groaned when he saw there were a quarter million matches. He had no idea what the name meant yet the computer readily matched it to two hundred and fifty thousand Web sites.
After an hour’s worth of education about leprosy, he knew he was on the wrong track. There were only a handful of leper colonies, or leprosariums, left in the world and none of them was affiliated with the name Alma. Nor were there any famous lepers or physicians who treated them named Alma either.
“Wrong track?” he muttered. “I’m not even in the right station.”
He’d obviously misheard what Tisa had told him. The trick now was to recall her exact words. Mercer got up from his desk and went to the closet in the corner of the office. Amid the junk, files, and miscellaneous paperwork that was easier to shelve than sort, Mercer found a large shoebox. He returned with it to his desk. He pulled out a soft towel from the box and spread it across his desktop, then set a foot-long piece of railroad track in the center. Cans of metal polish, rags, and scraps of steel wool came next.
For thirty minutes he worked on the rusted section of rail, working the metal with the concentration of a diamond cutter facing a priceless stone. The repetitive act of polishing the track was the way Mercer helped focus his mind. It was a habit he’d formed in school as a way to alleviate the pressure of studying without turning his brain to mush, much the way Winston Churchill built brick walls in the yard behind Number 10 Downing Street even during the bleakest days of the Blitz.
A half hour after starting, he’d purged his mind of everything but those fleeting seconds as Tisa swam toward her brother. He could again feel how his movements had been slowed by the weight of water and the throb from where he’d hit his head against the tanker’s windshield.
“I’m here, Luc. It’s Tisa.” Her voice echoed across the dark sea, a cry that rang clear over the background of misery. Her head was barely above water as she swam awkwardly for her brother’s boat. Halfway there she stopped, turned back to Mercer, her body shuddering as she treaded water. “Oh my God! Leper Alma, Mercer. Watch for Leper Alma.”
He heard it the same way again and again. Leper Alma. Leper Alma.
Forcing himself to watch her vanish time and again was worse than the emptiness he’d woken to for the past three days. His heart beat furiously, and yet his hands maintained their unhurried rhythm as he scoured rust from the length of railroad track.
It had been too dark to see her mouth. Even from a few yards away her face had been a pale oval struggling just above the surface. Leper Alma. She’d bobbed in the water as she’d said those words, he recalled now. A wave had passed close by, raising her head slightly, but also covering the lower part of her face as she spoke.
It hadn’t been leper. The second syllable had been her clearing seawater from her mouth. Lep Alma. He was close and his hands began to work faster, the dull metal between his fingers growing bright under the chemical and physical assault.
The solution came and he dropped the polish-soaked rag on his desk and rolled back in his chair. She’d either said Le Palma or La Palma. He turned to the computer, unconcerned that his fingers left smudges on the keyboard as he typed the names into the search engine.
The computer turned up tens of thousands of matches, but just fifteen minutes after starting in on the first entry he was on the phone to a geologist in Cambridge, England, named Robert Wright. Mercer didn’t know Wright, but the Ph.D. was mentioned prominently on several Web pages about La Palma. After an hour-long conversation, he made a frantic call to Admiral Lasko.
“Ira, it’s Mercer. We’ve been searching in the wrong place. I misheard what Tisa said. It wasn’t Leper Alma. She said La Palma.”
“We know,” Lasko said.
“Huh? How?”
“I put the NSA’s cryptoanalysis computers on it. Their report was sitting on my desk yesterday morning. They tore apart the words phonetically and came up with a couple thousand matches. The most obvious was La Palma, one of the Canary Islands, volcanic but dormant.”
“Not according to the scientist who’s spent his entire career studying the place. I just got off the phone with him.”
“You’re talking about Dr. Wright? I’ve already had people go over his research and frankly we’re not that impressed. On more than one occasion he’s been accused of falsifying data to fit his model.”
“Are you willing to take the chance he’s wrong?”
“We’re taking a wait-and-see attitude right now.”
“Ira, listen to me. This whole thing has been Tisa’s way of warning me about a La Palma eruption. I’m certain of it. Obviously she did it far enough in advance so we could do something about it. But I don’t think we have time for your wait-and-see attitude. If you’ve read some of what Dr. Wright predicted, you understand the consequences.”
“Give me a little credit, will you? A team’s already been sent to the island to monitor the situation. They arrive today. Another group with equipment more sophisticated than anything Wright has seen should get there tomorrow. We’re on it, Mercer, but right now there’s no need to panic.”
“Have you told the president?”
“I passed it up to Security Advisor Kleinschmidt. I don’t know if he took it any further.”
“We have to find her, Ira.”
“Who? Tisa?”
“That mountain’s going to blow no matter what your teams tell you. She’s the only person who knows when. We need her, damn it.” Mercer slowed, taking a breath to calm himself. “I agree that monitoring the island is the best course right now, but we have to talk with Tisa before it’s too late.”
“Even if we wanted her, we don’t have a clue where she is.”
“I’m working on that,” Mercer countered quickly. “If I pinpoint where I think she is, will you authorize a rescue?”
“I… I’ll think about it. That’s the best I can do.”
“Then that’s all I’ll ask.” Mercer cut the connection and felt better than he had in days. He was able to put the appalling consequences of a La Palma eruption out of his mind only because he was thinking about Tisa. She had the answers he needed, and Ira was beginning to box himself into a corner to allow Mercer to find her.
With most of his luggage spread from Canada to Vegas to the bottom of the Aegean Sea, Mercer went to the second-floor guest room where he kept an old set. From the bar, Harry saw him lugging the bags upstairs. “What are you doing?”
“Packing.”
“For where?”
“Africa, at the least. China if I get lucky.”
“You gotta talk to your travel agent. Your itineraries are all screwed up.”
Once he had both bags packed, he returned to the bar with the box full of sixteen-by-sixteen-inch satellite pictures from the imaging company in California. He’d requested they be stacked chronologically so that the first ten pictures showed the same spot on the earth over the past five years. The next set was an adjacent segment of ground over the same period of time. Dividing the file box in half, Mercer handed Harry one of the two magnifying glasses he’d brought up from his office. He turned up the bar lights and explained how the pictures were organized.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Look for clouds that don’t move.”
“Huh?”
“Tisa told me the valley of Rinpoche-La is fed by a geothermal hot spring. There should be waste heat from the spring that will show up as steam. If each picture of the same spot shows a cloud, we’ve got a possible hit.”
“Not a bad idea. How many pictures?”
“Two thousand. And if we don’t find her in this batch, I’ll order more.”
Harry bent to the first picture, muttering. “And they say chivalry is dead. You do remember that Romeo only killed himself over Juliet. He didn’t force his best friend to go blind.”
Mercer couldn’t suppress a smile. “Less discussion, more dissection.”
They gave up late that afternoon. Neither was trained in the arcane art of photo interpretation and the
