River of Ruin

by Jack Du Brul

  “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 f
elt 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.