Charon's landing

Kerikov had spent thirty years in the KGB, ruthlessly working his way through the hierarchy. When the Soviet Union disintegrated around him, as he had known all along it would, he headed one of its most shadowy organizations and was in possession of a great deal of information that would make him wealthy in the New World Order to follow. Unlike many others in the higher echelons of the KGB, Kerikov wasn’t going to allow himself to be caught in the rubble of the collapsing Russian empire.

When the Soviet Union inevitably fractured, Kerikov was the head of Department 7, Scientific Operations, the arm of State Security involved in planning and executing Russia’s most audacious operations. At the height of the Cold War, Dept.

7 had a budget that rivaled the space program’s and boasted a much higher caliber of scientists. Its operations, launched during the 1960s and 70s, were not designed to come to fruition until decades later. Yet when Kerikov took it over in the late 1980s, much of Dept. 7 had been dismantled due to financial constraints. Russia could no longer plan operations decades in advance when the government didn’t know if it would exist the following month.

Knowing that the end was coming, Kerikov managed to keep active a few operations that had a certain portability. When it came time for him to escape Russia and start a new life, he smuggled out some of these plans and prepared to turn them over to an outside power. For a price.

Just after his departure from Russia, he almost succeeded in selling a Dept. 7 operation code named Vulcan’s Forge to a group of Koreans for $100 million. Had it not been for the interference of an American mining engineer and a double cross by a trusted agent, Kerikov wouldn’t now be struggling to bring another KGB operation out of the Cold War.

Charon’s Landing. It had been conceived in the mid-1970s, when detente was at its lowest ebb and the Soviet government believed they could win a limited nuclear war with the United States. The operation was meant to be the war’s opening gambit, designed to cripple America’s short-term economic capabilities. Ten years would pass before Dept. 7 was ready to install the hardware necessary for its success. But the world had changed by then, and relations between the two superpowers had warmed. Yet Kerikov had gone ahead anyway and laid the foundation for Charon’s Landing, contrary to Mikhail Gorbachev’s direct orders. No one in the Soviet government knew of the work, so when Kerikov fled, his theft of the project went undetected.

After the failure of Vulcan’s Forge, Kerikov had to wait a year for the right set of circumstances before trying to sell this other operation. The U.S. President’s ill-advised Energy Direction Policy made his search for a buyer so easy that, after its announcement, he could actually choose among the bidders.

Now, hearing Abu Alam gleefully liquefying Howard Small’s cat, Kerikov wondered if he had made the right selection. He had worked with many psychotics during his life. After the war in Afghanistan, most of his squad of KGB interrogators could not function normally in a civilized society and had had to be killed rather than demobilized. Yet none of them compared to Abu Alam. The man truly lived up to his name, and Kerikov had known him only a short time. Alam was the right-hand man to Hasaan bin-Rufti, the Petroleum Minister of Ajman, and the man who had raised the money to implement Charon’s Landing. Rufti was paying Kerikov $50 million for its successful completion. Part of Rufti’s bargain with Kerikov was Alam’s assistance during the final phases of the operation, as a way of guaranteeing the Minister’s tremendous financial investment.

Kerikov had sold Charon’s Landing to Rufti almost a year earlier, though Alam had not joined the Russian until just a month ago. Already the man’s insanity was getting to the Russian. It was often necessary to soften a subject for an interrogation, but it had been Alam’s idea to use the cat. And now, as the disposal finally wound down to silence, Kerikov knew that Alam had truly enjoyed himself. A moment later, a broken Howard Small was led back to the living room and dumped on the floor at Kerikov’s feet. Abu Alam was drying his crimson-stained hands on a dish towel. Dark spots of blood smeared the black leather of his jacket.

“I have only one question for you, Professor Small, one question whose answer will save you a great deal of pain. To tell us what we want to know will cost you nothing but will spare you from unbelievable agony.” Kerikov spoke slowly and clearly, knowing his subject was already in a mild state of shock. “I wish to know who was aboard the Wave Dancer with you and your cousins earlier this week when you discovered the derelict hull of the Jenny IV.”

