Jack Du Brul - Vulcan's forge

Once the equipment was set up, one of the young men began typing commands. The machines beeped and whirred and a test pattern appeared on the color monitor. The other man held a cardboard card in front of the camera. In Pusan, the image of that second test pattern filled the screen of a huge wall-mounted high-definition television. The two technicians nodded to each other and retreated from the room. An instant later the test pattern vanished from the monitor and was replaced by a view of a beautiful room.

Kerikov sat on the couch in front of the cyclops eye of the minicam. On the monitor, nine aged gentlemen were seated around a black lacquer table. None of them was under seventy years of age, yet their dark eyes were all alert and steady. Each man’s face was deeply lined and there was not a single dark hair to be seen. Behind the men hung a red tapestry chronicling Genghis Khan’s conquest of Asia, flanked by two huge terra-cotta vases.

Kerikov nodded slightly to show respect to the nine heads of Hydra Consolidated. In turn, the men merely dipped their eyes for a moment. That piece of Eastern nonsense complete, Kerikov spoke. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Good evening to you, Mr. Kerikov.” The satellite feed scrambled their voices and automatically translated from Korean into Russian and vice versa. The system worked well enough, as long as their sentences were not filled with enigmatic phrases. Way Hue Dong spoke for the syndicate, as he had during all their earlier negotiations. “I trust that this method of meeting is agreeable.”

“I am ready now to commit to our agreed-upon proposal.”

“We would like to know why the delay was necessary?” The electronics masked the annoyance in Way’s voice, but the question made his emotions clear.

“It was needed, I assure you, gentlemen.” Kerikov knew that a placating smile would be lost on these men, so he refrained. “When you see the location of the mineral deposit, you will understand that significant steps were needed to ensure its safety.”

“I trust that our future activities will not be disturbed?”

“No, they will not,” Kerikov responded hurriedly. With the Americans’ and Russians’ hands tied by the Bangkok Accords, only Takahiro Ohnishi presented any obstacle, and by the time the Koreans reached the volcano, Ohnishi would be eliminated.

Dealing with the race-crazed billionaire was a necessary hazard during the final play of Vulcan’s Forge. Ohnishi had been programmed to attempt his break away from the United States, and up until the last possible moment, Kerikov had needed him. But now the mineral wealth lay beyond America’s control — and beyond Ohnishi’s, if he ever succeeded in his bid for independence.

“Then all is in order?” Way asked, snapping Kerikov’s attention back to the present.

“Yes, I am ready to transmit the final data to you now.” Kerikov hid the tension that tightened his stomach.

“And we are ready to give you the account number.” Kerikov could see Way’s lips moving long before the computer’s sterilized voice could be heard. “As a sign of good faith we will transmit first.”

Way nodded to an off-camera assistant. An instant later the teletype attached to the transceiver began to pound away. Kerikov made it a point to keep his eyes glued to the camera. To look toward the teletype would be a major loss of face.

When it stopped, Kerikov fed several sheets of paper into a portable fax machine attached to the satellite uplink. These pages included the latest assay and elevation reports and gave the exact location of Dr. Borodin’s island.

Kerikov saw that Way’s eyes were locked on someone outside the camera’s field of vision, so he took a moment to scan the teletype. One hundred million American dollars had just been transferred to the National Cayman Bank in the Caribbean. The transfer number and the account number were at the bottom of the page.

Way Hue Dong received an acknowledgment from some technician out of view and turned back to the camera. “The information seems legitimate, Mr. Kerikov. I believe now I know why there was a delay and I applaud your audacity.

“You must forgive me, sir,” Way continued, “but there is a restraint order on the money. You cannot touch it until I send the bank another set of code numbers.”

Way displayed no emotion as he revealed his double-cross. “Once my engineers are on-station and prove what you have told us, the money will be released into your care.”

Kerikov listened and could barely contain his rage.

Way added, “I’m sure you understand that we must protect this large amount of money from fraud. Not that you are suspect. Once the value of this new mineral is established I will send the new code and the money will be yours. Good evening, Mr. Kerikov.”

The monitor went blank. In Kerikov’s hotel suite, the camera continued to record and transmit, so the nine Koreans saw Kerikov pound his foot through the monitor screen and then begin attacking the video transceiver. The image faded when Kerikov fired a roundhouse kick at the camera and sent it slamming into a wall.

“Those motherfucking bastards,” Kerikov ranted once he could control himself enough to speak. “Those pissdrinking shit eaters.”

Kerikov fumed for about ten minutes, dredging up curses he hadn’t used since Afghanistan. When he finally calmed, he finished the diluted Scotch in his glass and then drank right from the bottle, the raw spirit singeing his stomach when it hit.

Somehow the Koreans had figured out that he was acting outside his own government’s authority, that the hundred million dollars was destined for Kerikov himself and not the Russian State Treasury. Knowing that they wouldn’t garner any government wrath, they could delay the transfer of money indefinitely while they reaped the benefits of Borodin’s volcano. Without an armed force to back him, Kerikov would be powerless to stop them.

He laughed to himself amid the wreckage of the computer equipment. He admitted that he had been outsmarted. Once his laughter subsided, Kerikov’s eyes gleamed with an unholy fire. There was no way that he would allow those Korean bastards to double-cross him when he still had an ace up his sleeve.

Paul Barnes nearly cowered in his chair in front of the President, as if the supple leather would shield him from the chief executive’s scathing censure. The President, usually a level-headed man, was furious. The CIA director had failed to find Dr. Jacobs.

“Sir, that report came across my desk years ago,” Barnes said lamely.

“You are the head of the most powerful spy network in the world and you can’t find a man who is no more than two hundred miles from Washington.”

The President’s intercom chimed. “Yes?” he responded.

“Sir, the others are back.”

“Thanks, Joy. Send them in.” The President turned back to Barnes. “We’ll continue this conversation later.”

Dick Henna and Admiral Morrison filed into the Oval Office. They were subdued, their faces drawn and ashen. Henna helped himself to a slug of Scotch.

“Where’s Dr. Mercer?” the President asked.

“He’ll probably be along in a few minutes,” Henna said. “Should we wait for him?”

“No, we can’t afford the time,” the President replied slowly. “Dick, what’s the latest from Hawaii?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have much to report, sir. There’s been no further communication from Ohnishi. I’ve got some agents keeping his estate under long-range surveillance, but they haven’t reported anything suspicious. Our phone taps have turned up nothing, but I doubt that any sensitive conversations would go over unscrambled land lines.”

“Have you found a tie-in between Ohnishi and Mayor Takamora?”