protest the detour. In the past weeks he’d learned that no matter what, the Foreign Legion always took care of their own. He nodded to the young soldier behind the wheel. “You’ll have to stay with him.”

“I understand.” Because these were gunshot wounds, it was likely the driver would be detained by the police. He was the logical choice to remain behind.

Mercer was well aware that including Foch, only five Legionnaires were in fighting condition. If Lauren’s father couldn’t come through for him, Liu would likely succeed through sheer attrition. Thinking of General Vanik reminded him of the cell phone. He turned it on and hit the automatic call-back button. Rather than a long international exchange, it dialed a seven-digit local number.

“Hold on,” a female voice answered after four rings. For a moment Mercer thought it was Lauren.

The next sound he heard was tires squealing on asphalt and the concussive blast from a handgun.

What the hell?

“One more second,” the woman said.

It sounded so much like her that Mercer’s heart flopped in his chest. He couldn’t help himself. “Lauren?” His voice quivered.

“Hi, Mercer. Give me a sec.” The gun exploded again and Mercer could hear the rising snarl of a vehicle under heavy acceleration. Foch and Bruneseau had looked at Mercer when he called Lauren’s name. He gave them an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

His hand tightened on the phone as the past fifteen hours of misery lifted from his shoulders. He had no idea how or why, but Lauren was alive. Alive! So overcome with emotion, he couldn’t speak as he listened to what sounded like a running battle over the cellular connection.

He heard the Doppler wail of a tractor-trailer truck’s air horn and the sharper bark of a smaller vehicle’s tires losing grip. Lauren gave a little moan as if her voice could control the events around her.

“Yessss!”

“What happened?”

She sighed, relieved. “Some of Liu’s goons were following me. I just played chicken with an eighteen-wheeler and got him to jackknife across the road behind me. I think I’m in the clear. I’m about ten miles from the city.”

Mercer laughed along with her breezy description, loving the melodious sound of her voice. “Are you going to tell me how you pulled off the greatest Lazarus impersonation since the Bible?”

“It can wait.” She became almost frantic with the need to tell him what she knew. “Liu’s going to take out the canal tomorrow! Sun told me because he thought I wasn’t getting out of his horror chamber. The ship carrying the explosives is called Gemini.”

“Jesus. Are you sure?”

“His exact words were that Gemini is going to be detonated in the canal tomorrow.”

“Anything else?”

“Isn’t that enough?” she cried.

“I’m just making sure, that’s all. I, ah . . .” Mercer didn’t know how to broach the next subject so he just plowed in. “I spoke with your father this morning. I told him you were dead.”

“Thank you.” Lauren was serious. “I wouldn’t want him hearing about it from anyone else. I’ll call him in a minute.”

“Anyway, I brought him up to speed and told him some stuff even you don’t know. Like how there are eight missile launchers in the Hatcherly warehouse we broke into.”

“I never saw them,” she protested.

“I think we both did, but you made the same assumption I did, that they were cranes of some sort. They were on the other side of the building from the gravel pile, painted yellow. Rene Bruneseau is the one who recognized them when I drew a picture of one.”

“What’s my father doing?”

“Mourning you for one thing, but he’s taking the threat seriously. He’s checking with the CIA and others about recent Chinese missile movements. Also, Rene is going to get in touch with his people to corroborate our findings. With any luck we can get an Army Rapid Reaction Force down here before tomorrow.”

“Easier said than done,” Lauren said grimly. “You can’t just whistle up the cavalry to come to your rescue. The United States no longer has bases in Panama so they’ll have to mobilize out of Fort Bragg and then fly down. Unless they parachute in, the Panamanian authorities could deny them landing permission.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky and there will be an assault ship in range with a load of marines.” Mercer’s voice betrayed that he doubted there would be such an eleventh-hour deliverance.

“I’m not too optimistic either,” Lauren agreed, then added, “but if there are marines close by, my dad will get them for us.”

“Listen, I just want to say . . .” Mercer was at a loss at how to continue. He sounded more intimate than he intended. “This sounds lame, but I am glad that you’re okay. I thought, we all thought that, well . . .”

Lauren laughed. “Please, don’t underwhelm me with sentiment.”

“You know what I’m trying to say.”

“I do, but it’s fun to hear you tongue-tied,” she teased.

The van made the turn from Avenue Balboa to Calle 53 Este. The hospital loomed on their left. “Lauren, I have to go. Can you get to the Radisson Royal?”

“Is that where you’re staying?”

“Yeah, we’ve got a couple rooms under Harry’s name.”

“Okay. I should be there in half an hour or so.” Her tone darkened. “Tell Lieutenant Foch that I’m sorry. Tomanovic died at the lock.”

“I’ll tell him. And Lauren, I can’t wait to see you.” Mercer smiled as he said it.

“Me too,” she replied and the phone went dead.

“Vic?” Foch asked when Mercer folded the cellular and shoved it back into his pocket. Mercer shook his head.

The Legionnaire had already accepted the Serb’s loss once and took the news with little outward reaction.

“How did she escape the lock?” Rene asked.

“I have no idea. I guess she’ll tell us in the hotel. We all set here?”

The driver swung the van toward the emergency room entrance, braking just shy of the busy doors.

Rene turned so he was looking at Maria. “You see what happened back there when you warned Liu’s men. If you try a stunt like that again, I will kill you myself.”

“I won’t.” Maria was still in shock from what she’d witnessed. Or maybe her numbness stemmed from understanding that had she not double-crossed her husband she’d be far wealthier than what Liu had promised.

Foch spoke with the driver and returned his crisp salute before whispering to the injured soldier. He kissed the man on both cheeks and followed Mercer and Maria out the side door of the van. The driver proceeded to the ER and what would no doubt be a long police interrogation. There were a number of cabs waiting at the hospital and a minute later the group was en route to the French embassy so Bruneseau could use their secure communications equipment to alert his people back home.

Mercer kept a close eye on Foch to make sure he didn’t strangle Maria Barber. Not that he wouldn’t blame him if he tried.

El Mirador

The confusion following Lauren’s escape had abated. The fury had not.

After learning what had happened, and the failure of a pursuit team to bring her back, Liu Yousheng locked himself in his office for twenty minutes. When Mr. Sun and Captain Chen were finally ushered into the room, they found the executive barely in control of himself. Liu’s face was red with suppressed rage and he had to turn his back on the two men before he could muster the discipline to speak clearly.

“I will deal with your pathetic excuses later,” he seethed when he faced them. “For now I need to concentrate on reducing the damage this can cause.”

He blew on his fingertips as if they’d been dipped in acid.

Captain Chen couldn’t meet Liu’s eye.

“Killing you two won’t make up for Ruiz’s stupidity, but don’t think the decision was an easy one to make. Ruiz has already paid for his idiocy. Your time will come.” Liu’s hot gaze fell on Sun. “What does she know and how can it hurt us?”

Sun had already considered his answer. “She knows the name Gemini—”

“Practically meaningless,” Liu snapped. That wasn’t exactly true, but he doubted anyone would link the code name to anything tangible.

“And,” Sun continued as if Liu hadn’t spoken, “she knows that our action is planned for tomorrow.” No matter what happened in Panama, Sun’s position within the Chinese military was too secure for him to worry about the anger of a man of Liu’s stature. That authority allowed him to remain tranquil in the face of his towering rage. “Telling her was part of my breaking her,” Sun stated, although there was no real need to explain himself.

Liu’s expression had narrowed and he regarded the torturer with utter contempt. Yet he was well aware of Sun’s influence in Beijing and maintained his silence. No doubt General Yu and Sun had spoken, probably this morning before the general’s flight back to China, which explained why Sun hadn’t arrived at the house until late morning. The sadistic torturer enjoyed Yu’s full protection.

For a frantic moment Liu wondered if the powers back home weren’t setting him up. Perhaps diplomatic lines had already been opened with the American authorities to explain how a rogue agent, without any support from Beijing, was planning on blowing up the canal. They might justify Yu’s unprecedented trip to the isthmus as an attempt to rein in an out-of-control COSTIND executive. If that were true, did they consider the forty million dollars in gold a small price to pay to untangle themselves from Red Island?

That concept alone dissolved Liu’s concern. If nothing more, Beijing was tight with their purse strings. If there was even a remote chance of Red Island’s success, they would protect their investment. However, Liu was wary. Factions back home would likely want his removal from COSTIND whether he succeeded or failed. That was one of communism’s many sins; triumph was met with as much condemnation as praise.

“Very well,” he said at last. He picked up the phone on his desk and dialed the Hatcherly headquarters in Balboa. A quick conversation with one of the executives confirmed the refrigerator ship Korvald, carrying the eight DF-31 ballistic missiles, was approaching Panamanian waters and would be ready to enter the dry dock tonight. More proof that Beijing is still behind me. He turned his attention back to Sun and Chen. “The rockets are almost here. We’ll make the assumption that Panama’s infernal rainy season will maintain its steady pace and tomorrow morning will enjoy its daily typical storm. I’ll call Felix Silvera-Arias to have Gemini’s scheduled transit moved to eight A.M. I told him last night that we’d send Gemini through in the afternoon.”

He added sourly, “It’s time he pays us back for the bribes he’s taken. Other than turning interest away from the Pedro Miguel Lock when we positioned the diving chamber and explaining away the incident on the car carrier, the canal director has done little for our cause.” He paused and changed the subject. “Chen, anything further on establishing the identity of the commandos?”

“The dive equipment recovered from Captain Vanik and the body we found last night came from a shop in Panama City. I have two men watching it this morning, but no one has shown up. I suspect they might have been warned to stay away.”

“What about the corpse?”

“Other than it being Caucasian and in excellent shape, nothing.”

“H’m. So we have a female American army officer, a mine engineer and one of the bodies we recovered near the volcanic lake had the tattoo of a European motorcycle gang. What is the connection?” Liu’s question was met by silence. He looked pointedly at Sun. “More disturbing, we have no way of knowing if she reported her findings to her superiors.”

“If she had,” Sun croaked, “we would already see a greater interest out of Washington.”

“It’s a risk to make that assumption.”

“Young captain”—Sun’s cold eyes seemed to shrivel Chen in his seat—“everything in life is risk. The Vanik woman has had a week since the trespassing at the warehouse to inform her chain of command. We’ve seen and heard nothing to indicate that she’s done so. There’s been no diplomatic pressure, no increase in American military preparedness. Nothing.”

“Are our espionage efforts in the United States so effective that we know exactly what they’re doing?” Chen asked, surprising himself at his boldness in the face of Sun.

The interrogator smirked. “Yes. Gentlemen, we are forgetting that unless the Americans land a sizable force in the next eighteen hours, it doesn’t matter. Even if Lauren Vanik has contacted her superiors, it’s clear to me that her reports haven’t generated much interest. Don’t forget, she’s only a captain in their army. How much clout can she have?”

“Once we eliminate her, that thread is cut,” Liu said.

Chen straightened. “She will be dead before the canal is ruined, sir.”

“A boast,” Sun mocked.

“A promise! Men are already on their way to her apartment to see if she left behind any indication about the identity of those helping her. I will also post men near the American embassy to stop her if she tries to enter it.”

“Who?”

“For obvious reasons I can’t use any of ours. They will have to be some of the soldiers President Quintero has seconded to us, former Dignity Brigade killers.”

“Make sure they are the very best,” Liu cautioned.

“Yes, sir.”

“Losing her was a dangerous mistake, but pushing up the timetable should negate the effects provided she is dead before Gemini detonates.” Again, Liu felt a twinge about the code name. It had been hubris on his part to use even that oblique clue.

Captain Chen’s cell phone rang. He used his eyes to ask permission to answer it and stepped to the corner of the office. “Yes.”

“Sir, it’s Private Jhiang.” One of the men detailed to kill Maria Barber.

Chen’s guts tightened. He knew this wasn’t going to be good. “What happened?”

“Li is dead. Corporal Hung is injured. The woman is gone.”

“How?” Chen screamed, not caring his commanding officer was fifteen feet away.

“Five men, whites. I think one of them was the engineer, Mercer. Li shot one of them, but they all escaped in a waiting vehicle with the woman. They were here before we arrived.”

“What’s going on?” Liu demanded, striding across the carpet to where Chen stood.

“Maria Barber escaped with Mercer and four other men, one of whom was shot. One of our men was killed, another wounded.”

Liu snatched the cell phone from Chen’s grip. “Who is this?”

“Colonel Liu, this is Private Jhiang, sir. I was the third man on the detail.”

“Where are you now?”

“At the Hatcherly infirmary, sir.”

“Good. Who is the wounded man?”

“Corporal Hung.” The young soldier’s voice quivered.

“And he headed the detail to kill Maria Barber?”

“Yes, sir.” The boy’s voice cracked.

“Do you agree that he is to blame for failing to eliminate her?”

“Yes, sir.” The words came as a ragged murmur.

“Is he there with you now?”

“Yes, sir. He’s holding my hand while the doctor bandages his leg.” Jhiang then added timidly, “We are comrades, sir. From the same village.”

“Now listen to me very carefully.” For a fleeting moment he thought of the mercy he’d shown Ping on the night of the warehouse break-in. He should have ordered the man killed on the spot. Liu spoke as if he savored the words, relishing their taste and feel as he spoke. “Look him in the eye, pull out your sidearm, and kill him.”

“Sir?” the soldier cried.

“Do it now,” Liu whispered seductively, “or kill yourself and I’ll have Hung executed later.”

Eight seconds later, the pop of a silenced automatic carried to Liu. He smiled grimly. “Are you there, Private?”

“Yes, sir,” Jhiang sobbed. “The doctor is staring at me.”

“Don’t worry about him. You are now absolved of Corporal Hung’s failure. Remain at the terminal port for now.” Liu snapped off Chen’s phone and handed it back. “I want that man executed for dereliction of duty.”

For an instant, Chen’s expression protested Liu’s order and then he bowed his head. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” Liu retook his place behind his desk, noting a tinge of respect on Mr. Sun’s shriveled face. He felt he deserved it, too. To men like Sun, Liu was an office worker, what the Japanese so brilliantly called a salaryman, content to shuffle papers from pile to pile. Now he knew that Liu was as much a man of action as General Yu or any of the other gray veterans who ran China. Proving he was a ruthless businessman capable of amassing a fortune meant nothing to them. Being able to order death was the only kind of power they recognized.

Gaining Sun’s respect should have meant nothing, but it took on a meaning far more important than the fortune he’d created or the dominion he was about to wield. The realization surprised him, and somehow made him feel bigger, stronger. Curious.

“I suspect we’ll find Captain Vanik with Maria Barber and Mercer,” Liu continued, able to resist the urge to blow on his fingers. “Chen, warn the men you’ll station at the American embassy. I expect the soldiers you dispatched to kill Maria were some of our finest. For them to be overcome by a geologist and his mysterious friends should be a warning to us all.”

“We’ve had many opportunities to learn that lesson,” Sun said laconically. “The warehouse, the lake, the mine, the lock.”

“And you’ve failed to deliver information to me from two people who you’ve had in your care.” As secure as he was in the role of political officer and as China’s most skilled interrogator, Sun had to feel some measure of distress about that. Liu gave him a disarming smile. “That is all behind us now. I want additional security on Gemini, in case Mercer or anyone else tries to interfere. Dispatch them as soon as I get a transit time from Director Silvera-Arias.”

“Sir,” Chen hazarded. “As a contingency in case Captain Vanik manages to convince some of her people to send a Special Forces team here, could you have President Quintero suspend incoming flights from the United States?”

“A good suggestion but no. It would look too suspicious. However, I’m sure we can deny a military flight if the Americans try to send one.”

“In that case, how about staging a demonstration at the American embassy? We could use our Panamanian soldiers as agitators, maybe pay a few street people to join them.”

“For what purpose?”

“If the United States does manage to mobilize troops, they would have to come down on commercial aircraft. They’d have no weapons and the only source to get any would be from the embassy’s marine guard armory. We can deny them access to arms as well as preventing Vanik or Mercer from reaching sanctuary.”

Liu nodded slowly. “Excellent suggestion. And no one could possibly link it to our actions. See to it at once.”

Chen stood and snapped a salute. Liu usually dispensed with military formality, but returned it. Sun flowed up off his chair and made to follow the young officer.

“Sun,” Liu said from his desk, phone in hand to dial Silvera-Arias. “From now until after the explosion, I want you at hand at all times. Remain in the compound.”

He paid no attention to the old man’s reply. His attention was already on his call. “Felix, Liu Yousheng.”

“Ah, my friend. I want to apologize again about almost giving away your liaison with Señora Barber.”

“That is no longer important.”

“So how are you today? Busy, no doubt.” The canal director affected a light tone to counter the darkness in Liu’s voice.

“And about to get busier. Have you changed tomorrow’s transit schedule to allow Gemini’s passage in the afternoon?”

“The revised list is in my hand. I was about to have it given to the harbormaster and alert the canal pilots of the modifications.”

“Don’t send it. We’re pushing ahead even sooner.”

“What?! Impossible!” Silvera-Arias sputtered. “Transit times are determined days, even weeks, in advance. Ship owners were furious when I told them about the alterations. You have no idea what I went through to make this new schedule.”

“Nor do I care,” Liu menaced. “I want Gemini in the Gaillard Cut early tomorrow morning and I will not accept excuses.”

“Señor Liu, por favor,” he wheedled. “You don’t understand how our system works. I can’t just change the timetable again. It takes negotiations, money for ship owners. It is amazing that I made the first schedule as quickly as I did.”

“Do it, Felix, whatever it takes to get Gemini in position. And make sure it doesn’t look suspicious. Rearrange every ship if you have to.”

“Señor, cruise ships are returning to the Caribbean from their summer in Alaska. They take priority. I simply cannot deny them transit.”

“Don’t deny them, you fool. Send them through.”

“The PANAMAX cruise liners sail with three thousand people on board. We can’t let one of them near the Gaillard Cut with your Gemini. The loss of life . . .”

“Is acceptable when you think what will happen to your life if you don’t do what I order.” Liu could detect defiance in Silvera-Arias’s silence so he added, “And you must also consider the lives of your family.”

The director drew a breath then blew it out loudly. “Sí, señor. It will be done. I will telephone you when I have completed the revisions again and tell you exactly when Gemini will enter the canal and the approximate time it will reach the cut.”

“I knew you’d see it my way.” Liu hung up the phone.

Out of habit Liu reached into his desk for a bottle of liquid antacid. He had the cap off and the bottle an inch from his lips when he realized that his stomach didn’t hurt. He swallowed, steeling himself for the inevitable eruption of acid. None came. He pushed at his abdomen, expecting to hear it churn audibly. It was quiet.

The years of business stress that had so damaged his stomach was nothing compared to the pressure he now faced and yet he was pain-free for the first time in a decade. Somehow, knowing that his own life was on the line had eased the constant agony of his ulcers.

He took a deep gulp of air.

Nothing. No searing acid from his ruined stomach, no raw scraping in his weakened esophagus. He laughed. Two surgeries, countless bottles of chalky medicine and all it took to cure me is ordering others to their deaths and placing my own life in danger. God, had I known that I would have done this years ago.

Liu practically ran from his office, liberated.

The Radisson Royal Hotel Panama City, Panama

Harry was on the couch teaching Miguel how to play poker when Mercer entered the suite. Roddy stood over the desk, talking on the phone, and two Legion soldiers sat with their backs against a wall as they cleaned weapons. Another Legionnaire was just visible in the bedroom where he covered the front door with an automatic pistol. He lowered it when he recognized Mercer.

The remaining French soldiers occupied a room next to the one the Herrara family was using. Foch had gotten off the elevator on that lower floor with Maria Barber, promising that he would only lock her in the bathroom until Rene returned from the embassy and he and Mercer were ready to talk to her.

“Mercer!” Miguel shrieked and raced into his arms, his smile dazzling. “Mr. Harry is cheating.”

“I’m sure he is.” Mercer set the slender boy back on his feet. “He cheats me all the time.”

“Damn kids these days,” Harry growled. “They expect to learn poker from a master and think they won’t lose a little money.”

Mercer whispered in Miguel’s ear and the boy ran back to the sofa. He reached under Harry’s cushion and extracted a fistful of cards. “You were right!” he cried. He plucked several dollar bills from the pile of money in front of Harry. “There,” he pronounced with the gravity of King Solomon. “Now we are even.”

Harry nodded, satisfied with the price his trickery cost him. “Seems fair since I lifted that money from Mercer’s wallet this morning.”

Mercer became aware that the shower was running in the bathroom. He shot a look at his friend.

“I almost had a heart attack when she called from the front desk to get the room number,” Harry remarked. “You could have warned me she was back from the dead.”

Mercer smiled. He’d called Roddy from the cab to tell him about Maria and Lauren, and what she’d said about the Gemini. He made Roddy promise not to mention her miraculous escape to Harry. “Consider it payback for the stunt you pulled in the hospital.”

Harry laughed at him. “Don’t think for a second that resurrecting a dead woman comes close to matching that practical joke.”

“You got some warped priorities, buddy.”

The shower snapped off, and suddenly the suite seemed very quiet. Mercer could feel time passing, but could do nothing to fill it. He had to wait until she emerged. Roddy hung up the phone and shook Mercer’s hand.

“Where’s Maria?”

“Downstairs with Foch. We’ll interrogate her when Bruneseau gets back from his embassy.”

“I was just talking with another canal pilot. He’s one of the last Americans still working.”

“And?”

“He’s heard a rumor that they’re shuffling tomorrow’s transit schedule. Nothing final yet.”

“Only a rumor? Isn’t he at his office?”

“His position with the Canal Authority is pretty uncertain right now. Since Felix Silvera-Arias was appointed director, almost all the older pilots have been fired, and those that remain have had their hours severely cut. They aren’t given much information anymore. My friend hasn’t worked in a week and doesn’t expect to be called into the office for another few days. I asked if he’d go to the administration building to get the revised list. He refused.”

“We’ve got to get that list,” Mercer pressed. “Did you tell him what’s at stake?”

“Yes, but he won’t do it,” Roddy said bitterly. “Since yesterday all off-duty employees have been barred from going to work. He’s heard guards have been posted and isn’t willing to risk going back.”

There was no need for Mercer to ask Roddy to get the manifest. The Panamanian almost looked eager to do it. “You’ll be careful?” Mercer asked.

“I’m friends with a lot of the staff there. I’ll be fine. As soon as I have the revised schedule, I’ll fax it over.” There was a fax machine attached to the suite’s telephone as a convenience to the hotel’s business clientele. “If I can’t get the new one, an old manifest will do. It’ll have information about the Gemini and give us an idea what to look for.”

“Good thinking.”

“Mercer, is that you?” Lauren’s voice was muffled by the closed bathroom door. It swung open in an excited rush.

Even with her breasts straining the front of the towel and the fact that the thick terry cloth ended just inches below her buttocks, the first thing Mercer noticed was the livid bruise around her right eye. The eye hadn’t swollen shut despite the puffiness, yet the dark purple and blue welt looked painful. Mercer crossed the room in four long strides, his face split by a soft smile.

Lauren was grinning.

He took both her hands in one of his and used the other to turn her head slightly. Feather soft, Mercer touched his lips to the bruise. The moment was so emotionally charged and so tender that neither trusted their voices for several long moments.

Lauren laughed softly, finally breaking the lengthening silence, and touched the wound as if it were a badge of honor. “If you think this is bad, you should see the other guy.”

“I knew you’d say that.” He enfolded her in his arms and she melted into him. He could feel the damp heat from the towel and her skin soaking into him. He wanted the sensation to last forever.

“Get a room, you two,” Harry groused. “There are minors in this one.” He ruffled a goggle-eyed Miguel’s hair.

Lauren reluctantly stepped from Mercer’s embrace. “Harry, you hugged me even harder when you saw me.”

“Yeah, but you were wearing a uniform that smelled like a wet dog.”

Mercer looked over his shoulder at his friend, his eyes mocking. “Jealous?”

“Damned right. I’m old, not dead.”

“Mercer,” Roddy interrupted. “I’ve got to go.”

Roddy had been working the phones since before Lauren arrived at the hotel so she knew where he was headed. She asked, “No one’s willing to get the manifest for us?”

“It’s up to me,” Roddy replied. “I should have something in an hour or so.”

“Watch yourself,” she cautioned. “Getting the schedule isn’t worth your life. If it looks like you’re going to have a problem, just get yourself out of there. We’ll figure out something else.”

They all knew he’d do whatever it took to get the list. Still, the words of warning were appreciated. Roddy nodded. “Thanks.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” one of the Legionnaires asked.

Lauren seemed to have forgotten the soldiers were here and leapt back to the bathroom in an embarrassed dash when she realized her half-clothed state.

“Thank you, no,” Roddy answered. “It’ll be tricky enough getting just myself inside.”

The soldier offered his Heckler and Koch P9S pistol. “It’s loaded. Safety is on the left side. Click it off and give the trigger a long pull to fire the first round.”

“No need to cock it?” Roddy asked, accepting the matte-black automatic.

“Oui.” The soldier gave him a second magazine. “Nine rounds each.”

“Gracias.”

“Pas de tout.” The soldier shook his hand by slapping palms and grasping Roddy’s thumb in a tight grip. “Bon chance.”

Roddy turned to Mercer, his voice steady. “You’ll talk to Carmen for me?”

“Talk to her yourself when you get back.”

Roddy paused at the door and smiled. “That’s what I mean. She’s going to kill me when she finds out I did this.”

“Get out of here.” Mercer laughed. The gravity of their situation had been suspended, at least momentarily, by the collective relief at Lauren’s miraculous salvation.

She emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, her hair still damp and shimmering. The duffel bag of clothes she’d lived out of for the past days had been brought to the room by Carmen Herrara, so she had on a fresh shirt and jeans. Mercer took a few seconds just to admire her.

Enough of that, he thought, and addressed the issues at hand. “Before you tell me how you survived the ambush at the lock, have you spoken with your father?”

Lauren took a seat, her elbows on her knees. “Yes. He was already in the National Military Command Center. That’s like the heart of the Pentagon, the place where senior officers monitor the world situation and make appropriate recommendations to the White House.”

“And?”

“And, well, not much,” she admitted. “This kind of thing takes more time than you realize.”

“But they are looking into it?”

She nodded. “He couldn’t get into specifics because we weren’t on a secure phone.”

“Where can we get a secure comm link?”

“That’s problem number one.” Fingers of wet hair swung down over her eyes. She swept them aside. “He’s already getting reports of a disturbance at our embassy.”

Mercer understood the implication immediately. “Liu’s trying to isolate us from getting help. We’re going to have to chance coordinating our efforts over unsecured phones. Better using land lines than cells.”

“Agreed. In fact, I should call him now.” Lauren reached for the phone next to her chair. Mercer picked up an extension near where he sat and Harry went into the bedroom so he could listen in. Miguel remained at the coffee table, practicing some of the fancy card shuffles Harry had taught him.

“Vanik,” the general answered after a single ring.

“Dad, it’s me. I’m back in the hotel with Mercer. He’s on an extension.”

“General,” Mercer said, “I’m sorry about the scare I gave you earlier.”

“Understood under the circumstances, Dr. Mercer,” John Vanik replied. “Hold one second, I’m transferring this call to another line. It should guarantee us a bit more privacy.” After a moment of clicks and squeaks, the general returned. “You still there?”

“Yes, sir,” Lauren and Mercer answered together.

“Have you debriefed that woman you told me about?”

“No, General,” Mercer said. “We have her, but we’re waiting for the French agent to return from his embassy before we talk with her.”

“Let me know as soon as you get something from her.”

“We will. We’ve also sent someone to the canal administration building to recover a manifest of tomorrow’s scheduled transits. Apparently the old manifest has been changed to accommodate Liu Yousheng’s expedited timeline.”

“You’re looking for a ship called Gemini?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ve already had someone check with Lloyds in London. Appears to be six registered vessels with that name plus another dozen with variations. Everything from a Greek supertanker called Gemini Sea to a trawler in New Zealand just called Gemini. We have no way of tracking a fraction of them before tomorrow.”

“That’s why we’re getting the manifest, Dad. It’ll give us an exact time the ship’s going into the canal. How about on your end? Anything?”

“Maybe.” Vanik cleared his throat. “A refrigerator ship called the Korvald was seen leaving Shanghai harbor less than twenty-four hours after a special armored train arrived in the city. Security was tight during the transfer of eight individual payloads onto the ship. The operative on the ground couldn’t tell what they were but at least knew the count.”

“This came from the Taiwanese?” Mercer asked

“No comment,” the general said quickly. “The important thing is that the ship had been in port for five weeks without any kind of activity going on and it appears that nothing other than the cargo from the train was loaded aboard.”

“I doubt it’s a giant takeout order of Peking duck,” Harry White said.

“Who the hell is that?” Anger flared in General Vanik’s voice.

“Sorry, sir,” Mercer said. “That’s a colleague of mine.” He covered the mouthpiece and shouted across the suite, “Harry, keep your goddamned comments to yourself.” The octogenarian scowled.

“Any idea where the train came from?” Lauren asked her father.

“HUMINT wasn’t that good. This all happened about two and a half weeks ago, more than enough time for a ship like the Korvald to reach Panama. Can your friend verify if that ship is in Panamanian waters?”

“I’ll call him right now.” Harry hung up his extension and returned to the living room, where Mercer gave him Lauren’s cell phone.

“Could it be the missiles that go along with the launchers Lauren and I saw?” Mercer mused.

“CIA has been sitting on that piece of information since the ship sailed, but as soon as I got some analysts looking for eight rockets it took on a new meaning,” Vanik answered. “It had been filed away with the hundreds of other bizarre things the Chinese do every day.”

Like with so many rogue operations, the hindsight of combing old intel often revealed direct links that only looked significant after it was too late. Learning about the Korvald this quickly was a major break.

“What’s going on at our embassy?”

“A group of about fifty protestors are there. Marine detachment says they’re pretty riled up but haven’t done anything other than burn a couple of flags and prevent anyone from leaving or entering.”

“Liu’s cut us off.” Mercer repeated what he’d said when Lauren first told him.

“Appears so,” General Vanik agreed. “Worse still, if the Panamanian government doesn’t allow us to land troops, any Special Forces team we send down won’t have weapons and can’t get access to the armory at the embassy.” He added sarcastically, “Thank the Clinton administration for not pressing to keep at least one active base in the Canal Zone.”

Lauren knew a tirade was coming and headed him off. “Dad, if you can get us the troops, I’ve got the contacts to get the weapons down here.”

“To be on the safe side I did call General Peter Horner, the head of Special Operations Command. He’s put a team on alert status.”

“But no Go order?” Mercer asked.

“It’s no secret we’ve kept antiterrorism forces on standby ever since the World Trade Center attack. What is not widely known are the tight constraints put on their deployment. It takes some pretty solid evidence before we unleash them. There are serious implications of sending American troops to a sovereign nation like Panama.”

