“Killing you won’t bring back the planeload of people you killed in London, or the priest or the little girl in the airport. It won’t ever avenge the death of Trevor James-Price. Nor will it forgive you for trying to assassinate me or causing the environmental damage to the United States or attempting to overthrow my country. Your death won’t even be a warning to others, because no one will know how you died. Killing you is only to satisfy my desire to feel a little safer at night, to know that there is one less madman in the world. I’ll think about your ravaged corpse when I drift off tonight, Rufti, and I’m going to smile.”
Khalid waited for a response, but Rufti’s spirit had already died. He lay there docilely, not having the strength to even whimper. Khuddari eventually turned away and let Sahara fly from his arm to streak up into the clear sky before swooping to strike at her meal.
Back at the trucks, a hundred yards from where Rufti lay staked to the ground, Khalid addressed Bigelow and Mercer. “This is going to take the rest of the afternoon. He may even live into the night. I want to be here to make sure he’s really dead, but you two don’t need to wait with me. Why don’t you go back to Abu Dhabi and enjoy yourselves? I’ll join you for breakfast tomorrow morning.”
Mercer was tempted. After all the death he had seen in the past week, Khuddari’s version of desert justice was almost too much to bear. However, he demurred, wanting to witness the end of Charon’s Landing. The Bedouins built a second fire, erected a sunshade, and brought out a cooking pot for the evening meal. They boiled water for continuous cups of tea. The three men talked desultorily through the afternoon, ignoring the screams from beyond the banks of the wadi.
“So what happens next?” Mercer asked Khalid as the sun dipped below the horizon, turning the sky a rich bloodred before the beginning of twilight.
“I’m taking a few weeks off to recuperate. I’m going to London for a funeral, and then I’ll probably go to the south of France or maybe Malaga in Spain with my secretary. I think we both deserve it,” Khalid replied with a candor that surprised Colonel Bigelow. “What about you?”
“I was hoping to take your secretary to the south of France or maybe Malaga, but that’s out of the question now,” Mercer joked to mask his emotions about losing Aggie Johnston. “During my layover in New York, I checked my voice mail and discovered I had a rather intriguing message from the State Department, so I suppose it’s back to the mines for me.”
Hasaan bin-Rufti stopped screaming just after the desert settled under a blanket of darkness lit only by a sliver of moon and the coldly distant stars. Khalid’s falcon rejoined the men a few minutes later, her tight little body speckled with gore, her entire head covered with Rufti’s blood.
Mercer, Khalid, and Bigelow spent the night in the Bedouin camp, laughing until well past midnight thanks to the Colonel’s wildly exaggerated war stories. Sahara flew off once during the night to continue feeding. None of the men felt she had done enough mutilation of Rufti’s corpse. At sunup they returned to the city, leaving Rufti for the jackals and buzzards that had gathered in the night. Khalid left later that day for an extended vacation with a blushing but joyous Siri Patal while Mercer stayed in the country for another few days, resting himself and testing Bigelow’s boast that he could drink any man under the table.
Bigelow won all their competitions, but Mercer would have loved to see the Colonel go up against Harry White. The English-man wouldn’t have stood a chance.
Arlington, Virginia
Mercer swung open his front door, reveling in the feeling of being home. He stood motionless for a few minutes, watching the sunlight that played through the three-story atrium. The air was crisp; a sudden and unexpected chill had Washington in its grip, and his furnace was still off. Thinking of such a minute domestic chore as relighting the furnace pleased him more than he thought it would. Everything was finally getting back to normal.
On a table in the little-used living room was a large manila envelope addressed to him. Curious, he opened it and withdrew a single piece of paper and probably the most coveted perk in Washington — a pair of diplomatic license plates. The note read, “A gift from the people of the United Arab Emirates. Park wherever you want to and speed as much as you dare,” and was signed by Khalid Khuddari.
Mercer laughed delightedly as he twisted up the spiral staircase. When the telephone rang, he raced up the last few steps, rushed through the bar, and snatched up the handset.
“Thank God you’re there.” Harry White sounded desperate. “I forgot to buy this morning’s paper, so I couldn’t check yesterday’s crossword answers. Nine down, ‘Seduced by Zeus’?”
“Harry, I just got back,” Mercer complained, walking behind the bar and noting the four empty liquor bottles in the trash can that hadn’t been there when he’d left.
“I know, I know, but you’ve gotta help me. It’s been driving me nuts. Seduced by Zeus? Come on, you know who I’m talking about,” Harry wheedled.
“Leda?”
“No, not her, the other one. Zeus came on to Leda disguised as a swan; the one I want was seduced by a golden shower.”
Mercer laughed until his chest ached. “Shower of gold, Harry, not a golden shower. There’s a big difference, trust me.” He pulled a beer from the bar fridge, spying the half-filled wine bottle standing next to the stacks of Heinekens. Harry must have had female company. Further proof was the cigarette butts in the ashtrays. They weren’t Harry’s brand.
“So, do you know the answer?”
“Try Danae. I think she was Perseus’ mother,” Mercer said absently. He thought he’d just heard something from upstairs in his bedroom, a floorboard creak or maybe a piece of furniture being bumped slightly.
“That’s it, finally, thank Christ. Hey, Tiny and I and a couple other guys are getting together for some poker tonight. You interested?”
Mercer went tense. There was someone coming down the spiral stairs, soft treads whispering against the antique wood as though stealth was the intention. Mercer whispered directly into the phone. “Harry, someone is in my house. Call the police.”
“Of course someone’s in your house. Christ, I let her in myself, even gave her my key to use,” Harry boomed back.
Aggie Johnston came into the bar from the library wearing black garter stockings and a matching lace bra and panty set. Over that, she had slipped into one of Mercer’s dress shirts, its tails brushing against the smooth skin of her thighs. Her hair was done up beautifully, shimmering like precious metal, and she had artfully applied makeup to accent her best features, which to Mercer were all of them. If seduction had a look, this was it.
“I’ve got to go now, Harry,” he stammered and cut the connection.
“You’re early. Dick Henna said you were coming into town later this afternoon. I wanted to be at the airport to meet you.” There was a catch in her voice, part desire, part apology.
“I managed an earlier flight,” Mercer said, just to say something. He was overwhelmed by her presence. Standing there, she captured his entire vision, as if his brain refused to see anything else. “I didn’t think I would ever see you again.”
“I didn’t think you would either.” Aggie moved across the room until Mercer could feel her breath on his skin. Her perfume was intoxicating. “I couldn’t stay away. I wanted to. I know that you and I will never last, but I had to be with you. Despite myself, you’ve charmed me.”
“How have you been?” Mercer breathed.
A shadow of annoyance flashed behind Aggie’s impossibly green eyes at Mercer for asking when she was trying to seduce him, but she knew he asked out of concern. “I’m all right. It’s been a few days so I’ve had time to adjust.”
“So what happens now?”
“Since my father’s death, I’ve been hounded by an army of lawyers. Yesterday I signed my name about a thousand times just to transfer the Johnston Trust into my name. We haven’t even begun to go over the Petromax corporate files.”
“You’re going to take over the company?”
