“You don’t have to worry. No matter how tight he gets wrapped, Mercer knows his limits. He needs a little time, is all. But thanks for the heads-up. I’ll watch him for the both of us.”
“You’re a good friend, Harry White.”
“Yeah, well, truth be told, so are you, Ira. I’ll talk to you later.”
Harry had hung around Mercer’s place in the days since, watching and waiting for his friend to open up. Meanwhile, Mercer spent his time on his computer searching for everything he could about the legend of Rinpoche-La. What he found confirmed much of what Tisa had told him about the Chinese treasure fleet and the extraordinary voyages of Admiral Zheng He. There was little about Zhu Zhanji and the fabled treasure he’d spirited away and absolutely nothing about her organization. He did learn that the Chinese were the first to attempt developing accurate earthquake sensors. These were delicately balanced porcelain pots that when filled with water became unstable. The slightest tremor would cause water to spill from one of the multiple dragon mouth spouts. The direction and amount of water spilled would tell those watching it where and how strong the quake had been. The earliest one found was almost two thousand years old.
As for the mythical village, the Internet provided a great deal of conjecture but little in the way of fact. Most of what he found was on Web sites dedicated to mysticism and New Age mumbo jumbo. They said Rinpoche-La was the last truly unspoiled place on earth, a sort of terrestrial Nirvana where the inhabitants were free from the daily burden of human existence. They put the village’s location high in the Himalayas, deep in the Gobi Desert and a thousand locations in between.
The writers sounded so flaky, Mercer determined that no one had ever tried a scientific approach to finding the hamlet. He contacted a commecial satellite imaging company in La Jolla, California, and requested every high-resolution photo they had of the north flank of the Himalaya Mountains for the past five years. That’s where Tisa indicated she’d been born, and at five hundred dollars per picture, the cost of expanding the search beyond that area would be staggering.
As it stood, the weeks he’d spent consulting in Canada for De Beers would cover just a portion of the price of the two thousand prints that had been delivered late yesterday afternoon.
Until he studied the pictures, he would put the search for Rinpoche-La out of his mind and concentrate on the second puzzle Tisa had given him. Leper Alma.
“Yup,” Mercer finally answered Harry’s question about his day’s plans. “Another wasted effort on the computer. I can’t do much else until I hear from Ira.”
“Sure you can.” Harry held up his empty drink. “Pour yourself one of these and relax for a while. I’ll call Tiny and see if he’ll open early or maybe we can take a ride up to Pimlico to watch the ponies.”
As tempting as it sounded, Mercer shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Killing yourself won’t get her back,” Harry said softly.
Mercer froze. He wasn’t surprised Harry had figured out what was driving him so hard; he probably understood Mercer’s motivations even better than Mercer did. He was just startled that Harry had brought it up. In their unwritten code, neither man discussed their emotions much. Each carried several lifetimes’ worth of scars and saw little need to irritate them further.
“Do you love her?” Harry prodded.
“I don’t know.” Mercer’s reply was slow, deliberate. “Maybe. We only spent one day together, not enough time to know for sure.”
“When it comes to love, no one’s ever really sure.”
“That sounds like something you heard on Oprah.”
Harry smirked. “Jerry Springer. Overweight teen cross-dressers in love with their teachers was the show’s topic.” He turned thoughtful. “The amount of time you spend with someone doesn’t matter. A day, a week or a year. It’s all the same. Christ, there are couples who spend a lifetime together only to finally admit they’ve hated each other since day one.”
“Too true. More than anything, Harry, I’m pissed that some asshole has denied us the opportunity to find out.”
“And what if it isn’t love?”
“I’d still go after her for no other reason than the chance to kill Donny Randall.”
Harry smiled and slapped the bar. “Now that sounds like the Mercer I know.”
“So what the hell do I do?”
“Pour us that drink for one thing and I guess keep doing what you’re doing. Only don’t think about why you want to find her. It’ll cloud your judgment. Concentrate on the how.”
Not bad advice, Mercer admitted, considering the source. “What’s the longest you’ve ever spent with a woman?”
Harry gave him a lecherous look. “An hour and ten minutes, but that was at midnight when the clocks roll forward.”
“Seriously.”
“Seriously? About six months. This was years ago when I first moved to Washington and thought it was time to settle down.”
“What happened?”
