by Jack Du Brul
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 The blade was withdrawn and Harry stepped into the cabin.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 gu
errillas 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.