“They’re nothing compared to what happens if you don’t, sir.” Mercer’s ire leaked into his voice. Lauren shot him a look.

“We know what you’re up against, Dad,” she soothed. “But things are getting tense here. We need help.”

“I’m getting it for you. Don’t worry. Once we get confirmation from the French, I’ll get the authorization to divert the guided missile destroyer, USS McCampbell that’s currently in the waters off western Colombia.”

“Any combat troops on that ship?” Mercer asked.

“No, but she’s loaded with Tomahawk missiles and has been retrofitted with an experimental VGAS cannon.”

“VGAS?”

“Vertical Gun for Advanced Ship. It’s a 155mm precision weapon to be installed on the next-generation Battlefield Dominance Vessels. The gun can fire fifteen rounds a minute and can direct a stream of six-inch explosive shells like a fire hose from about eighty miles away.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. So don’t think I’m not supporting you.”

“I didn’t think you weren’t,” Mercer said respectfully. “Just so you know, General, the French agent, along with a team from the Foreign Legion, were in Panama tracking what they thought was a shipment of nuclear waste stolen off a ship in the canal.” Mercer could sense Vanik was about to go off again and spoke quickly. “The materials have already been found in Japan, where a clerical error had triggered the alert. I tell you this so you’ll know that’s what they were up to. It may help in dealing with them when they call to verify Lauren and my findings.”

“What’s the agent’s name?”

“Rene Bruneseau.” Mercer spelled it for him. Given the sensitivity of his mission, I expect he’s a ranking agent within the DGSE.”

“Okay. I have to go now,” the general said abruptly. “I’ve already traced this call so I have your number. I’ll call you with any new developments. You do the same.”

“Yes, sir,” Lauren answered automatically and hung up. She turned to Mercer. “What do you think?”

Mercer remained silent for a second, thinking about all that could go wrong and the slim chance that everything could come together in their favor. If even one thing went awry, any planned response to Hatcherly’s operation would collapse. He knew they were facing the longest odds he’d ever encountered, but true to his nature, he would go on no matter what. He looked at Lauren without a trace of pessimism. “We’re going to nail Liu to the wall.”

“Amen,” Harry said around a cigarette. “I reached Roddy. He’s just about to enter the admin building at Balboa Heights. I told him to check on the Korvald if he can.”

“If my father can get us some SF, I need to get working on securing some weapons.” Lauren reached for the phone again. “I lost some of my best contacts back at the River of Ruin when that Hatcherly chopper made the lake bubble up, but I’ve got a few people I can call here in the city.”

Canal Administration Building Balboa Heights, Panama

Roddy Herrara’s throat was so dry that swallowing felt like a hot needle being jammed into the back of his throat. His palms were greasy and the lump of the 9mm pistol tucked into the back of his pants weighed a ton. He stood along a tree-lined street in the Prado, the area of stately homes created for the canal’s original builders. The neighborhood resembled a slice of small-town America circa 1912. Looming above on a grassy hill was the three-story administration building, its red-tiled roof contrasting with its massive white stone walls. Where once the flags of Panama and the United States had waved, a single blue, white, and red checkerboard standard of the Republic of Panama now hung like a rag in the humid air. He wondered if someday they’d be so bold as to fly China’s bloodred flag next to it.

Near where Roddy waited was the house of the canal administrator, Felix Silvera-Arias. He and Carmen had been invited there for a lavish reception when the legislature confirmed his appointment. A short while later, Roddy had his “accident,” and had been summarily fired.

The memory was as bitter as the taste of fear in his mouth.

He had another few minutes to wait for Esmerelda Vega. Essie was a fixture within the Canal Authority, a procurement manager who’d outlasted the past six administrators. Overweight and mustached, Essie was perhaps the finest person Roddy had ever met, and that included his own wife. She was like a mother to many canal employees and best friend to the rest. Roddy had called her from his car, telling her only that he needed to meet her outside the building. Without argument or need for explanation, the sixty-six-year-old grandmother of seventeen agreed.

While Roddy was confident, he was also racked by guilt. His responsibility to his family weighed heavily on his mind. Carmen had been a pillar of strength since he’d lost his job, encouraging one minute and commiserating the next as his moods swung from outrage to despair. The kids, too young to really understand the strain on the family, had been wonderful. Then there was Miguel. Despite everything that had befallen his family, Carmen was talking about adopting the boy. Had she not miscarried their first child, he or she would be Miguel’s age now. He knew she wasn’t trying to make up for their loss—she was too practical for that—yet here was an opportunity to give a full life to another. Though he hadn’t given his consent, Roddy knew they would take Miguel in if the orphan wanted to stay. Roddy should be with them now, he felt, not standing in the shadows of the very place that had denied him his career.

And still he was here. It wasn’t that his duty to his country meant more than his obligation to his family. In his mind this was one of those times the two ideas merged into one.

A pair of soldiers stood outside the entrance to the building, their M-16s cradled in their arms. Even at this range, Roddy could sense they were eager to use them. As he watched, the main door swung open and a large spot of color appeared. Essie. She wore a shapeless muumuu large enough to cover a motorcycle, and in such a bright shade of pink that Roddy couldn’t help but smile. Unlike many other women, Esmerelda enjoyed drawing attention to her size and often dressed to emphasize it.

Roddy pushed himself from the tree he’d been leaning against and began the long walk up the steps to the office building. When she finally spotted him Essie gave a cry and her dark, moon face blossomed with a smile.

“About time you showed up!” she said with good-natured scorn. “The office is a madhouse without you.”

Not knowing exactly what Esmerelda was talking about, Roddy went along. “Traffic was a nightmare.”

“Well, Felix wants to see you right this minute. Ships in the canal are backing up every second we waste. Come on.”

Roddy took the last few stairs three at a time. The two guards considering denying him entry had heard the exchange and how casually Essie used the director’s name. They let him pass without challenge and continued their monotonous staring across the Prado.

Essie held the door for Roddy. “Hurry, hurry.”

Once through, she led him across the rotunda, past the overly heroic William Van Iagen murals of the canal’s construction, and up the sweeping stairs. Another guard had been sitting at a reception desk, but she hadn’t given him enough time to even think about stopping them.

The brightly lit hallways were nearly deserted, which surprised Roddy. At this time of the day, the administration building should be a hive of activity as they coordinated ships in transit as well as maintenance and all the other details that kept the waterway functioning. He thought Liu Yousheng’s impending attack was the likely reason it was so quiet.

Approaching her office, Esmerelda placed her hand on Roddy’s back in a motherly attempt to guide him. Feeling the outline of the pistol, her jaw dropped and her eyes became huge. She was about to question him when a male voice echoed off the walls from down the hall.

“You there. Stop.” It was another guard. This one didn’t have an M-16, but the webbing belt cinched around his scorpion-thin waist supported a dangling holster. The soldier wasn’t more than twenty years old, yet swaggered as if he’d practiced the walk his entire life.

Roddy’s heart pounded in his chest so loudly he was sure the young soldier could hear. There was nothing he could do. One minute into the building and he was already being captured. And then he thought about the pistol. Could he use it? Surely this was important enough to kill for, but the sound would draw more guards. He felt paralyzed.

“Who are you?” the guard demanded.

“Esmerelda Vega. You’ve seen me a dozen times.” Essie moved so she was backed slightly into her office.

“Not you, cow. Him.” The soldier reached to unsnap his holster, revealing the dark glint of his sidearm. “I asked you a question.”

Unable to believe what he was doing, Roddy reached behind him with the hand the soldier couldn’t see. And felt Essie was already pulling up his shirt. Jesus, no! He planned to push her into the office before showing the weapon. Now she was placing herself right in the middle of the fight.

“Don’t you dare call me cow, young man.” Esmerelda’s tone was filled with the censure of a school principal. She didn’t betray that just past the guard’s view she was pulling a 9mm pistol. “Did your mother allow you to use such language?”

Don’t do it, Roddy silently prayed. Essie cleared the gun from his shirt. He didn’t dare turn away from the guard to see what she was doing with it.

The young soldier didn’t look quite so bold in the face of her anger. “Who is he?” he asked with a little more respect.

Without missing a beat, Essie Vega set the pistol on top of a filing cabinet just inside her office and brushed her substantial calf against the door to close it slightly. “This is Rodrigo Herrara. He’s a senior canal pilot. Director Silvera-Arias has called him in to help handle a crisis. Why don’t you come into my office and we can call him together and you can explain why Mr. Herrara’s being held up from his duties.”

Roddy felt like he was going to throw up. He swiveled his eyes and could see the H&K’s ugly shape on the cabinet. If the soldier took another couple of paces closer he’d be able to see it too.

The guard frowned, looking even less certain now. A silence hung for a few seconds. Squinting, the soldier studied Roddy. Mustering every scrap of self-discipline he possessed, Roddy remained motionless, trying to appear bored.

“Very well,” the soldier said at last. “Carry on.” He returned back down the hallway to wherever he’d been lurking.

Esmerelda bustled him into her office and closed the glazed door before Roddy’s knees buckled and his breath wheezed in a wet sigh. She plucked the automatic from the file cabinet and handed it back. “Are you going to explain what you think you’re doing, Mr. Secret Agent Man?”

“Shaving a decade off my life.” Roddy sighed. “Did you have to invite him in? Jesus, he would have seen the gun.”

“Don’t blaspheme,” she said sternly. “And besides, it worked.”

Roddy slumped into a chair facing her desk while Esmerelda shuffled to her seat. She lowered herself slowly and still the chair creaked under her weight. “My feet are killing me,” she complained. “I think I’ve got the gout.”

“Essie, I hate to be rude, but I don’t have time to talk aches and pains.”

“Didn’t think you did.” She smiled knowingly. “What are you mixed up in, Rodrigo? I know it’s not drugs. Carmen would have already killed you.”

“Nothing like that. It’s canal business.”

Essie’s expression turned sour. “What business? This place has turned into a military base. Armed boys running around, secret meetings with all sorts of wicked-looking Chinese men. I’m actually thinking about retiring if this nonsense keeps up.”

Roddy knew that his friend deserved a full explanation, but every second he spent in the building increased his chances of being discovered. “Can you trust me?”

“I’ve always trusted you.” Essie saw the sharpness in Roddy’s features, the tension in his body. Fear crept into her voice. “What’s happening?”

“Hatcherly Consolidated, the company who built the new piers—”

“I know who they are,” Essie interrupted.

“Sometime tomorrow they’re going to explode a ship in the Gaillard Cut and try to seal the canal entirely.” The elderly woman didn’t even bat an eye. For Roddy to believe this story was enough for her. “I’m working with the American military to stop them. We know the name of the ship, only we don’t know when it’s transiting.”

Esmerelda nodded her head so that the shiny wattles under her chin compressed like an accordion. “Now I see why tomorrow’s schedule was changed.”

Roddy seized on her comment. “I need that manifest. I also need to know if a ship named Korvald has put in at any of Hatcherly’s facilities.”

“The schedule hasn’t been posted. I heard that the personnel department is calling pilots directly to assign ships and times.”

“Damn,” Roddy spat. “Is there any way you can help me?”

Essie thought for a moment, leaning back in her chair so that the wood groaned like a schooner at full reach. She was not unaware of the danger. It took her another second to reach for the phone. “Hello, Juana, it’s Essie. Yes, fine, thanks. You? Good. And Ramón, how’s his arm? That’s too bad. Well, boys are like that. You should see some of the scars mine got over the years.” She paid little attention to Roddy’s mounting frustration as she continued chatting. “And you say the recipe’s better than your sister’s? I’ll have to try it. Thanks. Oh, Juana, I called to see if you’ve received tomorrow’s transit orders? Yeah, I know he’s keeping it secret for some reason, but I need to know tugboat requisitions to see how much fuel to send to Gamboa.” She paused to listen. “I don’t care who’s on the ships, just which are going through, and when.”

Roddy knew that Juana was Director Silvera-Arias’s secretary. In a stage whisper he said to Essie, “Tell her that they only want to keep the pilots’ names secret, something to do with the attack on the car carrier a couple days ago. Make it sound like a corruption investigation.”

Esmerelda nodded and passed on the lie, embellishing as she went. “That’s right. I don’t think any of the pilots are involved either but they’re investigating anyway. I assume that’s the reason there’s so much security here. What? Oh, great, thanks. Yeah, just use a pen to block out their names.” Essie sighed. “Can you do me one more favor and fax it to my office. The gout’s acting up again and I don’t want to be climbing more stairs than necessary.”

Someone rapped on Essie’s office door and blew in without being invited. Roddy had no time to react, no place to hide. The interloper was Panamanian, wearing suit pants and a button-down shirt. He stormed straight to the desk, leaning over Roddy’s shoulder like he wasn’t even there. He was enraged. “Essie, where the hell is the replacement hydraulic ram I ordered?”

“Later, Tomás,” Esmerelda said and continued her conversation with Juana. “I’m sorry, what did you say? Your fax is broken. Oh, all right. I’ll come up.”

“Like hell you will,” the man named Tomás shouted. “You’re going to find that ram for me. You said it was here.”

Before Essie could answer, the guard that had challenged Roddy earlier appeared at the door, drawn by the angry voices. “What’s the problem here?”

“Nothing,” Essie said, the phone still gripped in her hand. She looked at Roddy. “Can you go upstairs to get that list for me, Mr. Herrara?”

Roddy turned green. From the jaws of victory, he’d managed to snatch defeat. He didn’t dare go up to the executive suite, yet Essie was suddenly stuck in a bureaucratic snafu she couldn’t get away from without arousing suspicion.

Tomás, the soldier, and Essie seemed to be waiting for him to answer. He gulped a mouthful of air. “Ah, sure. It’s, ah, the list of lubricant suppliers, right?”

“Yup.” She pulled her hand away from the phone’s mouthpiece. “Juana, I’m sending someone up for it. He’ll be there in a second.” She hung up.

“What’s this about changing lubricant suppliers?” Roddy’s cover story infuriated Tomás even further.

“We’re just looking into it,” Essie replied placidly, doubtlessly wishing Roddy had come up with a better lie considering Tomás headed one of the physical plant departments. “Don’t worry.”

The guard continued to stand at the door, looking from face to face. Like a condemned man, Roddy hauled himself out of his chair. Tomás barely gave him a chance to step aside before throwing himself in the vacated seat. He continued to berate Essie about his missing part.

Roddy gave the soldier an assuring half smile, as if to say the argument was none of their business. The youth gave no physical reaction so Roddy stepped past him and started down the hallway. He could feel the guard’s eyes boring through his spine. A dozen yards down the hall Roddy slid into a secondary stairway. He climbed quickly. When he reached the third floor he headed in the direction of the executive suite.

He had only met Juana a couple of times and he doubted he’d made an impression on the secretary, but still he was concerned she’d recognize him. He dreaded getting drawn into a conversation with her no more than ten feet from Silvera-Arias’s office. His hands were already shaking enough.

The suite of executive offices had been recently redecorated and the air conditioning seemed incapable of drawing away the heavy smell of fresh paint. The chemical stench only increased the nausea Roddy felt as he stepped into the reception area. Beyond Juana’s immaculate desk he saw the door to Felix’s office. Even as he studied it, fighting the urge to run in and kill the bastard, it swung open.

Felix Silvera-Arias looked smug and self-satisfied in his suit and glossy shoes. His hair was slick with brilliantine and his mustache was perfectly trimmed, a black slash above his tight mouth in the style of a clichéd Latin lover. Roddy nearly turned and ran right then, and would have had another man not emerged from the director’s office. He was handsome by any standard, with a commanding presence that clearly defined him as a leader of men. That he was Chinese and looked like he’d just given Silvera-Arias a final set of orders left no question in Roddy’s mind that here was Liu Yousheng.

The emotional surge made Roddy sway. Here was the man behind the whole operation and he had a gun tucked into his waistband. Should he do it? Could he do it? Before he could react, the two men strode past him without a glance.

“Did Esmerelda send you?” Juana asked.

“H’mm? Oh, yes.” Roddy turned to the assistant.

She studied him for a moment, a spark of recognition in her eye. She glanced down at her desk, dismissing whatever feeling she’d had. “Here’s that list. As you can see I’ve blocked out the pilots’ names.”

“Thank you.” Roddy took the proffered list.

At the end of the hall he saw Liu and Felix talking in front of the elevator. With them were two other Chinese men wearing light jackets that did little to hide their concealed weapons. Roddy turned the other way, knowing that the operation would go on with or without its architect and that it was more important to get the six-page list to Mercer than exact revenge right now.

He exited the building as quickly as possible, coming out at the back of the structure near the parking lot. A guard gave him only a passing inspection as he left.

Walking a wide arc around the office, he reached his car a few minutes later. He didn’t bother to give its air conditioning time to vent the stifling waves of heat that washed from the interior. The steering wheel felt like a steam pipe and the gearshift a rock that had lain in a campfire. After tossing the gun under his seat, he jammed the car in gear and spun one hundred and eighty degrees on the quiet street.

Rather than drive all the way across the snarled city, Roddy decided to find a shipping service that sent faxes for business customers.

Once he passed the old Ancon Train Station and encountered the anonymity of heavy traffic he dialed the hotel with his cell phone. “It’s Roddy.”

“Damn,” Harry said. “I was hoping it was General Vanik. I was going to tell him that Mercer’s been making eyes at his daughter. Hey, did you get it?”

“I got it. I’m looking for a place to fax it to you. It’ll be quicker.”

“I’ll tell Mercer when he gets back. He’s downstairs talking to that Barber woman. Any problems?”

“Went fine.” Roddy still felt like the tension was going to make him ill.

“Congratulations. I’ll make sure you’re given the secret decoder ring and learn our club handshake.”

“Hold on, Harry.” Roddy checked his rearview mirror. With traffic so dense it was difficult to be certain but he thought he was being followed. There was little he could do to check. The street he was on was nearly bumper to bumper.

“What is it?” Harry asked finally.

“I’m not sure, maybe nothing.” Roddy scanned the businesses along the street. Usually he saw plenty of places that sent faxes, but now he saw nothing but bodegas and children’s clothing stores. He turned another corner, moving deeper into the city’s commercial district. The car, a sedan with windows tinted so dark he couldn’t see the occupants, stayed with him. “Listen, Harry, I’d better go. I think someone’s following me.”

“Where are you?” the old man asked. “I’ll have some of the French pick you up.”

There! A copy center. “Too late, stand by the fax machine.” Roddy clicked off his phone and bulled his way toward the curb. A Kuna woman on a rickety bicycle almost went down under his car.

Roddy pulled a wad of cash from his wallet and jumped from his Honda. Car horns screamed as he tied up traffic by blocking half a lane. The bottleneck helped pin the pursuing car fifty yards back. He dashed across the sidewalk, clutching the manifest and the money in one hand. The copy center was busy, with employees in blue slacks or skirts and white shirts helping harried secretaries and students with their orders. On the long counter sat a cup of pens. Roddy hurriedly scrawled the fax number in Mercer’s room on the top of the shipping itinerary.

As he did he noted the names of the first dozen ships scheduled to pass through the canal the next day. Oh my God! No! He looked again, more closely. None were named Gemini. None were even close to Gemini. He scanned the rest of the list. Nothing.

“Can I help you?”

Without looking at how much money he was handing the clerk, Roddy passed over the roll of bills and the six sheets of paper. “Please send this as quickly as possible.” He was near panic.

Without waiting for an acknowledgment he fled the store. He pushed past several pedestrians, and when he reached the curb he dropped to his knees. The tension and fear and defeat spilled into the gutter.

When his stomach was empty, he looked up, wiping his mouth. Two men stood over him. Locals. Dangerous-looking. Ex-Dignity Brigades for sure. An image of Carmen and the children flashed through his mind in the seconds before one of them reached down and plucked him from the sidewalk. Without a word they began to duckwalk him back to their car. People on the street parted as they passed, all looking at anything other than the pathetic man with vomit on his chin and the look of death in his eye.

Radisson Royal Hotel Panama City, Panama

Maria Barber made no effort to conceal her connection to Liu Yousheng and his operation, although she maintained that she didn’t know the Chinese were going to kill her husband at the River of Ruin. Liu had told her that he only wanted to frighten Gary off so he could get the treasure himself. Because she’d already admitted to tipping off Liu that Mercer was likely headed to the Pedro Miguel Lock, Mercer took her at her word. She was in so deep that lying about her involvement would gain her nothing.

All that took place in the first five minutes of their interrogation. The next fifteen were spent trying to learn if she knew anything about Liu’s future plans. Rene was skilled at asking probing questions, yet it became clear that she’d never been taken into Liu’s full confidence. She knew nothing about his intention to disable the canal, had never heard of Gemini, and had no idea who else in Panama was involved beyond Felix Silvera-Arias and President Quintero.

Sobbing, she summed up her role in one line. “Liu needed me at first, then just kept using me.”

She wanted to explain what she’d been promised, but no one listening cared. Lauren, if anything, was even more dismissive of Maria’s motivations. One of Foch’s men remained in the room with her as the others took the elevator back up to Mercer’s suite.

In the elevator up to their suite, Lauren said, “Why she prostituted herself doesn’t make her any less of a whore.” She let loose a string of profanity. When she’d regained her composure, she added, “I’m sorry, but women like that bitch sicken me.”

“That is quite obvious,” Foch said with an impressed smile. “And your mastery of the curse does the American military proud.”

“We have a problem,” Harry called from the sofa as soon as they entered the room. He was backlit by the afternoon sun. “Roddy phoned. He got the list and says it’s about to come over the fax machine. Then it sounded like he ran into trouble. Now he’s not answering his cell.”

A chill ran through Mercer’s body. “What kind of trouble?”

“Don’t know,” Harry admitted. “He said he thought he was being followed. That’s it.”

Just then the fax line rang and the compact machine began to whir. Lauren was closest and read the list as the pages emerged. Her worried frown deepened as she passed each sheet of paper to Mercer. The six pages made a circuit of the room, frantic eyes looking for the name they sought. None found it. It was Bruneseau who stated the obvious. “There’s no ship called Gemini.”

“Not even close,” Foch said.

“What does this mean?”

“I don’t know.” Mercer’s face had drained of all color. “Gemini must be a code name of some sort, not the name of the vessel.”

Harry was the only one not entering the heated discussion that flew around the room. He sat calmly on the sofa, the list of ships’ names spread in front of him. Miguel sat at his side, looking along with him, although he could barely read English.

“Even if your father gets us troops, what’s the purpose?” Rene told Lauren. “We have no target.”

“We’ve got to do something,” she defended.

“Guys,” Harry called quietly, repeating it louder and louder until his ragged voice cut off all arguments. “If any of you knew the first thing about crossword puzzles you’d see the answer right here.” He rattled the first sheet of paper.

“What do you have?” Mercer recognized the triumphant gleam in his friend’s eye.

“The ship that Liu’s going to use to blow up the canal.”

Bruneseau’s impatience boiled over. “Out with it, damnit.”

“It’s the Mario diCastorelli, a bulk carrier registered in Liberia.” He checked the manifest again. “Says she’s loaded with twelve thousand tons of scrap steel and cement, but that’s gotta be bullshit.”

“Why do you say it’s the Mario diCaso-whatever?” Lauren asked.

“DiCastorelli. It’s an old crossword clue.”

“Mario diCastorelli is an old crossword clue?”

“No. Listen, what is Gemini?”

“It is a sign of the Zodiac,” Foch answered.

“That’s right.” Lauren brightened “The twins.”

Mercer saw it then. “Castor and Pollux. DiCastorelli.”

Harry looked smug. “I’ve seen Castor or Pollux as a clue for Gemini a hundred times. This has got to be our ship. She goes into the canal at seven A.M. on the Pacific side.”

“Good job, you cagey old bastard,” Mercer said amiably.

“One moment.” Bruneseau took the list from Harry. “I thought ships entered from the Atlantic in the morning.”

“Usually, but if you’ll see here, there are a bunch of cruise ships returning to the Caribbean.” Lauren pointed out the names of several PANAMAX cruise liners. “They always transit in the morning so the passengers get the full show. Remember the one we saw before crashing the chopper on the car carrier?”

“Jesus.” Mercer looked up sharply. “Any of them close to the Mario diCastorelli?”

She double-checked. “No. There are a few freighters in between, Robert T. Change, Englander Rose, and the Sultana , a container ship.”

“I wonder if that’s intentional, that maybe the canal director is trying to minimize the loss of life?” Harry commented. “You know, by isolating passenger ships from the explosion.”

“I’m not looking for altruism from these bastards,” Mercer said sourly. He had to ask Harry the time. “There are only about eighteen hours before that ship enters the Gaillard Cut. We’ve got to get a plan together.”

“I’ll call my father right now.” The phone rang as Lauren reached for it. “Hello. Roddy! Are you okay? Where are you? What happened?”

“I’m fine. I’m in my car. I was stopped by an undercover traffic cop who saw me pull an illegal U-turn. I’ll be at the hotel in a few minutes. You or Mercer didn’t tell Carmen, did you?”

“No, we didn’t tell her anything.” Lauren’s relieved laugh dispelled the anxiety in the room. “We got the list and found the ship. Harry figured it out.”

“Thank God,” Roddy breathed. “When I read it I thought we were sunk.”

“I have to get off this line,” Lauren told Roddy. “I need to call my father.”

“Okay. Hey, I’m going to spend some time with my family before I come up.”

“That’s a good idea. We’ll call you if we need you. I’ll send Miguel down too.”

“Good. Thanks. I’d like to see him too.”

Lauren hung up the phone and gave the others a brief outline of her conversation. “I’m going to use the phone in the bedroom to call my father,” she announced. “I’ve already tracked down weapons if he can get us Special Forces. It’s up to you boys to have a plan ready for when they arrive.”

Foch had a map of the Canal Zone ready. “We’re on it.”

She was still talking with the Pentagon when Mercer ordered up room service, and barely acknowledged when he left a steak dinner on the bed where she’d surrounded herself with pages and pages of notes. He could see some were drawings of the diving chamber and submersible she’d seen at the Pedro Miguel Lock. Others detailed Liu Yousheng’s compound outside the city and still others were revisions of weapons and equipment lists she’d secured from some of her local contacts.

Mercer considered himself lucky just for the brief smile she threw him and the dazzle in her eyes.

Back in the sitting room, the men tore into their meals. Lights were on, and out the window the skyline of Panama City resembled a constellation of fallen stars. Harry had given his watch to Mercer after the tenth question about time, so Mercer knew that twelve hours remained before the Mario diCastorelli entered the canal. About four hours after that it would reach the cut. If they didn’t get an answer from General Vanik soon, they would be on their own.

The air was thick with cigarette smoke, mostly from Harry, who was on his fifth Jack Daniel’s and ginger ale. Foch and Rene also added to the fog that made Mercer’s food taste like the bottom of an ashtray. He barely noticed.

They’d discussed countless operational ideas for taking out the Mario diCastorelli in the canal in the event they couldn’t disable her before she entered the waterway. Everything from a fast-rope rappel off the Bridge of the Americas when the ship passed underneath, to a helicopter assault, to blowing it apart with the VGAS cannon on the guided missile destroyer hopefully steaming into the Bay of Panama. All of these were ultimately rejected in favor of launching an attack from a small boat in Miraflores Lake.

Everyone agreed that assaulting the bomb ship before she reached the lake was too dangerous because of the possibility of an early detonation. A blast anywhere before she passed through the first set of locks would certainly level Balboa and likely cause damage as far away as Panama City. Hitting the ship in the isolated lake would drastically reduce collateral damage if the SF soldiers failed and the sailors on the vessel blew the explosives. And by risking a raid, they prevented the certainty of a colossal explosion caused by precision munitions from the USS McCampbell’s VGAS autocannon. It was a calculated gamble they would have taken even if they were assaulting the freighter themselves.

All eyes turned to the bedroom door when Lauren emerged. The bruise on the right side of her face had settled to a uniform plum color that matched a dark shadow under her other eye. The past week was taking a physical toll on her—on all of them.

“Well?”

Her somber mien suddenly vanished as she smiled. “We got ’em. General Horner, head of the Special Operations Command, is sending them down on a commercial flight so as not to tip anybody off.”

“How many?” Bruneseau asked.

“Six. Half a normal team. Horner is afraid a full dozen would alert the Panamanians.”

“That will be enough,” Foch surmised. “Modern freighters don’t carry a large crew. Also I would think Liu would reduce that number further since he only has a small submersible to take them off after the ship is blocking the Gaillard Cut.”

“When do they arrive?”

Lauren bit her lip. “That’s where it gets a little sticky. Their plane touches down at Tocumen Airport at eight forty-five.”

Harry was at the mini-bar again. “Where does that put the Mario diCastorelli?”

“She’d have just entered Miraflores Lake when they land.”

“How long does a ship like the diCastorelli need to cross the lake?” Mercer asked.

“About an hour and a half.”

“Jesus, that’s tight. Any delays at customs and we’re screwed.”

Lauren nodded. “That’s why I said it was sticky. It’s imperative that transportation at the airport is lined up and that a boat is waiting on the lake for them to use in the assault. There’s a small marina called the Balboa Yacht Club on Miraflores Lake near the Pedro Miguel Lock. That’s where we’ll stage.”

“Know anyone with a boat there?” Mercer asked.

“I’ll talk to Roddy,” she answered quickly. “From there, the commandos will be able to motor out to where the Canal Authority keeps a pair of spare lock gates anchored in the middle of the lake. They were put there when the waterway was built as one more redundancy to keep Lake Gatun from draining. Using the gates might give the soldiers a greater element of surprise.”

Mercer chuckled. “Exact same plan we came up with.”

“My father and I talked about it, General Horner agreed. This is the only way.”

“What about the destroyer?”

“The USS McCampbell will enter the Bay of Panama at about the same time the Special Forces land in-country.”

“So if we need serious fire support we’ll have it,” Mercer thought aloud.

“Can’t imagine we’ll need cannons and Tomahawks, but yeah, we’ve got them.”

“What about choppers?”

“She carries two SH-60 Seahawks. They’re antiship platforms. The crew’s stripping equipment out of one to use as a troop transport if we need it.”

Mercer’s grave expression showed how much he knew they were dancing on a razor’s edge. Lauren’s father had come through with commandos, an obstacle that Mercer had doubts could be surmounted, but it seemed that didn’t bring them closer to success. Again, so much could go wrong. Something as stupid as gridlock coming from the airport could derail everything. And that would leave Mercer, Lauren, and six Frenchmen, one of whom, Bruneseau, wasn’t a soldier, to assault the Mario diCastorelli and its unknown number of sailors and guards.

Looking around the room, he saw that everyone felt his level of commitment to carry out the attack if the Green Berets didn’t arrive in time. Remarkably, he noticed that Harry’s most recent drink was ginger ale with only a splash of whiskey for color. Even the old man seemed resigned to do his part if needed, not that Mercer had any idea what his part could be. Harry saw Mercer studying him and saluted with his tumbler.

