by Jack Du Brul
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Takamora said, quieting the crowd with hand gestures. He spoke in Japanese. “Ladies and gentlemen, a little over a year ago you gave me a mandate when you elected me to help this city prosper, to create new jobs and security for our way of life. Since then I have done everything in my power to make this happen. But I’ve found myself limited by the very office with which you entrusted me.
“While we’ve been able to attract Japanese companies to our city, state and federal regulators have stalled our efforts. When Ohnishi Heavy Industries wanted to build a computer assembly plant in Honolulu, the government in Washington refused to allow import permits for the machinery needed to set up the plant. When I wanted to privatize our police force, with the blessing of you, the voters, the Supreme Court called that an unconstitutional act because it might be construed as a private militia.
“Now I want to see our tax dollars stay here on Hawaii rather than disappear into the federal cesspit, and I’m being called a secessionist. Referendum 324 does not equal secession, it means parity. Our state is now wholly self-sufficient. We trade more with Japan than we do with California, so why shouldn’t we be entitled to keep the tax revenue from our own labor? I no longer see any benefits from Washington, just inept meddling. I see us helping to prop up a system that has simply gotten away from itself, and I say: Don’t take us with you.
“While the mainland sinks into a bottomless pit of crime and drug abuse, where drive-by shootings no longer make the news, where teenage pregnancy accounts for thirty percent of the children born, where welfare assistance has turned into a crutch for those too lazy to work, we have prospered.
“Do you think it fair we should pay for their corruption?”
The frenzied crowd shouted a defiant, “No!”
“Is it right that we must pay for their excesses?”
Again, with one hate-filled voice the crowd screamed, “No!”
“Last night, the vice president of the United States branded me a secessionist.” The crowd was transmuting into a mindless mob, barely kept in check by Takamora’s voice. “I say, Don’t tempt me.”
Takamora’s last words were spoken in a low hiss, then he ducked from the stage, wearing the adulation of the crowd like a cloak. An aide handed him a bottle of beer and a towel. He took a quick swig and wiped the greasy makeup from his face.
“Listen to them,” he said to the assembled aides. “They’re ready for anything.”
As Takamora leaned into the sound of the crowd beyond the maroon curtain, an aide slid a ringing cellular phone from his pocket, listened for an instant, then handed it to Takamora.
“Yes.”
“Congratulations, David, a rousing speech.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ohnishi, I’m pleased you were able to hear it.” The microphones in the convention center had been wired into a transceiver and the signals sent to Ohnishi’s house. “Can you still hear the crowd, sir?”
“Yes, you are certainly the man of the hour.”
“Only with your help, Mr. Ohnishi,” Takamora replied honestly, acknowledging the massive support given to him by the aging industrialist.
“I think now is the time to step up our campaign, don’t you?” Ohnishi’s comment was not really a question, it was a command.
“I agree, sir,” Takamora replied, keeping the pretense of a free will. “What do you have in mind?”
“A few bombings, better arms for the youth gangs, and a little more selectivity to their targets. Our day is rapidly approaching, so we must be more organized. Kenji will contact you in the morning with all the particulars.”
“But the vote for Referendum 324 is still a week away — aren’t we jumping the gun slightly?”
“Some unforeseen contingencies have arisen that may force me to abandon the subterfuge of Referendum 324. Who cares if the people won’t be allowed their vote? We will give them what they want anyway. What I want to know is if your National Guard troops will maintain their loyalty throughout our campaign.”
“You can count on them, sir, at least those units that I’ve personally built up since taking office. As you know, the crack units here in Honolulu are made up of Japanese-Americans, young men and women who feel the same as we do. It is only a matter of time until the governor calls them out, unwittingly putting more of our people on the streets. I guarantee that they will not interfere with your gangs.”
“And if the President calls out federal troops?”
Takamora hesitated for an instant. “The guardsmen will be willing to take them on. Remember, the military presence on the island represents the greatest source of antagonism among our people. It is the same here as it was on Okinawa following the rape of that little girl in 1996.”
