“Bolcke may have an operation in Madagascar as well,” Gunn said. “I’ll get the ball rolling with the Pentagon to go after Al and the others. It sounds like a joint military operation with Panama security forces is in order.”
“Listen, Rudi, we’ve got a really narrow window.” Pitt described his encounter with the Chinese agent Zhou and his plan to destroy the facility. Glancing at his Doxa dive watch, he said, “We’ve got less than five hours to get Al and the others out of there before the fireworks go off.”
“That’s a tall order.”
“Call Sandecker and pull out all the stops.”
“I’ll do what I can. Where are you now?”
“A bar called the Black Cat, somewhere near the Pacific rail terminus.”
“Stay put. I’ll have someone you know pick you up within the hour.”
“Thanks, Rudi.”
Pitt felt the fatigue of his escape fade away, replaced with a renewed energy for the task still at hand. Saving Giordino and the others was all that mattered. He walked back to the bar, and the bartender waved him to an empty stool. He slid onto the seat to find, served up in front of him, a full shot glass containing a clear liquor. Beside the glass was a pair of long-handled bolt cutters.
Pitt put his hands to his neck and felt the steel collar. He had forgotten it was still there. He looked at the bartender, who returned his gaze and nodded.
“Muchas gracias, amigo,” Pitt said, reaching for the shot glass and firing back the contents. A popular local spirit called Seco Herrerano, it burned with the sweet taste of rum. He set the glass down, reached for the bolt cutters, and smiled at the bartender.
“Who says a black cat brings bad luck?”
64
ARE YOU SURE WE’RE IN THE RIGHT PLACE?”
Dirk shot his sister an annoyed look. “Since they aren’t fond of posting street signs around here, the answer would be no.”
He swerved around a stalled truck filled with plantains and accelerated the rental car along the congested road. Since landing at Tocumen International Airport that morning, they had been crisscrossing Panama City, first checking into their hotel, then visiting the mineral brokerage headquarters of Habsburg Industries. It was a tiny, rented storefront office that was closed and appeared little used. The owner of a bakery next door confirmed it was seldom open. Dirk and Summer were beginning to think their trip to Panama was wasted when they received a call from Gunn that their father was alive and waiting at the edge of town.
They passed a sign welcoming them to the district of Balboa, and Dirk knew they were on the right track. He followed a pair of semi-trucks that he assumed were headed to the port facility, then turned down a dirt side road when the port entry gates appeared.
Three blocks down the road, Summer spotted the sign with the black cat.
Dirk barely had the car in park when Summer leaped out and ran inside the bar, ignoring its unsavory appearance. She almost didn’t recognize her father, seated at the bar in ragged clothes eating an empanada. He was equally shocked to see both his children.
“Dad, let’s get you to a hospital,” Summer said.
Pitt shook his head. “No time. We’ll need to coordinate with the Panamanian military to rescue Al and the others.”
Dirk looked at the assorted bar patrons, who all stared at the out-of-place Americans. “Dad, how about we discuss this in the car?”
“Fair enough,” Pitt said. He looked at the empty shot glass and plate of food. “Do you have any local currency?”
Dirk opened his wallet. “I’m told our greenbacks are the preferred currency in Panama.”
Pitt pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his son’s wallet and gave it to the bartender, then shook hands with him.
“That was two days’ worth of per diem,” Dirk said as they walked out of the bar.
Pitt gave him a wink. “Put it on your expense report.”
Dirk studied a road map before they took off down the rut-filled road.
“What has Rudi arranged with the Panamanians to get into Bolcke’s facility?” Pitt asked.
“Rudi’s pulling his hair out,” Summer said. “He called us three times on the way over. As you probably know, Panama has no standing army in the wake of Manuel Noriega’s removal. Paramilitary groups within the Panamanian Public Forces are willing to conduct a joint raid with a U.S. team, but only after they review the evidence and make adequate preparations for a tactical assault. Nobody expects a task force to be assembled within forty-eight hours.”