Jack Du Brul - Vulcan's forge

“Very good. Gentlemen, we all have jobs to do.”

The group started for the door. “I want everyone to meet back here in two hours. Dr. Mercer, ask my secretary for a temporary pass if you plan to leave the grounds.”

“I’ll do that.”

Mercer spoke with Miss Craig and learned that Tish was asleep in one of the White House guest rooms. He scribbled a quick note for her in case she woke up while he was gone and then hailed a cab near Pennsylvania Avenue. He was home twenty minutes later. After a quick shower and an even quicker beer, he went to his study, touched the large bluish stone that was his good luck piece, and sat behind his desk.

He dialed a number and two rings later the phone was answered. “Geology department, Carnegie-Mellon University.”

“I’d like to speak to Dr. Jacobs, please.”

“One moment.” After about a dozen moments the same voice came back on the line. “I’m sorry, Dr. Jacobs is with a class.”

“My name is Vince Andrews from the Hiller Foundation, the group that supports Dr. Jacobs’s research,” Mercer said, putting as much bluff into his voice as he could. “Dr. Jacobs is in serious trouble and will probably lose his grant. It’s imperative that I speak to him now.”

“I understand, please hold the line.”

A minute later a more mature voice spoke. “I don’t know who this is since my grant comes from Cochran Steel, but you’ve piqued my interest.”

“Hi, Abe, it’s Philip Mercer.”

“I should have known.” Abraham Jacobs laughed. “Mercer, give me a second to get into my office. I don’t want my assistant realizing the low caliber of some of my friends.”

A few seconds later, Abe Jacobs was back and the assistant had hung up the antechamber extension. “So, to what do I owe the honor of this call, and by the way thank you for getting me away from that class. They’re an even bigger group of idiots than you and your class when I taught at Penn State.”

Abe Jacobs had been Mercer’s academic advisor during his graduate work at Penn State, and Mercer had continued to seek his former professor’s advice in the years since school. They rarely saw each other now, but the tight bond between master teacher and star student had not dimmed.

“Abe, I was just in a meeting where your name came up.”

“Don’t tell me you’re on Carnegie-Mellon’s ethics board?”

“Abe, we both know your wife’s leash on you is just long enough for you to roam to your classes and your lab.”

“Too true.”

“Well, she might be in for a surprise tonight, because you won’t be home for dinner. A couple of years ago you apparently sent a research paper to the CIA.”

“Hold it right there, Mercer. How did you know that? That information was top secret.”

“I was told by Paul Barnes, the head of the CIA.”

“Ah.”

“The CIA is tracking you down right now, but it’ll probably take them a few hours to find you. They think you’re a metallurgist, not a geologist. I thought I’d beat them to the punch and teach Paul Barnes a lesson in humility at the same time. They want you in Washington as soon as possible with any relevant material about your paper.”

“What’s this all about? It was basically a theoretical paper. Without twenty years of development, what I found would be unfeasible.”

“Let’s just say someone may have already put in the development effort. Get to the Pittsburgh airport general aviation counter. I’ll have a charter plane ready to bring you down here.”

“I don’t understand. How could-”

Mercer interrupted. “Abe, I’ll explain on the way to the White House this evening.”

He cut the connection, then called general aviation at the airport. Securing a plane and pilot for Abe maxed out two of his credit cards, but Mercer shrugged off the expense. He was keeping a running tally of what the government owed him, and the price of the chartered Lear jet wasn’t even close to the repair bill for his shot-up Jaguar.

Minister Lujian, the Chinese representative, scratched his name into the heavy book slid to him by Minister Tren of Taiwan. Lujian finished his signature with a flourish and slid the book across the burnished mahogany table to the person at his left, Ambassador Marco Quirino, the representative from the Philippines.

With each successive signature, the oppressive air in the meeting room lightened. There were murmurs from the small gallery of spectators allowed to see the ambassadors pledge their nations’ consent to the document. Those in the gallery had not been privy to the weeks of frustrating delays that had plagued the Bangkok summit, but still they sensed the great accomplishment these diplomats had achieved.

The official signature book was passed to the Russian ambassador, Gennady Perchenko. A close observer could easily detect a slight rise in tension among the delegates. The wily Russian had been the reason for the past weeks of utter frustration. Then, inexplicably, this morning he announced to the delegates that he had no further comments. Because the symbolic documents for the representatives’ signatures had been prepared at the start of the accords, Thailand’s ambassador Prem motioned that the delegates commence with the signing and the others nearly fell over themselves seconding him.

U.S. undersecretary of commerce Kenneth Donnelly leaned over toward Perchenko and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “I sure hope you know what you’ve been playing at, pardner.”

“Mr. Secretary, I’m not playing at anything, I simply wanted to ensure all nations’ rights were explored here.”

Perchenko heard America’s delegate mutter, “Bullshit,” under his breath, but let the comment pass. No sooner had he signed the document than a wave of applause rippled through the room. Perchenko acknowledged the ovation with a smug smile and slid the book to Donnelly.

Donnelly signed with a tight smile focused on Perchenko and closed the book with a resounding snap.

A pounding rain lashed the night, the drone of the water interrupted only by the booming thunder that echoed across the city. The storm did little to cool the overpowering heat, and Perchenko found himself nearly panting as he raced from the courtyard of the Arun Wat toward the protection of the temple itself.

Kerikov’s orders had been explicit; that he wait by the low stone wall that separated the Temple of Dawn from the Phraya River at eight p.m., but the spy had said nothing about drowning in a torrential downpour.

Gennady dashed into the shadow of one of the four ceramic-tiled towers which surround the conical two-hundred-and-sixty-foot spire of the Wat. His suit was soaked through and his sparse hair hung limply against his pale face, a face once tight and healthy looking, but now worn by exhaustion so that bags drooped under his eyes and slabs of skin hung down his cheeks and throat.

He could hear the faint chanting of monks within the huge temple, but the storm drowned out all other sounds save his labored breathing.

“What the hell am I doing here?” he wheezed aloud.

“Not following instructions, Gennady Perchenko,”

Ivan Kerikov replied from the deep shadows to Perchenko’s right.

Kerikov stepped into the light given off by the temple’s numerous floods and spots. He seemed unaffected by the rain; his shoulders were squared against the deluge and his eyes remained open and alert. In contrast, Gennady hunched miserably, and he squinted at Kerikov as if he were a spectral apparition.

“I told you to wait by the wall.” Kerikov gestured with his arm, then smiled warmly. “But under the circumstances, I understand.”

Gennady relaxed a bit and smiled, but still regarded Kerikov with a wary, nervous eye.