“Good, and, David, never question me again.” Ohnishi’s tone was saccharine, but hard edged.
Takamora shut off the phone with a snap, angered that his euphoria of a few moments ago had been chilled by Ohnishi. He tried to look composed as he handed the phone back to his assistant, but failed miserably.
Arlington, Virginia
The faint chime of the Tiffany alarm clock woke Mercer instantly. His hand snaked out from under the tangle of sheets and blankets and silenced the antique piece. He pushed aside the bed coverings and swung his legs to the floor. His deep gray eyes were already bright and clear. Mercer’s eyes reacted to light much quicker than the average person’s. He barely squinted at bright lights and adjusted to darkness with the speed of a cat. It was an ability he fully exploited in the subterranean world of hard-rock mining.
He shaved and took a quick shower before heading down the circular stairs to the rec room, passing through the library on the way. The built-in dark oak shelves were full of plain beige boxes containing his vast collection of reference books. For the thousandth time, Mercer promised himself he’d unpack the books and place them properly on the shelves. He also wanted to hang the dozens of pictures and paintings he had collected over the years, which currently lay crated in one of the brownstone’s two spare bedrooms.
Cup of coffee in hand, he went to the front door and grabbed the morning Washington Post. He was just turning to the stories beneath the fold as he made his way to the bar in the rec room.
A story on the left corner riveted him to the stool.
SURVIVOR FOUND FROM NOAA SHIP
Hawaii
Dr. Tish Talbot, a specialist on the ill-fated NOAA research vessel
Ocean Seeker
, was rescued by a Finnish freighter at 12:30 local time this morning. She is so far the only survivor of the ship which sank three days ago. The
Ocean Seeker
was investigating the mysterious deaths of twelve gray whales found beached last month on Hawaii’s north coast. Dr. Talbot is said to be in stable condition, suffering from dehydration and exposure. She is being flown to George Washington University Hospital this morning for observation. The rescue ship, SS
September Laurel
, had been assisting the coast guard and navy search for survivors since the mysterious sinking.
The article went on, but Mercer really didn’t see the rest of the words; he was stunned. The sense of loss that he felt the night before slipped away, replaced by joy and relief.
“Harry, wake up.” Mercer had to share the news.
Harry came awake slowly, groans and yawns followed by scratches and stretches. “What time is it?”
“Quarter of six,” Mercer replied, glancing at his Tag Heuer watch.
“Christ, my mouth feels as if I just French-kissed an Angora sweater.”
Mercer poured him a cup of coffee. Harry moved from the couch to the bar and slouched onto one of the stools, a cigarette already smoldering between his lips.
“Remember me telling you about Jack Talbot, the guy who saved my life in Alaska?” Mercer didn’t wait for Harry to answer. “Last night I found out that his daughter was on board that NOAA ship that sank in the Pacific.”
“Christ, Mercer, sorry to
hear it,” Harry said seriously.
“I was meaning to ask you last night if you had heard about that.”
Mercer held up the front page of the paper and Harry read it through still-bleary eyes. “Well, I’ll be god-damned. How about that for luck.”
“No shit.”
“I wonder if your friend knows yet?”
“He probably didn’t even know about the accident — last I knew he was working aboard an oil rig off the coast of Indonesia.”
Harry looked at Mercer for a second, then stood up. “I better get home.” Harry was through the door before Mercer could say another word. Mercer puzzled about his friend’s abrupt exit for a moment, then went back to reading his paper.
At 8:30, Mercer strode into his office at the U.S. Geological Survey. His secretary, Jennifer Woodridge, tried to smile and say hi with a mouth full of cherry danish. Mercer marveled at her ability to eat. Her desk was nearly always covered with half-eaten junk food, mangled bags of chips, and at least three empty soft drink cans. Yet she weighed around one hundred pounds and had a figure that made him wish half the rumors in the office were true.
