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.”