No matter what they faced, there was no better team to back him up.

They called Roddy up to the suite to bounce their plan off him, using his knowledge of the country and the canal to refine it further. Thankfully, he had a friend who kept a speed-boat at the Balboa Yacht Club. “What can I say?” he said when telling them their good fortune. “I know a lot of people with boats. I’ve got one myself here in the city marina. A twenty-six-foot Sea-Ray. When this is over we can all go out together.”

“Oh, damn!” Lauren suddenly exclaimed. Everyone looked at her. “The weapons. I need ten grand to pay for them.”

“Ten grand?” Foch cocked an eyebrow.

“Ten thousand dollars.”

“Sacre bleu.”

“Anyone have that kind of money?” she asked.

Harry chuckled. “I’ve got it.”

“You?” four voices said in unison. Mercer just covered his eyes, knowing where Harry had the money.

“I opened a fifteen-thousand-dollar line of credit in the casino at the Caesar Park Hotel. I couldn’t have gone through that much.” He didn’t add that he’d opened the credit line with Mercer’s Platinum Card. “I can close it out and take it straight to the cashier. Easy as withdrawing money from a bank.”

“Any idea of the interest rate on that credit line?” Mercer asked with trepidation.

“Stop bitching,” Harry said mildly. “You’ve got the money. Besides, you can keep the guns when we’re done. They’d make great souvenirs for the boys at Tiny’s.”

Mercer conjured a mental image of the guys at his neighborhood tavern with automatic weapons. An M-16 was almost as tall as Tiny, and in Mike O’Reilly’s beefy hand it would look like a toy. He shuddered. “I’ll consider it a business expense and write them off on my taxes next year, thank you very much.”

“Your call,” Harry breezed.

Mercer looked to Lauren. “How are you getting the weapons?”

“My contacts will bring them by—” she checked her watch “—in an hour.”

“Then I’d better get rolling.” Harry got to his feet and grabbed his cane.

“Don’t think for a second I’m letting you go by yourself.” Mercer moved to head off his friend, who was already halfway to the door. He turned to the others. “We’ll be back as quick as possible.”

“You’re paying for the cab,” Harry was heard telling his friend as the door closed.

They returned fifty minutes later to find three extremely nervous Panamanians huddled in the suite eyeing Foch, Bruneseau and two armed Legionnaires. None of them was over thirty and all had the lean look of desperation. On the sofas lay three large bags opened to reveal a trove of weapons, mostly surplus American arms left over from the Contra War. Lauren maintained a running monologue in Spanish as she inspected each weapon, checking actions, the tightness of magazines, the overall condition. Foch and his two soldiers gave the bricks of ammunition a similar professional examination.

“Damn,” Harry remarked. “This must be what Sly Stallone’s dressing room looked like when he made Rambo.”

“Rambo! Rambo!” the gun dealers parroted when they heard the name.

“Lauren, what are we paying for these?” Mercer asked, keeping the bag full of cash close to his body.

“The pistols are two hundred, M-16s are a thousand. Ammo and combat harness are negotiable.”

Harry had already blown three thousand dollars at the casino so there was twelve thousand in the bag, more than enough to outfit the Special Forces in addition to him and Lauren. Foch had arms left to provide for his men. Mercer asked if he needed ammunition.

“We could use some 5.56mm rounds for our FAMAS assault rifles,” Foch answered. “We’re okay with 9mm for our H&Ks.”

Lauren purchased eight pistols and rifles, and spent the remaining money on ammo and combat vests. The Panamanians seemed pleased with the transaction and joked with her as they packed up the weapons they didn’t sell.

Mercer moved to her side so he wouldn’t be overheard and asked, “How do you know they won’t go straight to the police when they leave?”

Lauren laughed and translated the comment to the arms dealers. They laughed even harder. One of them reached into his wallet and showed off his ID. He was a cop. They all were.

“Call this cross-agency cooperation,” Lauren explained.

“I promised Freddie here the arrest of anyone involved in the plot once we’ve stopped the Mario diCastorelli. In fact, he’s going to take Maria Barber off our hands tonight.”

“But he’s still charging for the guns?” Harry quipped.

“Beesness es beesness,” the Panamanian cop said in a thick accent. He turned to Lauren. “Vaya con Dios, gringa.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow morning when the dust settles,” she told him in Spanish, and they shook hands. One of Foch’s men left with the officers to hand over Maria.

“Now we have soldiers, weapons, a boat, and one of the vans we’ve been renting.” Bruneseau accepted a cigarette from Harry.

“And a target,” Lauren added. “So far, so good.”

“Then why do I feel like we’ve missed something?” Exhaustion had turned Mercer’s voice gravelly. Part of him wanted a drink to relax and another part craved caffeine to keep him going. He settled on bottled water.

“We’ve been over it a dozen times.” Lauren sat on the couch next to him and casually took a sip from his bottle. It was such a familiar gesture that Mercer had to fight not to smile. Her leg was tight up against his and it would be so easy and right to put his arm over her shoulder. She seemed to be swaying into him as if inviting the touch.

“I can’t think of anything we’ve forgotten.” Roddy looked like he was sinking into one of the overstuffed chairs opposite them.

“That’s what bothers me.” Mercer rubbed his eyes and noted the time. Midnight. “We should all get some sleep. Meet here again at six? Will that give us enough time to get in position?”

Everyone nodded. Roddy and the Frenchmen made their way out of the suite while Lauren claimed woman’s prerogative and scooted into the bathroom first. Harry had just come from there so he bade Mercer a good night with a dismissive wave and closed the door to his bedroom.

Mercer remained on the couch, trying to pull together his fragmented thoughts. He gave up quickly, and sat there with his eyes closed.

“You awake?” Lauren whispered a short time later. She was so close he could smell toothpaste on her breath.

Mercer levered open an eye. She was bent over him, dressed in a T-shirt that just reached the top of her thighs. Her unrestrained breasts were at the level of his head and he had to drag his gaze upward. Her dark hair was brushed back from her face and her skin looked luminous from being washed. “If you heard me snoring,” he said, “then I was asleep. If not, I was silently cursing Harry for taking the second bed again.”

“Poor baby,” she cooed. “If it weren’t for tomorrow I’d invite you into mine.”

Mercer managed to keep up the flirting despite his racing heart. “If it weren’t for tomorrow you’d still be disappointed. I’m whipped.”

She smiled. “In that case, why don’t you come with me. I’m warning you that if you snore, I’ll make you sleep with Harry.”

“I’d do the same to you, but the old bird isn’t as much of a gentleman as I am.”

Her eyes danced. “I think I could trust either of you for one night.”

“What happens if I get a chance for another?”

Lauren took his hand. “You won’t be able to trust me.”

Hatcherly Consolidated Terminal Balboa, Panama

Captain Wong Hui watched critically as deckhands secured heavy manila ropes to his ship. The other end of the lines were wound around diesel-powered capstans at the far end of the dry dock. Powerful lamps attached to the enormous shedlike building spread a glare of white light across his ship and the black waters that lapped against the newly built structure. The massive doors were open and in moments the four-hundred-foot refrigerator ship Korvald would be drawn into the enclosed dock and her long trip from Shanghai would be finished.

He muttered a few terse words to the helmsman as he felt his ship move against the sluggish tidal surge. Athwartship thrusters adjusted her heading, lining her up perfectly with the narrow, concrete-lined berth. His walkie-talkie crackled and an operator at the far side of the building indicated he was ready to engage the winches.

Wong knew that his ship had been chosen by COSTIND, China’s military-industrial combine, because she carried a sophisticated cooling system that usually kept her cargoes of meat frozen, but also because her superstructure was low enough to fit into the dry-dock chamber. Still he kept a wary eye on the roof of the building as the capstans slowly drew the ship past the doors and into the dry dock. From where he stood, forty feet off the water, the span of the ceiling trusses were another fifty feet above him.

Even with fifteen feet of clearance on each side of the Korvald, Wong paced from wing bridge to wing bridge watching to see that his vessel stayed in the exact center of the dry dock. He looked aft in time to see her fantail clear the steel doors and the heavy gates begin to close. She was in. The winches hauled the reefer ship another one hundred feet to the front of the building until her graceful bows loomed over the quay and a pair of forward ropes dropped almost vertically to mushroomlike bollards.

The veteran seaman gave no outward sign that reaching Panama had reduced the tension that had robbed him of sleep since leaving China. He remained erect and aloof, fitting a cigarette between his lips and lighting it from a match. Just because he’d delivered his cargo didn’t mean the danger was past, thanks to the coded orders he’d received en route from General Yu. It would be at least another day before the large overhead crane, normally used to pull heavy machinery from disabled ships, would haul away the Korvald ’s load of eight DF-31 medium-range missiles.

The solid rocket boosters were fifty feet long and weighed nearly nine tons without their nuclear payload. The Korvald had undergone modifications to her hatches while in Shanghai so the missiles could be removed safely. He recalled that when the train carrying the rockets had arrived in Shanghai from the Wuzhai Missile and Space Center near Beijing, it had taken six hours for the workers to settle the boosters into the special cradles deep in the hold. Without the distraction of so many hawkish politburo members watching the work, he was sure the men here could cut that time in half. Once the canal was disabled, he wanted his ship out of Panamanian waters as soon as possible.

Had General Yu not ordered he wait, he would have liked to see the rockets unloaded tonight, but that was not to be.

Wong pitched the stub of his cigarette into the oily waters separating the Korvald from the dock and watched as Liu Yousheng strode down the length of the pier to where the ship’s gangway had been lowered. With him were two armed soldiers and an ancient figure who moved with bird-like steps that covered the ground deceptively fast. Wong supposed he owed Liu the deference of meeting the executive when he came aboard, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead he sent his first officer to the deck to escort Liu and his party to the captain’s day cabin directly behind the bridge.

A steward brought in tea just as Liu Yousheng reached the cabin. He nearly toppled the young servant as he pushed past. The two guards stayed outside the spartan room while the elderly man in the dark suit stood mutely at Liu’s side. Wong struggled to hide his distaste at the man’s pallid appearance.

“Wong?” Liu made no move to formally greet the captain or introduce his guest.

“I am Captain Wong, master of the Korvald.” Wong bowed, sensing the fury already radiating off Liu.

“Your first officer just told me that you won’t allow the missiles to be unloaded.” Liu’s voice was a low snarl.

Wong wasn’t about to be intimidated aboard his own ship and his tone rose to match Liu’s. “By order of General Yu.” He handed over a decrypted transcript of Yu’s recent orders. “We are not to remove the rockets from this ship until after the canal has been sealed. As you can see there in the second paragraph, the general still harbors reservations about your plan and is unwilling to risk the DF-31s in case you fail. My orders are to keep all officers and crew aboard the Korvald and to be prepared to leave this facility at a moment’s notice.”

Liu scanned the orders and then read them again slowly, his anger subsiding as he saw the wisdom in Yu’s instructions. This wasn’t an attempt to double-cross him or undermine his authority. Yu just wanted to maintain the security of the rockets. There were a total of twelve DF-31s currently in China’s arsenal and two-thirds of them were on the Korvald . They represented an investment far beyond the gold bullion that had been spent on Operation Red Island, and unlike the gold, they could not be quickly replaced. Still, the orders felt like a mild rebuke.

Wong continued. “I intend to raise the gangplank as soon as you are off my ship and I expect that you will post workers in the control room to open the dry-dock gates if I need to leave quickly.”

“The general is so concerned about his precious rockets,” Liu said sarcastically. “Did he say what is to be done with the mobile launchers in case I fail? They are a rather expensive investment and would create quite an incident if the Americans discovered them here.”

Wong shrugged. “I don’t know anything about that. Perhaps General Yu believes you know your duty regarding them.”

Liu took a calming breath, realizing that he’d gain nothing by goading the captain further. Wong was under the same kind of control as he himself felt. And he knew that mechanics here at the terminal could disassemble the monstrous trucks in a couple of hours and load the parts into shipping containers. His voice returned to the silken tones he used so effectively in board meetings and business negotiations. “What do you know about the warheads themselves?”

“Before leaving China, General Yu told me to report that they have already been loaded aboard a submarine for transit directly to this facility. The sub is diesel-electric and will need to be refueled en route. An oiler has been dispatched to the rendezvous point north of the Society Islands. Because the at-sea refueling must take place when there is no satellite coverage, I can’t give an exact arrival time, but it should be approximately three weeks after departing China.”

Liu nodded. “Very well, Captain. You have your orders and apparently I have mine. If tomorrow’s schedule is maintained, the submersible carrying the men off Gemini should reach Gamboa at about ten forty-five in the morning, which means the canal should be rendered inoperable at eleven.”

“Then we will commence the unloading a short time later,” Wong said, warily eyeing the old man, who watched him like an undertaker looks at a fresh corpse.

“Sergeant Huai,” Liu barked.

The noncom stepped into the cabin and snapped a salute. “Sir?”

“You and Mr. Sun are to remain on board this vessel until I return tomorrow to supervise her unloading. Captain Wong has the authority to leave the dock under certain circumstances. Mr. Sun knows what they are. If Sun deems the captain is attempting to leave without those conditions being met, it is your duty to prevent it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Huai saluted again.

Liu expected Wong to report this back to General Yu. He was counting on it. Yu had to understand that he didn’t like being told a change in his plans by a mere ship’s captain and that he was still in charge of Red Island. He leveled his gaze at Wong, just so there was no misunderstanding. “This isn’t personal, Captain.”

Wong gave a short laugh. “I know it isn’t. What games you and General Yu wish to play are no concern of mine. I do as ordered and leave politics to others.”

“Sergeant Huai, how many men do you need to carry out my orders?”

“What is this ship’s complement?”

“Eight officers and twenty-two crewmen,” Wong answered.

“I will need four men, sir.”

“Very well. Captain, I will see you in the morning.”

Liu left the men awkwardly regarding each other in Wong’s cabin and made his way down the utilitarian companionway to the main deck. A foreman waited for him at the gangway.

“Sir?”

“Tell your men to stand down for the night. We won’t be unloading the ship until tomorrow.” Liu barely broke stride as he gave his orders.

He checked his watch. Midnight. He had to hold everything together for another eleven hours. His stomach remained calm even if he felt a headache growing behind his eyes. Yu had known when they spoke at El Mirador that he wasn’t unloading the rockets until after the canal was sealed, and had deliberately withheld that information. It was a petty trick, a small bit of intimidation that rankled the more Liu thought about it. Red Island was about to push Yu one step higher in the government and he chose to humiliate the man who was giving him the boost.

Wong had been right. Politics. It was his nation’s curse. Take away just half of the government infighting and Red Island would have been unnecessary because China would already control all of the Pacific basin.

Well, Liu thought with a touch of pride, thanks to me and despite themselves, the government’s going to get their wish anyway.

“Merrcerrrr, Merrcerrrr.” The voice dragged him back from the deepest sleep he’d enjoyed for weeks.

Mercer opened his eyes. Hovering in front of him was a face as wrinkled and gray as a balled-up piece of newsprint. Harry. “Ugh!” he groaned. “Waking to you makes my nightmares seem pleasant.”

“It’s five-thirty, Romeo. Shag your ass.”

Mercer remembered he hadn’t gone to bed alone and felt across the sheets. Lauren was gone.

“She’s already in the bathroom,” Harry informed him. “Judging by how rested she looked, you couldn’t have been much.”

“Not only are you a depraved bastard, but I suspect you’re deprived as well.” Mercer swung his legs out of the bed. He was surprised that other than a twinge of apprehension deep in his gut, he was feeling reasonably well. “Besides,” he added to stifle Harry’s leer, “nothing happened.”

Harry tossed a bundle of dark clothes into his lap. “Compliments of Foch. This is a spare uniform from the guy injured yesterday picking up Maria.”

“How is he? Do you know?”

“The driver’s still in the pokey. He managed to call Foch’s room late last night. The guy who was hit is going to be all right.”

“You’ve seen Foch. How long have you been awake?”

Harry rubbed the stubble on his chin. “When you’re as handsome as I am you don’t need much beauty rest.”

“Funny.” Mercer drew on the black fatigue pants and T-shirt.

“I woke up at five, went down to their room and heard they were all awake. When I came back up, Lauren was in the bathroom. Seems you’re the only one who wants to sleep through the fun.”

“I would if I could.” The clothes fit well enough so Mercer laced up his boots and followed Harry into the sitting room. A coffee service waited on a credenza. The aromatic steam was strong enough to start reviving Mercer even before he started on his first cup. “Any word about the Special Forces guys?”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know if Lauren’s called her father yet.”

She entered from the bathroom, dressed in clothes that matched Mercer’s. “Morning, boys. Who do I thank for the fatigues?”

“Me,” Harry answered quickly. “Sewed ’em myself.”

“You got the length right, but if you really think I have a thirty-six-inch waist I’m going to hurt you.”

Mercer suspected that she wouldn’t give any acknowledgment to how they’d spent the night even though they hadn’t so much as kissed. He was wrong. She stepped to him and pressed her lips to his. “How’d you sleep?”

He smiled into her eyes. “Never better.”

“Me too.”

“Break it up,” Harry growled. “You’re going to make me gag.”

When Bruneseau, Foch, and the four remaining Legionnaires entered the suite, Mercer was on his third cup of coffee and Roddy had already arrived with Miguel. The boy understood something important was about to happen and wanted to be with his two heroes for as long as possible. Considering his recent loss, neither man begrudged his clinging presence. It was a little after six in the morning. The Mario diCastorelli would be entering the canal in less than an hour, while the Special Forces were still more than two hours out.

The twinge in Mercer’s gut tightened a degree.

Sitting around the coffee table eating breakfast, he led them through their plan once again. Lauren would drive the van to pick up the American commandos. She would take them straight to the Balboa Yacht Club where Mercer, Roddy, and the Legionnaires would be waiting with the boat. No amount of argument could keep Harry White from also joining them at the marina. It was then up to the Special Forces to assault the Mario diCastorelli. If they failed, however, Mercer wanted to be ready to lead an attack of his own. He had no illusions about taking on a potential force that had just defeated an elite American unit, but he figured the initial raid would sorely deplete the number of defenders on the ship and give them a chance.

The faces confronting him were grim and set. Everyone knew and accepted the risks. The French wanted a chance to avenge the comrades felled by Liu Yousheng and Hatcherly Consolidated. Roddy was defending his very home, hoping to keep it from slipping back into the kind of tyranny not seen since Noriega’s day. Lauren had a sworn duty to defend the United States and never in her career had her mission been clearer. If they failed, America would face a Cold War-style nuclear confrontation with an adversary possessing a frightening strategic advantage.

What about Harry? Mercer wondered. Why did he want to be a part of this? Like so many of his generation, Harry hadn’t waited for the draft. He’d signed up to do his part during World War II and rightly placed himself among those called the Greatest Generation. It could be that he thought this fight was worth the same kind of sacrifice. Or maybe, Mercer chuckled to himself, the stubborn fool had never backed away from anything in his life and was too set in his ways to stop now.

And his own reason for accepting the risks? Mercer knew it was a combination of them all—with one more addition. He made no distinction between the carbon dioxide gas that had wiped out Gary’s camp and the squad of soldiers Liu had dispatched to the river to kill them. To him the Chinese were as responsible for those deaths as the geologic anomaly. Mercer looked at Miguel. For no reason other than greed and ambition, this innocent had been orphaned by Liu Yousheng. It was a burden the boy would carry for the rest of his life.

Mercer had always been haunted by the idea that the terrorists who murdered his parents had probably been congratulated for their barbarity. In a thousand dreams he’d seen them celebrating the ambush that had cost him everything and gained them nothing. It made him hate the killers all the more, a deep and primal emotion that he’d carry to his grave. He wasn’t sure if punishing Liu would give Miguel any comfort as he grew into adulthood, but Mercer understood too well how the boy’s soul could be corroded if the Chinese mastermind succeeded.

“I think we’re set,” Lauren said when the briefing was over. “When I talked to my father this morning he said the commandos made their flight okay. They managed to bring extra communications gear so we can all stay in contact during the assault.”

“What about your missile cruiser?” Foch asked.

“The destroyer USS McCampbell is already within Tomahawk range and will be able to bring her VGAS cannon to bear in another two hours. They will keep the ship out of Panama’s territorial waters but will be overflying an experimental spotter drone based on the Predator aircraft.”

“If Liu has moved SAM batteries here to protect his nuclear rockets, your drone won’t last five minutes,” Rene Bruneseau interjected.

Lauren gave him a smug look. “The spotter drone has the radar cross-section of a hummingbird. No worries.”

One of the Legion soldiers leaned forward. Named Rabidoux, he was the dark-complected son of an Algerian mother and a French father. He more than any of them had been stunned that Rene was a fellow Muslim. “I have been on NATO exercises with the American Green Berets. We won’t need the destroyer, its gun or missiles. I think we won’t even need us.”

Mercer nodded to him. “Hope you’re right.” He looked at the Timex Harry had lent him. “It’s seven o’clock now. I know it won’t take us that long to get into position, but I suggest we get going.”

All the weapons had been bundled in cheap nylon bags so they aroused little interest on the way to the elevator. While the majority of the group continued to the lobby, Miguel insisted that Mercer and Roddy escort him back to the Herraras’ room.

“Are you sure I can’t come with you?” he asked. He’d already asked that same question a dozen times.

“You have to stay here to take care of my children,” Roddy answered. “When I am gone, they look up to you.”

“But you might need me,” the boy insisted with a touch of petulance, then continued his appeal in Spanish.

Mercer admired Roddy’s patience with Miguel. Working past his own apprehension and fears, he was able to speak in reassuring tones. Mercer didn’t know the words but could follow the conversation, recognizing the exact moment of capitulation by the tears that formed in Miguel’s eyes. Roddy spoke to him some more, and like a magician managed to turn the tears into a weak smile and then a small giggle.

Not a magician, Mercer realized. A parent.

Miguel hugged both men and made Mercer promise to look out for Mr. Harry.

“You should know by now,” Mercer teased, “that with Harry on our side it’s the other guys who have to look out.” He pantomimed how Harry had shown Miguel the sword secreted in his walking stick. “He’s bloodthirstier than old Captain Morgan when he sacked Panama City.”

Roddy whispered to Mercer, “Then shouldn’t he drink his namesake’s rum?”

“Poetic license,” Mercer retorted. “Besides, I don’t know if Jack Daniel was bloodthirsty.”

Mercer retreated down the hallway to give Roddy and Carmen some privacy to say good-bye. Even if her husband wasn’t going to be in danger, she worried for him, for them all really.

A pounding rain had erupted in the few minutes it took to get to the parking lot. It stung Mercer’s face as he looked up to judge how long the foul weather would be with them. The sky was an arc of bruised gray clouds that obscured the tops of the tallest buildings. It appeared that the storm would last for hours.

Roddy had borrowed his brother-in-law’s pickup truck to drive the Legionnaires and the weapons to the Balboa Yacht Club. Victor had just finished the night shift at Hatcherly’s container port, and he and Roddy spoke quietly while the arms were loaded into the truck’s enclosed bed. It would be a tight fit for the soldiers in back, but they only had to drive fifteen miles or so. Lauren was already behind the wheel of the idling van.

Mercer climbed into the pickup’s cab to get out of the rain. Harry sat next to him and was squeezed in when Roddy jumped behind the wheel once Victor marched off for a bus stop.

“Victor says that last night Hatcherly moved a ship out of its dry dock. It had been there for weeks, although he’s sure no work was ever done to it. The freighter that took its place is about four hundred feet long. He thinks it’s a refrigerator ship but didn’t see the name.”

“Sounds like the Korvald.”

Roddy nodded, rainwater dripping from his nose. “I think it must be. The dry dock is fully enclosed, allowing the Chinese to unload their rockets without being detected.”

“That’s probably how they brought in the missile-launcher trucks.”

“Makes sense,” Roddy agreed.

“Once we hook up with the Special Forces we can alert the USS McCampbell. Taking out the Korvald sounds like something the navy should handle.”

Roddy started the truck and maneuvered so Mercer’s window came abreast of Lauren’s. “You all set?” Mercer called to her.

She rolled down her window a couple of inches. “This is gonna be a milk run.” She grinned. “We should be at the Balboa Yacht Club around ten. It all depends on customs at the airport.”

“And we’ll have the boat ready to go. See you when we see you.”

Lauren blew him a kiss and put the van in gear. Roddy waited until she had pulled into the early-morning traffic before turning around in the parking lot and leaving the hotel in the opposite direction.

Twenty minutes after reaching the Gamboa Highway they pulled into the Balboa Yacht Club, a grandiose title for a rather run-down establishment located immediately below the Pedro Miguel Lock. From the parking lot they could see a PANAMAX container ship in one lane of the lock and a cruise liner about to enter the other.

As Roddy had predicted there were no other vehicles at the club. It was a Tuesday morning and the weather only helped keep sailors away. Rain hitting the tin roof of the two-story clubhouse sounded like hail. There were a dozen sailboats in the marina and an equal number of powerboats tied to the wooden jetties. Like most small boatyards, there were watercraft resting on wooden trestles and a battered crane to hoist them into or out of the water. A lone gasoline pump stood like a sentinel on one of the piers.

Beyond the marina lay the mile-long Miraflores Lake. Like forgotten castles on a mist-shrouded moor, several cargo ships floated eerily on the water, their running lights barely cutting into the storm and the smoke from their funnels blending with the murky clouds. A single horn blast echoed across the artificial lake.

The three men sat in the quiet truck for a second until Harry broke the spell the haunting scene had cast over them. “What a shitty day.”

Mercer threw open his door at the same time Foch and Rene emerged from the rear of the pickup. His men swarmed out after him with the bags of weapons. Only Harry and Roddy had rain jackets with them, but the storm didn’t faze the soldiers. If anything they knew the weather would help the American commandos when they staged their assault.

Roddy led them around the clubhouse and across the lawn to the marina. Wind whistled through the rigging on the sailboats and waves slapped against their hulls. The boat he had borrowed was a thirty footer with a tuna tower that rose fifteen feet and a cabin accessible through a sliding glass door. He leapt onto the craft and jammed the key into the lock. The men piled into the cabin, water dripping from their clothes onto the faded indoor/outdoor carpet. The soldiers were more intent on the weapons than the fact they were all soaked to the skin.

“They okay?” Mercer asked.

“Oui,” Rabidoux said and handed over one of the .45-caliber pistols.

Mercer checked the action once, then popped the magazine so he could replace the round he’d chambered. With two more hours to wait, there was no need to charge the weapons yet. Roddy had gone forward and returned with a handful of towels. He passed them around and turned to start the gas stove to make coffee.

“Anyone bring a deck of cards?” Harry asked from the settee. He played idly with the spring mechanism on his cane.

At ten minutes past nine, Lauren called from the airport to tell Mercer that the jet from Miami had just arrived. No sooner had Mercer cut the cell connection than Roddy’s phone rang again. It was Victor. From the hotel, he had taken a bus to the viewing area at the Miraflores Lock to wait for the Mario diCastorelli. Mercer handed over the phone and listened as Roddy spoke in Spanish with his brother-in-law.

“The ship is already in the upper of the two western locks,” Roddy reported after hanging up. The western lock was on the opposite side of the canal from the marina. “The doors just closed behind it and they are beginning to flood the chamber.”

“It takes an hour to cross the lake, right?” Mercer asked.

Roddy nodded. “A little longer with the rain.”

“Man, this is going to be tight.” Mercer and Foch exchanged a look. “What do you think?”

“I think that if the Green Berets don’t arrive in forty-five minutes we should do this ourselves.”

Mercer looked out into the storm. He could just see the darker shadow of a cargo ship approaching the locks. “I agree.” He dialed Lauren. “It’s me. Victor just called. Our friend is already at the Miraflores Lock.”

“Passengers are beginning to come through now. No sign of the guys in the green hats yet.”

“We might not be able to wait for them,” Mercer told her.

“I hear you, but I don’t like it.”

“Neither do we.”

“As soon as we’re on the road, I’ll call.”

“Roger. And Lauren, be careful.”

“You too.”

Her call came fifteen minutes later. “We’re coming. Should be with you in twenty minutes. The storm’s keeping traffic down to a dull snarl.”

“Good. Hey, let me talk with the commanding officer.”

“This is Jim Patke.” The voice was mild, not the nail-eating fire-spitter Mercer expected. “You’re Mercer?”

“Yeah. Listen, I just wanted to go over some details about the assault.”

“Forget it. The plan you discussed with General Vanik isn’t going to happen. Delta Force and SEALs go for those kinds of attacks. Not us. I’ve seen pictures of the lock area. What you’re going to do is take us by boat to the other side of the canal. We’ll make our way onto the retaining wall and jump to the target while it’s in the chamber.”

“Doesn’t give much time to secure the ship,” Mercer said.

“Won’t know ’til we get there since no one has intel on the target’s complement.” Patke’s voice was filled with bitter complaint.

Mercer could understand the commando’s frustration. He was leading his team against an unknown force without any time to properly plan or train for the attack. For all Patke knew there were a hundred Chinese soldiers on the Mario diCastorelli. “I hear you,” Mercer replied at last. “If you think you’ll need it, there are seven of us ready to help.” He counted Lauren in his tally but not Roddy or Harry. Roddy’s orders were to drive the boat for the Special Forces and remain out of the way until events had been played out. Mercer could not risk the family man.

“No way,” Patke answered. “It’ll be hairy enough without having to worry about civilians.”

There was no point explaining that the Foreign Legion veterans weren’t civilians or that he himself had probably seen more combat than Patke or any of his men. Besides which Mercer had already determined a fallback position he wanted to use while the Green Berets took over the bomb ship. Roddy had mentioned it when they’d arrived at the marina.

“Okay,” Mercer said. “We’ll be waiting.” He clicked off the cell phone.

Bruneseau cleared his throat. “Well?”

“They’re going to take the ship in the lock. Roddy will take them to the other side of the canal in the boat. I think the rest of us should move to where the pilot boats are stored on the upper end of the lock chamber.” There was a small marina used exclusively by the Canal Authority a half mile up the road from the Balboa Yacht Club. It was this boatyard where the launch that had chased Mercer from the Pedro Miguel Lock came from after Lauren’s ill-fated dive. If necessary Mercer and his team could commandeer one of the thirty-foot pilot boats and stage their own last-ditch attack on the Mario diCastorelli.

“We’ll leave now,” Foch announced. “Monsieur Herrara, are you certain that they won’t question us if we park the truck near that marina?”

“Just as long as you park in the lot reserved for tourists who watch ships going through the lock. There’s a chain-link fence separating it from the employee lot. The pickup can smash through it no problem.”

