Perchenko’s neck. He had to hurry — the ice was melting faster than he’d anticipated. Kerikov heaved the loyal ambassador into the turgid water. The dark river swallowed Perchenko with a minimal splash, the cement blocks dragging him quickly toward the bottom.
Kerikov threw the cooler in also and watched as it was washed away by the river’s subtle current, then started back to his hotel, shoulders hunched against the biting rain. He could imagine the police report when the body was finally discovered. Perchenko had been out celebrating the conclusion of his meetings; the alcohol in his system would show he wasn’t drunk but certainly tipsy. He had slipped in the rain near the river, smashed his head against the stone wall, and fallen in.
There would be no indication of foul play because the padding around the chain would leave no marks around his throat and the chain that anchored him to the muddy bottom while he drowned would have vanished. The ice that held it together would melt in about ten minutes and then Perchenko’s lifeless body would simply float free.
An hour later, Kerikov was seated in the living room of his hotel suite, showered and dressed in a conservative suit with a Scotch in his hand. He could hear the rain pelting the patio just outside the curtained French doors. The lighting in the elegant room was muted except for the lamp over the couch, which shone brightly on the papers spread across the coffee table. Kerikov had gone over them a dozen times in the past few days and felt he could recite them by heart. They were his ticket to a future outside Russia, a future that he had barely dreamed of.
The ice in the glass tinkled delicately as he took a sip. He placed the glass exactly onto its condensation ring on the glass-topped table and picked up a sheet of paper at random. It was the assay values of the mineral compiled by Dr. Borodin in his survey runs over the past few months. The figures were staggering. In one ton of mined volcanic material, eight pounds of usable ore were present. Processed, those eight pounds would produce about one pound of high-grade metal with all its extraordinary properties. By comparison, Borodin had explained that in open-pit diamond mining, 250 tons of overburden had to be removed per carat of diamond recovered, a ratio of one billion to one.
Kerikov selected another sheet of paper. This one was Borodin’s plan for the actual mining of the mineral. A ship fitted with a huge cycloidal pump would be stationed near a less active vent of the volcano. A tungsten steel tube would be lowered into the vent and the pump turned on. Lava would be drawn directly from the volcano into the ship, where it would be cooled and systematically broken up into workable chunks, which would be off-loaded onto waiting ore carriers for refinement at a land-based smelter. The only real cost in the mining operation was the pump ship and since selling the idea to the Koreans, they had already had the ship built in Pusan.
There was a knock at the door. Kerikov stacked the papers neatly, took another sip of Scotch, and went to answer it. Two young Orientals stood there, each holding a bulky suitcase. He let them in without a word.
The Koreans opened the suitcases, revealing a daunting mass of electronics. They hurriedly set up the equipment: camera, monitor, and computerized transceiver. One man placed a small collapsible dish antenna on the teak railing of the patio. From the street seventy feet below, the steel mesh dish was invisible.
Once the equipment was set up, one of the young men began typing commands. The machines beeped and whirred and a test pattern appeared on the color monitor. The other man held a cardboard card in front of the camera. In Pusan, the image of that second test pattern filled the screen of a huge wall-mounted high-definition television. The two technicians nodded to each other and retreated from the room. An instant later the test pattern vanished from the monitor and was replaced by a view of a beautiful room.
Kerikov sat on the couch in front of the cyclops eye of the minicam. On the monitor, nine aged gentlemen were seated around a black lacquer table. None of them was under seventy years of age, yet their dark eyes were all alert and steady. Each man’s face was deeply lined and there was not a single dark hair to be seen. Behind the men hung a red tapestry chronicling Genghis Khan’s conquest of Asia, flanked by two huge terra-cotta vases.
Kerikov nodded slightly to show respect to the nine heads of Hydra Consolidated. In turn, the men merely dipped their eyes for a moment. That piece of Eastern nonsense complete, Kerikov spoke. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
“Good evening to you, Mr. Kerikov.” The satellite feed scrambled their voices and automatically translated from Korean into Russian and vice versa. The system worked well enough, as long as their sentences were not filled with enigmatic phrases. Way Hue Dong spoke for the syndicate, as he had during all their earlier negotiations. “I trust that this method of meeting is agreeable.”
“I am ready now to commit to our agreed-upon proposal.”
“We would like to know why the delay was necessary?” The electronics masked the annoyance in Way’s voice, but the question made his emotions clear.
“It was needed, I assure you, gentlemen.” Kerikov knew that a placating smile would be lost on these men, so he refrained. “When you see the location of the mineral deposit, you will understand that significant steps were needed to ensure its safety.”
“I trust that our future activities will not be disturbed?”
“No, they will not,” Kerikov responded hurriedly. With the Americans’ and Russians’ hands tied by the Bangkok Accords, only Takahiro Ohnishi presented any obstacle, and by the time the Koreans reached the volcano, Ohnishi would be eliminated.
Dealing with the race-crazed billionaire was a necessary hazard during the final play of Vulcan’s Forge. Ohnishi had been programmed to attempt his break away from the United States, and up until the last possible moment, Kerikov had needed him. But now the mineral wealth lay beyond America’s control — and beyond Ohnishi’s, if he ever succeeded in his bid for independence.
“Then all is in order?” Way asked, snapping Kerikov’s attention back to the present.
“Yes, I am ready to transmit the final data to you now.” Kerikov hid the tension that tightened his stomach.
“And we are ready to give you the account number.” Kerikov could see Way’s lips moving long before the computer’s sterilized voice could be heard. “As a sign of good faith we will transmit first.”
Way nodded to an off-camera assistant. An instant later the teletype attached to the transceiver began to pound away. Kerikov made it a point to keep his eyes glued to the camera. To look toward the teletype would be a major loss of face.
When it stopped, Kerikov fed several sheets of paper into a portable fax machine attached to the satellite uplink. These pages included the latest assay and elevation reports and gave the exact location of Dr. Borodin’s island.
Kerikov saw that Way’s eyes were locked on someone outside the camera’s field of vision, so he took a moment to scan the teletype. One hundred million American dollars had just been transferred to the National Cayman Bank in the Caribbean. The transfer number and the account number were at the bottom of the page.
Way Hue Dong received an acknowledgment from some technician out of view and turned back to the camera. “The information seems legitimate, Mr. Kerikov. I believe now I know why there was a delay and I applaud your audacity.
“You must forgive me, sir,” Way continued, “but there is a restraint order on the money. You cannot touch it until I send the bank another set of code numbers.”
Way displayed no emotion as he revealed his double-cross. “Once my engineers are on-station and prove what you have told us, the money will be released into your care.”
Kerikov listened and could barely contain his rage.
Way added, “I’m sure you understand that we must protect this large amount of money from fraud. Not that you are suspect. Once the value of this new mineral is established I will send the new code and the money will be yours. Good evening, Mr. Kerikov.”
The monitor went blank. In Kerikov’s hotel suite, the camera continued to record and transmit, so the nine Koreans saw Kerikov pound his foot through the monitor screen and then begin attacking the video transceiver. The image faded when Kerikov fired a roundhouse kick at the camera and sent it slamming into a wall.
“Those motherfucking bastards,” Kerikov ranted once he could control himself enough to speak. “Those pissdrinking shit eaters.”
Kerikov fumed for about ten minutes, dredging up curses he hadn’t used since Afghanistan. When he finally calmed, he finished the diluted Scotch in his glass and then drank right from the bottle, the raw spirit singeing his stomach when it hit.