Since that first shove into the house, Howard had assumed that these men were industrial spies after the secret of the mini-mole. Never would he have imagined they wanted such an innocuous piece of information. In the few seconds it took him to get over his confusion, Abu Alam strode across the room and kicked Howard full strength in the stomach. Howard wailed into his gag as agony rippled through his body, curling him tightly on the floor.

“Answer him.” Alam ripped off the gag, pushing the scientist onto his back with another derisive kick.

“Enough, Alam,” Kerikov snapped. It wasn’t that he felt mercy for Small, but to kick a man who was already defeated served only to prolong the interrogation. Also, Kerikov was still bothered by the botched interrogation of Howard’s two cousins in Alaska.

He’d chanced upon a newspaper article in Anchorage detailing the discovery of the Jenny IV, which had been under his charter. The piece was only two paragraphs long, but it mentioned the name of the boat that discovered the hulk. Kerikov tracked down the owner of the Wave Dancer, and dispatched his two personal bodyguards, former members of East Germany’s secret police. Both Jerry Small and his teenage son had died during their interrogation after revealing Howard’s name but before divulging the name of the fourth member of their fishing excursion. The Germans had made the deaths appear accidental, but their mistakes forced Kerikov to California. He had to ensure that this final lead did not end up as a literal dead end as well. Too much was at stake. Knowing that someone had boarded the Jenny IV and possibly saw its last cargo was too great a risk to leave unaddressed. The discovery of the commercial boat could spell the end of the entire operation.

Damage control had always been one of Kerikov’s best abilities because it necessitated a decisive ruthlessness and an expertise in projecting consequences far into the future. He was here now, personally tying up a loose end and making certain that there would be no further repercussions from the loss of the Jenny IV. Kerikov slid a silenced pistol from under his suit coat and aimed the barrel to Howard’s right knee.

“The first shot will sever your leg at the knee, Professor. If you do not tell me then, I will turn you over to my more creative associates.”

“Philip Mercer,” Howard sobbed. “He was on the boat with us. He’s a mining engineer.”

The name staggered Kerikov. He thought back to Greece where he’d been hiding since the failure of Vulcan’s Forge. He saw himself sitting in a favorite cafe reading the morning paper over a cup of strong coffee, wiping flakes of a croissant from the pages. AMERICANS FIND NEW VOLCANIC ISLAND IN PACIFIC. The words had nearly pulled him from his seat. The volcano that they had discovered was the one Dept. 7 had created with a nuclear detonation in 1954. It was his volcano, the one that was going to make him rich.

He read the article quickly, looking for the names he knew would be there. Valery Borodin, the son of the man who had initiated the project. Borodin was one of many who sold out Kerikov in those final weeks before everything fell apart. Tish Talbot, Borodin’s American lover, was the sole survivor of a ship that strayed too close to the volcano before it was ready to be discovered by Kerikov’s partners. The article stated that she was to work with her husband-to-be developing the mineral bikinium that the volcano brought from deep within the earth.

And then there was a name mentioned so casually that Kerikov almost missed it. The wire-service article said that the volcano had actually been discovered by an American mining engineer named Philip Mercer. Kerikov had never heard of Mercer, but he knew with certainty that this was the man who had foiled his plans. It was Mercer who had destroyed Kerikov’s chances of selling the volcano and its unimaginable wealth and retiring to anonymity.

Kerikov had considered having Philip Mercer killed. He still had enough contacts to get such a simple assassination done without any difficulty. However, prudence made him stay Mercer’s execution. The death of the American would certainly reopen international interest in the artificial nature of the volcano’s origin and put Kerikov at risk.

Without consciously being aware of it, Kerikov fired his pistol. The bullet punched a neat hole between Howard’s frightened eyes, expanded in the pan of his skull, but left no exit wound.

“Sanitize the house,” he ordered. “Dispose of the body so that it’s never found.”

“Do you know this man he spoke of?” Alam asked as his men bundled Howard’s corpse into a body bag they had brought with them.