“Morning, Jen. I see nothing’s changed in my absence.”
She swallowed hard and took a sip of coffee. “Welcome back. I was so relieved that you were in South Africa and not aboard that NOAA ship, you have no idea.”
“Trust me, you’re not half as relieved as I am.”
Jen Woodridge had not always cared so much for her temporary boss. Two months earlier, when Mercer had started consulting at the USGS, Jen had prepared an extensive list of the things she would and wouldn’t do in the course of her job. She read through the list at a staccato pace about two seconds after their introduction.
Mercer had listened to her calmly, without comment. When she had finished all Mercer said was, “Okay.”
“What do you want me to do now?” she asked, thinking she had the upper hand with him.
“Go back and sit at your desk.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Just sit at your desk. Don’t answer the phone, don’t fill out any papers, don’t do anything.”
It took only forty fidgety minutes before Jen caved in and returned to Mercer’s office, her blue eyes glazed with boredom. “Point taken and I’m sorry. Usually the consultants around here treat the staff like slaves.”
“Since you are the first secretary, excuse me, assistant, I’ve ever had, I really don’t know how to treat you.” Mercer’s honesty had begun a great working relationship. Now he asked, “Did you read about that woman rescued last night?”
“Yes, isn’t that fantastic?”
“Strange thing is, I know her, or rather, I know her father,” Mercer said, heading for his office. “Come on and fill me in on what’s been happening while I’ve been gone.”
Mercer struggled out of his jacket and threw it carelessly over the leather sofa. He laid his briefcase on the desk and settled into his chair. Jen hung up his jacket with a maternal scowl and sat in the chair in front of the desk to help him pore through the mountain of papers.
Around noon, Jennifer went to lunch; Mercer stayed in his office, catching up on the paperwork treadmill. A security guard knocked quietly at his office door a few minutes after Jen left. “Are you Dr. Philip Mercer?” the guard asked, confirming the name from the slip of paper in his hand.
Mercer winced inwardly — he hated to be called doctor. He grinned at the security officer. “So you boys finally caught me stealing toilet paper from the men’s room.”
The guard looked at him, puzzled, then realized that Mercer wasn’t serious.
So much for a sense of humor, thought Mercer.
“Sir, Western Union delivered this telegram to the front office; it’s addressed to you.” The guard handed Mercer the envelope and left without another word.
The telegram had been sent from Jakarta. Mercer knew instinctively that it was from Jack Talbot. For some reason he felt a sense of foreboding as he unfolded the paper.
“Tish is in mortal danger. Help her. Ocean Seeker intentionally destroyed. Will try to get to D.C. soonest.”
It was signed Jack.
Mercer spent no more than ten seconds making up his mind. The Jack Talbot he knew was not prone to fantasy or hysteria. If Jack said that his daughter was in danger and that the NOAA ship had been purposely destroyed, Mercer believed him unequivocally.
Mercer stood quickly, his gray eyes hard and set, his lean body already slightly tensed for the unknown. He grabbed his jacket and strode to the elevators. Within six minutes of reading the telegram his black Jaguar XJS convertible was bulling its way through downtown traffic toward the GWU hospital.
The nurse at the hospital’s front desk informed him that Tish was in room 404, but that no visitors were allowed. The nurse also told Mercer that the room was being guarded by the FBI.
The fact that the sole survivor of a shipwreck was under guard gave some credence to Jack’s warning that his daughter was in danger and that the sinking of the Ocean Seeker had ominous overtones.
“Well, that takes care of that,” Mercer said, and gave the nurse a smile that made her blush. “Where can I find a cup of coffee?”
“To the right and up the stairs, sir,” she responded, patting her mousy hair. “The cafeteria is on the second floor.”
Mercer thanked her, but once in the stairwell he climbed quickly to the fourth floor. The fluorescent lights, yellow-painted walls, and hospital smell were enough to cause nausea in the most healthy person. After a few minutes he found the wing which contained room 404. The two beefy no-necked men sitting at an impromptu security desk eyed him like sharks looking at a wounded mullet.
