that his whole house was dark. Tish, too, must have gone to sleep.
“Yes, Mr. Henna, what’s up?” Mercer ran his tongue around his mouth and grimaced at the taste.
“The President accepted your proposal and, believe it or not, Paul Barnes from the CIA backed you up.”
“That’s surprising. I got the impression I was at the bottom of his Christmas card list.”
“Kind of surprised me, too, but when it comes to the job, Barnes puts his personal feelings second. The commando assault that the President ordered will be postponed for at least twelve hours.”
“So what happens now?” Mercer realized that his body was bathed in sweat. His sheets were a damp tangle around his legs.
“A jet will be ready for you at Andrews Air Force Base in about an hour and a half. You should be aboard the aircraft carrier
Mercer glanced at his scarred and scratched Tag Heuer chronometer. 9:15.
“Okay, I’ll be at Andrews in about an hour.” Mercer swung his legs off the bed, the cool air evaporating the sweat, making the dark, coarse hair on his chest and legs tingle.
“I’ll meet you at the main gate with the recon photos you requested.”
“Thanks, Dick.” Mercer used the director’s given name for the first time.
He cut the connection and dialed Harry White’s number. After twenty rings, he hung up and dialed Tiny’s. Tiny told him to hold for a second while Harry came back from the restroom.
“Harry, are you up for a little more babysitting?”
“That you, Mercer?”
“Yeah, Harry, can you come over and watch Tish again?”
“Why? What’s she doing?”
“Sleeping in the nude.”
“Yeah, I’d love to watch that,” Harry said with mock lasciviousness. “I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”
Mercer hung up, plucked the clock from the floor, and straightened the silver framed photograph of his mother that was the only other item on the nightstand. He flipped a bedside switch and light from three round Japanese lanterns bathed the room in a milky glow.
He stood up and moaned. The punishment his body had taken in the past few days was taking its toll. His shoulders were bruised a rich purple from his scrape against the metro train, and his feet and lower legs still stung from his leap into the Potomac. The cuts on his face had scabbed over, but they pulled every time Mercer moved his jaw. There was a livid red weal on his calf where the bullet had grazed him in New York.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered as he headed for the bathroom.
He took a steaming shower, popped a handful of Tylenol, and dressed quickly in baggy black pants and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. His socks and desert boots were also black. Feeling slightly more refreshed but by no means normal, he spun down the old rectory spiral stairs to the ground floor, his feet gliding over the steps.
Because his cooking skills fell far short of gourmet, his kitchen cabinets were nearly barren. It took him ten frustrating minutes to make a mangled, runny omelet using his last three eggs, a slice of American cheese, a couple of cocktail onions pilfered from the bar and half a can of tuna fish.
He carried the plate of food into his office, letting his hand brush against the large bluish stone on the credenza near the door as he entered. Setting the plate on his desk, he turned on the green shaded lamp. With a huge chunk of omelet stuffed in his mouth he took a key from under a reference volume of mineralogy in the shelf behind his desk.
The key slid into the oiled lock of the closet adjacent to the office’s entrance and the oak doors opened smoothly. In the closet were a fire retardant safe, a twisted and blackened piece of duraluminum that had once been a support girder in the airship
Mercer dragged the heavy trunk out of the closet and propped open the lid. A Heckler and Koch MP-5A3 sat on top of the pile of equipment. The West German- manufactured machine pistol was a vicious weapon, capable of firing 9mm ammunition at over six hundred rounds per minute. Mercer lifted the nasty little gun and cleared the breach to ensure the action was still smooth, then set it aside and retrieved a Beretta automatic pistol. Since replacing the venerable Colt.45 as the primary sidearm of the U.S. Army, the Beretta had more than proved its worth in combat conditions. The pistol was in pristine condition like the H amp;K.
The next item Mercer pulled from the trunk was the heaviest by far — a nylon combat harness, a thick belt supported by suspender straps. The holster for the Beretta was attached to the suspenders so it would rest under his left shoulder for a quick draw, and several nylon pouches full of clips for the machine pistol hung from the belt. A six-inch-long Gerber knife hung inverted from the suspenders. The final touches were a basic first aid kit and field compass in a slim padded case.
Mercer slid the Beretta into its holster and stuffed the combat rig into a light nylon duffel along with the machine pistol, then added a few other pieces of equipment. He zipped the bag, shoved the nearly empty trunk back into the closet, and locked the doors. He stashed the key back under the thick book and took one last weapon from his desk, first making sure it was loaded. Taking another big bite of his eggs, Mercer promised himself he’d never make another tuna omelet again.
“Mercer?” Tish called from the kitchen.
“I’m back here.”
Tish entered the study wearing one of Mercer’s Penn State sweatshirts. It came down to the midpoint of her smooth thighs and thrust up proudly over her unrestrained breasts. With her tousled hair and sleepy eyes, she looked vulnerable and incredibly sexy.
“That sweatshirt looks a hell of a lot better on you than it does on me,” Mercer remarked with a grin.
“Don’t even look at me; I’m a mess.” Tish ran a hand through her hair to get it away from her face. She noticed the duffel bag. “I heard you get up; what’s going on?”
“I’m leaving for a couple of days. I think I can finally put an end to everything and with a little luck bring back Valery Borodin for you.”
Tish’s eyes brightened. “I was thinking earlier and couldn’t believe how badly I want to see him again.”
“Give me a couple of days and he’s yours.” Mercer was genuinely happy for her. “Let’s go up to the bar; I need some of my famous coffee.”
“What’s that?” Tish asked as she turned to leave the study. Her gaze had fallen on the large stone near the door.
“My good luck piece,” Mercer remarked, caressing the rippled surface. “It’s a piece of kimberlite given to me by a director of DeBeers as thanks for saving his life after a cave-in in South Africa. Kimberlite is the most common type of matrix stone found in diamond mines.” He explained, “By itself it’s worthless, but nearly every diamond mined in the past hundred years has been found within a volcanic kimberlite pipe.”
Mercer didn’t tell her that this piece of kimberlite was far from worthless. Embedded in the underside of the stone was an approximately eight-carat diamond of startling blue-white color. Uncut, it was worth about a quarter of a million dollars, and if he ever had the stone finished, who could tell its value?
The door bells chimed, announcing Harry’s arrival, while Mercer was making coffee. Harry let himself in and entered the bar through the library. He needed the doorjamb for support.
“Where are you going, a costume party as a ninja?”
Mercer looked down at his black attire and shrugged. “Actually, the theme is your favorite environmental catastrophe. I’m an oil spill. What do you think?”
“I think you’re full of shit,” Harry replied, seating himself at the bar. The cigarette in his mouth jumped with each word.
“Hi, Harry.” Tish greeted the old man with a kiss on his gray stubbled cheek.
“You lied to me, Mercer. You said she’d be naked.” Tish didn’t understand the comment, but already knew Harry and Mercer well enough to not be offended. “Give me a drink, will ya.”
Mercer deftly poured Jack Daniel’s and ginger ale. “Actually, I’m going to put another pin in my map.” He jerked his thumb at the pin-studded map behind the bar.
“What color?”
“Clear,” Mercer replied.
