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.”