The town of Gamboa sat where the Chagres River debouched into the canal just to the north of the Culebra Cut. It sat just three miles from the abandoned town of Las Cruces, which had been the starting point for the Spanish Conquistadors’ El Camino Real de Panama, a four-foot-wide cobblestone mule path that remained in use until the construction of the railroad in 1855.
The town was purpose-built on cleared land by the Canal Authority for workers and support staff, mostly Caribbean islanders living in identical bunkhouses. Many of the town’s other buildings were nothing more than old boxcars that were beyond repair for use as rolling stock. At the water’s edge were some storehouses and a dock. A little way off was the temporary earthen dike that prevented the slowly rising waters from flooding into the still-dry Culebra Cut. The lake’s water level was low compared to what its final depth would be, leaving the dock looking awkward on its tall, creosote-coated pilings.
The journey from Panama City was approximately twenty-five miles, but the road was in rough condition because of the heavy rains. The potholes were spine-jarring at any speed, and Bell had to traverse many areas where inches-deep water sluiced across the gravel track. Despite the truck’s weight, several times he felt the Gramm get caught in the wash and slide sideways. He kept it on the road each time, yet there were a few close calls, with the vehicle right up to the edge of the road and teetering. Things got worse when he came upon the tail end of a caravan of trucks all heading in the same direction as he was. They were lumbering cargo haulers, and their progress was plodding at best. With few opportunities to pass, he had no choice but to ride along behind the vehicles, which were like circus elephants marching trunk to tail.
Whenever the snaking road ran parallel to the train tracks, he got a sense of how the railroad was essentially a continuous loop conveyor belt of fully laden ore cars coming out of the cut and empty ones returning. He was also afforded some spectacular views of the cut when the road meandered closer to the rim. Once filled with water, it would lose much of its grandeur, but since it was still dry it reminded Bell of looking out over a massive canyon.
Bell arrived in Gamboa a little past ten and threaded his way through town to the harbor. As this was a work camp, there were few people wandering the streets, but those that did wore wide-brimmed hats of woven grass for the rain and didn’t bother with shoes for the mud. A few men stood under an awning attached to a building housing a commercial kitchen that also was used for dining. The tables were overturned barrels, and they didn’t have chairs. Bell could smell the jerk seasonings as he passed.
He parked in a gravel lot between warehouses just shy of the dock and took a moment to dump the sludge from his windshield washing bucket and leave it out in the rain to refill. On the quay were a group of men handing bags and crates down to others on a boat too low to be seen from the parking lot.
Court Talbot broke off from the men when he saw Bell approaching through the veil of drifting rain. Around his waist he’d strapped a leather belt with a holster for a Webley top-break pistol. The bottom of the holster was secured to his thigh with a leather thong. They shook hands and sought cover in the open entrance of one of the warehouses. Inside, wooden boxes were piled to the ceiling. Workers moved crates on steel-wheeled trollies under the watchful eye of a supervisor. Out through the open doors on the opposite side of the warehouse, Bell could see boxcars being loaded with crates and steam coiling from a waiting locomotive. At least there was a roof over most of the platform to protect the men from the dreary weather.
“This is your secret plan?” Bell asked while Talbot lit a cigar. “A boat?”
“The only powered boat on all of Lake Gatun. I had her laid up here in Gamboa when they started blocking off the Chagres. I had hoped to hire her out to the Authority during construction. During Stevens’s time in charge, there wasn’t enough water in the lake to use her, but now, with plenty of it, Goethals wouldn’t give me permission to move her.”
“Until now?”
“Correct.”
“So how do you propose fulfilling your contract with Goethals?”
“The way I see it, the Viboras can’t operate out of the city. Too many people would see them. That means they have to base their operations in the jungle yet close enough to be effective. Only there’s so much traffic in the zone that the likelihood of them being spotted is the same as if they were in Panama City. That leaves the lake, and that’s where I think they’re hiding. There are so few locals using it now that they can cross it with impunity.”
“But you said Goethals banned traffic on the lake.”
“He stopped me. Locals have been fishing the lake since it was deep enough for their pirogues. I think after the Vipers raid a train or hijack a truck or placed that bomb at Pedro Miguel, they head back to the lake and vanish in one of the countless islands or along its shore. Remember, this is now unexplored territory. A couple years ago it was all impenetrable jungle. With Gatun filling, a whole new world is opening up.”
Bell nodded. Talbot’s logic was sound. “The lake has to be about a hundred and fifty square miles. How do you expect to cover that much territory?”
“They have to stay close enough to this side to be effective. That cuts the search area down significantly. Because there are no other people out here, if we see any smoke from cooking fires, we’ll have them
