“If I’d known you lacked the good sense to stay in the hospital, I wouldn’t have come here.” She introduced him to Eisenstadt and Weitzmann, who shook his hand in turn.
“It is good to meet you,” Eisenstadt rumbled in his accented English. Mercer and he had spoken on the phone a few times when the details of this meeting had been hammered out.
“My pleasure, sir.” The elderly researcher matched Mercer’s impression. Solid and apparently humorless, he had a formal grace lost to younger generations and a sagacity that commanded instant respect.
Frau Goetz put coffee and a glass of water at a place open for Mercer. He caught her scrutiny and her approving nod to Anika. Anika shook her head slightly, then smiled before making a slight gesture with her hand as if to say maybe. She blushed when she noted that Mercer had seen the exchange.
Barnes sighed. “Since we’re all here, we can get this over with.” He’d made no gesture to greet Mercer properly.
Thanks to Ira Lasko’s efforts from his hospital room in Reykjavik, Mercer had learned that Barnes had spent a very long afternoon in the White House. The chief executive was furious with Barnes for how he’d handled this affair, and Mercer understood that Barnes was under orders to make any concession necessary to set things right. He’d even been forced to Vienna to accommodate Eisenstadt and Weitzmann rather than hold this meeting in Washington.
Essentially, Barnes was here to agree to whatever Mercer asked for. Mercer would have flaunted his control over the DCI had he not gained some perspective in the past few days. Instead, he savored knowing he held all the cards and allowed Barnes a measure of dignity.
“Mr. Barnes, I want to thank you for agreeing to come here today,” Mercer began, perpetuating the illusion that the DCI still had a choice, “and I especially want to acknowledge your efforts camouflaging what happened aboard the
“It fit close enough to the facts to convince the media,” Barnes acknowledged. If he was relieved that Mercer wasn’t rubbing in his errand-boy status, he didn’t show it. “We effectively blacked out information about the fighting at the Blue Lagoon and the Svartsengi power plant, saying it was a pressure explosion that rained debris on the adjoining spa.”
“Your government will pay to repair the facilities?” Anika asked.
“Plus a little extra for the families of the fishermen murdered in Grindavik.” Barnes nodded. “That’s how we got the cooperation of the local authorities.”
“That takes care of those on the periphery,” Mercer said. “But there are a number of people more directly involved who can’t be silenced so easily.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Barnes folded his hands on the table, preparing himself for the negotiations. “To discuss the terms for your cooperation.”
“This won’t be a discussion, Mr. Barnes.” Mercer’s tone sharpened, reminding Barnes of his role. “A dozen innocent people are dead because of this, and you have an obligation to them and their survivors. I’ve compiled a list.” He still suffered from the emotional hangover of writing the names, especially scarred by Elisebet Rosmunder’s, who would have been alive if he hadn’t spoken with her. “Before we get to specifics there are a few things I want to know first. Beginning with Charlie Bryce and the Surveyor’s Society and their relationship to the CIA.”
Barnes’s eyes swept the others around the table. “This isn’t the time or the place to talk about that. If there is a relationship, which I’m not saying there is, it would be classified.”
Mercer ignored Barnes’s security concerns. “Until we’re all satisfied, there aren’t going to be any secrets. Anika knows how I got involved in this expedition, so she’s already drawn some inferences. I’ve also made Mr. Eisenstadt and Mr. Weitzmann aware that I was approached by the Society to help Ira Lasko, one of your agents. Do you want to leave us believing that the Surveyor’s Society is a CIA front?”
Although this was a minor point, Barnes still resented sharing anything. “They aren’t a front. The Surveyor’s Society does” — he searched for the right word — “favors for us. You may recall Bryce’s speech about the three kinds of explorers — real ones, armchair ones, and those who pay others to explore for them. Let’s just say that the CIA falls into the latter category when we need certain deniable operations carried out.”
“And you pay them?”
“Why do you think every school in the nation pays twice the normal subscription price for their magazine?”
“A black budget subsidy?”
“Exactly. By the way Ira doesn’t work directly for the CIA. He was seconded to us for this mission from the White House.”
“He already told me. In fact, he’s trying to talk me into accepting a job there. Special science advisor to the president or something.” Mercer wasn’t sure if he’d accept, but he was honored.
“If it’s any consolation,” Barnes added, “Bryce wasn’t too pleased when I had him recruit you.”
“I’ll deal with Charlie at another time,” Mercer said. “We’re here to discuss what to do about each other.”
“And to handle the final disposition of the remaining Pandora box and an icon belonging to a Russian priest. They represent the last link to an unprecedented discovery. As a scientist, you must know the Pandora fragments could contain untold knowledge about our universe and its creation.”
Barnes tried to press his point with a hard stare, but Mercer remained unfazed. “I doubt you believe in science for science’s sake, Mr. Barnes.”
“Where are the fragments?” Barnes leaned across the table in another effort to gain some psychological leverage. “When Ira Lasko was debriefed in the hospital he said he didn’t know.”
“He lied.” Because of the prior arrangements, the old Nazi hunters had brought their small television and VCR into the dining room. Mercer slid the cassette into the tape slot and waited while Frau Goetz pressed the correct buttons to bring up the picture. “This footage was taken yesterday.”
The image on the screen was bouncy and the audio was filled with a deep thrumming rattle. The watchers quickly realized that the video had been taken aboard a speeding helicopter. The chopper’s side door was closed so the camera panned down through the scratchy window. A thousand feet below, the cold north Atlantic surged with its unending rhythm. They were high enough that the whitecaps looked like bits of string. The frame jumped and suddenly Mercer was shown sitting on the bench seat in the rear of the cargo chopper.
“Who took this?” Barnes asked sharply.
“Ira wanted to be with us but couldn’t get out of the hospital. Father Anatoly Vatutin ran the camera,” Mercer answered before the video image of himself bent forward to strip a tarp off a box sitting next to the door. A golden reflection filled the dim interior of the chopper. Resting on the only remaining Pandora box was another glittering relic, the last of Rasputin’s icons.
Jacob Eisenstadt grunted when he saw the box. Although he’d already been warned what was on the tape, his eyes were wet, doubtlessly thinking about what the box represented — the origin of that gold and all those who’d died filling it.
Barnes sucked in a quick breath. He glanced at Mercer, trying to understand what was happening behind his gray eyes. Mercer gave a triumphant smile that told Barnes everything. “You didn’t.”
The tape made Mercer’s answer unnecessary. Father Vatutin set aside the camera to open the cargo door and then refocused on Mercer as he kicked the heavy icon out the door. The camera image followed the antique as it pinwheeled toward the sea, swallowed by distance before it was swallowed by the water. Barnes went pale with impotant rage. Next, the tape showed Mercer bracing his legs against the seat supports and levering his back against the two-hundred-pound Pandora box.
Vatutin had tightened his focus on the swastika adorning the side of the Pandora box, tracking it as Mercer pushed it to the door. Pausing with the box on the edge of oblivion, Mercer addressed the camera, shouting over the wind and the rotor’s steady beat.
“The problem with any scientific discovery is that, once something is known, it can’t be unlearned. We can’t forget how to make a nuclear bomb or poison gas, nor can we prevent the propagation of that knowledge. To use a cliche, once the genie’s out of the bottle, it can’t be put back. Well, this is one genie that I’m not going to let escape. The military applications of Pandora radiation far outweigh any potential scientific use. A Russian madman realized that a hundred years ago and hid the truth until a German madman nearly succeeded in unleashing
