Washington, D.C
The big Greyhound over-the-road bus hissed to a stop just outside the city’s main terminal, near the convention center. Mercer was stiff legged as he trailed Tish down the three steps of the bus to the already sizzling pavement. His whole body ached, not only from his ordeal in New York but from the torturous seats that all transportation manufacturers seem intent on using. He tried, without success, to knuckle the kinks from his lower back as he and Tish ambled into the bus terminal. Announcements echoed off the tiled walls, mixing with the din of the passengers arriving and departing. The terminal stank of the homeless who spent their nights on the steel benches.
“I still don’t understand why we had to take the bus back to Washington,” Tish complained, swiveling her head to stretch her tense neck muscles. They had cabbed to Newark and caught the bus there.
Mercer grimaced as he stroked the new beard that stubbled his face. “Because by now the FBI will have the train stations staked out and I needed time to think before we turn ourselves in.” He strode to a bank of telephones and dialed an international operator. “After I make this call, we’ll give up.”
Mercer waited a full five minutes for the connection to be made, then spoke in French. Tish, not understanding the language, walked over to a bench and sat down. Mercer joined her after a few minutes.
“All set,” he announced.
“What was that all about?”
“I had to call an old fishing buddy in the Ruhr Valley.”
Tish had learned not to be surprised by any of Mercer’s actions. “Did he tell you what you needed?”
“He sure did.” There was a sense of triumph in Mercer’s voice that cut through the exhaustion etched around his eyes.
They grabbed a taxi in front of the terminal and Mercer gave the driver his home address.
“Why don’t we go straight to the FBI?” Tish said, and leaned her head against his shoulder as she had for much of the six-hour ride from New York.
“If we showed up at the Hoover Building, it would take them hours to verify who we are and direct us to the person who was in charge of your protection at the hospital. This way, the agents at my house will take us straight to him.”
“Clever.”
The cab ride took nearly forty-five minutes in the snarled downtown traffic. The driver refused to use the car’s air-conditioning, so great blasts of hot air blew into the taxi, plastering Tish’s hair around her face.
“Since you fell asleep as soon as we got on the bus this morning, I just want to thank you for the way you handled yourself in New York. You came through like a true professional.”
Tish smiled at him, her beautiful lips framing dazzling teeth. “Jack Talbot didn’t raise a daughter who couldn’t take care of herself.”
Mercer laughed. “No doubt about that.”
“Mercer, what’s going to happen to us once the FBI picks us up?”
“I don’t know, Tish. I think the information we’ve gotten in the past couple of days points to the people responsible for the Ocean Seeker disaster. Once we deliver it to the FBI, we should be out of it.”
“What if they don’t believe us?” she persisted.
“We just have to make sure they do. The story I have to tell is too chilling to be ignored.”
The cab stopped in front of Mercer’s house. He paid the driver, unlocked the door of the house, and keyed off the security system. He almost had the door closed when a voice from behind interrupted him.
“Dr. Mercer, please step away from the door and place your hands over your head. This is the FBI.”
Mercer backed away and turned to the FBI agent, his smile ironic. “The last person who told me that was left tied up in an office in New York and he already had his gun drawn.”
The agent, not catching Mercer’s graveyard humor, sensed a threat and pulled his service weapon. “I said, place your hands on your head. You too, Dr. Talbot.”
The agent stepped forward. He was Mercer’s age, but had a baby face under a mop of light blond hair. Mercer noted that his gun hand was very steady. Another agent joined the first.
“I’ve been instructed to take you downtown. You’re not under arrest, so please go easily.”
“I don’t think so. You’d better make this official,” Mercer replied with a slow smile. He turned around and lowered his hands behind his back. As if by programming, the second agent came forward and slapped on a pair of handcuffs. “Think of how good you’ll look to your friends when they see you captured us in irons.”
When they were in the agents’ brown sedan heading back into the city, Tish whispered, “Why in the hell did you do that?”
“I want to see the reaction of whoever has summoned us. It might tell me a lot.”
The car ducked into the city via Route 66, and exited just north of the Lincoln Memorial, then streaked down Constitution Avenue, parallel to the Mall, where countless tourists sweated in the Washington heat while viewing the monuments. They turned left onto 15th Street as Mercer expected. He was certain they were headed for the J. Edgar Hoover Building, FBI headquarters, but just before reaching the Treasury Building, the car slowed and made another left onto East Executive Avenue. A moment later they entered the White House grounds through a back gate. Mercer and Tish glanced at each other, speechless.
The car pulled into an underground garage just behind the White House. The agents escorted Tish and Mercer to an already waiting elevator. Two more agents joined them there. Mercer noticed, just as the elevator doors closed, that the garage didn’t smell of oil and was absolutely spotless. He suspected that the garage was washed every day to prevent a stray spark from lighting any spilled oil.
The elevator took them up to the ground floor and disgorged them into a blue-carpeted hallway. Young staffers rushed past, reports and faxes clutched in their fists as if their jobs meant the safety of the free world. Which, in reality, they did. Only a few stopped to notice the cuffs that secured Mercer’s hands behind his back. He wondered if they thought he was a fellow staffer sacrificed to some as yet unknown scandal.
“I won’t give any of you away,” he called over the din of the countless ringing phones.
The agents pushed him roughly down the hall past numerous cramped offices until they reached a cluttered desk just outside a wide door. The presidential seal hung from the wall behind the desk.
“Miss Craig, this is Philip Mercer and Tish Talbot. Is everything set inside?”
“Yes, it is,” the plump woman said. She looked up at Tish and smiled sweetly. “You poor dear, I’ve heard about what you’ve been through. Come with me. I’m sure you’d love to freshen up a bit.”
Tish looked at Mercer, stricken.
“It’s all right. I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Tish allowed the President’s personal secretary to lead her away.
Mercer turned to the agents flanking him. “Well, gentlemen, let’s get on with it.”
They opened the door and Mercer stepped into the Oval Office.
Mercer’s first impression was that the office was much smaller than he had imagined. He envisioned the President governing the country from a much larger room. He stepped over the seal embroidered into the pale blue carpet and studied the people in the room. He recognized most of them. Seated were Admiral C. Thomas Morrison, Richard Henna of the FBI, and Catherine Smith, the President’s chief of staff. Mercer guessed that the bald man standing against the far wall was the director of the CIA. The President sat behind his desk, his large hands resting on the leather top. Ms. Smith wore a conservative suit, white blouse, and a muted bow at her throat, and the assembled men were all wearing the customary Washington uniform — conservative suit, white shirt, and muted tie. Only Admiral Morrison, in his summer whites, and Mercer, still in the black clothing from the break-in, were dressed any differently.
“Mr. President, I wish to congratulate you.” The President looked at Mercer quizzically. “I saw in the paper a couple days ago that your wife’s dog just had puppies.”