Harry slid open the door and stepped into the salon. His coat was shiny with rain, and when he pulled off his hood, water cascaded to the floor. He’d been up on the flying bridge keeping watch for the Mario diCastorelli. “I think I saw her.” He set down a pair of binoculars and dried his hands on his pants so he could pull a cigarette from its crumpled pack. “I also saw a couple other freighters behind her and a ship with a huge white superstructure just coming out of the Miraflores Locks. Must be a PANAMAX cruise ship.”

Roddy consulted the manifest he’d gotten from Essie Vega. “The freighters will be the Robert T. Change, the Englander Rose and the Sultana. The cruise ship is the Rylander Sea.”

Harry seemed to lose focus for a moment when he heard the names. He said nothing, just silently smoked his Chesterfield.

Roddy added, “The Rylander Sea carries about five thousand passengers and crew. Transit cruises are some of the most popular so she’ll be full. Also, she’s considered to be a luxury ship with cabin prices about twice most other liners. Her passengers are going to be elderly since they have the money and the time to take a twenty-five-day cruise from Alaska to Puerto Rico.”

Mercer’s brow furrowed as he absorbed this information. “Unless the Green Berets need you to wait at the lock, I want you to go across the lake and be prepared to warn that ship off if it looks like we won’t stop the explosion.”

“With any luck I’ll know the pilot.”

Foch got to his feet. “We should leave.”

“Take the truck. I’ll join you when Lauren arrives,” Mercer said.

“D’accord.”

“Harry, I think you should stay with Roddy.”

“I’m sure you do,” the octogenarian replied. “And I would, except for one small problem. None of you know how to handle a ship the size of the diCastorelli. If Patke or you run into trouble, you’re going to need me. I’ve got twenty-some years of experience on freighters, many of them as master. I’m the only one here who can maneuver her if the Chinese attach that submersible to her hull and try to crash her in the Gaillard Cut.”

Mercer watched Harry’s blue eyes, struggling with his feelings of loyalty and duty. “Can you walk me through the procedures over the radio?” he asked.

“No. I need to be on her to feel how she responds.” They continued to study each other. “Hey, don’t think I wouldn’t rather be on my bar stool at Tiny’s,” Harry added.

Mercer finally broke eye contact and glanced at Foch. His meaning was clear.

“Do not worry, my friend,” the Legionnaire said in French. “My debt to you for saving my life will be protecting his at all cost.”

“All right. Lauren and I will be with you in a few minutes.”

The men tucked their weapons back in their bags and climbed over the gunwale for the dock. Bruneseau led them and Foch stayed at Harry’s side. Harry didn’t bother using his walking stick and as far as Mercer could tell his gait was even. His prosthesis wasn’t bothering him because he was in the grip of the same adrenaline surge coursing through Mercer’s veins.

Ten minutes later, multiple pairs of feet leapt to the deck of the fishing boat. Lauren opened the door and twisted rain from her hair when she stepped inside. Behind her were the six Green Berets. Mercer stood to shake Patke’s hand. “Philip Mercer.”

“Captain Jim Patke.” The soldier was about thirty, with blue eyes and blondish hair kept longer than army regulations. He was a bit shorter than Mercer but appeared well proportioned. His grip was firm. His stance bespoke a selfassuredness that came from years of training. Mercer introduced Roddy Herrara. “For operational security,” the team leader said, “forgive me if I don’t present my men.”

The five other soldiers were cut from a similar mold—athletic without the steroid bulk of movie heroes. Mercer could see intelligence in their eyes and just a hint that being called into action, no matter how ill-planned, gave them a thrill.

They set their luggage on the floor and quickly began to change into black fatigues. Patke spoke as he stripped out of jeans and a button-down shirt. “A spare radio is in my bag there.” He pointed with his chin. Lauren retrieved it from its hiding place. “You’re familiar with it, Captain?”

She flicked it on and settled the earpiece and throat mike. “Affirmative.”

“Pre-select channels one through four are me and my guys.” Patke showed no self-consciousness about stripping to his underwear in front of her. “We’ll call out as we change them. Your code name’s Angel. We’re Devil One through Six. The McCampbell’s Heaven. She’ll be on channels five, six, and seven. Give ’em a call and see if they’re listening.”

“Heaven, Heaven, this is Angel. Radio check. Over.”

“Angel, this is Heaven, reading you five by five. Over.” The comm officer aboard the McCampbell was a woman. “Sit rep?”

“Devils and Angel are ready to go. Target is—” she looked at Mercer, who told her “—fifteen minutes from entering the lock. It will take about thirty minutes for her to clear the chamber and proceed to the cut.”

“Understood, Angel. The UAV is flying just low enough to see through the overcast. We’ve got her under surveillance. Heaven is standing by with all the wrath you might need.”

Lauren knew that meant her VGAS cannon had already locked onto the Mario diCastorelli and that her Seahawk helicopter was ready to go. “Roger that, Heaven. Angel out.”

“Let’s see the weapons,” Patke said when he’d finished dressing. Mercer lifted the second nylon bag onto the table. The commandos descended on the guns. In seconds each had an M-16 stripped down to its component parts. After one of them checked the assault rifles thoroughly, they gave the pistols the same attention. “You haven’t fired these yourself?” Patke asked Lauren.

She shook her head. “I only got them last night.”

Patke made a disgusted face. “This just gets better and better.” He looked to the armorer who’d inspected the weapons. “How about it?”

“Can’t promise accuracy but they’re all in good shape, sir.” He looked at Lauren. “Government issue?”

She wasn’t surprised the soldier could deduce that from his brief examination. These men were all experts on the tools of their trade. “I got them from a contact in the police.”

“Good enough for me,” the armorer announced, and his teammates, though unhappy about going into combat with unfamiliar arms, seemed satisfied.

“Oh, there’s one more thing. We’re gonna need Mr. Herrara to stay with us,” Patke said absently.

“No way,” Mercer snapped. “He’s more of a civilian than any of us.”

“That may be, but he’s also the only one who can maneuver that ship. None of my guys have experience with anything over a thirty-foot assault boat. We can take the ship, but unless we can get her out of the way, the Chinese will likely just take it back again with a superior force.”

Mercer wanted to protest again, maybe volunteer himself. That’s what his instincts told him to do, but he had no idea how to control a ship the size of the Mario diCastorelli. Roddy was the only logical choice. Goddamnit.

Roddy forestalled any further argument. “I will do it.”

There was no need to mention what he was risking by going with the Americans. The love he felt for his family was reflected in his eyes and the proud set to his shoulders.

“Right.” Patke checked over his team. “Once we get control of her, we’ll determine how the explosives are triggered and render them inoperable. Two of my men are demolition experts. Mr. Herrara will keep the ship moving so the Chinese can’t board her from a launch.”

“We’ll be waiting at the upper side of the lock complex,” Mercer told him.

Roddy was at the window, looking through the storm for the Mario diCastorelli. “Gentlemen, I think it’s time. She’s just about at the lock.”

The others joined him. Through the woolly curtain of rain, the bulk carrier loomed over the waters like a rust-streaked cathedral. Her four-story superstructure was located at her stern, and was painted a murky blue, with a single funnel that belched black smoke. Three cranes rose from her low deck on spindly stalks, like enormous insects whose arms could pick at the carcass they were poised over. Her bows flared upward, and where her anchor dangled on a massive chain her name was stenciled in faded letters.

Nothing about her dilapidated appearance gave a hint to the deadly cargo in her holds.

“We’ve got to go,” Roddy said.

Patke fitted his earpiece and told Lauren they were starting on channel one. All the team members checked the comm link with each other and with the guided-missile destroyer standing off the coast.

Mercer shook Roddy’s hand and that of Captain Patke. Lauren gave Roddy a quick hug and saluted the Special Forces officer. “Good luck, Captain.”

Nothing further needed to be said. Roddy climbed up to the bridge and keyed the engines to life. Mercer and Lauren began jogging off the pier. In a minute they heard the timbre of the fishing boat’s engine change as Roddy pulled from the marina. It would take only a couple of minutes to dash across the shipping lines and deposit the commandos on the far bank of the canal. From there, Mercer estimated Patke would wait until the last minute before rushing the lock chamber and boarding the bomb ship. After that he had no idea how it would go.

He looked at Lauren as she ran at his side through the deluge. Her jaw was relaxed as her breathing came deep and even. Her hands were formed into loose fists. When she felt his stare upon her she turned to him, her eyes undiminished in the washed-out light.

He put aside his growing feelings toward her and turned his gaze back into the storm, his eyes slitted, his stomach a churning mess.

The Pedro Miguel Lock Panama Canal, Panama

The pickup was parked in the middle of the visitor’s lot, the lone vehicle there under the punishing rain. Harry sat alone in the front seat, something nagging at the back of his mind as he read the transit manifest for the fourth time. With the windows closed, the cab was blue with smoke. When Mercer and Lauren came jogging up, he stubbed out his cigarette and slid over so she was between the two men. “They on their way?”

“Yes,” Mercer replied. “They’re taking Roddy when they board the Mario diCastorelli.”

Harry didn’t seem surprised by this revelation. Come to think of it, Mercer realized, Roddy hadn’t been either. He began to see that the two of them had known the Green Berets were going to need a pilot and conveniently didn’t tell anyone about it.

He continued. “I think they’ll be all right. Patke and his team look pretty tough. I told him that we’ll be ready to help once the ship’s secure.” He leaned forward so he could look directly at his friend. “Harry, with Roddy acting as pilot, I don’t think we’re going to need you out there. I want you to wait in the truck.”

“And get captured by some of Liu’s guards, who I’m sure are lurking around someplace? Forget it.” He snorted. “Besides, if the commandos fail, chances are Roddy won’t be in too good a shape. If they need you, you’re going to need me.”

“You’re sure you can handle that ship?”

“It’s like falling off a bike,” Harry dismissed with a grand wave. “Do it once and you never forget how.”

Lauren smiled. “Your metaphors are a bit screwy.”

“So’s Mercer’s head if he thinks I can’t conn a ship like that.”

Lauren rubbed the windshield to smear away the fog. They were all breathing heavier than normal and felt the claustrophobia of being jammed into the tight cab. Mercer suspected it was even worse for the five men in the cargo bed.

Rene Bruneseau tapped on the glass partition separating the cab from the truck’s enclosed bed. Harry reached behind to slide it open. “May I have one of your cigarettes?” the French spy asked.

“Here you go.” Harry handed him his pack but made sure to get it back.

“How long before they hit the ship?” The question was almost rhetorical. The Green Berets would radio just before the strike. Rene had asked just to dispel some of the nervous energy infecting them all.

“Probably just before she comes out of the lock. Say twenty minutes.”

They watched in silence as small locomotive engines drew the ship into the massive chamber. Once the doors were closed behind her, she would begin her thirty-foot vertical journey to the level of the Gaillard Cut and Lake Gatun. Another of the freighters trailing the Mario diCastorelli entered the nearer lock chamber, partially blocking their view of the bomb ship on its far side. She was an old tramp steamer laid out somewhat like a World War II Liberty Ship with a centrally located superstructure and a raised forecastle. The booms on her two cranes were like skeletal fingers.

“Which ship is that?” Harry asked.

With the truck at a slight angle in the deserted visitors’ parking lot Mercer had the better view. “The Robert T. Change.” He could see her flying a white triangular flag speared by a red dot. It was the Pilot On Board pennant. He couldn’t see her national flag so he didn’t know where she was registered.

“Angel, Heaven, this is Devil One.” Lauren had pulled out the earpiece from her radio so they all heard the voice from the tiny receiver.

“Go ahead, Devil. This is Heaven,” answered the comm officer aboard the McCampbell.

“We’re deployed. Estimate zero minus four minutes.”

“Roger,” Lauren and the destroyer responded simultaneously.

Looking at the lock complex less than two hundred yards away, it appeared that the Robert T. Change would leave her chamber before the Mario diCastorelli. They could see the bows of the small tramp steamer just peeking out as the chamber doors swung open on their hydraulic rams. Behind her, the much larger diCastorelli was still firmly held in the middle of the lock.

“That is not how it usually happens,” Lauren said with concern. “It’s always first ship in, first ship out. They never let vessels pass in the locks unless there’s some kind of snag.”

“Well, the wind’s kicking up,” Harry remarked, looking up to the leaden sky. “The Mario could be having trouble. I’ve been through here a few times myself back in the early 1950s. I’ve actually seen a mule locomotive pulled off her tracks and get dumped in the lock when a gust slammed against a freighter.”

Lauren suddenly struggled to replace her earpiece, her voice tight. “Devil One, this is Angel, over.”

“Go ahead, Angel.”

“Target may be held in place for a few more minutes. I just remembered they’ll need the time for divers to prepare the hull for when they attach the submersible.” She’d recalled a detail the others had all but forgotten and her quick thinking prevented Captain Patke from launching his assault too early.

“Affirmative, Angel. Thanks. Out.”

Lauren let out a relieved sigh.

“Good job,” Mercer said and laid his hand on hers. She let it linger.

“I can’t believe I’d forgotten that.”

They could no longer see the Mario diCastorelli as the Robert T. Change blocked their entire view. The small silver train engines straining to haul the vessel from the lock looked like circus workers trying to lead a stubborn elephant. Mercer craned around. Blocking his view down the canal were warehouses, machine shops, and other structures needed to run the complex. Even if the sprawling facility hadn’t obstructed his view, the distance was too great to see the next ship patiently waiting below the lock for its turn to climb the water ladder. Because of where they were parked, the downstream end of the lock was nearly a half mile behind him.

No matter how large the ships that used the waterway, he thought, it seemed nothing could dwarf the scale of this century-old marvel.

A sharp rap on Mercer’s window made them all jump.

Standing in the rain wearing a camouflage poncho was a Chinese soldier. The rubberized cloth ran with water and barely hid the barrel of his machine pistol. He’d tapped the glass with its barrel. Swallowing a ball of fear, Mercer cranked down his window.

“What you do here?” the soldier asked in angry broken English.

“Watching the ships with my wife and her grandfather. He helped build the canal.” Harry hadn’t even been born when the construction was completed but Mercer needed a reasonable excuse to be sightseeing on such a miserable morning.

“It rain. You no see. You go ’way.”

“We’ll leave in a few minutes.” He gave the man his friendliest smile. “As soon as the next big cruise ship goes by.”

“You leave now!” The soldier pushed aside a fold of his poncho. The bullpup design of his type 87 was unmistakable.

Mercer opened his mouth to protest once more when the gunman’s expression inexplicably changed from anger to confusion to pain. And then suddenly he vanished from view. Mercer pushed open his door in time to see a corner of the poncho and a bloodless hand disappear under the truck. He whipped his head around. Lieutenant Foch was just getting to his feet on Harry’s side of the truck. With a defiant gesture that needed no further explanation Foch rammed a fighting knife back into the sheath hanging from his web belt.

No one had felt him getting out of the truck or heard him crawl under the vehicle. A moment later he was back at the partition. “I saw him coming across the parking lot,” Foch explained. “I think the next time you complained he’d call his friends, yes?”

“Oui, oui, oui,” said Harry, “all the way home.”

Lauren disagreed. “More than likely his squad leader is waiting for a report right now.”

“Devil One to Heaven. Zero minute in two.” Patke’s voice sounded like it came from inside her head.

“They’re going in two minutes,” she told the others.

“Foch, give me your best guess,” Mercer asked over his shoulder without looking at the Legionnaire. He kept his attention on the chain-link fence separating the tourist parking lot from the one used by canal employees. “How long do you think it’ll take them to neutralize the ship?”

“If Liu took off most of her crew like we think, and with the element of surprise, it shouldn’t take more then seven to ten minutes. Figure two men to the bridge, two to the crew’s spaces and two to engineering.”

Mercer started the truck’s engine. “All right.”

“What are you doing?” Lauren asked.

“You are right. That Chinese soldier’s gonna be missed. No way we can wait here for ten or fifteen minutes. Might as well get to the pilot boats early.”

“Should you tell Patke?” Rene asked.

Lauren said no. “He’s got enough on his mind.”

The fence was a hundred yards away, a diaphanous wall of wire mesh that stretched from the water all the way to the Gamboa Highway. Mercer left the big truck in low gear, trying not to appear suspicious. As they rolled across the wet asphalt, his view back to the lock chambers changed and he could see the great doors had parted before the Mario diCastorelli. She was being pulled free by heavy lines running from the towing engines through her fairleads.

When they were twenty yards from the fence, he knew that nothing he did now wouldn’t look unusual to the guards Liu had stationed here during this critical transit. He mashed the accelerator. The truck hummed and the wheels turned shallow puddles into a cloud of mist that rose in their wake like smoke.

All at once, the air around them seemed to explode, a sharp report that pounded on their eardrums painfully.

For a frantic second they all thought the Mario diCastorelli had detonated. A moment later they saw a flash of lightning and another deafening clap of thunder assaulted them. It was just the storm.

“Hold on!” Mercer called as they reached the fence.

He steered for one of the support poles. The truck barely paused as the steel bent under the bumper and a section of fencing sagged and then fell under the wheels. They drove over it and Mercer accelerated again, racing across the large employee parking lot, weaving along rows of workers’ cars.

At the far end of the lot was a dirt road that ran behind a series of low structures. Mercer tore down this road, shielded from the canal by the corrugated metal buildings, slowing only when they reached a boat ramp. Next to the access ramp lay a small inlet with a cement pier where four of the Canal Authority’s utility boats were moored. They were sturdy little craft with black hulls and white upperworks broken up by numerous windows for easy visibility on the busy waterway. Each boat was festooned with orange flotation rings and other safety gear.

Mercer braked hard at the base of the quay. He felt more than heard the Legionnaires pile from the rear. He pulled the .45 from his waistband and jacked a round into the chamber, not that he thought any hapless employee would resist the French soldiers and their wicked-looking FAMAS assault rifles.

“This is Devil One. We are on the target undetected. Switch to channel two.”

Lauren guessed Captain Patke and his men had simply jumped aboard from the seawall and were now hiding somewhere on the deck of the Mario diCastorelli. She changed channels on her small radio as the commando leader continued his report. “Target is being held in position after clearing the lock, possibly for submersible attachment. Ship that just exited the second lock has also stopped while a third vessel is in the chamber about to be raised. Also, be advised the seawalls around the locks are crawling with heavily armed Chinese.”

“Roger, Devil One. Don’t forget that the Canal Authority has stationed two Panamanian guards on all transiting ships. Over.”

“Haven’t forgotten, Angel. Out.”

With Lieutenant Foch leading them, they reached one of the pilot boats without being seen. The door lock was a puny affair that the Frenchman kicked apart with one blow. Sergeant Rabidoux, their electronics and arms expert, went straight to the cockpit to get at the ignition wires under the automobile-like dashboard. Never one to do more work than necessary, Harry followed him and found the keys in a cup holder.

He jingled them near his waist and the young trooper slithered back to his feet, mildly embarrassed.

“Don’t start the engine yet,” Mercer cautioned. “We’ve got a good enough view of the boatyard to see anyone coming. No sense drawing attention to ourselves.”

“Now what?” Bruneseau asked.

“We wait to hear from Devil One,” Lauren said. She moved next to Mercer and kept an eye on the rain-lashed marina. “And when they succeed we all go home.”

Out the stern window and across the small aft deck the canal ran green and turgid. On the far bank, the earth had been recently sculpted into a gentle slope to slow the remorseless landslides that continuously threatened to re-bury the canal. Where open grassland gave way to the concrete locks, the Mario diCastorelli sat motionless between the seawall extensions, presumably awaiting word from the divers that the diverter submarine was in place. Next to her, the Robert T. Change waited a few lengths from the lock. Behind her floated the Englander Rose, an almost exact copy of the tramp freighter preceding her through the canal.

Lightning danced in jagged tributaries that came dangerously close to the ground. Thunder pealed across the hills in crashing blasts that would certainly mask the sound of gunfire.

“Angel!” The cry came in Lauren’s headset so loudly that she winced. “This is . . . Oh, screw it. Lauren, it’s Roddy. Put Mercer on fast.”

She gave him the earpiece and attached throat mike. “Something’s wrong. It’s Roddy.” Her hands were no longer so steady.

“Go ahead.”

“Mercer, I’m on the diCastorelli’s bridge. There’s no one on the ship. I mean no Chinese agents. The crew are all Greeks and Filipinos. The pilot’s a Panamanian friend of mine. Patke’s down in the hold right now. Just like the manifest says she’s carrying scrap steel and cement powder.”

Oh Jesus! “Could the explosives be hidden in the cement?”

“There isn’t that much of it for one thing,” Roddy shouted, on the edge of panic. “Patke says he’s already had his men tear into a few of the pallets. It really is just bags of Portland. I’m telling you, this isn’t the ship!”

Mercer looked around the crowded pilot boat. “We’ve got the wrong freighter.”

Rene Bruneseau was the first to react. His face turned crimson and he lunged for Harry, pinning the old man against a bulkhead. “You senile fool,” he screamed. “This is your fault.”

Foch launched himself at the spy, prying his hands from Harry’s collar and tossing the Frenchman onto the deck. “Touch him again and you’re dead,” he snarled.

“What do we do?” Roddy cried over the radio.

“How about it, Harry?” Mercer’s voice was grave, laden with frustration.

Harry White made no apologies for being wrong. He’d made his best guess and the others had readily agreed. Castor was one of the Gemini twins and there were no other vessels with such a name or anything containing Pollux, the other brother. His assumption that Liu Yousheng chose the code word Gemini based on the name of the vessel had been dead wrong. Without a reference point, there was no way he could deduce the right ship.

For all he knew the bomb ship had already passed the lock and was in position in the Gaillard Cut, ready to take down the massive Contractor’s and Gold Hill in an explosion that wouldn’t be much smaller than an atomic bomb.

Or the incendiaries were on one of the ships still to come; maybe on the Robert T. Change, which was just passing the pilot boat, or the Englander Rose steaming in her wake. Hell, it could be on the cruise ship for all he knew or any one of the tankers, container ships, or bulk carriers still crossing Miraflores Lake.

Harry had given it his best and failed. No, he had nothing to apologize for except letting Liu get away with destroying the Panama Canal and opening the way for nuclear missiles to threaten the United States. Fucking Chinese. The thought was so bitter that the inspiration springing from it took a second to hit. Chinese, damnit. He’s been thinking like a Westerner. Liu had been clever but not clever enough.

He looked at Mercer, stung by the reproach in his friend’s gray eyes. “We’ve got a serious problem.”

“We know that.” The voice cut even deeper than the eyes.

“There isn’t one bomb ship. There are two. The Mario diCastorelli is only supposed to block the canal so Liu can get the crews off of them before detonation.”

“Why are we listening to this idiot?!” Bruneseau raged.

“Tell us,” Lauren invited softly, for her faith in Mercer and Harry, though weakened by what was happening, was still with her.

“Gemini. Twins. But not the ones from our mythology. Robert T. Change. Englander Rose. Change and Englander. Chang and Eng—the famous conjoined brothers commonly referred to as Siamese Twins. They were actually Chinese.”

Harry had just cracked the unconscious mistake Liu had made when choosing a code name. The name diCastorelli had put in his mind the idea of the Gemini twins, although at the time he didn’t fully recall they were called Castor and Pollux. Yet when he saw the names of the two fabled Siamese twins hidden in the names of the two bomb ships and chose Gemini, he’d unknowingly tipped his hand to a man who loved to play word games.

No sooner had Harry finished his explanation than Mercer knew his friend was right. He keyed the radio. “Roddy, the two ships behind you. They’re both floating bombs.”

“Are you sure?”

“No doubt about it.” Iron-hard, Mercer’s conviction carried across the airwaves. “Your ship was held up for the submarine, meaning the Mario is supposed to choke off the canal to give the next two ships a legitimate reason to stop. Once they’re in place, Liu will use the sub to pull off the crews and let them blow.”

“Angel, this is Devil One.”

“Go ahead.”

“Can you come get us? We’ll try an assault from your boat.”

“Ah, negative.” Mercer thought furiously, trying to come up with a plan that would minimize damage. That at least one of those ships would explode wasn’t in doubt. He turned to Harry. “Fire up the engine and ease us into the canal.”

Harry moved with the speed of a man half his age. “Which ship?”

The Robert T. Change had already passed their position while the Englander Rose was almost directly abeam. “The Rose.”

Captain Patke and Roddy had heard the exchange over the comm link. “What are you doing?” the commando asked.

Mercer ignored him. “Roddy, you’ve got to stop your ship from being deflected by the submersible. Get some crewmen on the deck so they’ll see its propwash and give a warning the instant she fires her motor.”

“Okay. Then what?”

“Liu must need both ships to explode either simultaneously or in a pre-timed sequence, like what they do when blowing up a building. Carefully placed charges are more effective than one big blast. Get away from the Robert T.

Change, even if you have to swim to shore and run like hell. We can’t stop that one from going up, but maybe we can get the Englander Rose far enough away so that when she goes she doesn’t complete her job.”

Roddy’s voice became strident. “Even if you separate the boats by a mile or more, you’re still stuck next to the lock. The explosion will blow it into a million pieces. Liu still wins.”

“Can you think of a way to get her back through the lock?”

“Not quickly,” the pilot admitted, thinking about the dozens of Chinese soldiers they’d slipped past to board the ship.

“I can.” It was the female officer aboard Heaven, the USS McCampbell. She went on to outline her idea. With the pilot boat fast approaching the scaly side of the Englander Rose, there wasn’t time to debate the merits of her plan, only its chance for success. Roddy, who was the most disturbed by her suggestion, agreed that it would work, adding, “Do you have any idea what this is going to cost to repair?”

“Less than if Liu blows the lock entirely,” Mercer said. “Don’t forget I happen to know where your country can get the money to fix it.”

“The Twice-Stolen Treasure,” the Panamanian breathed.

“A fitting use.” Mercer had moved to look through the windscreen as they neared the lumbering freighter. A wash of disturbed water undulated along her Plimsoll mark as she picked up speed after coming out of the lock. Because pilot boats were so common on this stretch of the canal, none of the men standing around her superstructure paid them much attention.

Mercer looked farther up the waterway, where the stern of the Mario diCastorelli was just vanishing around a curve. A towering promontory of granite loomed over the ship where men and machines had once cleaved the path through the mountains. The other shore had been leveled further to a sloping plain that dropped into the water. He knew from what Roddy had told him, the ship would be in the canal’s tightest choke point in about fifteen minutes, a narrow gut at the exact center of the continental divide. There is where Liu intended to set off his explosives-laden vessels.

Between him and the Mario was the dark shape of the second bomb ship, the Robert T. Change.

“Oi!” The voice was amplified by a loudspeaker and came from above the pilot boat.

Harry throttled back to keep pace with the huge ship. Mercer stepped aft, emerging from the cabin onto the small rear deck space. He looked up at the ship’s rail twenty feet over his head, steady rain drumming his upturned face. It was hard to tell but the man with the megaphone appeared Chinese.

“We no need another pilot.” His accent was the same as the guard Foch had knifed in the parking lot.

Moving slightly so the man above couldn’t see, Mercer asked, “Foch, any ideas?”

“We’ve got him sighted,” the Legionnaire said. “As soon as I finish fashioning this anchor into a grappling hook, we’ll take him.”

Foch sat on the deck out of view of the sailor. He worked to replace the heavy chain secured to a foot-wide anchor with rope he’d pulled from a locker. Behind him, two of his men peered through the windows, their eyes screwed into their assault rifles’ scopes.

Mercer turned his attention back to the Chinese crewman. “We had a report that you needed us. It’s not true?”

“No.”

“Let me speak with Guillermo, the pilot,” Mercer bluffed.

“No Guillermo. Pilot is Mr. Lin.”

“Wait,” he cried as if making a sudden realization. “Is your ship the Mary Celeste?”

“No. That ship behind. You go back.” The guard showed the butt of a pistol.

“I’m ready,” Foch announced.

Mercer dropped to his knees behind the gunwale. “Take him.”

It took just one shot that sounded quieter than the shatter of the glass the bullet had gone through. The soldier had aimed perfectly, compensating for angle, deflection of the glass, and the wind that raced up the canal. The round caught the lookout in the soft part of the throat so that most of its energy was carried beyond his corpse. Rather than fall back, he slumped forward, draped over the rail as if he were studying something on the water.

Foch was in motion an instant later, racing out into the open, the anchor ready to throw, loops of rope hanging from his left arm. Mercer recalled trying to snag the vent stack on the Hatcherly warehouse with Lauren and was amazed at how effortlessly the Legion officer heaved the heavy anchor over the Rose’s rail.

It hooked in the shelter of one of the overhanging lifeboats on the first toss. Foch handed the free end of the rope to Mercer. With his FAMAS slung over his back, the soldier shimmied up the line using knots he’d tied as grips. Even before he reached the top, Rabidoux was ready to climb, and the others were lined up behind him.

Mercer held the rope steady as one by one the Legionnaires strained their way to the deck of the Englander Rose. So intent on their mission, Lauren didn’t give him a passing glance as she muscled herself up the rope followed by Rene Bruneseau. For a moment Mercer considered taking the trailing end of the rope with him, stranding Harry on the pilot boat, but with what they were going to attempt, they desperately needed the old bastard’s seamanship skills.

“Harry, come on,” he called into the cabin.

Still at the helm, Harry jiggled the throttles until the two craft were perfectly in sync before looping a bungee cord around the wheel to keep her on course. He snatched up his cane and joined Mercer on the aft deck.

Mercer handed him the rope, pointing out that Foch had tied a loop at its end. Knowing what to do, Harry placed his prosthetic leg into the loop and did something behind at his ankle to lock the joint. He held the line steady as Mercer climbed to the looming ship, his assent covered by two of the Legionnaires.

Hands grabbed at him as he reached the railing and they dragged him over. He landed in a heap, swiveling around even as the Frenchmen began to haul Harry up the side of the ship. He added his strength to theirs, and seconds later Harry’s silver crew cut appeared. Harry steadied himself for the final effort and then he was with them. He unlocked his ankle and gave it an experimental flex.

“I feel like a pirate taking a galleon on the Spanish Main,” he whispered, pulling the pistol from the corpse Foch had stuffed behind a ventilator.

“We’ll call you Graybeard the Geriatric,” Mercer teased.

That they had just climbed aboard a ship carrying several thousand tons of explosives hit them all at the same moment. They exchanged nervous glances. A blast of that magnitude wouldn’t blow them apart, or even vaporize them. Such a detonation would atomize them. The concussive force would be enough to render their bodies to their basic building blocks of carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and the few others that made up a human.

It would be like standing on the surface of a sun at the moment it went supernova.

“Let’s go,” Foch said, taking point.

The deck planking was slick with rain and twenty years of spilled oil and solvents. The metalwork had been so often painted that the underside of the railings were pebbled with hardened drips as thick as cake frosting. What machinery they could see looked frozen with grime. Had she not been tapped for this operation, the Englander Rose should have been sitting in a breaker’s yard ready for the cutting torches.