“Dr. Mercer to see Tish Talbot,” Mercer said casually, flashing an ID card.
One guard looked him up and down, noting the stethoscope protruding from his coat pocket. Mercer had picked it up at an empty nurse’s station. The other guard saw the GWU logo on the card and noted that the photo of Dr. Mercer matched the man in front of him.
“What’s your business, Dr. Mercer?” The man’s voice was flat and lifeless.
“I’m a urologist,” Mercer replied, and stifled a small yawn. “I need to check for renal damage due to extended dehydration.”
The guard waved him through without a second thought. The ID that Mercer flashed had in fact been issued by GWU hospital, but it merely signified that he was a recipient of the hospital’s health coverage. Anything more than a cursory examination would have gotten him a quick trip to the J. Edgar Hoover Building.
So much for the vigilance of the FBI.
Mercer looked over his shoulder and saw one of the guards bury his face in a near-empty bag of corn chips and pour the remainder in his mouth. Since Tish was in possible trouble, there was no way that he would let these two idiots look out for her.
Tish was sitting up in bed, a magazine resting on her bent knees. Though she looked fatigued from her ordeal she was a beautiful woman on the easy side of thirty with short-cropped dark hair, arresting red lips, and high cheekbones. Her skin was burned dark by the sun but did not appear permanently damaged. She looked up at him with her father’s eyes, impossibly clear blue and impish.
“Miss Talbot, I’m Philip Mercer. I’m a friend of your father’s. In fact I owe him my life — maybe he told you the story?”
Her smile was warm and open. “I’ve heard that story about a million times, Dr. Mercer, and I must say it’s good to have a friend here.”
“Better than you know,” Mercer said under his breath. “How do you feel?”
“Tired and sore but okay. I really don’t know why I’m being kept here.” There was annoyance in her voice.
“Believe it or not, you’re a pretty hot item right now. Do you know that you’re under guard?”
“I wasn’t aware of that. What the hell for?” She was plain speaking, just like her father.
“I was hoping you could tell me. I received a telegram about an hour ago from your
father in Jakarta. He asked me to look after you.”
Tish stared at him.
“He felt that the Ocean Seeker was intentionally destroyed, and if that’s true, I don’t think that you’re safe here. I was in South Africa when all of this happened, so I don’t know any details, but for now I’ll trust your father and assume that your life may be in danger.”
Tish continued to regard him blankly.
“Does any of this make sense to you? Do you remember something or did you see something that could cause this stir?”
“In the first place, Dr. Mercer…” Before she could continue a man opened the door. A lab coat covered his suit.
“Good afternoon, I’m Dr. Alfred Rosenburg, your urologist.” His smile was crooked and his teeth stained tobacco yellow.
Mercer took one look at the man’s shoes and reacted instantly. The punch was powered with a full twist of his body. The instant before his fist smashed into the man’s face, Mercer bent his arm, and his elbow connected solidly with Rosenburg’s cheek. Tish muffled a scream in her hands as the doctor’s head whipped around and he slammed into the wall.
Mercer turned to her. “Get dressed now, I’m getting you out of here.”
Rosenburg was already regaining his feet, a six-inch stiletto in his hand. Mercer bent at the knees and torqued his body around, extending one leg in a sweep. The man fell back, his body shaking the wall when he hit. Mercer planted a foot squarely in his stomach, then kicked up into his face as he doubled over. Rosenburg’s head snapped back and crashed into the wall. He slumped over, unconscious.
Mercer looked at Tish, who was still in bed. “He won’t be alone. Now get dressed.”
She flew from the bed and was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt within moments, though not before Mercer stole a glimpse of exquisitely long legs and a white silkpantied backside.
Mercer opened the door slowly and looked toward the guard station. The pool of blood under the desk told him that both FBI agents were dead.
