by Jack Du Brul
“I tried my best, Monsieur d’Avejan, but the stones have been lost for all time.”
“Yes, well, there are things even beyond my control. Take a few days for yourself and return to Paris by week’s end.”
“Yes, sir. I will be in the office Monday.”
“And Niklaas,” d’Avejan added, “even though you failed to find the stones, you managed to double the amount of natural crystal at our disposal, and I will not forget that. I will see to it that some sort of bonus is forthcoming.”
“Thank you, meneer.”
“See you next week.”
Coetzer hung up the phone and immediately called the airlines. Before returning to Paris he had another destination in mind. He held on the line until a customer service representative asked him where he wished to travel.
“Washington, D.C.,” he replied. Hanging around the Midwest to see if Mercer’s body was discovered was not an appealing prospect. He planned to confirm Mercer’s fate much more directly.
20
Mercer came through the door as tired as he’d ever been in his life. His body was sore from the punishment it had taken over the past week, and the clothes he’d bought at a discount store near the National Guard staging area were as itchy as fiberglass. He wanted nothing more than a shower and some serious rack time. What he got was a blur launching itself at him before he had time to react. A warm mouth was pressed to his and the elasticity of firm breasts was mashed against his chest.
“Don’t say a word,” Jordan breathed into him. She was panting with desire. “On the pool table. Right now.”
“Harry?”
“He’s at Tiny’s.” She had his shirt open and her tongue on his skin while her hands were working on his belt.
His pants loosened, Jordan maneuvered them both so the backs of her thighs were pressed against the billiards table’s rail. She thumbed down the sweatpants she’d been wearing and her panties as well. Mercer freed himself of his boots, and legged out of his khakis. Their mouths parted for the barest moment it took Jordan to pull the T-shirt over her head. Her arm was out of the sling, but the quick movement made her wince. Rather than pause, the pain goaded her so that she ground herself against Mercer’s leg.
Coming off a long winter, her nude body was pale and without tan lines. She was athletic but not too thin, with womanly curves as beautiful as any sculpture. Mercer’s hands roamed her body, tweaking and gently pinching in places that made her squirm and moan. Frantic, she guided him inside her and his exhaustion sloughed away. They were not gentle, but ravenous and uncaring about anything but the carnal pleasure of the act. When it was over, Jordan lay sprawled across the green felt, her breasts high, her nipples so stiff they ached, and her lower body quivering with aftershocks.
“Wow,” she finally said. “We have to do that again.”
He smiled down at her. “I’m not twenty. I need some time.”
“I’ll feed you oysters…and red meat for stamina,” she promised, a rapturous smile on her face. He helped her to her feet and she swayed against him, her eyes half closed. “You’re good at that.”
“I’ve been practicing by myself since I was about thirteen, and with other women since my senior year of high school.”
She slapped him playfully and gathered up her clothes. “I’ll meet you in the bar in a minute. Make me a mojito. There’s mint in the fridge, and then I want you to tell me everything that’s happened since you left.”
He gave her more than a minute and used the time to shower quickly and change into some comfortable jeans and a black polo shirt. He was waiting in the bar with a Heineken in his hand when she emerged from the guest bedroom. She had washed her face and applied some artful makeup. She wore the same sweats but had changed shirts. By the way she moved he knew she wasn’t wearing a bra.
The oysters she mentioned wouldn’t be necessary.
She kissed him on the fly, scooped up her drink, and flopped onto the couch. “I feel like I’ve been impaled. Thank you.”
“No…thank you,” he replied, and saluted her with the distinctive green bottle. “How’s your arm?”
“Better, thanks. I should have it in the sling, but I’m sick of it. Tell me all about your trip. Was Afghanistan awful?”
“It’s not the worst place I’ve been,” Mercer admitted, and moved to a chair next to her. “But not too far off, either. The rough part was that the men who attacked us at Abe’s house were a step ahead; they had deployed a force in Afghanistan by the time we arrived at the cave.”
“What? How is that possible?”
“I spoke with Sherman Smithson about that. He told me the terrorists interrogated him the day before yesterday, and they let slip that they had learned about the cave’s location and Herbert Hoover’s involvement with the lightning stones from documents they recovered from Abe’s office.”
“Before we got there?”
“I didn’t think they had the time to do much of a search. I guess I was wrong.”
“Were you ambushed?”
Mercer nodded. “It was a little hairy. Apart from their assault rifles these guys were packing mortars and RPGs. If not for Booker Sykes and his men, they would have killed me for sure.”
Jordan had gone a little ashen, but her voice was firm. “Mercer, you have to stop this. You’re putting your life in danger. For what? Some rocks? Revenge? Are those things worth dying for?”
“It doesn’t much matter now anyway,” he told her.
“Why’s that?”
“Because I also learned that Mike Dillman tried to have the rest of the crystals flown back to the United States. Only they never arrived.”
“How can you be sure?”
“They were aboard Amelia Earhart’s Lockheed Electra when she went down over the Pacific Ocean in 1937.”
“Whoa. Amelia Earhart? Really?”
