The Mangrove Coast (33 page)

Right … and I had certainly passed Gamboa while transiting
the canal by ship or boat. I had a vague recollection of white houses on a hillside, a little working tugboat and dredge marina. But I had not realized what a truly lovely place it was.

The Turk was clicking through a scrapbook of photos: houses, interiors and exteriors, swimming pool, tennis courts, a refurbished bar and restaurant on a high hill. “The Gamboa Country Club,” it was labeled.

“Is it not beautifully done?” The Turk asked.

“The Web page? First-class. Really nice.”

Looking at the computer screen, reading the words, I felt a chill … the kind of chill that precedes nausea. It is always troubling when innocent words are used to mask a broader meaning: If the buyers Merlot wanted to attract were nothing more than fun-loving people, why did they need to be protected? If they had legitimate dreams, why was it so difficult to find a place where those dreams could be realized?

The Turk wanted to ask us something, I could tell. But he was having difficulty finding the right approach. Finally:

“You are men of the world, I take it.”

“I’ve been around.”

“Gawldamn right we have! I’d barely scratched the surface when I told you about that bawdy house in Tampico. Tampico, the best place in the world to buy hand-tooled boots. Also, maybe the toughest city in Mexico to leave without takin’ a case of the clap home as a souvenir. Lotta people don’t know that, either.”

The Turk smiled indulgently. “So you appreciate the more pleasurable … the more sensual needs that all men of health and vitality share. Of course! Why else would two successful American men come to a place such as Cartagena.”

Yeah, the sex trade. Why else would a Yankee come to Colombia?

I nodded, hoping Tucker would keep his mouth shut for once, just let it happen.

The Turk said, “Gentlemen, what we are offering for sale here are not simply beautiful time-share duplexes and homes in one of the most beautiful rain forests in the world. What we are offering is a private, a very private, members-only club where a man—or, yes, a woman—may come and indulge any … any appetite or fantasy they wish. Indeed, the management of Club Gamboa will … strive to provide whatever … whatever is required to make your fantasies a reality.”

I wanted him to come out and say what he meant. “What you’re telling us is there’ll always be women available. So it’s like a whorehouse village. Or are there options?”

The laugh, that
sniff!
“Gentlemen, why am I talking when our Web page is designed to show you? Here … please consider what we have to offer. This feature” —he was moving the cursor, closing windows, opening others—“it is called … it is a video, a QuickTime video. Watch and you’ll learn much of what I’m sure you want to know.”

F
irst I had to sit through a little bit of history on the Panama Canal. I watched the video patiently, already convinced that Merlot and Gail were at Gamboa, but also knowing that my best approach to Merlot was probably as a potential buyer. I wouldn’t receive a very warm welcome if I just walked up and said, “Hey, that lady you’ve been blackmailing? I’ve come to take her home.”

To convince Merlot that I was a legitimate buyer, I had to first convince the Turk.

Tucker was still smoking … Christ, wobbling now and humming country-western songs to himself … moving back and forth between the hookah and the computer as I watched helicopter footage fly me over locks and down a straight brown conduit of water, jungle on both sides, as the Powerbook spoke to me as if it were guiding a tour of Disney World:

The Turk interrupted, saying, “What it says next is important.
Very
important. As how you would say … background information that will make you feel secure about your investment.”

That seemed to be the sole objective of the video: convincing potential members that Panama was a safe investment.

Meaning Merlot. But why had the AIR chosen someone like him?

As I started to ask, the Turk pressed an index finger to his lips … then went ahead and spoke anyway. “What comes next, it will explain more. Why you will have wonderful security and support in Gamboa.”

The person doing the explaining was Club Gamboa’s founder and CEO, Jackie Merlot. Big smiling close-up of that hairless face and those BB-sized black eyes. How Merlot happened to be entrusted with control of a defunct golf club in a beautiful Panamanian village was not immediately spelled out. He was just there, a smiling giant, blond hair as if it were glued in place. The little video zapped through a montage of shots to keep it interesting— wildlife, hot springs, jungle rivers—while we were told that, in Panama, Mr. Merlot was a man who got things done….

And then Merlot was on camera. He looked massive in a tent-sized beige guayabera, a style of four-pocket linen shirt that all fat men wear in Latin America. He was walking through the flowered streets of what I assumed was Gamboa, talking to the camera. He had a smoky, curiously high-pitched voice, in which he began by speaking about his connections with “many important” Asian businessmen.

Strange. It seemed an odd choice of topics, but there it was. He had to be working some kind of angle.

I stood and listened to him explain that his “connections” were instrumental in approving an ingenious plan: The virgin rain forest on the Gamboa property would be harvested and a portion of the income would become a financial asset to all members. The timber revenue would finance remodeling and maintenance for the whole project, plus create more room for construction.

That, at least, made sense. Despoil a mountainside, despoil a human being. What was the difference?

Then he said, “Our project will be of particular interest to my many good friends from Chinese Hong Kong and Taiwan. I have personal knowledge of the modem Far East’s high standards of service, whether it’s business or pleasure. We know quality. That much you can be sure of.”

He didn’t seem nervous; was perfectly at ease, a man used to being in charge. No doubt about it, he was tailoring his sales pitch for Asians.

