Charon's landing

group called PEAL and a tanker headed to the Alyeska terminal at Valdez.”

The mention of PEAL sent a charge through Mercer. “What do you know about the Hope?”

“An old English survey ship bought about a year ago and converted into a pseudo-research vessel. She’s more about public relations than hard science. You’ll find her wherever there’s some ecological controversy. She’s been anchored in Prince William Sound for nearly three weeks.”

“Has she left the area recently?” Mercer asked quickly, a glint of victory in his murky gray eyes.

“Sorry, no.” Saulman dashed his hopes.

The PEAL vessel would have been his logical choice for smuggling large quantities of liquid nitrogen, but if she hadn’t left Valdez, she couldn’t be the one. “Okay, what about the tanker?”

“Ah, let me see.” Saulman searched for the specifics of the tanker. “Here we go. It was the Petromax Arctica, a 255,000-ton VLCC making her regular run between Valdez and Long Beach-”

“Petromax?” Mercer interrupted. “I just talked to Max Johnston a couple of days ago. He said they sold their tankers.”

“If you’d let me finish, I was about to say that she sailed into Valdez as the Arctica but left the day before yesterday as the Southern Cross. Her new owners are Southern Coasting and Lightering out of New Orleans. It’s a big step for SC amp;L.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re a midsized outfit. Their biggest vessel before they bought Petromax’s fleet was a fourteen-year-old hundred-thousand tonner. They shelled out one hundred and fifty million dollars for the Arctica and her sisters. For them, its like going from a Yugo to a collection of Bentleys in one move.”

“Did your firm draw up the papers for the sale?”

“No, it was handled in Louisiana. But when I heard about it, I was a little suspicious and did some checking. It was weird right from the start. Petromax almost tripped over themselves unloading those ships. The first day anyone heard that Max wanted to dump the tanker arm of Petromax Oil, Southern Coasting comes along and, pretty as you please, cuts him a check for the $150 million dollars, no negotiations, no financing, nothing.”

“Sounds like he was anxious for the money,” Mercer said.

“The Greeks or the Japanese would have bought those tankers in a heartbeat for a hell of a lot more. Christ, the Petromax Pacifica is only eight months old. She must be worth $75 million all by herself,” Saulman pointed out.

“No shit.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Saulman agreed. “And here’s another weird one. Southern Coasting demanded that all the ships’ names be changed immediately upon signing of the deal, not just in the books but physically changed on the ships as well. They’re even paying for a crew to fly to Valdez to rename the Arctica while she’s en route between Alaska and California.”

“What about the other two tankers?”

“The Petromax Arabia is in the Persian Gulf. Her new name is the Southern Accent, and the Petromax Pacifica is unloading in Tokyo where she becomes the Southern Hospitality.”

“Strange, but it doesn’t really help me any.” Mercer kept the disappointment from his voice. “Do you have anything else?”

“Well, the Arctica was eighteen hours late arriving at Valdez, and her captain had to be choppered from the ship to Anchorage after he was involved in some sort of accident.”

“Jesus, why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”

“Hey, you wanted a list of ships in the Gulf of Alaska. You never told me why.”

“Sorry,” Mercer replied sheepishly. “Is a tanker running late a common occurrence?”

“Like hell. One of those monsters costs roughly a thousand dollars an hour to operate, so we’re talking eighteen thousand dollars just for fuel, wages, and insurance. That doesn’t factor in lost haulage time and lateness penalties paid to the chartering companies. Tankers are never late.”

“Any idea what happened to the captain?”

“No. All that’s listed in the accident report sent to Lloyd’s was that he lost his forearm. Petromax is paying to have him sent to a specialist in Seattle.”

Mercer was silent for a few moments. He wanted to believe that the Arctica was the ship that smuggled the cylinders of liquid nitrogen to a rendezvous with the Jenny IV, but that didn’t make sense. Petromax was a world leader in oil exploration; they wouldn’t be involved in a smuggling operation, especially something as innocuous as liquid nitrogen. Their position in Alaska was already difficult because of opposition to opening the Arctic Wildlife Refuge, and they wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize it further.

“I think we’re barking up the wrong tree,” Mercer finally said.

“Tell me what you’re looking for and maybe I can find it,” Saulman offered.

“I can’t, Dave, I’m sorry. Listen, you’ve helped me by telling me where not to look. That’s more than I had before.”

To lift Mercer from the black mood Saulman heard in his voice, the lawyer offered another trivia question. “Well, before I go, who designed the original Monitor for the Union navy?”

“Too easy,” Mercer replied without hesitation, “John Ericsson.” He hung up the phone while Saulman cursed him out good-naturedly.

A few minutes later, Mercer slid his Jaguar into a spot next to Tiny’s well-used Pontiac in the parking lot behind the former jockey’s bar. He tossed his bags into the backseat of his friend’s sedan before locking his own car.

The bar was empty except, to Mercer’s surprise, for Harry seated on his normal stool, a nearly empty drink gripped in his bony hand, a cigarette hanging limply from his pale lips. Next to him was a large cardboard box, the unmistakable labels of Jack Daniel’s bottles peeking over the lid.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Mercer asked as he entered the bar through the little-used kitchen.

“You won’t believe it.” Harry was excited as a child at Christmas. “I’ve ordered four cases of JD and the idiots at the hotel keep bringing them to me. They even called a cab for me to lug ’em over here. A couple more hours of this and I won’t have to pay for a drink for the next year.”

“What are they charging per case?” Mercer asked, fearful of the answer. Henna was going to kill him when he got the bill.

“I don’t know, like a hundred dollars a bottle,” Harry dismissed, finishing his drink just as Tiny set another before him. “God bless Uncle Sam and his bottomless pockets.”

Mercer paused. He could be angry for Harry’s abuse of his offer to use the suite or he could join in the spirit of larceny. “Next time you go back, grab me a couple of bottles of Absolut vodka, but make sure that this is your last run. I’m sure that the Willard’s going to alert Henna’s office before too long. And grab a bottle of Remy Martin for Tiny; I know he’s out.”

“Mighty generous of you,” Tiny said sourly. “Do you have any idea what’ll happen to my business if Harry has his own source of booze?”

“Charge him double for the ginger ale. He’ll still come,” Mercer joked. “Paul, I need a favor.”

Tiny caught the seriousness of Mercer’s last words and replied instantly, “Name it.”

“I just need a ride to the airport. And for you to hide my car for a few days.”

“What’s going on?” Despite his inebriation, Harry heard Mercer’s tone.

“I’ve got a lead on those bastards who shot up my house last night.”

“I thought that the FBI was handling that.”

Mercer shot Harry a scathing look. “They’re out of their league on this one. Kerikov’s back.”

Harry was quiet while he absorbed this piece of information. He felt a phantom spasm in the missing leg. It was the Soviet plan, Vulcan’s Forge, that had cost Harry his leg, and it was Kerikov who had controlled it at its bitter end. Tiny didn’t understand what had just passed between Mercer and Harry; he didn’t know what a malevolent force Kerikov represented. But Harry and Mercer knew all too well. They had often discussed the