“ ’Fraid so. Unless someone’s willing to fund a multimillion-dollar search with no guarantees for success, the crystals, and Miss Earhart, will remain forever lost.”
“Hmm…so that means you and I have some time to get to know each other a little better. I have to admit I’ve been mooning about like a teenage girl since you left.”
“Mooning? I think I like that.”
She smiled shyly. “There’s something about you, Mercer. You’re…different. I find I want to know all about you. Do you have family? What your favorite movie is. Everything.”
The doorbell rang.
Mercer stood. “I guess we don’t have the time to get to know each other, after all.”
Her eyebrows knitted. “Sure we do. Whoever it is, send them away.”
He walked to the library overlooking the front atrium and shouted, “It’s open.” The door swung in and Mercer watched two people enter. Both wore suits. He waved them up and he rejoined Jordan.
“Who is it?” she asked. He said nothing. A look of concern spread across Jordan’s face. “Mercer, what’s going on?”
“Her story didn’t hold up,” he said gravely.
“What are you talking about? Whose story?” Jordan had pulled the steamship blanket up to her shoulders.
“The girl whose car hit Agent Hepburn’s. Her story. At first it seemed fine—she was a Starbucks employee and a student at Maryland, so the fact that she was on the road and rammed into Kelly’s sedan sounded like a plausible accident. But other things have been bothering me, so I phoned Kelly Hepburn’s partner yesterday from Iowa and begged him to look a little deeper.”
“And I did,” Special Agent Nate Lowell said as he stepped into the rec room. He removed his sunglasses and folded them into his suit pocket. Entering behind him, on crutches, was Kelly Hepburn. Her head was swathed in crisp bandages and her leg was in a tall plaster cast.
She smiled at Mercer and said, “It turns out that the girl, Samantha Rhodes, constantly chats with friends on her cell phone while driving from work to school. We pulled those records and saw from the tower pings that she always drives a route to c
lass that’s a half mile from where she hit me.”
Lowell took up the story. “I leaned on her to explain why she’d taken a different route, and I told her she targeted Kelly on purpose. She said no, but I started yelling and playing all that bad cop shit.”
Mercer suspected he loved playing the bad cop.
“I don’t understand,” Jordan said. “What are you saying?”
“I am saying that Samantha quickly broke down and confessed. She was paid by an organization she works for to target Kelly Hepburn. They even let her borrow an SUV so she wouldn’t get hurt.”
“What?! What organization is it?”
“Just knock it off, Jordan,” Mercer snapped. “She worked for the Earth Action League. You work for them too, I suspect.” Jordan looked at him incredulously. “I should have listened to my damned gut at the very beginning, back at Abe’s house. I thought I heard footsteps upstairs when I entered, but I wasn’t sure. Then I found you asleep—but you’d been casing the house for your buddies, and threw off your clothes and hopped into bed and only pretended to be out. It was all an act. I’m assuming you were picked to search his place in case things went wrong down in the mine because you actually did know Abe when you were young, and he and your father did teach together.”
Jordan said nothing.
“The Honda Fit we chased was your car, wasn’t it? Who was the driver? A boyfriend or just a comrade in arms?”
She refused to answer. It didn’t matter. She was up to her neck with these freaks. Mercer plowed on. “Things got a little dicey at Hardt College with bullets flying everywhere and men holding guns to your head, but you never broke your cover. You played it perfectly. And when it was all said and done, I believed you were as much a target in all of this as I was, and all of a sudden the opposing side had a spy living in my goddamned guest room.” He slapped the coffee table and Jordan winced, but she would not meet his eye.
“You told them what we found in Abe’s trash. How this linked to Herbert Hoover. You fed them the coordinates I got from Sherman Smithson. That’s how they knew to hire the local fighters and have them in position to ambush us when we found the cave. When we escaped, your people then did what I had already planned to do. They went to the Hoover Library to find out if there were any other possible leads that Smithson hadn’t thought of. There was. A woman named Veronica Butler. A woman I saw kidnapped, and who I presume is dead right now.”
Jordan took that news like a slap.
Mercer went on, coldly dispassionate. “I thought it odd that the team leader let Smithson live. They gunned down Abe and his colleagues, so why not just shoot Smithson too? Odder still was the fact the gunmen told him that they had found a lot of information in Abe’s office. They made a point of telling him that, I think, because that piece of information was supposed to get back to me. It was a plant, a plausible explanation as to why they kept in step with my own search. They were making sure I never came to suspect the real source of their information.
“What’s funny,” Mercer said to the two FBI agents, “is that I remembered Jordan telling me she’d lost her cell phone when Abe’s house burned, so I checked my home phone records after the ambush in Afghanistan. I wasn’t suspicious of her, just thorough. There was nothing but numbers I recognized. She hadn’t contacted anyone.
“Then this morning on the flight from Des Moines I saw in a magazine the same plastic bracelet Jordan’s been wearing since we met. I remember it jangling her first night here when she was petting Drag. Only now I know it’s the latest-gen smartwatch that doubles as a cell. She’s been in touch with her people all along.”
Jordan kept her silence.