Why? And what kind of connections could he have in Asia?

I waited to find out as he told the camera that “Panama’s friendship with Asia has always been important. But now it’s more important than ever.” The reason? Huge smile. “Because there would be no Club Gamboa,-that’s why. Not if some of the most successful corporations in Hong Kong and Taiwan weren’t committed to playing major financial and organizational roles in the future of the New Panama Canal.”

One of the Chinese companies involved, he said, was Panama Ports, a subsidiary of a major Hong Kong conglomerate. Panama Ports had been awarded control of Panama’s two most valuable properties—the ports on either end of the canal, Colón and Balboa—with a twenty-five-year contract. The company would pay $22.2 million a year, plus would invest many times that in improvements!

Which was a big surprise to me—the Chinese were now in control of both ends of the Panama Canal?

And maybe that’s why Merlot was targeting Asian clients … but, in a strange way, he also seemed to be using Asia’s participation as a bona fide for his own small project.

Another very important addition to Panama, he said, was Evergreen, a Taiwanese shipping company that was beginning construction of a fifty-nine-acre terminal near the Colón Free Trade Zone. The project would cost about $100 million.

A third Chinese company, Tainan Ltd., solely owned and controlled by one of Taiwan’s wealthiest families, had also received major concession contracts from the Panamanian government. Among them were several tracts of housing, including Gamboa.

Merlot was grinning into the camera, as he said, “I spent my early years living with my mother in Taiwan, and I have known the fine people at Tainan all my life. They have my eternal respect … as do all the companies that are working hard to make the Panama Canal bigger and better than ever. In their free time?” His smile broadened. “I hope the honored workers of these fine companies will join us at Club Gamboa and let their fondest dreams come true. Just as I hope you will do the same. Our club motto is simple: Anything you want … because you’ve earned it.”

There it was: Merlot was telling potential buyers that he had the political blessing of a major Taiwanese company. That was all the guarantee anyone needed. He had connections with Tainan, a corporation that was investing millions in Panama. Which was probably why he’d been awarded the Gamboa concession. Choose a reason: maybe he was old school buddies with a member of that powerful family … or maybe he had some kind of blackmail leverage … or maybe, just maybe, Amanda had been right when she guessed Merlot had a touch of Asiatic blood.

It didn’t matter. He had this village and he apparently had the political juice to make it work.

I placed my hand in front of the screen. “Look, you’re kind of wasting my time, Turk. I’m not here to listen to history and crap about the Chinese. All I want to know is exactly what Gamboa’s offering me and how much is it going to cost? You got something interesting to show me, show me now or I’m going back to the bar.”

The Turk looked up at me and shrugged—Okay, tired of this screen? Let’s try something else. He was closing windows again, moving the show along as he said to me, “Some Yankees … forgive me, Americans, are easily offended. They have a very narrow view of what is improper or immoral when it comes to a man’s pleasure. Our chairman, Mr. Merlot, put it very well when he said that Americans are … what’s the word … ?” The Turk was thinking hard, eyes wrinkled shut.

“Prudes?”

“Exactly! Prudes. That’s precisely the word. Are you and your old friend like most Americans? Or do you agree that we all have different … needs?”

Tucker was now sitting on the couch, staring into the hookah’s smoky glass globe. He was still wearing his gray rodeo hat, white sports coat, ankles crossed showing his fancy boots. He stirred, looked around, finally found the Turk with his eyes. Said, “Old? Fuck you.”

“A generous offer, but no thanks,” smiled the Turk. “Well … who the hell you callin’ old, boy? How’d you like to go home and tell your mama that some boy just spanked your … your … spanked your …” Tuck’s voice flattened and disappeared. He’d lost the thread … but he’d found the hookah again, something easy to look at, not loud, not penetrating.

He sighed; folded his hands in his lap.

I watched his head fall before I said, “I’ll look at anything you’ve got to show me. I’m wide open.”

“Open to anything?”

“You think I came to Colombia for the fishing?”

The Turk’s laughter said okay, he was convinced. Sounded very enthusiastic as he said, “Then you will love
Gamboa. Because in Gamboa, you can have anything you want.”

“I know, the motto. Because I deserve it.” Like it was bullshit.

“No, when I say anything, that’s exactly what I mean. The Chinese, the Japanese, they know how to relax. Gamboa is being created for them … and for Mr. Merlot’s own personal interests.”

On the screen now, new images were appearing. I stepped back a little, watched.

Felt that chill again. A swelling nausea…

The Web page had a very complete catalogue of pornography, most of it shot at Gamboa, I was told, but a few things from Mr. Merlot’s own personal collection.

The stuff from Merlot’s collection, I didn’t see till the very end….

The way it worked, the Turk told me, was that he recruited “help” to work in Gamboa. In return, Mr. Merlot paid him a small finder’s fee, promised him a prime vacation time-share on the canal, plus allowed him to be Gamboa’s sole agent in Colombia. He got 10 percent of anything he could prove that he moved.

“If I can sell a few of these time-shares,” he said, “I can pay Mr. Garret enough to get the case out of the courts. I can save my yacht in this way.”