With Foch in the lead and Rabidoux covering their rear, they crept under the belly of the lifeboat and edged toward a hatchway. The door was open a crack, probably left by the sailor who’d challenged them. Foch peeked through the opening and then slowly swung the door open with the barrel of his FAMAS, one of his men standing by so he could cover the lieutenant.

“Clear.”

They rushed into a utilitarian corridor that ran the length of the squat superstructure. He led them to the shelter of an open closet reeking of disinfectant.

“Harry,” he asked, “with little space on their submersible, what is the minimum they could leave aboard this ship during a canal passage?”

“I can feel by the way she vibrates she’s diesel powered,” the former ship’s captain answered. “Meaning they could pull everyone out of the engine room. Realistically, there could be as few as three, but no more than ten.”

“D’accord,” Foch said, then lapsed into silence.

“This is your show, Lieutenant,” Mercer prompted. “How do you want to do it?”

He needed only a second to form his plan. “Rabidoux, lead Mercer, Harry, and Captain Vanik to the bridge. The rest of us will sweep the ship to prevent some hidden fanatic from blowing the charges himself. If you need backup pull a fire alarm and we will get to you as fast as we can.”

“Bon chance,” Mercer said to Foch as he followed Lauren and Harry behind Rabidoux’s lead.

Lauren walked just a step behind and to the left of the young Legion noncom, her M-16 ready to cover their flank. Harry stayed a few paces back with Mercer walking sideways behind him so he could cover their rear and still add firepower if they came upon any crewmen or guards.

The hallway was deserted, and when they climbed narrow stairs set in an echoing well, they came out on another empty passageway.

“Which way?” Rabidoux asked.

Harry thought for a moment. “Head aft, there’ll be central stairs that run from the bridge to the bilge. It’s the most direct route.”

The halls smelled of salt and rust, aged by a long career tramping around the globe. There was little in the way of amenities on board. The walls were painted metal and the decks were laid with peeling linoleum tile. The lights were bare bulbs in little cages. Passing a door marked “Head” left them moving through a reeking miasma of stale human waste.

The attack came without warning.

One moment they were closing in on the stairs and the next second the hall was filled with automatic fire. Mercer dove to tackle Harry, making sure to hit him in his fake leg. At the same instant Rabidoux pushed Lauren to the floor and counterfired with a sustained burst from his assault rifle.

The soldier who’d fired at them ducked around a corner as the metal edge he used as cover sparked like a Catherine wheel under the onslaught of 5.56mm rounds.

Lauren moved forward under the covering fire, slithering on her belly across the filthy floor. She had her M-16 to her shoulder and crawled using only the wiggle of her hips and what grip she could get with her elbows. Mercer shifted onto one knee, hugging a wall, and waited for the Chinese guard to appear again, his body shielding Harry’s prone form.

The soldier ducked his head around the corner as soon as Rabidoux intentionally drained his magazine. Through the whirling smoke, his eyes naturally locked on the tallest target—Mercer. He never saw the slender shape less than three yards in front of him. Lauren adjusted her aim in the fraction of a second the soldier gave her and put one round through his neck and one into his forehead.

She waited for two heartbeats before moving forward. Once she could see around the corner that had hidden the guard, she called back, “All clear.”

The sudden attack had robbed their element of surprise so they mounted the stairs at a run, Mercer and Rabidoux moving side by side, step in step. Lauren and Harry remained a half flight below them as they corkscrewed up the decks. They reached the bridge level without incident, and when they saw the solid door blocking their progress, they understood why. Whatever crewmen were still in the upper decks had barricaded themselves in the wheelhouse. The hatch was solid steel, dogged tight and locked from the inside. Nothing short of a satchel charge, which they didn’t have, would blow it open.

“Is there another way?” Mercer asked Harry.

“Not on this level. We’ll have to go down one and then try to get in from outside. When we approached I saw a stairway leading from there up to the wing bridge.”

Mercer looked at his watch. “We’re running out of time.” He keyed his throat mike. “Roddy, what’s your situation?”

“We’re almost between Gold Hill and Contractor’s Hill. We’re expecting the sub to try to divert us any moment.”

“You’re ready for it?”

“They used this trick to get me fired once. They won’t get away with it a second time.”

Mercer looked to Harry again. “What about going up one deck and just jumping onto the wing bridge?”

“You’ll either take them by surprise or they’ll take you,” Harry said seriously. “But it sounds better than trying to fight our way up from outside.”

They backtracked to the stairs and climbed up a dim shaft that ended in a flat hatch. It took all Mercer’s strength and a push from Sergeant Rabidoux to unseal the hardened paint that had frozen the portal solid. Heaving against its dead weight they finally threw it open. It dropped flush with the roof of the wheelhouse. Rainwater eased the cordite sting from Mercer’s eyes and he let a few drops trickle down his throat.

From this vantage he could see the Robert T. Change about a quarter mile ahead but the Mario diCastorelli was out of view as the three ships wended their way deeper into the mountains. The hills were bare, blasted rock, chiseled by explosives with the precision of the Egyptian pyramids. Some had been pinned with huge steel rods to solidify them further. Waterfalls splashed to the canal, torrents made greater because the ground was so saturated by the rainy season’s regular deluges. Something Mercer was sure Liu’s experts had counted on.

He took in all of this in a moment’s glance. He was certain the captain of this vessel was radioing his counterpart on the other bomb ship and discussing options.

Making sure to keep his footing on the metal deck, he shuffled to the edge of the wheelhouse while Rabidoux moved to the opposite side, positioning themselves above where the wing bridges cantilevered over the water. They exchanged a quick look to synchronize their timing and moved as one, dropping neatly the eight feet to the stubby flying bridges.

Landing hard, he could see Rabidoux across the expanse of the bridge already had his FAMAS ready. Mercer brought up his weapon, picking his first target, presumably the captain because he was screaming into a handheld radio, and rattled off a tight three-round burst through the glass weather door that protected the bridge from the elements.

As the glass fell in a crystal avalanche, the Chinese captain of the Englander Rose was flung as if body punched. Scarlet drops of blood danced in a tangent away from his crumpling corpse. The helmsman went down at the same moment, raked from hip to head by the French commando.

The canal pilot standing next to him was Chinese, no doubt one of the Hatcherly employees that Liu Yousheng had been infiltrating into the Canal Authority. He dove for cover behind the control console. Rabidoux didn’t wait to see if he was armed, putting two rounds into the back of his neck before ducking through the ruined wing door. Mercer shifted so he could see the aft section of the wheelhouse as two men jumped behind the wooden chart table. Another figure ran farther aft, trying to reach the locked hatch where Lauren and Harry waited.

A shot came from behind the chart table, aimed where Mercer had been standing an instant before. The bullet pinged off the ship’s metal hide. Mercer was on his belly, crawling aft to get an angle on the two while Rabidoux maneuvered himself to the center of the bridge, which allowed him to cover both sides of the enclosed table.

Mercer studied the construction of the cabinet, saw it was made of wood and knew it was unlikely to deflect the high-velocity rounds from his M-16. He fired a savage burst into the table. White splinters exploded from the varnished oak as the bullets bored through.

One of the men sprang to his feet, swinging his type-87 assault rifle in a wild spread of fire, a lance of flame jetting from the barrel. His chest oozed from numerous hits, and a shard of wood had been rammed into his arm. And still he fought. Rabidoux put him down just before the arc of fire would have cut him in half.

Mercer chanced looking past the table. The crewman who’d fled the wheelhouse was just undogging the door. He got it open only an inch or so when Lauren blew him back with a single shot to the face. Rabidoux moved closer to the chart table, edging forward with his FAMAS at the ready. The fifth man lay in a pool of purple blood that spread as slowly as jelly, his eyes wide and sightless.

Covering each other as they explored the rest of the wheelhouse, they made certain that was the last of them. No one was hiding in the small radio shack or in an office belonging to the captain.

“Okay, Lauren,” Mercer called aft. “We’re clear.”

Looking forward past the crane and the vessel’s peaked bow, he saw the Robert T. Change moving steadily up the narrow canal, her wake like a lazy vortex of churned water. He couldn’t see anything to indicate her captain was altering their original plan. Good. This takes care of the easy part.

Because the Legionnaires used their own radios, Mercer asked Rabidoux to get a report from Lieutenant Foch. He lifted his mike back in position to talk to Roddy.

“It’s Mercer. What’s your situation?”

A half mile ahead of the Englander Rose, Roddy Herrara was fighting his ship with everything he had. He’d been expecting the moment when the sub attached to the diCastorelli would try to shove the big freighter off course. He even had lookouts watching the water for propwash, but still couldn’t believe the force the submersible exerted.

The Mario diCastorelli weighed probably twenty-five thousand tons and yet her bow continued to swing inexorably toward shore no matter how he worked the rudder and applied reverse thrust to her offside shaft. The remoralike sub was doubtlessly designed to act as an underwater tug, but even a powerful tugboat couldn’t move a freighter if she didn’t want to go.

The parasite submarine had to be equipped with some kind of new technology, Roddy thought, something designed for the military, for their newest torpedoes maybe. Peroxide-powered hydrojets, or something even more exotic. Whatever it was, it moved the freighter’s bow a few points on the compass every minute and all Roddy could do was stall the inevitable.

“Not now,” he answered and ignored whatever else Mercer asked.

The great ship moved relentlessly toward the left bank no matter how he tried to keep her at her head. The entire vessel shuddered with the strain of fighting the diverter under her hull. They were deep in the mountains now, towering stone monoliths that loomed over the waterway like the sides of the Grand Canyon Roddy had seen on a family vacation to el Norte.

Behind them, he knew, the Robert T. Change continued on her mission to destroy the canal. Roddy could almost feel her presence, something ghostly and evil. Something he was powerless to stop.

The captain of the ship, a lanky Greek with the mouth-twisting name of Leonidaes Chaufleus, waited at the wheel for Roddy’s next instruction, one bony hand on the wheel, the other ready to massage the throttle levers.

Roddy paced from one side of the bridge to the other, studying the canal and looking at the swirl of boiling water near the bow where the unseen submarine labored to ram the ship into the land. With each circuit of the bridge he had to step over the two trussed-up Panamanian guards who’d unknowingly been assigned to a ship destined to be destroyed. Wisely forgoing machismo for survival, they hadn’t put up a fight when the Green Berets stormed the vessel. Their instructions had been to defend against thieves, not an American assault force that moved with the fluidity of quicksilver.

“Captain,” Roddy said as he was struck by a sudden inspiration. “Can you drop anchors from here?”

“Is possible,” the Greek said.

The pilot originally assigned to guide the Mario diCastorelli on her doomed transit was a Panamanian named Ernesto Garcia. Shaken by the Green Berets’ surprise assault, he’d readily turned the helm over to Roddy when he learned what was about to happen. Now he broke himself from his fearful silence. “If we slow, there will be nothing to stop the sub from grounding us. We must speed up and hope we can shake it loose.”

“I don’t want to stop her, Ernie, I want to kedge her.”

“Kedge?” Captain Chaufleus asked. “What is this kedge?”

“The sub’s pulling us to port. I want to drop the starboard anchor, let her hook on bottom and then play out some chain. Once we’ve unspooled a hundred feet or so, we’re going to haul the bow around using the anchor winches. I don’t care what’s powering that son of a bitch, she won’t be able to fight the winches. No way.”

“Ah,” said the captain. “Yes. I see. It work no problem.” He ordered one of his officers to stand by the controls that could remotely drop either of her seven-ton anchors.

“Make sure he knows to let the flukes snag before letting out more chain,” Roddy warned. “Otherwise the anchor will just drag when we reel her back in.”

“Yes, sir. I understand,” the officer said, obviously a better English speaker than his captain.

The freighter was well outside her lane now, and under other circumstances Roddy would have been fired for letting a ship get away from him like this. Hell, he thought, I was fired for it once. Her bows were less than two hundred feet from hitting the shore and at the speed they were traveling, the impact would tear open her forward compartments as if they were made of aluminum foil. It wouldn’t take long for the wind to swing her stern across the waterway and block the channel to all traffic. Then, at least one of the bomb ships would heave-to, and the crew would go overboard to be picked up by the sub for transport back to Pedro Miguel or maybe under the crippled freighter to Gamboa.

After that . . .

“Drop the starboard anchor.”

The officer pressed a button on his console and three hundred feet forward of the wheelhouse the big capstan began to unwind. The anchor vanished under the surface to plunge forty feet to the bottom of the canal.

Because there was a constant stream of water feeding the great locks, the canal was scoured clean constantly. There was little mud or debris for the anchor’s flukes to skip against. Almost as soon as it hit the bottom, the anchor fell sideways and the hardened steel dug into the rock.

The ship shuddered as she fought the anchor before the officer slowly allowed more chain to drop through the fairleads, keeping tension on the anchor so it wouldn’t lose its grip.

“Good. Good,” Roddy whispered softly, feeling the ship return to its tug-of-war with the sub. The Chinese crew down there would never know what was coming.

He raced for the starboard wing bridge to watch the chain disappear into the green water far below. He could also look across to port and see the shore coming up alarmingly fast.

He had to give it just a few more—“Now! Bring up the anchor!”

Like a dog snapped back on a leash, the Mario diCastorelli came up hard against her anchor when the capstan was reversed. The violent action sent Roddy staggering into a railing and sent two of the American commandos watching on the bridge to their knees.

Two things happened at once. The anchor chain’s weakest link, deep under the water near the anchor itself, failed under the enormous strain. Like a whip, the chain came flying out of the water at a hundred miles per hour and snapped back at the ship. The forward cargo hatch was quarter-inch steel. The chain tore a twenty-foot gash across its surface with little more difficulty than a knife cuts paper. The impact blew the links apart, spraying the superstructure with chunks of shrapnel the size of a human head. One struck the superstructure’s forward window and embedded itself in a bulkhead at the rear of the bridge, narrowly missing two Green Berets.

The second thing that occurred was that the electromagnetic clamps that held the Chinese submersible to the freighter’s hull let go.

Free from its monstrous burden, the truck-sized submersible accelerated away from the ship, driving at full speed toward the shoreline before its two-man crew could stop it. It hit the canal’s edge like a torpedo strike, a burst of water and froth that lofted twenty feet before splashing back to earth. It surfaced seconds later, an oxide-red tube resembling a ship’s boiler with an integrated impeller fan at least fifteen feet across.

Roddy saw immediately why Liu had never tried to divert one of the big PANAMAX ships. The size of the submersible meant she had to attach herself under shallow draft vessels, and even then the unusual craft would have been dangerously close to being crushed against the bottom.

The sub remained surfaced with water gushing into its shattered nose. Air trapped in the hull seethed and made the water look like it was boiling. A moment later, the struggling figure of a crewman emerged from the battered hulk. The submariner was injured; he fought the roiling waves using only one arm while the other floated uselessly next to him.

Well versed at the dynamics of these large ships, Roddy knew that his quick thinking and decisive action wouldn’t be enough to save the Mario diCastorelli. He glanced into the wheelhouse to see Captain Chaufleus frantically working rudder and throttle in a desperate attempt to swing her bows away from the shore. Even he knew it wasn’t in the cards.

Roddy turned back to see the Chinese sub’s surviving crewman look up at the massive wall of steel bearing down on him. Roddy couldn’t hear his scream but watched his mouth open, a round black hole in his round white face.

The ship bowled over the sub, crushing it flat, and struck the bank with an impact ten times worse than the jolt when the anchor caught the bottom. The rending of steel on rock shook the massive vessel like an earthquake. Even those who’d prepared themselves for the collision by grabbing for handholds were thrown to the floor or propelled into bulkheads. Roddy was almost tossed over the railing as the bows crumpled inward and then lifted up onto the bank, pushed onward by the momentum of her own engines and that of the submarine.

The bow pushed twenty feet into the rain-soaked earth, piling before it an oozing mound of mud that almost reached to her main deck. Grounded so firmly that she didn’t list more than a degree or two, her stern had been driven deep by her unnatural angle.

Automatic watertight doors slammed throughout the vessel, echoing shots that were as jarring as they were useless. The Mario diCastorelli was in no danger of sinking. With her stern jutting out into the canal, and her bows hard into the shore, she wouldn’t be going anywhere without a fleet of salvage ships and tugboats.

Still determined to save his vessel, Captain Chaufleus called for full reverse on both shafts, driving her engines far beyond their tolerances. He cranked the rudder from lock to lock, hoping to get the vessel to rock, and break the hold of the clinging mud. Apart from the churn of her screws kicking water into a white cauldron, his actions were futile.

Roddy sagged, wiping a mixture of rain and sweat from his face. They had failed. He reached for his miniature radio. “Mercer, it’s Roddy. The sub’s been destroyed, but we’re grounded. The captain’s trying to break free, but I don’t think it’s going to happen. I’m sorry.”

Before Mercer could respond, Jim Patke broke in on the connection. Roddy had sent him to the fantail to watch the bomb ship through a pair of the ship’s powerful binoculars. “This is Devil One. There’s activity on the Change. They’re turning the vessel to block the rest of the canal and I think they’re prepping the lifeboats to abandon ship. They must have seen what happened to the sub. We should go get them.”

“Negative.” It was Mercer. “You don’t have the time to worry about them or save the Mario. The Robert T. Change is going to blow in forty-five minutes.”

“Are you sure about that?” Patke asked.

“That’s when our ship goes up. According to Foch there’s nothing we can do to stop it. Get yourselves to shore and run as fast as you can.”

“Mercer, you won’t be able to get the Englander Rose past us,” Roddy cried. “You’ll be stuck at the lock!”

“We knew there was a real chance this could happen.” Mercer paused. “We’ll have to go with our second option and pray the VGAS cannon on the McCampbell is as accurate as they claim.”

The Englander Rose Panama Canal, Panama

Shortly before the Mario diCastorelli grounded, Mercer stood on the bridge of the Rose. He could guess why Roddy had cut him off on the radio. The pilot had enough on his hands trying to stop the Chinese from burying his freighter in the mud. And Mercer had plenty to keep him busy on his own ship.

“Are you okay?” Lauren asked, striding past the ruined chart table, her M-16 trailing a wisp of smoke from her single shot.

Mercer bent to massage his foot. “Now that the shooting’s stopped I realize I hurt my ankle when I jumped to the flying bridge.”

“Quit your bellyaching,” Harry growled. He’d unscrewed the handle from his sword-cane and handed it to Mercer. He then nudged aside the helmsman’s body and took his position at the wheel.

The silver handle that doubled as a flask had been refilled with Jack Daniel’s. Mercer took a pull and offered it to Lauren, who declined with a knowing smile. “Still the best birthday present I ever gave you,” he said to Harry.

“Okay, let’s see what we have here.” With an expert glance, Harry noted compass heading, speed, wind direction and velocity, temperature and the readings on a dozen other gauges. “Lauren, honey, do me a favor. There should be a plaque somewhere around here that gives the ship’s dead weight and some engine information. I need to know what this old girl’s made of before we get going.”

She started her search, saying, “Anyone but you call me honey like that and you can get yourself a good sexual harassment lawyer.”

Rabidoux continued to talk with Foch over their radio net as he dragged the corpses to the captain’s cramped office. “Oui . . . Oui . . . d’accord, mon lieutenant.” He sought out Mercer, who had gone to the port wing bridge to watch the ship slow as Harry reduced her speed. “Lieutenant Foch needs to see you right away.”

Mercer heard alarm in the young soldier’s voice. “What is it?”

“The bomb’s timer has already been activated. The lieutenant is in the aft hold.”

Mercer turned away without a word. He handed back the radio Captain Patke had given Lauren. “I’m going below. Foch thinks the bomb’s already primed.” Her face blanched. He wanted to assure her that everything was going to be all right, but she would have seen through the lie. “Coordinate whatever Harry needs with the McCampbell, just in case.”

She overcame her momentary flash of fear. Her color returned and she managed a weak joke. “Funny to think of Harry giving orders to the crew of an American missile cruiser.”

“I hope you mean funny as in bizarre and not funny ha-ha.”

Running hard, it took him five minutes to find the hatchway that led to the rear hold. The metal door was open and he could see the waving beam of a flashlight Foch must have found nearby. The dim lightbulbs placed high on the ceiling cast no more than a weak glow, accentuating shadow more than providing light.

He stepped over the coaming. His nose began to burn and his eyes water. Above the rust smell and the oily stench of fouled bilges was a chemical odor so sharp and so overpowering that even breathing through a flap of cloth from his sleeve couldn’t dull its reeking presence.

The hold was fifty feet deep, forty wide, and nearly twenty tall. The rush of water against her cold hull plates sounded like a steady escape of steam. The cargo wasn’t laid out in orderly stacks, as he’d anticipated. Instead it had been placed in precarious pyramids and triangular projections along the hull, secured in place with heavy chain or thick canvas belts. Higher up, what looked like thick pipes running the length of the hold revealed themselves to be tubes of a puttylike substance that had been stuck to the steel.

Having never heard of cargo being arranged in such an odd fashion, but knowing that there was no other explanation, Mercer gaped as he understood what lengths Liu had gone to to ensure the Panama Canal would be sealed for years to come.

Foch strode over with another trooper, who trained his light on various features in the nightmarish space. “Oui, mon ami,” Foch said. “It is what you think. The devious son of a bitch has turned the entire ship into one enormous shaped charge. The way he has placed the explosives guarantees that every bit of energy will be properly directed. It looks like she’ll blow downward first and then an instant later the outer charges go.”

Mercer said nothing, unwilling to believe what he was seeing. With the bomb ship tucked hard against one of the overshadowing hills in the Gaillard Cut, the detonative force would hollow out the seabed under the ship, probably fifty or even a hundred feet deep. The secondary charges, the thick tubes of plastic explosives running the length of the vessel, would then burrow into the rock underpinning the mountain. Add the synchronized explosion on the other ship, and the whole floor of the canal would be so fractured that the weight of the adjacent hills would deform the geology to the point where everything would fall in on itself.

He’d worked enough shots in his career as a mining engineer to understand what would happen. Especially when he took into account how the rain-saturated ground would transmit shock with little energy dissipation. Gold Hill and Contractor’s Hill would receive two enormous pressure waves an instant after the soils supporting them had been either removed or had surrendered to the phenomena of liquefaction.

“You have to hand it to him,” Foch said. “Ingenious.”

“Screw him,” Mercer snapped, hating that he did feel a grudging respect for Liu Yousheng. “You said the timer’s already running?”

“This way.” Foch turned and retreated deeper into the shadowy hold, the handheld light seeming puny in the presence of so much deadly force.

The men who’d set these charges, back in China most likely, hadn’t taken any precautions to hide the suitcase-sized timing and detonating mechanism. It sat openly on the deck next to one of the towering mounds of explosives. The wires running from it were thick, heavily insulated, and vanished to all points in the hold. Mercer looked at the digital timer set in a plastic panel on the otherwise blank case. They had fifty-one minutes exactly, and with each second he stared at the glowing numbers their window shrank that one second more.

Mercer didn’t know anything about this type of equipment. He assumed it was military and asked Foch the only logical question that came to mind. “Can’t we just cut the wires?”

“Possibly,” the soldier with Foch said. He was a German named Munz. “And it is possible that doing so will set off the charges.”

“Munz is our explosives man,” Foch explained. “If any of us has a chance defusing the ship he’s it.”

The German-born Legionnaire had already taken out some tools. They lay next to the evil-looking device like surgical instruments. And he showed the false quietude of a surgeon who hides that he’s not sure he can save the patient.

“Do you need anything else?” Mercer asked.

“I just called Rabidoux down to help,” Foch answered for the demolition man. “They work as a team.”

“What I need,” Munz said in his precise English, “is for you to assume that I will not be able to disable this device. You must do what needs to be done, thinking I cannot stop it.”

Mercer was shocked by the man’s pessimism. “Do you really think you can’t do it?”

“Sir, I approach all bombs thinking I will fail because there will be a time when I am right.” He bent to his task and Foch and Mercer started back for the bridge.

Once into the corridor beyond the hold, Foch elaborated on what Munz was saying. “It is the way it is done. We must never plan for a bomb to be defused. It is—” he searched for the appropriate English idiom—“wishful thinking. No one can guarantee they can take out a device so we must be prepared for it going off.”

“I think I understand,” Mercer replied. “It’s putting all your eggs in one basket. If that’s the case, let’s hope Roddy stopped the Mario from blocking the canal so we can sail this bitch into Lake Gatun where she can blow up without hurting anything.”

“Do you have another option if somehow Monsieur Herrara doesn’t succeed?”

Mercer closed his eyes, blocking the mental picture of what would have to be done in the event they couldn’t get the bomb ship to an isolated spot on the upper lake. “Oh, I got a plan all right,” he said without much enthusiasm. “Actually, the comm officer on the McCampbell thought it up.”

“Yes?”

“If we can’t go forward, then we’ll just have to take the Rose back through the Pedro Miguel Lock.”

Lieutenant Foch stared at him. “How? The Chinese guards will never open the gates for us.”

“No, but the United States Navy will.”

They entered the bridge just as Roddy made his call to announce the Mario diCastorelli had been grounded. Lauren handed Mercer the radio.

That was it, then, Mercer thought as he listened to Captain Patke’s report about the Robert T. Change being evacuated. They had no choice. He told them about the timing sequence and called for everyone on the radio link to switch over so they could hear him speaking to the USS McCampbell . “Heaven, Heaven, this is Angel, ah, Two.”

“Go ahead, Angel. We’ve been monitoring, and know your current situation.”

“Then you know what you have to do?”

“Roger that. Information from the spotter aircraft has already been fed into the targeting computers. We’re awaiting your order to go. Be advised that there will be no shots for ranging. All rounds are fired for effect.”

Mercer took that to mean that the first rocket-assisted rounds out of the six-inch semiautomatic VGAS cannon would land exactly where the computers said they would. “Roger that, Heaven. Please stand by.” He looked around the bridge.

Rabidoux had gone below to help Munz, while Bruneseau was still finishing up their security sweep with the remaining Legionnaire.

Harry was at the ship’s wheel. Being at the helm of the ship seemed to have shaved at least twenty years off his age. He stood more erect, his mouth’s usual scowl replaced by a determined smirk that bordered on cocky. His eyes were clearer than Mercer had ever seen them. Lauren sat on a tall swivel stool next to him, her gaze fixed on Mercer. Foch was behind her and it seemed all three were waiting for his orders.

As the Legion team leader, Foch had taken the point when it came to assaulting the ship. Combat was his profession, and he was very good at what he did, but now he, like the others, looked to Mercer to make the final decision. He’d been the man who’d held them all together from the first contact with Hatcherly Consolidated at the River of Ruin. It didn’t matter to Foch, or to Lauren for that matter, that he wasn’t a soldier. He was a leader, blessed or cursed with the ability to inspire others to push beyond their limitations and perform the impossible.

Mercer felt he could no longer take up that mantle. In light of his feelings about what the torturer, Sun, had done to him, he didn’t feel it was right for him to take the lead. He doubted himself, felt tentative despite the calm front he put up. He wanted nothing more than to turn the responsibility over to someone else.

He searched deep inside himself for that well of determination that had always sustained him. He found it. It was empty. He’d taken the team as far as he could. To hell with the canal, he thought. They’d accomplished enough to prevent Liu from stationing nuclear weapons in Panama. An investigation into the explosions would reveal that this was an overt act. The United States would be within their treaty rights to land a sizable force to protect what remained.

The smart thing to do was to evacuate the Englander Rose and let her blow where she was. There would be no avoiding the destruction of the Pedro Miguel Lock, but it could be rebuilt in a few years.

What is the right thing? Mercer asked himself. Risk a handful of people to save what was really just an old machine? Don’t forget the workers who run the lock, a little voice said, innocent men and women who have nothing to do with Hatcherly Consolidated or Liu Yousheng. They would surely die when the Rose exploded. Did he owe them something?

If they died, Mercer knew that Mr. Sun would have won his battle in the torture chamber. He would have taken enough of Mercer’s will so that he no longer cared. And that was the line he would not cross. He couldn’t live with himself knowing he’d surrendered so thoroughly. Acknowledging the emotional consequences of running away made the choice to stay undeniable.

The well of determination was still empty, but that didn’t matter in the face of logic. He would go on, if not for himself, then at least to deny Sun his victory.

“Okay,” Mercer said at last, “Munz and Rabidoux have to stay aboard to try to stop this ship from blowing up. Harry needs to be here because he’s the only one who can conn her. Harry, turn us around.” Harry worked the wheel and bumped the throttles, mindful that the ship was barely two hundred feet shorter than the canal was wide. “Lieutenant Foch, recall Rene and your other man then meet them at the lifeboat station. I can’t give you time to launch it, but there should be life rings nearby. Lauren, I want you to go with them.”

Her anger came swift and hot. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Saving your lives. You don’t need to take this ride with us, and the more you protest the more I know you’re trying to play macho with me. Don’t. Get your ass off this ship and get as far from the canal as you can.”

“Philip Mercer, I should tell you where you can shove your idea and how far up there it should go.” Her eyes blazed like mismatched jewels.

“First day as captain and your crew’s already in mutiny,” Harry cackled at Mercer without taking his eyes off the water.

“I won’t speak for the French,” Lauren continued, “but my ass is staying right here. We’ve been through hell together and I’m going to see it through to the end.”

“Lauren, please—”

“Forget it. I’m staying.”

Foch had moved out of the argument, closer to the wing bridge so he could warn Harry if they got close to the shore. “It is a good thing, too.” He pulled his FAMAS off his shoulder in a sweeping arc. “We have company.” He moved farther out of the wheelhouse, clicking his radio to call Rene and the fourth soldier.

“What is it?” In their rush to reach the bridge door, Mercer and Lauren brushed against each other and didn’t break that slight contact until they hit the railing.

A pilot boat like the one they’d stolen had pulled from the marina. Its deck was loaded with Chinese soldiers, one of whom had set up a heavy machine gun on an improvised swivel mount. Whatever warning the captain of the Englander Rose had gotten out had been picked up by the shore-based guards, or perhaps they were suspicious about the ship beginning to turn in the narrow stretch of water just above the Pedro Miguel Lock.

“Oh, shit.”

The machine gunner down on the utility boat knew he was in range of the cluster of people on the exposed wing bridge the instant he saw them. The gun began to bark, a rapid choking sound that boomed louder than any thunder.

All three dropped flat as .30-caliber rounds chewed into the ship, blowing apart windows and ricocheting off steel as they sought to penetrate flesh. The five-second burst left the bridge reeking of scorched metal.

Foch wiggled forward and fired back, a barrage that missed the pilot boat altogether because he didn’t dare expose his head to properly aim. The counterfire came back even stronger, augmented by a half dozen type 87s.

“Take ’em out, goddamnit,” Harry shouted from inside. He’d ducked under the center console. “I can’t turn us around if I can’t see where we’re going.”

