Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

“I didn’t say that. Rufti as well as the Oil Minister from Iran and the newly reinstated representative from Iraq have been holding very quiet meetings, usually in out-of-the-way places.”

“Iran and Iraq? What in the hell is he doing with them?”

“Haven’t a clue, old boy. Security around those meetings is tighter than a vicar’s robes though not as easily bought. During the day, all three men keep their distance from one another, but for the past two nights, their limos have all been seen parked in front of the same hotel or restaurant. Whatever they are discussing is high level and extremely hush-hush.”

“Trev, I need you to find out what they’re talking about.”

“I would, but I do have a piece to write. Playing detective for you has been a nice diversion, but I’ve got child support payments higher than most countries’ gross national products. I need to get back to my story. I’m sorry.”

“I’m writing a check right now for one hundred thousand dollars. Get me that information and it’s yours.”

“Khalid, I don’t need your beneficence,” Trevor said angrily.

“But I need yours.” Khalid set down the phone without saying good-bye.

As a frequent traveler, Mercer had developed an immunity to jet lag. He could force himself to stay awake or fall asleep upon arrival, depending on how much time he’d shifted. He could be fully acclimated in only a single day, whether he got thirteen hours of sleep or three. However, his flight to Alaska, by way of Chicago and Sea-Tac in Seattle, had been interrupted by both weather and a mechanical delay at Midway, forcing him to spend a night at an airport hotel. He finally landed in Anchorage at a little past ten in the morning, clear-eyed and sharp.

Mercer rented a four-wheel-drive Blazer and drove the three hundred miles south to Valdez, stopping only for fuel, coffee, and the occasional al fresco bathroom break. He arrived in town shortly before four and decided to head straight for the marine terminal rather than checking into his hotel.

He rolled the Blazer to the small guard booth at the entrance to the sprawling facility and was relieved to find his name still on the guest list from when he and Howard Small had used the terminal as a base for their mini-mole tests. Mercer drove into the terminal, around the East Manifold building that monitored oil pouring down the pipeline at 88,000 barrels per hour, and past the huge holding tanks that processed the contaminated seawater that ballasted tankers on their runs to the site.

He slid into an “Authorized Vehicle Only” spot in front of the Operations Center, just inland of berth number four, where a midsized tanker was having her belly filled with North Slope crude. Once he was out of the protective cocoon of the truck, the biting cold struck him head-on, the wind coming off the Sound like needles. Snow had blanketed much of the terminal, but it had all been plowed into huge mounds in parking lots and just beyond the sharp curves of the roads that crisscrossed the installation. To say the weather was unseasonably cold was to say that Cain and Abel only argued on occasion.

Quickly, Mercer dashed from the Blazer into the Operations Center, unzipping his coat as soon as he felt the blast of warm air from the building’s heaters. The receptionist was reading a thriller novel and regarded Mercer so angrily that he was sure he’d interrupted a climactic scene. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes, I phoned earlier. I’m Philip Mercer.”

“Oh, yes, you’re here to see Andy Lindstrom.” She got up from her chair, the metal legs scraping as she shifted her considerable bulk. “Right this way. He’s not expecting you for a while, but I’m sure he won’t mind.”

Lindstrom, the terminal’s Chief of Operations, stood behind his desk as Mercer entered his office. He wore jeans and a heavy flannel shirt, his head covered by a Seahawks baseball cap. Of average height and build and still in his forties, he looked much older, his skin heavily weathered by twenty years in Alaska and a two-packs-a-day cigarette habit. His jaw was stubbled with a couple days’ worth of reddish beard, and his blue eyes were wearier than Mercer remembered from the last time he’d seen him.

The office was small and institutional, the light provided by a single window and a bank of fluorescent fixtures suspended from the drop ceiling. Lindstrom’s desk was piled with papers placed haphazardly in spiraled stacks that seemed in imminent danger of toppling. A credenza and file cabinet were also buried under papers, thick technical manuals, and parts catalogs. The only furniture not covered was a pair of old wooden chairs in front of the desk. On one wall was a large topographical map of Alaska crudely bisected by a jagged red line representing the pipeline. On the opposite wall was a garish travel poster of a well-bikinied beach.

Lindstrom acknowledged Mercer with a raised finger, then pointed at the telephone receiver clutched in his other fist. His complexion was reddened by whatever was being said on the other end of the conversation.

“Now wait just a goddamn minute. I sent the armature up to the depot in Fairbanks two days ago. If you haven’t gotten it yet, bend their ear, not mine.” He paused and rolled his eyes at Mercer. “Hey, listen to me, I’m not your fucking whipping boy. This sounds like an internal problem to me. I just tried to do you a favor. Don’t think it means I want you calling me every time you have a glitch with one of your machines. Maybe next time you’ll buy American.”

He set the phone down and blew out a long breath.

“Let me guess,” Mercer said as Lindstrom lit a cigarette. “One of the oil companies up in the Refuge.”

“You got it. Alyeska promised to help them out, and the next thing you know they’re calling me when they run out of toilet paper. Christ, it wasn’t like this when we opened up this state. Those roughnecks knew how to work.

“I was a little surprised to get your call yesterday,” Andy said as they shook hands. “I thought you’d left the state after completing those tests with Howard Small. And I’m downright curious why you wanted my Chief of Security present for this meeting. Mike Collins will be here in a few minutes. Mind telling me what you’re doing back in Alaska?”

“I’d prefer to wait until Collins gets here. It’s a pretty complicated story, and I only want to tell it once.”

“Am I right in guessing this has something to do with your project up on the hill?”

“Indirectly. Have you heard about Howard Small?”

“No, what about him?”

“He’s dead, I’m afraid. Murdered. And whoever killed him has made two attempts on me.”

“Jesus. All for that tunnel-boring machine of his?”

Before Mercer could reply, there was a knock at the door, and without pause, Mike Collins entered the office. He was big, a solid two hundred twenty pounds, and old enough that Mercer assumed the scar jagging its way across the right side of his face was a constant reminder of the Vietnam War. Like Lindstrom, he was dressed casually, jeans and a flannel shirt, a pair of Tony Lamas on his size-thirteen feet.

Because he and Mercer hadn’t met during Mercer’s earlier stay in Valdez, Lindstrom made introductions. Collins’ grip was sure and firm, his hands almost as callused as Mercer’s. The Operations Chief told Collins about the death of Howard Small and the two attempts on Mercer’s life.

“So this is about Minnie?” Lindstrom asked again.

“No, not at all. After we finished up our tests, Howard and I went fishing with his cousin in Homer. While we were out, we found a burned-out derelict fishing boat floating maybe forty miles offshore. What we found aboard her got him killed.”