“Great, let me talk to him.”
A moment later, “Morton.”
“Pete, this is Dick Henna in Washington.”
“Jesus.” Henna could almost hear the man spring to his feet.
“Relax. I need a favor.”
“Yes, sure, anything, Mr. Henna.”
“Get on the horn to one of your contacts in the NYPD. I want to know if there was any trouble near Eleventh Street tonight.”
“I don’t see how-”
“Pete, just do it, all right.” Henna remembered that Morton used to ask a million questions about everything. “Call me at this number when you’re done,” Henna gave him his home number, “and then lose the number.” He hung up.
He skipped through the file in front of him until he came to Philip Mercer’s dossier, compiled by the CIA in 1990. Mercer had been born in the Belgian Congo. His father was an American mining engineer employed by Mines Belgique, a firm mining diamonds from the rich Katanga province. His mother was a Belgian fashion model. They had met during a photo shoot in Leopoldville, the capital of the Congo. Philip was their only child. Both parents had been killed during an insurrection in Rwanda in 1964; the details of their deaths were sketchy.
Mercer was raised by his paternal grandparents in Barre, Vermont. His grandfather worked in a granite quarry and his grandmother was a homemaker. He graduated top of his class in high school and cum laude from Penn State with a degree in geology. He then went to the Colorado School of Mines in Golden, again graduating near the top of his class. After four additional years of schooling at Penn State while doing contract work for various coal mines around western Pennsylvania, he received his Ph.D. in geology. His thesis on metamorphic rock dynamics as it pertains to quarry mining was still supplemental reading for graduate students at Penn State.
After completing his doctorate he went to work for the U.S. Geological Survey, but lasted there only two years. Interviews with coworkers from that time showed that Mercer was simply unchallenged by the work the USGS had given him.
Henna noted that Mercer’s case was another example of the government’s inability to retain top minds in whatever field. He couldn’t count the number of agents he had known who left to work for private security firms. It wasn’t just the pay or the benefits that caused people to leave, government work simply drained people of their spirit.
After the USGS, Mercer went into business for himself assaying mining properties for investment firms eager to know potential returns before committing huge amounts of money. He built a reputation quickly within the industry. After just a few years, two weeks of his time cost up to fifty thousand dollars plus, in some cases, bonuses in the form of stock if he believed the property to be extremely valuable. The year that the CIA did the background check, Mercer’s income, as reported to the IRS, was slightly over three quarters of a million dollars. The CIA had also contacted the U.S. Customs Service, who listed thirty overseas trips since his latest passport was issued.
The next section of the report detailed his involvement with the CIA and the mission to Iraq. When the plan to infiltrate Iraq was first conceived, forty-eight candidates were considered for the position of on-site expert on mining practices and geology. Mercer was the eighth candidate to be interviewed, and after his first series of tests, all the other interviews were canceled. He scored just above genius level on the IQ test and did perfectly on all the memory tests. One of the testers noted that Mercer was able to recall a forty-digit number twenty-four hours after seeing it. After agreeing to join the team, he was sent to a training facility in rural Virginia, where he had excelled in marksmanship and the grueling obstacle course, but fared just average in communications and what was termed “basic trade craft.”
The attached psychological report documented an acute fixation on self-reliance and a deeply rooted fear of abandonment, probably due to his being orphaned. He was a natural leader but had chosen not to develop those skills. The staff psychiatrist summed up his report by stating that Mercer’s motivation for joining the infiltration team was simply his need for continual challenge.
The doctor feared that this would lead to reckless behavior, but recommended Mercer’s approval.
In mid-January 1991, Mercer and eight Delta Force commandos parachuted into northern Iraq near the city of Mosul. The site was chosen by Mercer and a team of satellite analysts as the most likely spot for uranium mining.
Mercer had quickly confirmed that the mining facility there was not even close to production and the uranium ore was too poor a quality to make nuclear weapons. They were attacked by the mine’s security detachment as they were sneaking out through the perimeter fence. Two commando officers were killed during the opening gun battle and another fell shortly afterward as they retreated through the mountainous desert.
The extraction helicopter they had depended on couldn’t pick them up because of the heavy weapons fire from Iraqi scout cars. Mercer led the remaining troops through a scree field that the pursuing scout cars couldn’t pass and managed to lead them to Mosul. There, they stole a produce truck and made a mad dash to the Turkish border. The Delta commandos all agreed that Mercer was the person most responsible for their success, and that without him, none of them would have survived.
Two days after their debriefing, President Bush ordered the beginning of Operation Desert Storm.
Henna stood and began pacing, his chin buried against his chest. He knew from the dossier that Mercer was acquainted with Tish Talbot’s late father, which would explain why he had gone to the hospital. But his actions since then defied explanation. How had he known the other man in her room was not part of the hospital staff or another FBI agent? Why hadn’t he contacted the FBI as soon as he had gotten Talbot safely away? Why had he pursued the matter on his own? And if he had gone to New York to investigate the shipping company, what had he found?
“Christ, there are too damn many questions and not enough answers,” Henna said aloud.
The phone rang shrilly and Henna snatched at it.
“Henna.”
“Mr. Henna, Pete Morton in New York, sir.”
“Yeah, Pete, what’ve you got?”
“How did you know there was something up on Eleventh Street?”
“Skip the questions and tell me what happened.” Henna’s heart was racing and his palms were sweaty.
“At 12:53 this morning a gunman drove down Eleventh Street and fired a shotgun five times, blowing out several windows and doors. He then raced away. There are no suspects or clues.”
“Was one of the buildings hit owned by a company called Ocean Freight and Cargo?”
“Yes, how did you-”
“Never mind that. Get some men down there right away, take into custody anyone they see. Call me back as soon as you’re done.”
“I’ll take care of it myself, sir.”
Henna set the phone down and slumped back into his chair.
“What the hell is Mercer playing at now?”
Bangkok, Thailand
The Scotch in Ivan Kerikov’s glass was quickly diluting as the ice melted under the onslaught of the Asian heat. The tumbler was jeweled with condensation and the small napkin on the Royal River Hotel’s table was sodden. Kerikov took another heavy swallow of the questionable Scotch, mindful of water dripping from the napkin that clung to the glass.
He had been in Bangkok now for two uneventful days, basking in the delights of his hotel, the venerable Oriental, where he had taken a suite in the original Author’s Wing, and indulging in carnal vices on Pat Pong Road, Bangkok’s famous red light district. He had also spent some of that time contemplating his hurried escape from Moscow, wondering if he had been too rash in executing the KGB auditor in his office. Hindsight said that he should have suffered through the little man’s investigation and left afterward, but killing him had given Kerikov the sense of completion that he needed before he fled his homeland.