Foch fired another burst, covering Mercer and Lauren as they moved to the railing so they could get a bead on the soldiers below. All three fired simultaneously, forcing the pilot boat to sheer away momentarily. She began to draw near again with the machine gun blazing away. This time they were beaten back only a few feet from being able to heave grappling ropes over the Rose’s main rail.

This is why Captain Patke hadn’t tried to assault the Mario diCastorelli from the fishing boat, Mercer realized. They’d have been cut down if that ship had armed guards.

“Next time they may be able to board us.” Foch changed out his empty magazine without the need to look at his hands. “Bruneseau, where are you?” he shouted into his radio.

“Just cleared the forward hold. We’ll be on deck in just a minute.”

“We don’t have a minute,” Lauren said and sprayed a dozen rounds over the side of the ship.

“Heaven, Heaven, Heaven,” Mercer called into his radio. “Anything you can do about this?”

“Roger, we’re watching. Help is on its way. Ballistic trajectory of eighteen seconds. No guarantee the pilot boat will still be where we’re aiming, but it’ll rattle them some.”

“Do it!” Mercer checked the second hand on Harry’s watch, scooted so he could spot the thirty-foot gunboat and fired off the last of his clip.

Foch and Lauren concentrated their fire too, driving the Chinese away from the side of the Rose for what they hoped was their last time. Eleven seconds later, Mercer tapped Foch on the hip and dragged Lauren back to the enclosed bridge.

At that moment a string of six-inch shells from the VGAS cannon were some six miles above the earth and four miles downrange. Such was their ballistics that in those last seconds they accelerated to hypersonic speeds. There was no warning whistle, no long, drawn-out scream, nothing to give away the presence of five explosive shells fired from thirty miles away with an accuracy never before achieved with anything larger than a sniper’s rifle.

Despite the seconds-long interval between their firing, the rounds hit almost simultaneously along the starboard side of the Englander Rose. Four produced towering geysers that reached higher than the superstructure and doused the ship with water. The fifth shot hit squarely on the aft section of the pilot boat, sliced cleanly through her fiberglass deck, and impacted her diesel engine.

Her destruction was complete. Nothing larger than a postage stamp remained as her hull blew apart under the triple assault of explosives, kinetic energy, and her own load of fuel. Steel, plastics, and the remains of her crew rose on a column of fire and water that exploded outward in a plume that raked the side of the Rose and the jungled bank of the canal. When the sound rolled away and Mercer dared look over the railing again, a pool of burning fuel was the only marker for the men who’d died.

“Heaven to Angel Two.”

“Go ahead, Heaven.” Mercer’s voice was filled with awe at the power the USS McCampbell was able to throw so accurately from so far away.

“Our screens show target destroyed. We’ve reacquired primary target and await your order.”

“Roger that, Heaven. Nice shooting. Stand by.” Mercer roused himself. Rene and the fourth Legion soldier burst onto the bridge. Their clothes were soaked because both had been on the deck when the cannon ripped along her rail.

Bruneseau was breathless. “Was that from your ship?” Lauren nodded. “Mon Dieu. I never imagined such a weapon existed.”

“That’s only the first generation,” she explained proudly. “The production guns don’t go into full service for a couple more years.”

Mercer noted that Harry had gotten back on his feet and was once again working the ship. The old man nudged the Rose on her axis using the bow thruster and expert hands on her rudder and throttle. “Did they even have bow thrusters when you were a captain?” he asked.

“Nope,” Harry answered laconically. “But it’s the same as having a well-tended tug at the bow. I’ll have her pointed back at the lock in another minute.”

Much of the windscreen had been riddled by bullets and shrapnel. What pieces that hadn’t fallen away completely were starred and cracked and nearly impossible to see through. Lauren and Foch hammered away at the remaining panes with the butts of their weapons to improve Harry’s visibility.

Like he was parking a car, Harry spun the freighter in a tight circle, coming out early and backing the ship at an angle so he wouldn’t waste space when they moved forward again. He had a mastery over the vessel and her quirks as if he’d been at her wheel for years.

By the time he got her completely turned to face the lock he’d pushed her up the canal so a hundred yards separated the bow from the thousand-foot-long seawall extension that divided the two chambers. Harry looked to Mercer. “I’m ready.” His hands were relaxed on the wheel, ready to coax the great vessel rather than fight her.

“Okay,” Mercer replied. “Let’s do it. Foch, call Rabidoux and Munz. Tell them we’re going through.”

“Oui.”

“Heaven, Angel Two. Any time you’re ready.”

Harry eased the throttles to Ahead Full. The lock chamber was still flooded and her upper doors had remained open following the Englander Rose’s passage through. The lower doors, almost a half mile away, were closed, making the concrete-lined basin look like an enormous dead-end chute. Not for long, he thought. He could just see the top couple of feet of the lower doors rising above the level of water in the chamber. The steel doors, each weighing nearly seven hundred tons, were seven feet thick and sixty-five feet wide. They were all that prevented the untold billions of tons of water trapped in Lake Gatun from flooding the lower, and smaller, Miraflores Lake and the rest of the canal below.

Because the Rose was thirty feet above Miraflores Lake, he spotted the superstructure and funnel of a ship waiting for her turn to come up. In a minute, he knew she wouldn’t be there any longer.

“Firing now,” Mercer heard over his radio.

“Goddamnit!” Harry shouted at the same moment.

Mercer’s guts clenched. “What?”

“I have to take a piss.”

“Jesus, Harry, cross your legs or something.” He snatched up a pair of binoculars and focused on the tops of the lower doors, counting back seconds in his head.

Everything looked so normal. In the adjacent lock chamber, a container ship was slowly being raised to the level of the Gaillard Cut. Beyond her, several more vessels slowly made their way across Miraflores Lake. Workers were going about their duties along the locks, although a few had stopped to see what had exploded around the Englander Rose, and they were no doubt wondering why the ship had turned around and was pointed at them again.

Lauren too was counting the seconds. “Four, three, two, one.”

Mercer tightened his grip on the binoculars.

The first shell hit the two-story control house that sat between the locks and blew away its red-tile roof. Mercer barely had time to acknowledge the miss and the scatter of panicked workers when explosive rounds began to find their mark.

Exposed on the lower side of the lock, the doors looked like thirty-foot slabs of steel, rust-streaked but still amazingly sound after a century of use. They were designed to act as swivel dams that could be opened or closed to allow ships to move past them. They were never meant to withstand a naval bombardment.

The shots hit and exploded in a steady string that bit and tore at the metal like some enraged animal. Shrapnel exploded in all directions. It took just a few seconds before one of the doors broke off its huge hinges and fell flat into the lake. It floated away on the boil of water as more shells destroyed its twin.

That door also succumbed to the sustained hits so remnants hung off the remaining hinges like tattered pieces of skin. This alone wasn’t enough to give the water an unimpeded path from Lake Gatun through the cut and out. The canal’s builders had doubled up the most vulnerable doors, those on the downstream sides of the lock, in case one was ever broached by a ship slamming into them. The second set of identical doors, just a few feet from the ruins of the first, felt the strain of the lake pressing against them. Had they not been placed at a slight angle to each other, the pressure would have burst them apart.

The Englander Rose had steamed past the seawall extension and her bow was just entering the lock chamber. At her current speed, she’d hit the remaining gates in one minute. Men raced along the length of the seawall in a desperate attempt to get away from the explosions. A few stared incredulously at the old tramp freighter that was driving toward the smoke and burning metal erupting at the far end of the lock.

No ship in the history of the canal had ever moved faster through a lock. It was as if the vessel wanted to die by crushing her bow against the unyielding doors. For even at this speed, the gates would absorb her headlong charge the way a brick wall shatters a fist that dares to punch it.

Harry couldn’t resist. He gave the horn a long pull, adding the ship’s voice to the storm and explosions and frenzy of screaming men. He gave a demonic laugh. Mercer knew the crazy old bastard was loving this.

With another two hundred feet before the front of the ship hit the doors, the next barrage from the distant destroyer reached their target. The shots were surgically precise, targeting the lower hinge points. They hit concrete and steel, gouging through both, weakening the attachment points so that the gates slipped and a jet of water more powerful than a fire hose shot from a tiny gap near their base.

That was all the urging that gravity needed. Behind the gates was a thirty-foot-tall water column that was backed up for miles and miles. How many tons of water were pressing against the doors Mercer didn’t know, but he and the others certainly did feel it.

The burst came an instant later when the doors were ripped bodily from their sockets. The lock chamber drained in a fraction of a second. One instant the Englander Rose raced hard for the gates and the next she had dropped thirty feet and accelerated to forty knots as the torrent catapulted her down the chamber. There was no time for anyone to react. It was faster than any white-water raft ride, and twice as rough.

When she careened past the ruined stumps of the first doors, fingers of steel ripped along her outer hull, peeling back her plating with a sound like nails on a chalkboard. Fortunately none of the tears were below the waterline.

The ship that had been waiting to enter the lock was pushed aside by the rush of water sluicing through the open lock. She grounded against a shoal almost immediately, forced out of the double shipping lanes dug into the earth before Miraflores Lake was created.

Harry hit the horn again, a long blast that beat against the bottom of the storm clouds and echoed back. Like a raging river meeting a floodplain, the power of the rushing water slowly dissipated as it encountered the sluggish lake. The Englander Rose streaked past the grounded freighter before she finally began to slow. Once again Harry had a measure of throttle control. He kept her pegged, pushing the big marine engines far beyond their maximum because the race was far from over.

In a nearly straight line running from the Pedro Miguel Lock down to the Miraflores Locks, the lake was deep enough to accommodate the big ships, but outside that lane there wasn’t enough water to float a vessel the size of the Rose. They had to carry on past the five ships, including the luxury liner Rylander Sea and a pair of tankers, if they were to prevent a massive loss of life. Once across the lake, there was still one obstacle to face—Miraflores.

Unlike what they’d just survived, where there was only one lock to negotiate, these were double chambers, like two enormous steps each a thousand feet long. This is why Harry had come along. He alone could keep the ship centered as they went sucking through the locks like a leaf caught in a gutter.

Foch listened to his headset and reported that Munz and Rabidoux were all right and to make sure they were warned when they went through the next locks.

“Got it,” Mercer said. He looked at the others on the bridge. “Everyone okay?”

“I would feel better,” Bruneseau replied wearily, “if your friend wasn’t smiling.”

If anything, Harry’s grin deepened. His feet were braced wide on the deck and he’d placed much of his weight on his toes. Like a surfer feeling his board, he maneuvered the ship through touch as well as sight. “Hell of a ride,” was all he said around a cigarette that he must have lit an instant before the ship plunged through the lock.

“Lauren, are you all right?”

She rewarded Mercer with a thumbs-up. “I’m just trying not to think about what comes next.”

They had thirty-eight minutes before the bomb went off. While the ship continued to feel the effect of water flooding through the Pedro Miguel Lock, their ride stabilized as they drove farther from the facility. The engines strained and her deck shook.

“Roddy, can you still read me?” Mercer called into the radio.

“I’m here,” the Panamanian panted.

“What’s happening at your end?”

“We’re all off the ship and are running like hell. I can see a current in the canal as water from Lake Gatun flows by. If that broken lock isn’t sealed, you know that Miraflores is going to flood.”

“If my calculations are right, the first bomb ship will take down enough earth to stem the tide when she blows.”

“Calculations? What calculations?”

“Okay, I’m guessing,” Mercer admitted. “But I think it’ll work. The explosion on the Robert T. Change should create enough of an avalanche to seal the cut. We’ll lose water between her and the lock, but not what’s stored in Gatun.”

“I hope to God you’re right.”

“Me too. Call me when you’re clear.”

The ships on Miraflores Lake parted as the Englander Rose raced by, her horn blaring like an insane motorist speeding the wrong way up a one-way street. It was hard to tell if any of them had grounded, but every time they left one in their wake, Mercer felt a measure of relief.

Coming abreast of the Rylander Sea, Mercer told Foch to have his men suspend their disarming work. He was unwilling to take the risk of a slip immolating the thousands of people standing at the rail of the beautiful cruise ship. Had the Rose’s radios not been smashed by her crew, he would have called the luxury liner’s captain and told him to get his passengers below. All he could do was step to the wing bridge with Lauren and wave weakly at the throng shouting and waving back at them.

“If they only knew,” she remarked.

“Let’s make sure they never do.” He clicked on his radio and dialed in the USS McCampbell. “Heaven, this is Angel Two, over.”

“Go ahead, Two.”

“How do we look for the next set of locks?”

“Targeted and awaiting your order. The lane to your left will be clear by the time you reach it.”

Mercer shouted to Harry, “You want them blown apart the same way as before?”

Harry said no. “Hit them before we get there, say five hundred yards. That’ll give the water some time to settle down as it flows through.”

Mercer relayed the information to the guided-missile destroyer.

When the Rylander Sea was a hundred yards behind them, Foch ordered his demolition men back to work. The Rose was passing an eight-hundred-foot tanker that could be loaded with fifty thousand tons of oil or gasoline, but they couldn’t lose any more time. If they went up now and the tanker went with them, at least some on the cruise ship would be spared.

The entrance to the Miraflores Locks was a third of a mile ahead. The bomb’s timer touched zero in twenty-one minutes. Harry White had shaved an amazing amount of time by ignoring the speed rules and willing his ship on with sweet cajoling and blistering strings of profanity.

Coming up on their port side was the concrete crest of a power-generating dam that also helped control flooding. In the minutes since the upper lock had been broached, the lake level had risen enough for the dam to overtop and water to begin pouring over the floodgates. Though he couldn’t see it, Mercer knew the structure’s downstream face would resemble Niagara Falls.

He shifted his gaze a little to the right, trying to see details on the long seawall dividing the two sets of locks. With the driving rain hampering his view it was hard to be certain if the moving shapes were workers or armed Chinese trying to prevent the ship from repeating its earlier trick. It would be just their luck, he thought darkly, to be stopped by some soldier armed with a rocket launcher—

“Incoming!” he screamed as a streaking trail of smoke seemed to grow from the tip of the seawall, a twisting, probing tentacle that raced for the Englander Rose.

Hatcherly Consolidated Terminal Balboa, Panama

The news reached Liu Yousheng in fits and starts and the more he learned, the more confused and bizarre the reports became. He’d arrived at the Hatcherly container port at eight in the morning, his usual time, and spent two hours in his office pretending that this wasn’t the most important day of his life. He had found himself reading and rereading the same document pages several times and even then he gained only the barest impression of what they’d said.

The tension taxed his legendary concentration, making him irritable with his secretaries and the two junior executives who’d come to him with problems. None of them knew what had so distracted their boss, but all understood not to ask.

At ten, he couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed his raincoat and told the secretary that he would be out for several hours. He ignored his car and chauffeur and chose to stride through the rain to the enclosed dry dock on the far side of the terminal. He cut a severe figure in his dark coat that even the enormity of what he’d built in Panama couldn’t dwarf. The cranes and stacks of containers looked like they scraped the roiling storm clouds; the gantry lights cast shadows as strong as the sun. The huge ships tied to the quay were like steel mountains that he had brought to the jungle. The expanse of asphalt was like an artist’s canvas that he alone could paint upon. The men, local and Chinese alike, were his too, and they felt his presence as he stalked across train tracks and around rows of shipping crates. A few of the longshoremen called respectful greetings and a forklift operator offered him a ride.

Today he would cement his domain by risking it all. When it was over, he would not only control the container port, but all of Panama, including the mighty canal. At the same time he was giving his homeland the leverage it needed to finally rein in the rogue province of Taiwan. It was a momentous day and he didn’t blame himself for allowing no other thoughts but this to concern him.

The loose ends—Maria Barber, Philip Mercer, and the soldiers helping him—had been relegated to the back of his mind. They were distractions really, nothing more than nuisances he would deal with over the next few days. President Quintero would be grateful to help him hunt them down for another percentage or two of the Inca treasure his men were sure to find.

His cell phone rang as he reached the huge building that hid the Korvald. He let the phone ring a second time so he could step out of the driving rain. The ship loomed over him, its funnel no more than fifteen feet from the arched roof. The rain beat against the metal building and made the drafty interior vibrate.

He shook water off his coat and unfolded his phone. “Yes.”

“Mr. Liu, this is Captain Chen. I’m at the Pedro Miguel Lock. Something is wrong.”

Liu’s voice cracked. “What?”

“The captain of the Englander Rose—”

“Use the code name, damnit!”

“Ah, Gemini Two. He reported that he heard gunshots and then he went off the air.”

“Gunshots? Where?”

“On his ship, sir.” The military commander paused, unsure how to proceed, for he could feel Liu’s anger over the phone. “And now it appears the ship is sitting just above the lock.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know, sir. Ah, hold on, please. I’m getting another report.”

Much to Liu’s irritation the connection was cut. What was that all about? He looked up to the rafters and noted that one of the big overhead cranes was in position to remove the DF-31 missiles from the Korvald. The rockets were going to be loaded directly on the eight erector/launcher trucks that lined the dock on one side of the refrigerator ship, their bright paintwork an odd juxtaposition to their deadly purpose.

The phone rang again and he answered before the chime stopped. “Talk.”

“The captain of Gemini One is reporting a problem on the Mario diCastorelli. He says that it just grounded in the Gaillard Cut, but not in its exact target spot and that the submarine was crushed when she hit.”

“An accident?”

“He couldn’t tell. He’s evacuating his own ship using its lifeboats.”

“Is he in position to detonate the Change?” Liu asked sharply, ignoring his own rule about code names.

“Pretty close, sir. His men will make their way to shore and run for Gamboa and the boat that will carry them to the Atlantic side of the canal.”

“What’s happening on Gemini Two?”

“Nothing. It’s just sitting there. I’m about to order some men onto a pilot boat to see what the problem is. I’ll call you back when I have a report.”

“Good.” Liu snapped off his phone and walked calmly toward the gangplank. He relaxed his shoulders and returned his face to neutral. He wanted nothing to disrupt his plans and he realized how the Korvald’s captain, Wong Hui, seemed to want a reason to bolt with the eight rockets still in the ship’s hold.

Captain Wong, Sergeant Huai and Mr. Sun met him as he climbed up the steep set of stairs and stepped onto the old ship’s deck. “Gentlemen,” Liu greeted warmly. “I trust we are set to go this morning.”

Wong made a point to study his watch. “At eleven o’clock, Mr. Liu.”

Liu tried to disarm the man. He smiled. “I can see why General Yu chose you for this job, Captain. Your dedication is laudable.”

“It is, yes,” Wong said without expression. “We have almost an hour to wait. Join me in my cabin for tea.”

“Is that really necessary?” Liu wanted those rockets on the dock as soon as possible. With those in his hands, General Yu couldn’t claim ignorance of what was happening if something catastrophic really was happening at Pedro Miguel.

This time, a hint of merriment touched the dour captain’s eyes. “Of course it isn’t. We can wait right here until the appointed hour.”

Bowing slightly in the face of such obstinacy, Liu made a gesture for Wong to lead the way. They waited in silence for a steward to bring the service and pour the tea. Liu felt the double pressure of Wong’s stubbornness, which bordered on insubordination, and the dissecting glances that Mr. Sun shot his way, as if he knew something was amiss. Only Sergeant Huai, a veteran of countless battles and a master of patiently waiting between them, seemed immune to the tension. He drank the tea and kept his eyes from meeting anyone else’s without seeming obsequious or arrogant.

Liu’s cell phone cried from inside his coat pocket. Rather than draw even more attention by excusing himself, he took the call and made sure his responses were guarded. “Liu Yousheng.”

“Sir, it’s Cheng.”

“Yes, of course. How may I help you?”

“Sir, the pilot boat was destroyed. I think by rockets from Gemini Two, but I can’t be sure. Now the ship is turning back for the lock. I think they mean to go back down.”

“Well, that is interesting news,” Liu replied mildly while his stomach erupted so fiercely that acid seared the base of his tongue. He fought not to wince and covered the pain by shifting in his seat. “Anything else?”

Either Cheng caught on to the fact Liu couldn’t speak openly or was too frightened to notice. He continued his report despite his superior’s easy tone. “The ship is about to reenter the lock. The bottom gates are closed so maybe they mean to ram it.”

“Let them try.” Liu’s laugh was genuine, for he knew nothing short of a battleship at full speed could break through the two sets of massive gates.

“Sir!” Cheng shouted. “More explosions! It’s not coming from the Englander Rose. We’re under attack. Artillery of some kind. They’re targeting the doors.” There was a pause. Liu could hear detonations over the crackling cellular connection. “They’re gone. The doors are gone. The ship just raced by me going so fast I couldn’t see who was on the bridge. They’re on Miraflores Lake.”

Liu stood. He could no longer keep up a façade in front of Captain Wong. He nodded to the men and stepped from the cabin, moving far enough down the hallway so he couldn’t be overheard. His voice became an angry hiss. “What are you saying?”

“A barrage of some kind blew apart the lower lock doors. Water is pouring through and the Englander Rose went with it. It just passed a freighter on Miraflores and looks like it’s heading for the next set of locks.”

“Listen to me very carefully. That ship must not get off the lake. If you can stop it and get aboard I’ve got the code that will let you reset the timer on the explosives. We can still get the ship to the cut and finish what we started.”

“Yes, sir. I have a force at the Miraflores Locks and I can get the rest of my men down there before the ship reaches it. We’ll stop them.”

“Make sure you do, Cheng.” Liu put his phone away and stood looking at his feet, his face creased in thought. The dice were still rolling and a chance remained to effect their outcome.

A voice from behind snapped him from his reverie, a voice that wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near Panama, let alone on the Korvald.

“It seems you’re having a problem.” General Yu stood near the first officer’s cabin, where he’d been listening. There was a smirk on his pug face, delighting in seeing the younger executive about to have his world torn away from him. “It appears that we gambled and you lost.”

Mercer dove into the bridge. “Incoming!” he shouted again.

The rocket, a Chinese version of the Russian man-portable RPG-7, was primarily an antitank weapon with a five-pound shaped warhead capable of penetrating up to a foot of armor. Although their accuracy beyond three hundred yards was poor, and only a lucky hit could possibly disable a ship the size of the Englander Rose, everyone knew the wheelhouse was the missile’s target and a hit would turn it into flaming ruins.

They had all been under fire before, Harry during World War II and the others much more recently, and all knew to keep their mouths open to protect their inner ears from the overpressure of an explosion. Foch radioed a warning to his men in the hold and ducked behind the sturdy console to await the hit.

The rocket-propelled grenade flew unerringly at the vessel, a smoking slash of light that cut across the distance in seconds. The shaped warhead hit in the juncture where the superstructure met the deck and blew a cone of fire deep into the ship, shredding bulkheads and deck plates and leaving a four-foot smoking crater. The bridge rumbled and a gust of hot smoke blew through the aft doorway. For a fraction of a second, the crew waited for the secondary explosion, for surely such a strike could detonate the tons of explosives in her hold.

But then logic took over as they realized that they would never feel such a massive blast.

Mercer’s ears rang and his voice sounded unnaturally loud when he called, “Everyone okay?”

“We’re fine this time,” Rene said and ordered the Legionnaires to determine the extent of the damage and battle any fires the explosion might have ignited.

“Harry?”

“I’m good.” The old man got to his feet and immediately checked the ship’s gauges, grunting his relief that everything appeared in order.

Mercer’s earpiece crackled. “Angel Two, this is Heaven. Sit rep?”

“We’re still here.”

“We can target the seawalls with a strike before blowing the gates. The drone reports concentrations of troops along both sides of the lock you’ll be going through.”

“Hold on, Heaven.” Mercer went back outside and studied the barrier through his binoculars. Amid the uniformed troops, he saw dozens of workers being used as human shields by the Chinese. It seemed every soldier had at least two workers with him, men held by fright, not loyalty. Mercer couldn’t order their deaths. “Negative, Heaven. There are too many civilians out there. Lay a barrage along the wall to keep the rocket launchers pinned, but don’t hit the structure. Do you copy?”

“Roger. Retargeting now.”

The seawall dividing the two sets of locks was much longer than the one at Pedro Miguel, extending past the topmost lock by several thousand feet. Mercer tried to remain calm as he watched a team of soldiers at its tip readying another RPG. The range was sufficiently close to guarantee a hit on the Rose’s bridge. Through the powerful binoculars he could see the brightness in the gunner’s eyes as he swung the tubelike weapon to his shoulder.

Mercer was about to shout another warning when the water just feet off the concrete wall exploded in what looked like a precisely timed series of charges. The VGAS cannon walked its shots from the end of the seawall all the way to the lock. Each round exploded an exact distance from its predecessor in a string of geysers like some sort of overwhelming fountain effect. Men dove for cover, fearing the next string would tear up the cement. Some leapt into the opposite lock, others cowered behind the mule engines and others just froze as they were showered with water.

“Okay,” Harry called from the wheel. “It’s time to blow the doors.”

The upper lock chamber was already flooded and its gates were open to the Rose while a ship was just being drawn into the lower one by the mules, although it appeared work had stopped.

“Heaven, Angel Two. It’s open-sesame time.”

“Could you repeat that, please?”

“Hit the goddamned doors!”

With the upper chamber fully flooded and the lower one drained to the level of the Pacific Ocean, only the doors separating the two locks had to be hit to allow the Rose to pass through. Because they closed at shallow angles, the cathedral-like primary and safety doors looked like a flattened two-striped chevron when viewed from above.

Twenty seconds later, the area around them erupted. The shots were perfectly placed, penetrating the first layer of steel and exploding inside the hollow gates. The following rounds worked at the hinge points, tearing them from their concrete redoubts. After a dozen hits, the safety doors failed and the twenty feet of water between them and the main doors rushed into the lower chamber, rocking the freighter held fast by the mules.

A savvy worker in the centrally placed control center slammed levers to try to close the upper gates in order to prevent a catastrophic flood like the one gushing through Pedro Miguel. He couldn’t chance ruining the mechanism by trying to close them against such a deluge, but they would hold if he could get them secure before the cannon destroyed the second doors and the chamber opened to the sea.

The VGAS continued its deadly work, six-inch shells raining down in a steady tattoo after their thirty-mile flight. The second door protecting the lower lock absorbed shot after shot. It had been holed several times, and water spurted in high-pressure jets that doused the trapped freighter below.

The canal employee in the control room realized he’d never beat the gun and reversed the upper doors in order to protect them, hoping that they could be deployed later under safer conditions.

At full speed, the Englander Rose couldn’t beat the gun either.

The ship’s bow had just entered the chamber, and was still one thousand feet from the doors, when two well-placed shots hit the lower hinges. The release was like a tsunami, a solid surge that deformed the doors into misshapen slabs before wrenching them free. The tidal wave slammed the freighter waiting below, raising it up and pushing it back. The four locomotives still attached by their tow lines didn’t stand a chance against such a titanic force. The drivers had leapt clear, but like toys, the engines were plucked from the tracks. All four were dumped into the boiling wash and dragged with the ship before the towing hawsers snapped. Caught like leaves in a liquid whirlwind, the electric locomotives continued to tumble along the rocky bottom.

The freighter’s captain put the rudder hard over to angle his ship out of the maelstrom, narrowly missing another vessel waiting to ascend the adjacent set of locks.

The way was clear for the Englander Rose, and like a log poised at the top of a flume, she shot forward.

The tired old ship accelerated as water went draining through the open locks in a maddened rush. As she shot into the middle of the lock, the level had drained enough for alert soldiers on the seawall to open fire almost directly into the bridge. What little glass remained was quickly shot away and bullets whipped around the wheelhouse in swarms.

Mercer unleashed a quick burst from his M-16 before remembering the human shields the Chinese were using. He held his fire as they ran the gauntlet.

Only Harry remained on his feet, concentrating solely on keeping his ship steady as she hurtled toward the shattered remains of the doors and the first great plunge from one basin to the next. He seemed oblivious to the deadly fire raking the bridge, his lips working as he drew each breath through a cigarette.

Soldiers continued to pour rounds at the ship as it raced past their positions, and Mercer almost regretted not allowing the USS McCampbell to clear their way first. A rocket was launched, but the shooter failed to lead his target. The errant missile streaked across the channel and blew apart a machine shop on the bank.

The water pouring over the boundary between the two lock chambers was barely deep enough to float the Englander Rose. Her bottom scraped the concrete threshold as she went through, a rending tear that produced a sound like a scream. She seemed to pause for a moment before the torrent overcame her again and she plunged down to the second chamber. Her bow was driven deep and spray blew into the air as if she were battling a heavy sea. Her keel hit the floor of the basin, a ringing collision that shook the entire vessel. She slowly righted herself, rushing along the chamber as though through a canyon whose concrete walls loomed higher than her wing bridges. The noise of so much turgid water was a sustained tornado-like shriek.

It was a feat that Harry had been able to keep the ship from nosing into the remnants of the doors so he didn’t feel too bad when her flank scraped the concrete as she plowed into the second chamber.

He eased the wheel over, giving just a touch of rudder. Because the flood bore her along, his adjustment had no effect. The water was carrying the Rose where it wanted. She scraped again in a continuous metallic squeal that set teeth on edge.

And then the Englander Rose was free. She shot past the end of the second lock and the flood surge spread and slowed as it met the brackish water that stretched the last few miles to the Bay of Panama. She’d survived the wildest ride a ship had ever taken, a journey that would have taxed a white-water raft to its very limits.

A normal passage through the Miraflores Locks took thirty minutes. They’d done it in less than thirty seconds. Bruneseau and Foch whooped while Lauren screamed in delight and threw her arms around Mercer’s neck. Their mouths met.

“Oh, that’s just freaking great!” Harry shouted at the couple. “I do all the heroic stuff and Mercer ends up kissing the girl. I am not happy about this. Not happy at all.”

Lauren released Mercer, crossed to Harry, and brushed her lips against his bristled cheek. “Better?”

He grinned lecherously. “How about some tongue?”

“Even Mercer hasn’t gotten that—” she looked over at him “—yet.”

The ship’s buoyancy had changed when she hit the salty, less-dense water. She should have become lighter and easier to control, but as Harry worked the wheel to avoid the drifting freighter to starboard, he noted the ship was sluggish. Dangerously sluggish.

“We’re taking on water,” he said, his pronouncement ending the celebration around him.

Mercer snapped a look at Foch. The Frenchman called Munz and Rabidoux.

“We know,” Rabidoux answered. “We can hear water rushing into the spaces below the hold.”

“Can you tell how fast?”

“Fast enough. When the ship tipped forward and her bow hit, it sounded like we were inside a bell that had just cracked.”

“What’s the status on the timing device?”

“We couldn’t bypass the security code pad so we’re taking off the entire cover. We just backed off the last of the screws securing it to the device. These aren’t ideal working conditions and every one of the screws was booby-trapped to prevent tampering. Someone didn’t want the crew disarming it once it had been set. I think that’s why they just let it sit out like it is. The crew must have known that tampering with it would detonate the bombs.”

“How much time is left?”

“Ah, twelve minutes nine seconds. From the sound of the flooding in the bilge, I don’t think it’ll matter.”