“What I don’t understand is why target me?” Kelly Hepburn asked. “You specifically told them I was lead on this investigation so they would try to kill me. Why? It wasn’t like we had any clues. Nate and I were stalled.”
When Jordan remained stubbornly mute, Mercer said, “I imagine she was standing just outside of this room that first night when you two burst in here like Rambo and Ripley from the Alien movies. We thought she was asleep, but she must have heard something to set off an alarm. Or maybe she figured without you, I’d be completely cut out of the investigation. I think you said something along those lines when we had dinner here.”
“And without your help,” Hepburn said, nodding at the logic, “the FBI’s investigation wasn’t going anywhere.”
“Why?” Mercer asked Jordan. “There are people dead over this, you were shot at and could have been killed. You asked me if what I was doing was worth dying for. I’m asking you the same thing.”
“Am I under arrest?” Jordan asked. Her voice was much harder than Mercer had ever heard it, and he wondered if he was hearing the real Jordan Weismann for the first time.
“Not yet,” Kelly said.
Jordan looked at all three of them before saying, “Then I’m not saying a freaking word.”
“Fine.” Kelly nodded to her partner. “Nate, do the honors.”
The big agent crossed the room. He had the presence of mind to yank Jordan off the couch by her uninjured arm. “Jordan Weismann, you are under arrest for conspiracy to commit the murder of a federal agent.” She yelped when he crossed her wrists behind her back and slapped on a pair of stainless-steel cuffs.
“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you do say…” He rattled off a rapid-fire Miranda warning. “Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?”
“Go to hell, you fascist pig.”
Mercer shook his head sadly. “I think I know what this is about.” Lowell and Hepburn turned to him. “She and I got into an argument over global warming before I left, and I got a glimpse of what a fanatic she is—so certain in her beliefs that dissent can’t be tolerated. I’ve been saying for years that the topic of climate change is no longer about science or policy, but moral imperative. Some believe they’re saving the planet, and anyone who doesn’t recognize the rightness of their crusade becomes an impediment. This then becomes de facto justification for almost any action. Whenever you read about the climate you see words like may, might, or potentially. Weasel words that have no place in real science. But soon these caveats get dumped in the name of expediency, and people are left with the impression that climatologists can actually predict the weather in a hundred years.”
“The science is settled, you son of a bitch,” Jordan snapped. “Ninety-seven percent of climatologists agree that—”
Mercer cut her off. “What do they agree on, Jordan? That the earth is warming. The number who agree with that should be one hundred percent, not ninety-seven. That humans have contributed to that warming. Again it had better be one hundred percent, or those three percenters are complete fools who don’t understand what the science really says. But what about stating that the current warming is unprecedented? That it is dangerous? That we have to suspend all industries that use fossil fuels or risk the planet turning into a burned-out husk? Do you really think ninety-seven scientists out of a hundred agree in lockstep with what are essentially either points of policy or individual assessments of risk?
“The ninety-seven percent I hear tossed around is as worthless as when someone tells you that a particular year is one-hundredth of a degree hotter than any other because of global warming. That’s statistical noise, not proof of the need to decarbonize our society.”
“You’re just a denier, Mercer,” she said. “You patronize me and say I take the truth of climate change on faith, but you dismiss it simply because it stands in the way of all your fossil fuel cronies who want to frack the whole planet.”
“I never said I denied anything,” Mercer replied. “But you have accepted the climate dogma without question. I was once pretty sure science would win out in the end, and the belief that the planet is doomed if we don’t return to the eighteenth century would be reexamined in light of new research. Now? Climatology has been hijacked by politicians and environmental activists, and I’m not so sure s
anity will ever prevail.
“And remember, you and your people have been willing to kill others in order to promote a scientific theory…one that is still in its infancy. If that’s not the definition of blind faith, I don’t know what is.”
The room was quiet for several long moments, before Nate Lowell finally said, “So what now?”
“Now we build our case against Jordan and the girl who tried to kill me with her car,” Agent Hepburn said, “and we investigate the Earth Action League. I’m sure they’ll deny direct involvement with these two, but it’s worth a shot, I suppose.” Jordan just stood near the couch, staring straight ahead.
“And what about you, Mercer?” Kelly asked.
“Me? Oh, I have the easier job, by far. I’m going to find Amelia Earhart’s missing plane, and I’m going to do it within”—he looked up as if actually calculating something—“three days.”
“Bullshit,” Lowell said.
“Watch me.”
“Nate, take Miss Weismann to the car. I want to talk to Mercer. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Excuse me, bitch,” Jordan snarled. “I don’t have shoes or a bra.”
Kelly replied sweetly, “Sorry, dearie, I hadn’t noticed. I’ll gather your belongings.”
“You can’t touch my stuff without a search warrant.”
“Well, since Mercer paid for it and it is in his house, it’s his stuff, not yours. All I need is his permission.” She looked over at him and Mercer nodded. “There. I’ll bring it out to you.”
“Jordan,” Mercer called as Lowell was leading her out. “For the record I did you a favor by not telling you I was going to Iowa, so you wouldn’t report it back to your masters. That’s one less conspiracy charge you’ll face. I recommend you cooperate with the FBI, and maybe you can avoid going to jail.”
