Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

“The Greeks or the Japanese would have bought those tankers in a heartbeat for a hell of a lot more. Christ, the Petromax Pacifica is only eight months old. She must be worth $75 million all by herself,” Saulman pointed out.

“No shit.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Saulman agreed. “And here’s another weird one. Southern Coasting demanded that all the ships’ names be changed immediately upon signing of the deal, not just in the books but physically changed on the ships as well. They’re even paying for a crew to fly to Valdez to rename the Arctica while she’s en route between Alaska and California.”

“What about the other two tankers?”

“The Petromax Arabia is in the Persian Gulf. Her new name is the Southern Accent , and the Petromax Pacifica is unloading in Tokyo where she becomes the Southern Hospitality .”

“Strange, but it doesn’t really help me any.” Mercer kept the disappointment from his voice. “Do you have anything else?”

“Well, the Arctica was eighteen hours late arriving at Valdez, and her captain had to be choppered from the ship to Anchorage after he was involved in some sort of accident.”

“Jesus, why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”

“Hey, you wanted a list of ships in the Gulf of Alaska. You never told me why.”

“Sorry,” Mercer replied sheepishly. “Is a tanker running late a common occurrence?”

“Like hell. One of those monsters costs roughly a thousand dollars an hour to operate, so we’re talking eighteen thousand dollars just for fuel, wages, and insurance. That doesn’t factor in lost haulage time and lateness penalties paid to the chartering companies. Tankers are never late.”

“Any idea what happened to the captain?”

“No. All that’s listed in the accident report sent to Lloyd’s was that he lost his forearm. Petromax is paying to have him sent to a specialist in Seattle.”

Mercer was silent for a few moments. He wanted to believe that the Arctica was the ship that smuggled the cylinders of liquid nitrogen to a rendezvous with the Jenny IV , but that didn’t make sense. Petromax was a world leader in oil exploration; they wouldn’t be involved in a smuggling operation, especially something as innocuous as liquid nitrogen. Their position in Alaska was already difficult because of opposition to opening the Arctic Wildlife Refuge, and they wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize it further.

“I think we’re barking up the wrong tree,” Mercer finally said.

“Tell me what you’re looking for and maybe I can find it,” Saulman offered.

“I can’t, Dave, I’m sorry. Listen, you’ve helped me by telling me where not to look. That’s more than I had before.”

To lift Mercer from the black mood Saulman heard in his voice, the lawyer offered another trivia question. “Well, before I go, who designed the original Monitor for the Union navy?”

“Too easy,” Mercer replied without hesitation, “John Ericsson.” He hung up the phone while Saulman cursed him out good-naturedly.

A few minutes later, Mercer slid his Jaguar into a spot next to Tiny’s well-used Pontiac in the parking lot behind the former jockey’s bar. He tossed his bags into the backseat of his friend’s sedan before locking his own car.

The bar was empty except, to Mercer’s surprise, for Harry seated on his normal stool, a nearly empty drink gripped in his bony hand, a cigarette hanging limply from his pale lips. Next to him was a large cardboard box, the unmistakable labels of Jack Daniel’s bottles peeking over the lid.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Mercer asked as he entered the bar through the little-used kitchen.

“You won’t believe it.” Harry was excited as a child at Christmas. “I’ve ordered four cases of JD and the idiots at the hotel keep bringing them to me. They even called a cab for me to lug ’em over here. A couple more hours of this and I won’t have to pay for a drink for the next year.”

“What are they charging per case?” Mercer asked, fearful of the answer. Henna was going to kill him when he got the bill.

“I don’t know, like a hundred dollars a bottle,” Harry dismissed, finishing his drink just as Tiny set another before him. “God bless Uncle Sam and his bottomless pockets.”

Mercer paused. He could be angry for Harry’s abuse of his offer to use the suite or he could join in the spirit of larceny. “Next time you go back, grab me a couple of bottles of Absolut vodka, but make sure that this is your last run. I’m sure that the Willard’s going to alert Henna’s office before too long. And grab a bottle of Remy Martin for Tiny; I know he’s out.”

“Mighty generous of you,” Tiny said sourly. “Do you have any idea what’ll happen to my business if Harry has his own source of booze?”

“Charge him double for the ginger ale. He’ll still come,” Mercer joked. “Paul, I need a favor.”

Tiny caught the seriousness of Mercer’s last words and replied instantly, “Name it.”

“I just need a ride to the airport. And for you to hide my car for a few days.”

“What’s going on?” Despite his inebriation, Harry heard Mercer’s tone.

“I’ve got a lead on those bastards who shot up my house last night.”

“I thought that the FBI was handling that.”

Mercer shot Harry a scathing look. “They’re out of their league on this one. Kerikov’s back.”

Harry was quiet while he absorbed this piece of information. He felt a phantom spasm in the missing leg. It was the Soviet plan, Vulcan’s Forge, that had cost Harry his leg, and it was Kerikov who had controlled it at its bitter end. Tiny didn’t understand what had just passed between Mercer and Harry; he didn’t know what a malevolent force Kerikov represented. But Harry and Mercer knew all too well. They had often discussed the probability of Kerikov resurfacing, and now it was happening. Harry’s missing limb twitched again; he could feel it as if it were really there. “You think he’s after revenge?”

Mercer shook his head. “There are too many other things involved, but if I get taken out in the cross fire, I’m sure the son of a bitch won’t shed any tears.”

“Well, it can’t be a coincidence,” Harry said pointedly.

“No, but it could be fate.” The last time he’d squared off against Kerikov, the United States had almost erupted in civil war. He was truly frightened of what would happen this time.

“Tiny, take him to the airport. I’ll watch the bar.” A line like that from Harry would have usually demanded a number of quips, but Tiny untied his apron and tossed it on the bar without comment.

Mercer was almost out the back door following Paul Gordon’s diminutive figure when he turned back to Harry. “If I don’t come back, stay low, will you? He knows who you are too.”

“If you don’t come back, I might as well commit suicide and save Kerikov the hassle of killing me.” Harry looked down at his drink for a moment and when he glanced up again, his eyes were heavy with emotion. “Take care of yourself, Philip.”

It was the first time since they’d met that Harry had used Mercer’s first name, and it sounded so much like a final good-bye that Mercer paused, locked eyes with his old friend, and then nodded almost imperceptibly.

Built by Yarrow and Company in 1964 as a Hecla class survey ship for the Royal Navy, the Hope retained her sparse military lines even under coats of garish yellow paint that made her look like an oversized bathtub toy. Her flat bows rode almost perpendicular to the choppy swells, and her stern was equally blunted. She was two hundred thirty-five feet long; two thirds of her main deck supported a three-level superstructure, her squared funnel thrust through the center. There was a helicopter pad on the aft deck, and a garage below the bridge that housed her two yellow Range Rovers. A ten-ton crane angled forward, ready to swing the vehicles to or from shore.