Foch addressed Harry and Mercer. “Twelve minutes remain. Rabidoux thinks the ship will sink before he can deactivate the timer.”

Mercer nodded. “Will that prevent the explosives from going off or will it short out and set them off prematurely?”

The Legion commander made a balancing gesture with his hands as if to say it was fifty-fifty.

Mercer looked at Lauren. Her face shone with the adrenaline rush of their ride through the locks and her smile touched deep inside his soul. He knew they would never be able to explore their growing feelings for each other. If they evacuated now, there was no hope of getting far enough away to avoid the worst of the blast. They were all as good as dead.

They’d saved most of the canal by wrecking part of it, and saved countless lives by moving the ship into a relatively deserted area. It was the best any of them could hope for.

The left bank of the canal was overgrown jungle interspersed with a few ramshackle houses. Around a curve up ahead lay the town of Balboa and the sprawling Hatcherly container port nestled in the shadow of Quarry Heights. Here was as good a place as any to stop the ship and let her blow. Collateral damage would be minimal once they moved a little farther from the locks.

“Tell Munz if he wants to knock off he and Rabidoux can come up to the bridge,” Mercer said slowly. “Harry, take us up to where that open field runs down to the canal. Doesn’t look like anyone lives close by. If anyone wants, I guess now would be a good time to abandon ship. Maybe you can make it.”

As he suspected there were no takers. They knew the odds. They’d lived together, fought together, and now they would die together.

To cover his surprise, Liu Yousheng snapped to attention. “General Yu. What brings—?”

“Shut up, Liu,” the general snapped. “Captain Wong, get out here, please.” Wong emerged from his cabin with Sergeant Huai and Mr. Sun. “Captain, get to the bridge and make ready to leave port. Inform the dockworkers that the rocket-launcher trucks should be brought aboard immediately. I fear that Liu’s operation hasn’t gone as planned.”

“Yes, sir.” Wong skirted past Liu in the cramped passageway.

Yu continued to address Liu. “You aren’t the only one receiving reports from the locks. I already know about the Englander Rose being hijacked. I assume by the same commandos who rescued Philip Mercer from the mine, attacked your installation near the River of Ruin, and a number of other acts that you assured me were merely annoyances.”

Yu’s anger suddenly exploded. “Your arrogance led to this disaster. You’ve reached far beyond your limits and now you are about to fall.”

Liu swallowed. “We can still recover. We can get the second ship back into the Gaillard Cut. I have men—”

“It’s over. Operation Red Island was a foolish risk to begin with. I tried to tell the premier that you couldn’t do it, but he thought you deserved a chance.”

“You told the premier I couldn’t . . .” Liu wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “It was you who recommended that I propose this operation to him.” And then he understood just how well he’d been set up by the man he considered his mentor. “There aren’t any missiles on this ship, are there?”

Yu smiled as if to say of course not. “Only the small circle of workers who assembled them know they are mock-ups. Partially for your benefit, had you chosen to inspect them, but also because several of the more militaristic members of the politburo wanted to be on the docks in Shanghai to see them loaded. Captain Wong doesn’t even know they are dummies. The Korvald’s true reason for being here is to return the launcher/erectors, which, I might add, are genuine.”

“You did all of this just to get me out of Hatcherly.”

“Oh, it’s much more than that. It’s also to teach your generation that you only have power because we decide you can. There are thousands of companies under the COSTIND umbrella, each headed by men such as yourself, men who sometimes forget their place. China is going through dynamic changes, sweeping economic shifts that sometimes threaten to spill over into full-blown capitalism. Which we both know fosters thoughts of democracy. These thoughts must be crushed.

“Tiananmen taught us that punishing the people just gives our enemies more reason to denounce us. However, targeting men like you, men whose overreaching ambition makes them vulnerable, is just as effective at reducing capitalistic, and thus democratic, aspirations. The people don’t care about men like you. They resent that your grand lifestyle is a result of their labor. They love to hear about a corrupt executive being executed for misappropriation of state funds. They see your downfall as the state protecting their interests.”

“While we both know it’s just the state clamping down harder on their rights.”

Yu smiled. “It’s like Ronald Reagan’s trickle-down theory. Executives, factory managers, and many others will know by what happened to you that they aren’t as free as they believe. Your defeat will keep their dreams of autonomy dormant for another ten years at least. And with them subdued, the people who work for them will remain compliant.”

“What if I had succeeded?” Liu asked.

“I would have reaped the rewards, but the risk of failure was too great to back you completely. I chose to give you just enough to encourage you but not enough to embolden you. That you did on your own.”

“How much has this cost you? The gold, the mining equipment, all the ships. Was this power play worth all that?”

“To maintain absolute control of China for another ten years? Of course. Besides, the ships are all tired rust buckets destined to be broken up. The remainder of the gold you didn’t turn over for Quintero’s televised photo opportunity has already been recovered from your vaults by Mr. Sun here. Certainly there were costs, but it seems enough damage has been done to the canal to ensure they will be recovered by Hatcherly. Freight still has to move across the isthmus and our railroad and oil pipeline are the only way.”

“So there are explosives on the ships?”

“More than enough for even one detonation to choke off the Gaillard Cut for at least a year,” Yu said. “Don’t you see, I took the best of your operation and discarded the rest. We don’t need to threaten America with nuclear weapons to take Taiwan. Eventually China will be rich enough that they will want to return to the fold on their own. I needed you as an example to the men who will make China rich that they do it for the good of the party, not themselves. A lesson you forgot long ago, I’m afraid.”

So thoroughly outmaneuvered, Liu was speechless. General Yu had manipulated him perfectly, pushing him ever onward toward his own downfall. He felt the deck vibration change slightly as the engine RPMs were increased. The eight large trucks could be loaded in fifteen minutes or so since the dry dock was serviced by two overhead cranes and there was no need to be as delicate as if they were unloading the volatile strategic missiles.

“Will I be going back with you?” he finally asked the general.

Yu shook his head as if he was actually saddened by this. “I’m sorry, my young friend. Someone needs to remain behind and take the blame for this attempt at a corporate takeover of an entire country. I brought a briefcase full of documentation that shows this operation was entirely your doing. President Quintero and the canal director, Felix Silvera-Arias, were told this morning that it is in their best interest to keep quiet about their involvement.”

“My family?”

“Won’t share your fate. I promise you that.”

“That is very generous of you.” Liu was serious. Usually wives, parents, children and other family members would be purged because of the mistakes of one man. That fear was one more way the government maintained its iron grip. “What happens now?”

“We have a little time.” Yu reached into his jacket for his cigarettes. He offered one to Liu. “I know you quit, but considering the circumstances . . .” The general lit his own cigarette first and held his lighter for Liu. “Sergeant Huai, would you care for one?”

“Thank you, General.” Huai was left to light his own and stepped back into the shadows to wait for his orders.

The three smoked in silence.

“What about the treasure, General?” Liu asked, dropping the spent butt to the deck and grinding it with his heel. “Will you try to recover it?”

“I hadn’t thought about it. I guess if it really is there, then in a month or a year we will find it for the Panamanians and turn it over to them as a gesture of goodwill. Learning about a billion dollars in gold, even if it’s already yours, is a powerful diplomatic tool.”

An officer approached and saluted General Yu. “With Captain Wong’s compliments. The cargo is aboard. He reports that the Englander Rose has cleared the Miraflores Locks and believes it might be heading toward us.”

“Damn. Tell the captain we can cast off in a moment. Wait, I’ll come to the bridge with you. Sergeant Huai, your sidearm, please. Give it to Mr. Liu.”

“Sir?”

“Your sidearm. The least we can do is let him do this honorably. But keep him covered just in case.” Yu grabbed a large briefcase from the first officer’s cabin and locked it to Liu’s wrist with a pair of handcuffs. “When it is done, take his body to his office, give some explanation to his staff and get your men out of Panama as quickly as possible.”

“I understand, sir.” The veteran eyed Liu then turned back to the general. “May I ask one thing?”

“What is it, man?” Yu snapped, irritated that Huai saw any ambiguities in his orders.

“When you mentioned the costs incurred in this operation, you didn’t mention the men I’ve lost.”

Something in the sergeant’s tone made the general pay more attention. “It’s a soldier’s duty to do as ordered, Sergeant. It is the price of war.”

“That’s what I thought, sir.”

General Yu turned to follow the first officer up to the bridge.

“The price of war,” Huai repeated and slid his pistol from its holster.

Lauren had moved next to Mercer and slipped her arm around his waist, snuggling her head against his shoulder to wait for the inevitable. The Frenchmen spoke quietly among themselves, offering prayers perhaps or recounting the bravery of how past Legionnaires had faced death. Harry smoked through another cigarette and guzzled the last of the Jack Daniel’s. Mercer refused his offer of a hit knowing his old friend would enjoy it more.

A nagging voice, tinny and remote, tickled Mercer’s hearing. He tried to ignore it, but it was insistent. The uncomfortable radio earpiece dangled down his chest on its slender wire. He realized that was the source of the voice and he pressed the speaker back in place. “Angel Two, this is Heaven. Over.”

He had forgotten the guided-missile destroyer. “Heaven, this is Angel Two. Go ahead. Over.”

“We’ve got a rescue helo in the air. ETA is seven minutes.”

With a shout Mercer repeated what he’d just heard. The laughs and cries returned even louder than before. “Roger that, Heaven. We’ll be standing by. Make sure the pilot knows he’ll only have two minutes to pick us up and get clear again.”

“I’ll make sure she knows,” the female comm officer replied, emphasizing the inbound pilot’s gender.

Foch got back on the radio with Rabidoux. “Helo extraction in seven minutes.”

“I’ve got even better news. Munz has almost got the bomb disarmed. Once into the timing device, there were no more booby traps. It’s a straightforward job from here on out.”

“How long?”

“A minute, maybe less. The wiring will be disabled before the water can cause a short. Tell Mercer to let the ship sink in deep water. If we can stay afloat long enough, sail her right under the Bridge of the Americas and let her go in the Bay of Panama.”

“Will do. Good job.”

“Munz almost has it.” Foch’s report was met by a stunned silence. “The timer. He almost has it deactivated. The ship’s not going to explode.”

“He’s sure?”

“Bomb disposal men aren’t known to boast when their butts are on the line.” Foch grinned. “He says that if the ship can make it to try to let her sink in deep water.”

“Never happen,” Harry said. “We’ll be lucky to make it out of the canal. I can’t tell how fast we’re shipping water, but I can’t see us getting more than another couple of miles out of her.”

“Okay,” said Mercer. “What’s out there in the next couple of miles?”

Lauren thought about it. “Balboa and the abandoned navy fueling depot at Rodman are on the right side of the canal. On the left is all Hatcherly facilities.”

As soon as she said it, Mercer, Harry, and she exchanged a look. “What about it, Harry?” Mercer asked.

He chuckled. “I can’t imagine a more fitting burial for this old girl than right up Liu Yousheng’s asset.”

Mercer waited for confirmation that Munz had succeeded before calling the USS McCampbell. Two minutes later, the German and his French partner ambled onto the bridge. Their uniforms were soaked from the flooding holds, but nothing could diminish their sense of accomplishment. “I don’t care where you two are on the promotion lists,” Foch gushed and kissed his men on both cheeks. “You’re each getting bumped a grade.”

“Angel Two to Heaven,” Mercer called after adding his congratulations.

“Go ahead, Angel.”

“Slight change of plans. The bomb’s been deactivated. We’re going to try to reach the Hatcherly container port. We can’t see it yet. Can you give me an idea of shipping around it?”

“One moment, Angel. Ah, are you sure about the bomb?”

“We’d be screaming for that chopper if we weren’t.”

“Roger, Angel. There’s only one ship at the facility at this time. It’s just now emerging from an enclosed dry dock.”

Mercer had a sneaking suspicion he knew what ship that was. “Heaven, any chance you can read its name?”

“We can read the magazine stuffed into the back pocket of a deckhand by her jackstaff. She’s the MV Korvald, registered in Liberia.”

“Korvald’s coming out of the dry dock,” Mercer told Harry.

He goosed the throttles a little farther “Say no more.” Harry looked up to speak to his ship. “Okay, baby, you hold together for old Captain Harry and he’ll give you a send-off befitting a dreadnought.”

“Are you going to ram the Korvald?” Rene asked.

“If the Rose’ll let me.” Harry smiled and patted the wheel.

“Are you insane? We’re loaded with thousands of tons of explosives and the Korvald’s carrying eight intercontinental ballistic missiles. You are going to kill us all and level five square kilometers.”

“Don’t worry, Rene.” Mercer interceded before Bruneseau completely lost it again. “Harry’s making another of his bad jokes. He’s not gonna hit her. What we’ll do is box her in and keep her from escaping. Those missiles are the perfect evidence against Liu Yousheng.”

The French spy seemed satisfied, but the scowl didn’t leave his face. It was clear that he would never trust Harry White.

Mercer moved close to his friend so Bruneseau couldn’t overhear. “You really weren’t planning on ramming the Korvald , were you?”

“Oh, I’m still planning on it.” Harry cackled. They were a half mile from the Hatcherly port. Against the backdrop of the storm, the tall Hyundai gantry cranes stood like colossal scaffolds. Behind them was a maze of shipping containers. Immediately next to the cranes was the dry dock. The tail of a ship was slowly backing from the cavernous entrance. “Take the wheel.”

“What?”

Harry stepped away from the ship’s controls. “I said take the wheel. We’ve got a couple minutes and I wasn’t kidding that I have to take a leak. Just keep her on course for the dry dock.”

By the time Harry returned from the head, the Englander Rose had started to list to port at an angle that deepened remarkably fast. They were separated from the dry dock by a quarter mile of choppy water and the Korvald was almost free from the enclosure. With the load of water filling her bilge and starting to swamp her lower cargo decks, the Rose became more sluggish. Her speed fell away to the point that Harry didn’t think they were going to make it. He eased back on the throttles.

“Okay, folks, this is what I want to do,” he said. “If we go, we’re going to roll to port. She won’t flip completely because the water here isn’t deep enough. She’ll just settle in the mud on her side. All of you go out on the starboard wing bridge and wait for it to happen.”

“What about you?” Foch asked.

“I’ve got to hold her on course as long as I can.”

“Someone find some rope,” Lauren ordered. “We can tie a loop around your waist and haul you up when the ship capsizes.”

Gathering the weapons, the group moved outside while Mercer jury-rigged a climber’s harness out of some rope and secured Harry to the wing-bridge railing. “How’s that?”

“Feels like a damned straitjacket,” Harry complained.

“You’d know.”

Mercer stayed at his friend’s side as the ship moved closer to its target and slid closer to overturning. By the inclinometer screwed into a bulkhead, her angle was twenty-two degrees. The measuring device had a mark stating she could recover from a forty-degree dip, but not with her holds flooded and probably only when wave action would help to right her. Harry leaned into his harness while Mercer was forced to hold the console.

They could see the Korvald clearly. She was newer than the Rose; larger too. Her cargo wasn’t heavy enough to hide the bright line of antifouling paint along her waterline. Men stood at the fantail, and others were visible on her wing bridge. Three were in dark naval-like uniforms while two others wore suits. Both civilians were shorter than average, although one had a thick build. Something nagged at Mercer about the thinner of the pair. He groped for the binoculars, swinging them up one-handed, and spreading his feet farther as the ship’s list deepened past thirty degrees.

He dialed in the focus, zeroing in on the men guiding the refrigerator ship from under a tarp protecting the exposed bridge from the rain. Facial features became clear. All were staring at the tired tramp steamer limping toward them. Mercer recognized none of the crew, nor the heavy-set civilian, but he knew the frail figure.

His hand tightened on the binoculars and began to tremble. “Sun’s on that ship.”

“Who? The torturer?”

“Yes.”

“Well, goddamn.”

“Harry, we can’t let them get away.”

“I’m working on it, pal, I’m working on it.”

Although she was barely moving under her own power, the current rushing down the canal was enough to keep the Rose charging at the Korvald. The range dropped to a hundred yards, then eighty. Armed men suddenly appeared at the rail of the Chinese ship. They opened fire, sporadically at first, and then more sustained and concentrated. For the third time, bullets ricocheted around the bridge. Harry and Mercer dropped to the deck to find cover.

“Shit!”

“What is it?” Mercer asked over the din, fearing Harry had been hit.

“I need to see which way the Korvald’s going to turn. She could back around and head straight for open water or she could cut inside us and circle the harbor to get out behind us.”

“How can you tell which way she’ll go?” A round blew the stuffing out of the chair Lauren had been using.

“I need to see the wash from her bow thruster and how her rudder’s cocked.”

Lauren shouted from the protection of the offside wing. “Get out here, you two. You’re going to get yourselves killed.”

“It isn’t worth it,” Foch added.

Mercer ignored them and tried his radio. “Heaven, come in. This is Angel Two. Where’s that chopper?”

No sooner had he asked than the beating rotors of an SH- 60 Seahawk filled the bridge with noise as it thundered twenty feet over their heads. The downblast whipped a brutal wind through the shattered windows. The chopper had come in low, using the drifting hulk of the Englander Rose as cover, popping into view at the last moment. It pirouetted to get an angle for a door gunner to rake the missile ship with his M-60.

Hitting only two of the Chinese soldiers, he still managed to clear the railing as the others dove for cover.

Mercer helped Harry to his feet. There was a frothing patch of water near the Korvald’s bow. Using the powerful athwartship thruster she was beginning her turn, hoping to beat the Rose by swinging herself to shoot directly down the canal.

Harry spotted it immediately. “We’ve got them.” He cranked the wheel toward the big reefer ship.

Maneuvering her bow so that it was perpendicular to the dry dock but still pointed toward shore, Captain Wong had hoped to beat the derelict by dancing inside her. Had he known what Harry White knew, he would have spun out the other way and easily outflanked the sinking ship.

With twenty yards separating the ships, and both directed more or less downstream, Harry cranked the throttles one last time. Ever so slightly she built up headway, forcing more water into her holds. She started to capsize.

Mercer scrambled up the deck to the safety of the flying bridge and helped the others draw Harry up to them. They pressed themselves to the deck, holding fast against the bulkhead that would soon become the floor.

The dynamic angle of the keel and rudder shot the ship toward the Korvald. With water pouring over her rail, the Englander Rose nosed into the refrigerator ship just hard enough to tear a large gash in her hull. With her momentum expended, the Rose settled over even more, fountains of air and water exploding from ventilators and leaky hatch covers as her interior spaces were drowned.

When her bow struck the bottom her keel bent in an agonized scream of wrenching metal. She settled deeper, rolling ever so slowly. Her forward cranes were smashed like matchsticks when they slammed the Korvald’s deck. The upper edge of the superstructure crashed into the other ship’s wheelhouse in an explosion of broken glass and men too slow to get out of the way. The funnel snapped off when it struck, and rolled like an enormous pipe onto the deck. It caught two gunmen and crushed them flat.

Wave action from the collision separated the two vessels for a moment before they struck again, harder, opening another hole in the Korvald’s hull. As the Rose continued to settle on the shallow bottom, torn plates, tangles of rope and other debris locked the two vessels together. The Chinese ship was pulled downward by the Rose’s dead weight. She ended up with a ten-degree list when at last the tramp freighter stopped sinking. But with water rushing through her torn hull, the Korvald also began to go down.

The Rose lay as though dead, with more than half of her bulk underwater and waves lapping just five feet below where her crew huddled.

Rabidoux was the first to recover. “I think they are going to come after us for what Harry did to their ship.”

Lauren disentangled her legs from under Foch, struggling to find her orientation on this world turned sideways. Looking down through the bridge door she saw nothing but water. She grabbed her weapon. “He’s right. We can’t stay here. They’re going to cut us down.”

Mercer fingered the knot on the back of his head. He’d hit it against the wall during the final plunge. “Let’s give it a minute.”

“What?” they all shouted at once.

Mercer twisted his wrist so they could see his borrowed watch. It was 11:00. “We’ll make our move when the Change lights off. The chopper can provide cover.” He radioed his plan to the McCampbell, who would pass it on to the pilot of the Seahawk, swirling out of reach of small-arms fire from the Korvald.

“According to my watch,” Lauren said, her free hand gripping her M-16, “it should come in four, three, two, one . . .”

Nothing.

“It’s that Rolex you wear,” Foch teased. “Too accurate. They’re using a cheap Chinese knockoff.”

Harry was about to crack a joke when a dazzling flash arced across the underside of the low-lying clouds, a blinding display that left his jaw slack and his eyes stinging.

Twelve miles up the canal, seven thousand tons of explosives detonated. It wasn’t so much an explosion as a hurricane of fire that shredded the sky as it bloomed and billowed into a towering column of flame. The Robert T. Change ceased to exist, wiped from the earth in the first milliseconds of the blast. Slapped as if by a giant fist, the Mario diCastorelli was lifted from the water and tossed nearly a half mile, while chunks of her hull sailed even farther. The billion gallons of vaporized water added to the overpressure that hammered the surrounding rock. In an instant, the soil below the canal turned into a slurry no stiffer than Jell-O and the fractured mountains began to collapse, tumbling and grinding and filling the crater gouged by the explosion. Clouds of dust rose around the blast scene like the banks of ash that pour from a volcanic eruption.

The shock wave traveling through the earth made the surface of the canal near the Rose come alive. They could see the growing fireball climbing over the horizon but could hear nothing yet as jittering waves topped ten feet and washed over their tight group. The pressure wave hit a second later, and then came the rumbling thunder of the detonation, a roar like a thousand jet aircraft.

In the cut, tens of thousands of cubic yards of rock and debris tumbled from the mountainside in an endless cascade. On the opposite bank was a gently sloping field nearly four acres square. The structural shifts in topography caused the top ten feet of dirt covering the field to slide like a conveyor belt into the canal. The avalanches fell unabated for several minutes, and slides would continue for days as the landscape resettled itself.

For the first time since October 10, 1913, when a telegraphed signal from Woodrow Wilson in the White House detonated the dike separating the Gaillard Cut from Lake Gatun, the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans were no longer joined. The most vital sealane in the history of maritime commerce had been severed. Below the churning dust and dissipating flames, angry water lapped at both sides of an earthen plug that stretched from bank to bank.

Mercer roused his people as soon as the sound hit them. They couldn’t waste the precious seconds of distraction the explosion gave them. The Seahawk pilot understood her orders and didn’t bother staring at the awful destruction taking place up the canal. She swung her chopper in a tight circle, lowering her altitude so the door gunner could open fire directly into the Korvald’s bridge. Glass and blood flew.

The Legion soldiers led the group around the wing bridge and across what had once been the side of the superstructure. The steel was slick with rain and the footing treacherous. There was no cover. Had it not been for the chopper keeping the Chinese pinned, their charge could have been cut down before it ever really got going.

Munz and Foch reached the edge of the superstructure first, dropping flat to peer over the lip to see who or what was below them. Mercer and Lauren watched where the Korvald’s wing bridge jutted out ten feet over their heads. So far no one on the Chinese ship presented themselves as a target.

“Clear,” Foch called and disappeared from view over the edge.

The others rushed forward. The Korvald’s rail was only a foot below them and was less than a yard away. The water between the two ships continued to bubble as air escaped from the capsized freighter.

Foch waited in the shadow of a ventilator to help steady the others as they leapt over. Above them and forty feet aft, the ship’s mangled wheelhouse continued to take automatic fire from the Seahawk. A short way off two pairs of legs shown grotesquely from under the Rose’s decapitated funnel.

“What’s your plan?” Mercer asked the Legion officer.

He shrugged. “Je ne sais pas. I thought you’d have an idea.”

Looking toward the bow, Mercer saw movement. A Chinese soldier was working his way along the raised hatch covers to find a way to shoot down the helicopter gunship with his type 87. Mercer swung his M-16, but Rabidoux was quicker and triggered off a three-round burst that threw the soldier flat.

Two more Chinese rose from their hiding places to counterfire and were cut down by Lauren and Foch.

“The chopper’s keeping everyone on the bridge occupied,” Mercer said, his breathing growing ragged as adrenaline once again electrified his body. “Foch, take two men and mop up the forward deck so no one can sneak up behind us.”

“D’accord.” He grabbed Munz and the Legion trooper whose name Mercer didn’t know and vanished around the funnel.

Mercer and the rest shuffled over to the superstructure, mindful of glass still falling from the bridge. Reaching a sealed hatchway, Bruneseau took up a covering position while Rabidoux spun open the dogs. No one was waiting inside.

“Haven’t we already done this once today?” Harry remarked as they stepped out of the storm.

“Quit your complaining and help us find a place to hole up until Foch gets back.”

They made their way down a dim passage, turning left toward the interior of the ship, and found an unlocked cabin. Mercer went in first, his M-16 held tight to his shoulder. It was clear. Harry went straight to the desk and sat down. “Ah, that feels better. Damned peg leg is starting to bother me.”

A minute later, they heard movement outside the cabin. Rene peeked out the door then opened it wide for Foch and the others. “Is the deck clear?”

He nodded. “There were three others. What do we do now, hunt down the rest?”

Mercer thought about it. “No. Just one of them.”

“Sun?” Harry asked, understanding.

“I’ve got to do it,” Mercer said. “I can’t explain why, but I’ve got to.”

“It’s not worth it,” Lauren said, stunned that Mercer would suggest it. “We can all wait right here. No one’s going to find us and the Panamanian coast guard is going to be here in a few minutes.”

“I do want you all to wait right here. But I’m going.” Mercer checked the ammo in his M-16 and felt for the .45-caliber pistol tucked behind his back.

“Sun isn’t going to get away,” Lauren pleaded. She’d never seen such savagery in Mercer’s eyes before and it frightened her. “You talked about being macho before. Well, listen to your own advice.”

Mercer didn’t look at her when he spoke. “If you knew how empty I feel because of what he did to me, you wouldn’t ask me to stay. I won’t be myself until I know he’s dead. It doesn’t make sense, I know. But it’s how I feel.”

Harry stood. “Let him go, Lauren. He’s right.”

“You too?” She wheeled on him, feeling betrayed because she was sure Mercer’s oldest friend would see the insanity of what he wanted to do.

“It’s for the best. Mercer, go. We’ll be right here.”

“That’s another I owe you,” Mercer said, moving to the door. Lauren’s expression was one of disgust. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed and took off down the hall.

No one moved or spoke for several long seconds. Foch finally turned to Harry. “Enough time?”

“Another few seconds.”

“What are you talking about?” Lauren blazed.

“We’re going to follow him,” Harry said. “What did you think?”

Mercer’s feet barely touched the scuffed linoleum decking as he ran. His vision felt heightened, as if nothing could hide from his gaze. Even the deepest shadows looked bright.

His hearing was more acute. Each creak and groan reverberating around the ship sounded distinctly in his ears and he could tell where each noise originated.

He climbed two decks, moving ever closer to where automatic fire from the chopper continued to slam the bridge. He passed the body of an officer who’d staggered down from the wheelhouse to die. A trail of blood from the large-caliber holes in his chest led up a third flight of stairs. Over the staccato beat of machine-gun fire, Mercer heard voices shouting in Chinese. He started up the stairs, keeping low and to one side.

At the upper landing he guessed that the bridge had been evacuated because the door separating it from the rest of the superstructure was closed. To his left was a short hallway that doubled back aft. It was where the ship’s officers had their quarters. To the right, he could just see into another large cabin, probably the captain’s. That’s where the voices came from.

He moved out of the stairwell to get a better view of what was going on inside. He recognized one of the men as the captain and the other as the stocky civilian. Unfortunately the third man wasn’t Sun. It was a soldier. The more Mercer looked at him the more he was convinced it was the same guy who’d captured him following the chase on the car carrier.

Mercer couldn’t understand what they were saying but it appeared the veteran soldier wasn’t happy about something. In fact it looked like he was holding a pistol on the civilian and the captain.

“For the last time, Huai,” General Yu said, trying to keep his anger in check. “Put that damned gun away.”

“I can’t do that, General. Not until you tell me exactly why you felt it necessary to sacrifice my men.”

“I told you that soldiers dying is the price of war.”

“That’s what confuses me. Who was this war against? Panama? America? Who?”

Yu snapped his mouth closed, suddenly understanding what the sergeant was going on about. He had lost men in a conflict he didn’t understand. He wanted answers and Yu could see that some pat response wouldn’t satisfy him. “Sergeant, this operation was about defending our way of life. Not all our enemies come with white skin and round eyes. Some are within our own ranks.”

“Liu Yousheng might have been a bastard, but I never saw him as my enemy.”

Yu seized on his statement. “Might have been? You killed him?”

Huai seized on the general’s desperation. “Maybe. Or maybe let him go and he is right now making arrangements to return to China.”

In truth, Liu was unconscious in a cabin, shackled to the plumbing behind a toilet. Huai wasn’t sure yet if he would tell anyone or let him drown as the Korvald continued to fill with water from the holes in her hull. In just the few minutes since he’d burst into the cabin to find Yu hiding from the helicopter gunship, Huai could feel the deck was tilting more.

“You let him go!” Yu thundered.

Huai readjusted his pistol to remind the general who was in charge. “Who decided that Liu was our enemy?”

“Your government.”

“So my government denounced him as a traitor and yet they let a dozen of my men die working with him just to make a political statement about his treason. I see that as a greater violation than whatever Liu did.”

“What do you plan to do about it?” Yu scoffed, his lip twisting with derision. He’d been pushed as far as he’d go. “Are you going to shoot me? Then you’d have to shoot the captain here and everyone else on this ship to keep them from killing you.”

“That’s what you don’t understand,” Huai said calmly. “That is the kind of sacrifice a soldier is willing to make for his men. I don’t mind dying to kill you. You’ve betrayed my men, you’ve betrayed me and you’ve betrayed the People’s Liberation Army.” He raised his pistol. “For the crime of treason against his troops, General Yu Kwan, I sentence you to death.”

The shot rang out, crisp and sharp.

Sergeant Huai staggered back a step, his left hand reaching for his chest where blood oozed from the wound. Mr. Sun had watched the whole exchange from a hiding place in the adjoining bathroom. He’d enjoyed the play of emotion between the combat soldier and the political one, feeding off their fear and hatred. But he knew where his loyalties lay and judged precisely when the sergeant would shoot. He’d fired his own pistol an instant before Huai and was pleased the bullet had hit within a few inches of where he’d aimed. He’d never been good with guns.

The second shot had been delayed by a fraction of a second. The aim was perfect. The bullet had been fired even as Huai absorbed a shot to the chest and still blew most of General Yu’s brains out the back of his head. The gore exploded against the cabin wall and oozed like slime to the floor.

Mercer watched as the two fell to the deck. He didn’t have the proper angle to see if the civilian had used a hidden gun to kill the soldier, but it stood to reason that anyone involved in this plot would be armed. All he was sure of was that this incident had nothing to do with him. His fight was with Sun, not the Chinese Army and its civilian controllers. The ship’s captain walked over the soldier’s body to close and lock the cabin door.

