“Yes, I am,” Harry replied automatically.
The shorter of the pair stepped closer, pushing Harry back a couple paces. He was a few years older than his partner and appeared to be the leader. He looked Harry in the eye so there could be no misunderstanding when he said, “Omega ninety-nine temple. Counter?”
Harry had been a merchant-marine officer during World War Two and recognized a code when he heard one. He said the first thing that came to mind. “The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain.”
Standing above them, Mercer hadn’t heard the exchange nor did he see the play of confusion turning to anger. He had no idea who the men were or what they wanted. Didn’t particularly care either. He was on vacation. And then Harry called up to him, “Does omega ninety-nine temple mean anything to you?”
The jolt of adrenaline hit like an electric shock. He’d been given the recognition code at a White House briefing three months earlier by the deputy national security advisor, Admiral Ira Lasko, USN (ret.). These men were Secret Service agents, doubtlessly part of the president’s detail. The counter code flashed in his mind. He yelled down, “Caravan eleven solstice.”
The lead agent shot a furious glance up to where Mercer stood above them. “You’re Mercer?”
“Yes.”
Although Mercer didn’t know the specifics, he knew why the agents were here and it was his own fault. It had to do with his past accomplishments.
Long ago Mercer had realized there were two ways to look at the distribution of the earth’s mineral wealth. Either Mother Nature had deliberately hidden her treasures in some of the world’s most turbulent political hot spots, which seemed rather unlikely, or the presence of mineral reserves turned indigenous people on each other in order to control the resources. Mercer knew it was the latter. He’d seen it firsthand too many times not to.
The illicit diamond trade and the need to control the gem-producing regions funded nearly all of Africa’s recent civil wars. Colombia’s rebel groups, FARC and others, had been fighting for thirty years, buying their weapons with illegally mined emeralds. And the Middle East wouldn’t be able to export its particular brand of aggressive fundamentalism without the oil deposits to pay for it. It came as no surprise to him that the increased levels of rebel activity in Indonesia came shortly after the opening of an enormous gold mine on the island of Irian Jaya.
The truth of it all was that wealth generated greed in some and jealousy in others and eventually the two sides would fight for dominance. The banners they rallied behind, the causes they claimed, were contrived disguises to hide the ugly truth of this most basic of human conflicts.
Mercer’s career had embroiled him in all of it: the terror, the massacres, the unbelievable savagery. He’d been in the middle of a half dozen low-grade wars, ethnic conflicts, and revolutionary coups. It wasn’t in his nature to remain passive in situations like that, or to turn tail as many foreign workers tended to do. Often, Mercer stayed behind and through his direct involvement had been instrumental in saving countless lives.
Because of Mercer’s record for success, he had come to the attention of military and intelligence circles as someone with unique professional credentials and terror-related experience. Ira Lasko had approached Mercer last year with an offer to join his staff. He wanted to create a post specifically for him as special science advisor. The job went far beyond the purview of the chief executive’s regular scientific personnel. They focused on forming national policy. Mercer was to be a consultant and sometime field agent for when the worlds of science and terror collided, a fresh perspective on problems that no one else could solve.
Mercer spiraled down the stairs and crossed the foyer. The easy banter from the past hour had evaporated, and his anticipation for his first vacation in a year was gone. Ira wouldn’t send two agents unless he absolutely had to. Something was up. Something big. “Why don’t you gentlemen come in,” he said. “Harry, take your time walking Drag.”
“Right you are.” The octogenarian smiled at the agents. “Sorry about my little joke. No hard feelings.”
The shorter agent flashed his Secret Service credentials to Mercer. He was Special Agent Michael Thayer. “Who was that man?”
“A friend who knows about my position with Ira Lasko. Relax.”
Thayer remained terse. “Admiral Lasko sent us to deliver you to Andrews Air Force Base, where an aircraft is standing by. He said you should pack for a week.”
At least Ira’s expecting me to return, Mercer thought. He asked one of the more practical questions swirling in his head. “Do you know where I’m going? I need to know what to bring.”
“We weren’t told,” the second agent said.
“All right, give me a few minutes.” He went back to the stairs. At the balcony, Mercer saw neither of the agents had moved from near the front door. “The old man and his dog will be back in a few minutes. Tell him I’m in my bedroom packing.”
Mercer hadn’t unpacked from Canada, so he dumped the dirty clothes from his suitcases into the hamper and tossed the empty luggage on his bed. An aircraft waiting at Andrews could mean a thirty-minute helicopter ride or a C-5 Galaxy cargo jet that could take him to the other side of the planet. No sense trying to guess what he’d need. He stuffed a week’s worth of socks and underwear into a bag along with his toiletry kit. A pair of jeans went next, a couple of casual shirts, a pair of slacks and a sports jacket. He added one dress shirt, one tie and a pair of heavy- duty miner’s coveralls with reinforced patches at the knees and elbows.
Before throwing a metal hard hat on top of the pile, he grabbed the Beretta 92 semiautomatic from his nightstand. The weapon was coolly familiar in his hands. There was no need to check if the magazine was full; he could tell by its weight. He slid it into the helmet’s liner and zipped it into the leather bag. Work boots and loafers went into outside pockets.
He checked his watch. Three minutes and forty seconds from the time the bag hit the bed until he was done. Not bad.
He heard Harry’s voice from downstairs and peered over the balcony. “Don’t bother coming up. I’m leaving.”
“You think I care what you do?” Harry retorted. “I left a full drink on the bar.”
They met at the library landing, and Mercer followed Harry into the dark oak-and-brass barroom. He downed the last of his gimlet. “I’ll be gone a week, or so they tell me. Who knows.” Mercer peeled two hundred-dollar bills from his wallet. “For your party.”
“Thanks.” Harry left the money untouched.
“Hire someone to clean up when you’re done. Last time there were enough pizza boxes lying around to corner the world cardboard market.” Mercer smiled. “See you, Harry.”
“Yeah, see you.” Harry shot him a good-natured scowl, trying not to show his disappointment.
Drag rewarded Mercer with a sloppy kiss when he scratched behind the basset’s ears. Then he ambled off to lie at his master’s feet.
Mercer pulled a bomber jacket from the coat closet next to the front door and followed Thayer and his partner to a dark Chevy Suburban parked in front of his town house. Traffic to Andrews was a snarl so it took more than an hour to reach the base. No one in the SUV said a word, which suited Mercer just fine.
These were the first moments to think about what was happening and he found he resented the unnecessary secrecy. Ira could have easily called to tell him why he was needed. Mercer would have gone. Lasko didn’t have to send two goons to virtually kidnap him and rush him off for some clandestine flight. Typical government zealotry, Mercer thought, the kind he detested.
Once past a series of checkpoints, Thayer guided the Suburban through the sprawling air force base and onto an access road behind the flight line. A KC-135 tanker was just taking off. Its engine shriek split the air while the four black smears of exhaust looked like claw marks on the otherwise bright sky. The Suburban pulled in toward an enormous hangar and drove through its side door. Thayer braked next to the only aircraft in the cavernous space, a Gulfstream IV executive jet painted in U.S. Air Force livery. Standing next to the open hatch was a soldier in camouflage fatigues. The dark insignia on his collar showed him to be a captain
Without preamble, the muscular African American asked Thayer, “You got my passenger?”
Mercer unlimbered himself from the SUV holding his bag in one hand.
The soldier eyed him. “Mercer?” Mercer nodded. “I’m Sykes. Omega ninety-nine temple.”
“Caravan eleven solstice.”
“Good enough for me. Get aboard.”
Even before Mercer got to his seat, the jet’s tail-mounted engines spooled to life and the nimble plane was