“I realized that when I was with her I wasn’t being true to myself. I was already settled by then and was using her just to legitimize my life. For a while I hid my feelings in a misguided attempt to protect her. Big mistake. The night I broke up with her, she was expecting me to propose. She had no idea how I really felt. It was one hell of an ugly scene. I know it was for the best. I could have faked it for a while longer, years maybe, but in the end it wouldn’t have worked. I’m sure someday she realized it too. I guess in your situation, you have to ask yourself if you are still who you’re supposed to be when you were with Tisa. And that’s a trickier question than it sounds.”
“I know it is,” Mercer agreed. “And the truth is I don’t know yet.”
“But when you were with her?”
Mercer didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
Harry sat back in his stool, a smug expression on his weathered face. “There you go then. Go back to work, but at three o’clock we’re going to Tiny’s and I’m going to buy rounds until one of us is blind drunk. That’s not an offer. It’s a threat.”
With a fresh pot of coffee in hand, Mercer left Harry to his crossword puzzle and went down to his office. The room was decorated like the bar, with green carpet and plenty of oak and brass. In one corner was one of Mercer’s prize possessions, a blackened piece of lightweight metal that had once been a girder of the airship Hindenburg. Passing the credenza by the door, Mercer’s hand brushed a slab of a bluish mineral called kimberlite. He considered this particular rock, which was the lodestone for diamond mining, his personal good-luck charm. It had been presented to him by a grateful mine manager whose life Mercer had saved.
He sat at the antique desk and ramped on to the Internet. He typed “Leper Alma” into a search engine and 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 pictures didn’t have anywhere near the resolution Mercer expected. In the images shot from a hundred miles above the earth, glaciers looked like the dense, stationary clouds they were searching for. In five hours they’d located thirty-five potential locations for Rinpoche-La and had covered barely a quarter of the pictures Mercer had bought.
They did end up going to Tiny’s after having some Chinese food delivered for dinner. As for Harry’s threat to get Mercer blind drunk, they had only two drinks apiece. Both had headaches from squinting at pictures all day and weren’t in the mood to add to the pain.
Mercer took Drag out for the last time just before midnight and climbed the spiral stairs to bed. By the time he finished brushing his teeth and using the urinal tucked in a corner of the master bathroom, the basset was spread across both pillows. Mercer didn’t have the heart to disturb the old dog so he resigned himself to the corner of one pillow he’d been left and settled in for another round of nightmares.
The phone rang at two fifteen. Mercer was wide awake before the end of the first shrill chime. He knew who was calling and what he’d hear. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying for a moment to retain the simplicity he was about to lose. True, the call might bring him closer to Tisa, bu
t it would also introduce him to a world on the brink of Armageddon. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said life as he knew it was about to end.
On the second ring he answered by saying, “It’s already happening, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Ira sounded like he hadn’t been to sleep yet. “A deep strata seismograph indicates La Palma’s becoming alive.”
“How long until a car gets here?”
“Ten minutes, maybe less.”
“Where am I headed?”
“The White House.”
“See you there.” Mercer cut the connection.
THE WHITE HOUSE
The rain that had been falling for days finally abated, leaving the streets clean and fresh. Halos of mist draped the streetlamps. At this hour there was no traffic or pedestrians. Even the city’s homeless were hibernating.
The Cadillac carrying Mercer swung into the back entrance of the Executive Mansion and braked at a guardhouse. After vetting the driver and passing a mirror under the chassis to search for bombs, the guard asked Mercer for identification and checked his name against an electronic clipboard. The car was waved through.
Ira was waiting for Mercer at the West Wing entrance wearing a suit but no tie. They shook hands silently and the admiral led him into the building. They moved along dim corridors and passed several quiet offices before coming to a closed door.
“The president doesn’t know the nature of this briefing,” Ira informed him. “Kleinschmidt called him thirty minutes ago and just said there’s a crisis.”
“Who else is in there?” Mercer asked.
“Admiral Morrison.” C. Thomas Morrison was the charismatic chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the uniformed leader of the United States military, and possibly the next occupant of the Oval Office. “Paul Barnes of the CIA and Dick Henna from the FBI.”
“I haven’t seen Dick in a long time,” Mercer remarked. They’d been friends for several years but their busy schedules had taken a toll on the relationship.
Deep Fire Rising Page 26