Mercer lifted himself from where he’d hidden behind a cabinet. He put out of his mind what he’d just seen and continued his hunt for Sun, guessing that he would be cowering as far from the bridge as he could. He moved down the hallway, checking cabins. Most were unlocked and took just a moment to examine. Those doors that were locked he kicked in as quietly as he could, although the cacophony from outside and the alarms screaming on the bridge effectively masked any noise he made.

Each time he returned to the hall, he eyed the captain’s cabin to make sure no one had emerged. Reaching the last door, he felt the handle. It was locked. He kicked once and the puny lock shattered. He had the M-16 ready and swept the cabin in one movement. No one. He moved to check the bathroom. There was a body chained to the toilet.

What the hell? The bathroom was tiny so he shouldered the M-16 and pulled the .45. He called out softly. No response. He approached slowly and tapped the body with his foot. The man was facedown and didn’t move. A briefcase was handcuffed to his wrist. He kicked again, angling so he could roll the man over. He recognized Liu Yousheng immediately and had to fight not to pull the trigger.

“Well, well, well.” He looked closer. A livid purple bruise covered half of Liu’s face. Mercer touched his cheek. The skin was cold and waxy. He was dead. Whoever had clocked him had hit a little too hard and caused bleeding on the brain. “Good.”

The ship creaked as she listed farther into the capsized Englander Rose. Mercer glanced over his shoulder to make sure the cabin door was clear, then bent to shoot away the handcuff on Liu’s wrist. He assumed whatever was in the briefcase would prove valuable.

Mr. Sun had seen the American enter the last cabin when he went in search of a means to escape. Encouraged by his earlier shot, he decided to do away with Mercer himself. It was fitting that the only man to escape before the acupuncture needles could break him was just a few feet away and unaware he was being hunted.

He moved down the hall with ghostlike steps. Reaching the cabin he lowered himself to peer in, his old knees popping. Mercer was in the bathroom, bent over what Sun believed to be the body of Liu Yousheng. He’d seen so much death he could recognize it at any distance.

The range was shorter than the shot he’d just taken, but Sun took his time bringing up the heavy pistol. Mercer’s back was still to him. The pip on the front sight came level with the V notch of the rear sight. A round was in the chamber and the trigger started coming back. Sun’s hand trembled. He eased off the trigger, took a breath that rattled in his stringy lungs and refocused his aim.

This time he had his man.

Some sixth sense made Mercer turn at the last instant. He saw Sun crouched at the cabin door, an automatic in his hand. Mercer’s weapon was down by his side. He was fast, but not that fast.

Sun had time to smile.

And then he screamed as a gleaming shaft of tempered steel sprang from his chest and pinned him to the deck. A gush of arterial blood spilled from his mouth; his eyes went wide and lifeless. The blade was withdrawn and Harry stepped into the cabin. The top two feet of his sword were covered in crimson.

“That’s three you owe now.” He reached down and un-snapped the watch on Sun’s skeletal wrist. “TAG Heuer. H’mm. Looks like yours.” He tossed it to Mercer. “I think this proves that whatever this prick took from you is yours to take back.”

Mercer looked at the watch and at his friend, stunned, grateful, overwhelmed. He could barely speak. “Harry, I’m going to tell you something that if you repeat I will deny until the day I die.”

“I’ve known all along.” Harry’s voice was thick as his sudden bravado failed him. His eyes filled. “And I love you too, boy.”

Epilogue

With everyone up at the volcanic lake, Mercer and Miguel were left alone to walk along the banks of the River of Ruin. The remnants of Gary Barber’s camp looked much as they had a few weeks earlier. A couple more animal tracks maybe, and some new growth of jungle amid the ripped tents and scattered equipment, were the only verifiable differences. Yet there was something that man and boy both felt as they ambled in silence.

The ghosts were gone.

The spirits of Gary and his staff, including Miguel’s parents, had been put to rest by the sacrifices everyone had made since that first day when Mercer discovered the bodies. There was no need to talk about it. It was as obvious as the heat and humidity in the tight little valley.

“Will you be happy with Roddy and Carmen?” Mercer asked when they found a comfortable place to sit along the river’s edge.

“I think so,” Miguel answered honestly. “They are very kind and I like their children.”

“What about school? Are you excited to go?”

He made a face. “They will tease me because I can’t read as well as the other kids my age. And I don’t know as much as they do about other stuff.”

“Don’t you think that if you study hard you will learn what they already know?”

“Maybe,” he hedged.

“Maybe, nothing,” Mercer said and laughed. “In a year you will be the smartest kid in your whole school.”

“You think so?” The boy brightened.

“I know so. And do you know what else?”

“What?”

“If you get good grades, you and Roddy’s family can come to my home in Washington, D.C., for Christmas vacation.”

“Wow! Will Mr. Harry be there?”

“Believe me, Mr. Harry is always there.”

“Then I will get good grades.”

He spoke as if merely saying it would make it true. Mercer suspected that with a kid as bright as Miguel that was probably the case. He was an exceptional boy, perceptive and responsible beyond his years. With the love and support that Roddy’s family could provide, he’d get past his trauma with the resiliency only a child possessed.

“What about Lauren? Will she be there too?”

Now it was Mercer’s turn to hedge. The two of them hadn’t discussed plans beyond this trip to the River of Ruin. In fact, he’d seen very little of her in the week since they’d ended Liu Yousheng’s bid to place nuclear missiles in Panama.

The final act of the drama had left dozens of unanswered questions and she’d been sequestered with officials from the CIA, FBI and the Department of Defense trying to answer them. It had taken two days just to learn the civilian Mercer saw murdered on the Korvald was in fact a highly placed general named Yu Kwan. No one yet understood what he was doing on the ship, nor did they understand why the missiles recovered from the ship’s hold by a crane barge were fakes. The outer casings looked legitimate, but inside was nothing but concrete filler to give them the weight of real ICBMs.

“I don’t know if she’ll be there or not,” Mercer finally answered. She was due to arrive this afternoon for a two-day stay at the lake. This would probably be the only opportunity he’d have to ask her.

Mercer himself had been at the lake for three days with Foch and his team. Rene Bruneseau had left for France soon after the coast guard rescued them from the sinking refrigerator ship and he’d flashed his diplomatic passport claiming immunity. Mercer didn’t blame him for avoiding the night in jail the others suffered through until the American and French embassies, along with representatives from the Pentagon, could wade in.

Before their rescue, Roddy Herrara was already organizing men to seal the broached lock doors. Because of the tremendous surge of water, the operators didn’t dare try to close the remaining ones, rightly fearing that the hydraulics couldn’t prevent the flow from twisting the steel and ruining the gates. That meant there was nothing they could do but let the water trapped between the earthen plug in the Gaillard Cut and Pedro Miguel continue to run. The spillway at the dam near the Miraflores Locks could handle the volume, but they needed to close the topmost doors there if they were to prevent Miraflores Lake from draining entirely.

That was where Roddy and a couple of other canal pilots came in. They commandeered a freighter trapped on the lake and ran heavy cables from its stern to hard points on the working gates. Using the ship as a giant sea anchor, they had better control over the inward-closing doors and managed to seal them without the two leaves slamming against each other and warping.

With water no longer escaping, the danger of losing use of the canal for years was past. There was only one set of spare doors kept in the zone and they would soon be installed at Pedro Miguel. A contract was about to be awarded to an American foundry to fabricate another set to replace the ruined doors at Miraflores. It would take several months to get them in position, though it would take much longer to dredge the debris that had collapsed into the Gaillard Cut. However, excavating equipment from the bogus Twenty Devils Mine was already en route to begin the arduous task of clearing the rubble. It would soon be supplemented by dredges and other machines kept by the Canal Authority.

That took care of the physical repercussions of what Liu had attempted. The political ramifications would take years to sort out, though at this stage Mercer couldn’t care less. For him, it was done.

What had brought him to the isolated river in the heart of the Darien Province was his hunch that he could find the Twice-Stolen Treasure. Foch and his men, including the driver who’d been released from custody, and Gerard, the soldier who’d lost part of a finger at the mine, had joined him. He needed their help because to get at where he thought the treasure lay hidden required some heavy blasting first.

Mercer stood and brushed off the seat of his pants. “What do you say we head back up to wait for Lauren.”

It took a little extra time to climb the waterfall since an area where the Legionnaires had been working was strictly off limits. The bodies of the Chinese soldiers who’d gone over in the Zodiac had been removed by their allies, although the shredded remains of the rubber boat remained in a pool halfway up the hillside.

As soon as they reached the top, Miguel ran ahead to play with Roddy’s children under the vigilant eye of Carmen Herrara. They were currently skipping stones from the pier Liu Yousheng’s men had built during their occupation of the lake. All of the Chinese equipment had been left behind when Panamanian police units, backed by the Seahawk helicopters from the McCampbell, descended on the excavation site and arrested everyone.

The Chinese overseers had been deported without trial, while the locals had been allowed to return to their villages.

The children’s laughter dispelled the sense of desolation that had settled over the quiet tents and buildings. Several Panamanian soldiers remained as guards in case guerrillas tried to inspect what had taken place on the mountaintop, but they stayed to themselves mostly, leaving Mercer and the French to do their work. Carmen and Roddy had only arrived this morning with the children.

“There you are,” Foch called from a camp stool. He and his men sat around a dormant fire pit with Roddy. Everyone had bottles of beer. He offered one to Mercer. “Care for one?”

“Damned right.” Mercer collapsed into a canvas chair, winded from the long climb. “Where’s Harry?”

“Taking a nap. The heat’s killing him.”

“Me too.” Mercer rolled the cool bottle across his forehead. He checked the time. “Lauren should be here any minute and we can get the show on the road. Henri”—in a sign of respect, Foch had told Mercer his first name—“did you check the rope securing the boats?”

“Plenty long enough.”

“And you’ve double-checked the charges?”

“I did it myself,” Munz answered.

“In that case, we’re set to go.”

Ten minutes later, a low buzzing sound built into the deep thrum of an approaching helicopter. The SH-60 thundered over the lip of the volcano and settled a short way down the sandy beach, throwing up a fog of grit that swirled until the blades began to slow. Mercer was on his feet and running over when four men in khaki field clothes stepped from the chopper’s open door followed by the slender figure of Lauren wearing cut-off jeans and a cropped T-shirt.

The men were from Panama’s anthropology museum and were here to preserve any artifacts. With Lauren’s help they unloaded several suitcases and a couple of heavy-looking crates. It appeared everything Lauren required for her weekend stay fit in the rumpled knapsack she threw over her shoulder.

Unconsciously Mercer ducked as he stepped under the turning blades well above his head. “How was your flight?” he asked, accepting Lauren’s bag.

“Screw the small talk,” she said brazenly, “and kiss me.”

She put her arms around his neck and drew his mouth to hers, pressing her body full length against his. The scientists looked away in embarrassment only to glance back. Mercer’s hand had gone up the back of her shirt, hiking her tee enough to reveal one cup of the bikini top she wore underneath. None turned away a second time.

“Oh, hey,” Lauren exclaimed, a little breathless. “I want you to meet the pilot. She was the one flying cover for us. Jean Farrow, this is Philip Mercer.”

The pilot reached out her open window to shake Mercer’s hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s mine,” he replied. “Without you we’d all be a Chinese torturer’s personal pincushions.”

Farrow turned to Lauren. “I’ve got to get back to the McCampbell . I’ll be back for you on Monday at 0800.”

“Roger. See you then.”

The rotors began to beat again as the party trudged to camp dragging their gear. When the chopper vanished over the volcano’s rim, the jungle exploded in its normal chorus of animal screeches, screams, and calls.

A short time later, everyone was settled around the fire pit and beers had been distributed. Harry was there, surly from his nap, but slowly warming as he worked on his first Jack and ginger ale. No one knew where he’d gotten the ice for his drink since the beers came from a gas-powered fridge that barely chilled the brew. The assembly looked more like a picnic than a scientific expedition, which is exactly what Mercer had wanted. He considered this outing as his payment for stopping the Chinese.

Sitting so her chair touched Mercer’s, her hand in his, Lauren introduced the scientists, the leader of whom was named Hernan Parada.

“I knew your friend, Gary Barber,” Parada said in fluent English. “He’d come to me when he first arrived in Panama to discuss the legend of the Twice-Stolen Treasure. After five minutes I knew I couldn’t persuade him not to waste his time on a search.”

“When Gary wanted something, he was like a pit bull.”

“Yes, exactly. We spoke many times after that and I was convinced he wasn’t just another adventurer hoping to strike it rich. He knew the legends better than I and much more of the actual history of El Camino Royal, the King’s Highway.” The middle-aged scientist sucked life into an ornate pipe and combed stray bits of tobacco from his beard. “However I never thought he would actually find it.”

“He didn’t really. He came close but he never saw the last piece of the puzzle.” Mercer paused. “Nor did he understand the geology of this mountain to see the anomaly.”

The word sent a ripple through the circle of people. “Anomaly?”

“The waterfall. It’s artificial.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean that it isn’t a natural geologic feature. It was built, I assume by the Inca warriors, to dam up this lake and completely flood the caldera.”

“Please, you must start from the beginning.” Parada had let his pipe go out.

“Okay, where the River of Ruin meets the Rio Tuira was a shallow falls that prevented idle boatmen from paddling up the tributary to this mountain. Gary discovered that the falls weren’t natural. It was actually a dam constructed of dressed stone that flooded part of the valley and raised the level of the River of Ruin by about ten feet. During the time of the Spanish rule, the only way to move around the jungle was to stay on the navigable rivers. By building a dam like they did, the Incas made sure the conquistadors wouldn’t pay much attention to the little river.

“Gary was sure this trick meant the treasure was buried somewhere below us on the river. He never considered that the Incas, master builders that they were, took their plan one step further. When they discovered this area, they were confronted by a ringlike mountaintop partially filled with water. But a cleft in one side prevented it from filling completely. By my calculations, that fissure was about forty feet wide at the top and nearly fifty feet tall.”

Despite his desire to hear the rest of the story, Professor Parada interrupted. “How did you calculate this?”

“The angle of repose,” Mercer answered. “The downward slope all around this mountain is a constant thirty-four degrees. Same with the valley flanking the River of Ruin. That is the natural angle that these soils settled into after a few million years of erosion. But the waterfall, at least the top fifty feet, is at a much steeper angle, nearly seventy-three degrees if taken in its entirety.”

“How’d you figure that?” Lauren asked.

“Basic trigonometry. It seemed unlikely that when this volcano grew over the course of countless eruptions that a plug of harder, and thus not easily eroded rock, could be perched like that on top of the gentler lower slopes. It had to be man-made.”

“A dam like the one down below,” Roddy exclaimed.

“Only much bigger.”

“So the Incas who raided the gold caravans built these dams to hide their treasure someplace inside this caldera.”

Mercer gave Lauren’s hand a squeeze. “Exactly. Once they’d stored away the gold, they sealed the fissure with their dam and let the lake fill up. No way anyone without modern diving equipment could find it.”

“Once the lake was filled, how would they hide the additional loads of treasure they stole?”

“I’m guessing that at the end of the dry season, when the lake level was already low, they would risk pulling a keystone from the dam to discharge enough water for them to cache it.”

Parada seemed satisfied with the answer to his question. “Once the keystone was replaced and the rains started, their hiding place would be hidden again.”

“And since rain in this country pisses down more regularly than I do,” Harry quipped, “I’d guess the lake filled quickly.”

“So where is it?” Roddy sounded like he’d already caught gold fever.

“The clue came from the journal I bought in Paris.” Mercer retrieved it from the waterproof bag under his chair. “Godin de Lepinay spent several months in Panama as a scout for the French canal effort. One of the things he wrote about was a volcanic lake in the north. It was the dry season and he was fascinated by the warren of caves in the island located in the lake’s center. He’d never seen anything like it. I think our island is also riddled with caves and that’s where the Incas hid their treasure.”

As one, all heads turned to the small island a quarter mile from shore, the spot where Mercer, Lauren and Miguel had spent the night surrounded by suffocating carbon dioxide. “We were camped on top of it,” she breathed.

“What do we do now?” Parada asked through a cloud of aromatic smoke.

“We blow up the dam, let the lake drain down to its natural level, and see if I’m right.” Mercer looked at the faces around him and had never seen such eagerness. “Lieutenant Foch’s men have already planted the explosives and we’ve got authorization from the government to drain the lake. They’ve alerted everyone living downstream on the Rio Tuira to expect a bit of a flood this afternoon.”

“By God, sir,” Parade said, slapping his leg as he too caught the fever, “what are we waiting for?”

“Well, permission from you to blow up a dam built by the Incas. I was afraid you might consider it an important artifact.”

Parada thought about it for a moment and conferred in Spanish with his companions. “Had you come to us a week ago I would have said no. But with the canal out of commission and little money to repair it other than what we can borrow from your country, Panama is going to starve. I think the loss of scientific knowledge is worth the benefits.”

“I know that wasn’t easy.” Mercer tossed him a sealed plastic sandwich bag loaded with 35mm film canisters. “Those are all shots of the dam. I also took about an hour of digital video when we planted the charges. That might ease your conscience a bit.”

Parada nodded. “Sí, gracias.”

They found a vantage spot several hundred yards from the waterfall that allowed them to see the bottom of the dam as well as part of the river valley. No one argued when Mercer handed the radio detonator to Miguel. The boy was solemn when he took it, sensing that it would forever wipe away the spot where his parents were killed. Miguel looked to Roddy for guidance. The Panamanian dropped to a knee and held Miguel’s trembling hands in his and together they pressed the button.

The explosion was muffled by distance and the way the charges had been pressed into fissures in the rock. A gout of dust and rock shards blew from the face of the dam and water glinted like diamond chips as it flew away from the detonation. The blast wave shocked hundreds of birds into flight and caused a riot of shrieking animals as it boomed down the valley. With the rolling thunder dying away, the party could hear the earth groaning as tremendous weights shifted inside the stone façade.

And then they noticed that there was more water flowing at the base of the falls than was going over its top. It was negligible at first but grew steadily until water gushed from the hole cleared by the explosives. As they watched, the force of water expanded the gap by clawing away more loose boulders. And by increasing the hole, more water was allowed through, which eroded more of the stonework. A large section of the dam cracked, geysers of water spouting from around its edges, and then it collapsed completely, sweeping away tons more material.

The carefully placed stones next to the rushing torrent were sucked into the maelstrom and swept down the valley. The banks of the River of Ruin were overwhelmed. Everything that once lined it was caught in the flood and uprooted. Trees were smashed down and stands of jungle were ripped away by the unrelenting flood. More of the dam broke away, huge crashes of stone and water that shook the earth.

Like stormwater flowing through a drain, the water gushed through the opening, allowed to follow its natural course for the first time in hundreds of years. It was mesmerizing to watch, the force of that much water released all at once, and the party stood rooted for nearly an hour just to absorb it.

The deluge drew down the level of the lake much faster than Mercer had predicted. He’d used the Manning hydrology formula to determine that the billion-plus cubic feet of water in the lake would need about eight hours to drain away, but it appeared his resistance figures were off. Water flow was greater than the fifty thousand cubic feet per second he’d estimated.

He shot a furtive glance back at the little island in the center of the vanishing lake. As the level dropped and the shore of the lake seemed to retreat, more of the island was exposed. Already the spot where he had hidden Gary’s boat that fateful night was ten feet from the water’s edge.

“There’s no sense standing here,” he said at last. “Why don’t we take the boats out to the island to wait.”

They headed back. Where once the lake lapped just feet from the camp, they were confronted by an expanse of mud flats that dropped sharply to the retreating water. Much of it was so unstable that sheets of it oozed downward. The pier looked oddly out of place sitting alone on its pontoon barrels high above the shoreline. The three boats had drifted at the end of their tethers as the current tried to suck them down the ruined dam. Had Foch not lengthened the painters, the little craft would have been high and dry by now.

He and Rabidoux drew the boats back toward the shore and helped the party into them. Carmen had no interest in joining them so she remained behind with her children, although nothing could keep Miguel from the adventure. They motored out and circled the island once looking for evidence of a cave. That they didn’t see anything didn’t dampen their expectant mood.

The boats were beached and everyone was forced to wade through the clinging mud to reach high ground. Harry had the worst of it because of his fake leg and needed Foch and Mercer to help him. More beers and a Coke for Miguel were dispensed from the cooler they’d brought. Roddy also passed out sandwiches that Carmen had made for the occasion.

The conversation drifted from a recount of what had happened to the canal for the benefit of Parada and his companions to the possibility of finding the legendary treasure. Every half hour or so one of the group would excuse themselves and walk around the island, keeping clear of the mud by stepping along its old shoreline. As the sun sank toward the horizon, Mercer announced he would make one last circuit and that afterward they should head back to the camp to wait out the night and return in the morning. Lauren got to her feet as Mercer set off.

“Mind some company?” She grinned, taking his hand.

“Not one bit.”

They got no more than a minute from camp when Mercer stopped suddenly. Lauren turned to him, tilting her head, expecting to be kissed. She opened her eyes after a second, piqued that Mercer hadn’t gone through with it. He wasn’t even looking at her. His attention was riveted to a strange rock formation slowly emerging as the water receded. “What is it?”

“Pay dirt.”

“A cave?”

“I think so. It might take another hour to be sure. The water’s still hiding a lot of it.”

Even before they could return to tell the others, Professor Parada and Roddy had come out to see what was taking so long. A minute later they all made their way down the muddy shore. The morass was thick and stunk of rot.

They had to circle around the projection of rock that hid the cave and wade through water up to their knees to reach the entrance. The cavern was roughly thirty feet wide and about six tall, a black mouth that led into the earth. The rocks were cool and slick. Mercer was the only one to remember a flashlight.

Holding it in front of him, he stepped into the entrance, feeling along the stone floor with his feet to make sure it didn’t drop away suddenly. Water dripped from the ceiling like rain. Lauren joined him, keeping behind him to step where he stepped.

The floor vanished. Mercer probed out with his foot, feeling underwater, and found a step six inches down. He found another and another. He was on a staircase that disappeared into the murky water. He stopped when he was chest-deep.

“We might need diving gear after all,” Lauren remarked.

“No, the water’s dropping. I think there’s a subterranean outlet below us that will drain the cave. We just need to give it a little more time.”

In just a minute the water was down to his waist again and Mercer took another couple of steps. Lauren stayed a few stairs above him, shivering in the cold water. When he could, Mercer took another step.

“I think I reached the floor.” He turned to look back. The cave’s entrance, forty feet behind them, was ten feet over their heads. The others were silhouetted against the dim light filtering down the passage.

Somewhere in the darkness he heard water rushing through a small side passage, draining away as he’d predicted. The cavern was larger than the beam of his small light could reach. Mercer and Lauren moved to the right, trying to find a side wall. The water was still above their knees so neither saw the obstruction. Mercer hit it awkwardly, groped for balance and ended up knocking Lauren off her feet too.

He hit on his shoulder but the ground didn’t seem solid. More like landing on a patch of loose gravel than volcanic rock. He felt around under the water and picked up a handful of the pebbles.

“What is it?” Lauren asked.

Mercer shook water from the flashlight, cursing as it dimmed because it wasn’t waterproofed. He flashed the dying beam onto whatever he’d recovered from under the surface. Even in their rough form and shown in the poorest light there was no denying the green fire of the palmful of emeralds, the smallest of which was the size of an acorn.

“Oh my God!” Lauren felt around and came up with a double handful, letting them trickle from her fingers like marbles.

She scooped up more and let them fall across Mercer’s head. He did the same to her, twining mud and the precious stones into her wet hair, laughing.

He swiveled the beam and it just caressed a stack of small wooden casks. He half swam, half crawled over. The wood dissolved when he touched one of the crate’s lids. He worked it a second, opening a hole large enough to fit his hand. Inside, he recognized the soapy feel of the metal disks. He grabbed a bunch and tossed them to where Lauren was scooping mounds of emeralds over her legs. One of the coins landed on her lap. Like it was angered at being kept in the dark for so many centuries, the gold coin flashed harshly, a gilded spark like a mirror.

Lauren cried in delight. “It’s all here, isn’t it?”

The flashlight finally died, though neither cared as they hugged each other in the chilly treasure store. They finally made their way back to the surface, crawling up the stairs until they could see by the surface light spilling down from the entrance. They were soaked, covered from head to toe in mud that glittered where emeralds and other gems stuck to them.

Parada met them at the top of the stairs. “What have you found?”

Like a dog, Mercer shook himself. Mud flew from him and splattered the group. Miguel laughed, Parada gasped, and Roddy whooped when he caught an emerald. “What we have found,” Mercer proclaimed, “is success.”

With the rest of their flashlights on shore, the group had no option but to return to the camp in the waning light. Carmen had started a fire to guide them, although they had to hike several hundred yards through the mud to reach the camp. The lake continued to drain through the shattered falls. By morning, it might be possible to walk to the cave, though they wouldn’t know until dawn.

Carmen had also had the foresight to recruit the two Panamanian guards to gather water in drums, one of which she’d placed near the fire to warm. Taking a five-gallon pail with them, the expedition members retreated to private tents for a quick sponge bath before returning to the fire for dinner and a great many celebratory drinks. The party went on long after midnight, with sleeping children curled on various laps.

Mercer helped Roddy gather his brood to take them to the tent he had commandeered for his family. Standing at the flap, Mercer took Roddy’s hand and held it palm up. Into it he dropped seven of the best emeralds he’d found in the cave. He’d hidden them in his pocket when he and Lauren were crawling for the surface.

“What’s this?” Roddy asked, a little drunk.

“For you.”

“No. I can’t. I have my job back now. I can provide for my family.”

“Then take them for Miguel. Use them to give him the kind of life he deserves.”

Roddy was subdued by alcohol and emotion. “I will take them for when he and my children go to college.” He put his arms around Mercer, hugging him tight. “You will always be like a father to him too, you know?”

“I know, but I can’t give him the stable home life you can, the love, the sense of family. This is the least I could do.”

Walking back to his tent, Mercer felt pride tinged with regret. He doubted he’d ever have children, but if he did he hoped to be as good a father, as good a man, as Roddy Herrara.

Lauren was waiting for him in his tent. She sat cross-legged on the bed, her back to him. With her T-shirt bunched at her hips, he was afforded a view of her bare backside where the beginning of the cleft divided the two hemispheres.

“If you’re here to turn down the bed,” Mercer said, startling her, “could you leave a few extra mints?”

She turned, peeking over her shoulder, her magical eyes glowing in the gauzy light thrown from a hurricane lamp. “I’m sorry, sir, only one per customer. I can get you extra pillows.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I’m a deep sleeper. I never notice my pillows.”

“You really think you’re sleeping tonight?”

Mercer kicked off his shoes and pulled his shirt over his head. He went to her, leaned close and kissed her mouth, pressing something he’d palmed against her lips with his tongue. Lauren recoiled and reached for the object. The stone was wet from their saliva, glinting and glittering. She sucked a quick breath and held it up to the light.

“I can’t keep this,” she asked in a little-girl voice, “can I?”

“I just gave a bunch to Roddy. I think you taking the best one we found is only fitting. You can make it into a ring.”

“Ring? You might know how to mine gems but you don’t know the first thing about setting them.” She continued to examine the fifty carat stone, delighting in the flashes of light that sparked through it. “For God’s sake, I could use it as a paperweight.”

Mercer kissed her again. “You can use it for anything you want.”

She drew him down to the bed so that he was next to her where she sat. Even without support, her breasts were perfectly formed and strained her shirt. “By the way,” Mercer said, “I’m inviting Roddy and his family to Washington for Christmas. Miguel wanted to know if you’d be there.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Just Miguel, or do you want me there too?”

“Well.” He drew out the word. “I was also thinking of inviting Foch and his boys. If you didn’t come the reunion wouldn’t be complete.”

She gave his shoulder a playful slap. “Is that the only reason you’d want me there?”

“I can’t imagine another,” Mercer deadpanned, and she struck him again. “Seriously, would you like to come?”

Lauren’s eyes clouded. “As much as I’d love to say yes, I can’t.”

Mercer blinked, stunned that she’d say no. “I thought you’d . . .”

“You forget I’m not like you,” she said softly, knowing she’d hurt him and wishing she hadn’t. “The army takes a dim view of soldiers who take off whenever they like. They even have a word for it: AWOL.”

“Yeah, but you do get vacations, and besides I think they’ll cut you some slack after what we’ve been through.”

She looked away. “Just the opposite is true. Army intelligence is already swarming this country helping the locals look for others involved in Liu’s operation. Felix Silvera-Arias is cooperating but it’s going to take a lot more than just him to take down President Quintero. I doubt I’ll be getting away for a long time.”

“Come on, Lauren, Christmas is months away.” Mercer couldn’t understand why she was being so obstinate.

“I managed to get away this weekend so we could spend some time together. We’ve both earned it, but after this I can’t make any promises.”

Mercer thought he understood. As strange as it was, and as much as it hurt, he was grateful for her honesty. This wasn’t about her job. It was about them needing time to put the past weeks into perspective. The roller-coaster ride was coming to an end, and both were too shaky to commit to ride another one together. He’d been in this situation before. However, he was usually the one making the excuses to get away. He understood a little better the pain he’d caused other women, but that didn’t make him think he’d made the wrong call then or that Lauren was wrong now.

“Then if a weekend is the best I can get from you,” he said more brightly than he felt, “I have no choice but to take it.”

She touched his cheek. “Are you hurt?”

“A little,” he admitted. “But I’ll get over it.”

Her hand drifted down to his bare chest, and lower still. “I know just what to do to speed your recovery.”

“Why, Miss Lauren,” he said in an atrocious parody of her Georgia accent. “I thought fine antebellum women such as yourself don’t do such things.”

Throwing one leg over his waist, Lauren stripped off her shirt and purred, “Now, Mr. Philip, hasn’t anyone ever shown you what they really mean by Southern hospitality?”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

River of Ruin wouldn’t have been possible without a lot of assistance. Most important is my wife, Debbie, who let me go on a two-week cruise without her only a month after our wedding. How I pulled that off will remain a professional secret. I need to thank Captain Attilio Guerrini and his crew aboard the Dawn Princess. And in Panama, Jose Luis Fernandez and canal pilot George Allen for answering innumerable questions. What licenses I took in this novel are the result of my imagination, not their information.

I want to thank my nephew, Miguel Saunders, for letting me use his name, and my uncle Peter for teaching me how to turn a napkin into a rabbit, a trick he showed me when I was seven years old and have never forgotten. I also need to thank Doug Grad, my editor at New American Library. Not only did he know about the sewers of Paris, he’d taken his wife there. Talk about your true romantic.

The reader might be interested to know that the VGAS cannon is currently under development. If anything, I’ve toned down its capabilities because what it can really do is almost too much to believe.