Vulcan's Forge

Arlington, Virginia

Tiny’s Bar was, of course, named after its owner. On his first visit to the pub four blocks from his house, Mercer had expected to see a huge man behind the bar. Yet Tiny, Paul Gordon, was tiny, no more than four foot eight, about ninety pounds with his pockets full of bricks.

The bar was small, only eight stools and six four-person booths. The linoleum floor looked as though it hadn’t been swept in years. The walls were decorated with horse racing pictures and trophies from Saratoga, Belmont Park, and Yonkers Raceway, just a few of the tracks where Paul had raced as a professional jockey. He had never reached the status of Willy Shoemaker, but he was a consistent rider with proven ability. But he gambled, and went on a particularly long losing streak. To pay back the debt, his loan shark ordered him to throw a certain race.

Explaining it once to Mercer, Tiny had said that the horse was too much of a true winner to allow any other to beat her. He didn’t have the heart to rein her back and come in second. That night he was treated to a sumptuous victory banquet by the horse’s owner. The next morning the loan shark’s enforcers broke both of Tiny’s kneecaps with a steel wrecking bar. During the following months of painful rehabilitation, Tiny cursed the stupid nag for being so swift. He finally forgave Dandy Maid only after he opened a bar in his native Washington.

When Mercer entered the bar, Tiny waved one small arm and immediately poured a vodka gimlet, easy on the Rose’s lime.

“Thanks, I need this.” Mercer took his drink to the red leatherette booth occupied by Tish and Harry White. Apart from two workers from the industrial laundry around the block, the bar was empty.

“Sorry I had to take Tish out of your house, Mercer, but you ran out of Jack Daniel’s.”

“I have a fresh bottle under the back bar.”

“Had, Mercer. You had a fresh bottle under the back bar. Besides, who the hell would look for her in this hole in the wall?”

“I agree, no harm done.” Mercer turned to Tish. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine.” She giggled, slightly drunk. “But I must say I’m not used to drinking in the afternoon.”

“Stick with Harry and me, we’ll show you the ropes.” Mercer smiled warmly. Perhaps a little buzz would be good for her. Brace her for what he was going to ask her to do.

“What did you find in your office?”

“More clues, I think. There’s one more thing I want to check tonight and then I’ll turn us both over to the authorities.”

“What do you mean ‘turn us over’?”

“Tish, you were under the protection of the FBI when I nabbed you, and I’m sure they want you back. Also, I have to answer for the corpses I left in the gutters downtown.”

“Oh.”

“Hey, Harry, I see two suits coming in,” Tiny said, peering out the filthy front window.

Mercer turned to Harry, one eyebrow cocked in question.

“Tish told me the story about yesterday, so I took the precaution of having Tiny keep an eye out.”

“Good thinking.” Mercer held out his hand to Tish. “Come on.”

He led her out of the barroom and into the small kitchen in the back. They paused in front of a pane of glass set into the tiled wall, and Tish realized that the mirror behind the bar was a two-way mirror. She looked over Tiny’s shoulder as two beefy men strode through the front door and flashed badges. FBI, not local cops, was Mercer’s guess.

“Philip Mercer?” Tiny responded to their question. “Yeah, I know him. I haven’t seen him in a week or more. He travels a lot.” Tiny’s thin voice raised a notch. “If I had seen him, he wouldn’t owe me eighty bucks in old bar tabs.”

Tiny thrust a wad of chits under one agent’s face. Mercer winced, hoping the agent didn’t look too closely. Those tabs all belonged to Harry.

Harry stood up and staggered one step, steadying himself on the back of the booth. Mercer wondered if his friend was acting.

“I seen Mercer,” Harry nearly shouted, spit spraying from his lips. Acting, for sure.

“Where?” one of the agents asked eagerly.

“It was 1943; he was a cook for my battalion. Couldn’t cook worth a damn; gave us all food poisoning on Tarawa, or maybe it was Iwo Jima.” Harry downed a heavy slug of bourbon. “If it was on Iwo, that must have been ’45. Poor Frank Merker bought it on Okinawa.”

“No, it’s Philip Mercer we’re looking for.”

“Don’t recall any Philbert Mercy,” Harry said slowly. His eyes glazed over and he slumped into his seat. “I once knew a stripper named Phyllis mmmm. .” His head hit the table with the sound of a fallen coconut, snores following a moment later.

The two agents left after warning Tiny to call if Philip Mercer showed up. Tiny and Harry played their roles for a few minutes more, until they were satisfied that the FBI men had moved on. As Mercer led Tish out of the kitchen, he noted that he had not let go of her hand during the whole episode. The simple touch was comforting.

“Harry, you should get an Oscar for that.”

Harry sat up and smiled brightly. “I did once know a stripper named Phyllis. Phyllis Withluv she called herself; hot little redhead I met in Baltimore.”

“What are we going to do now?” Tish interrupted before Harry could begin some lurid story.

“We can’t go back to my place, that’s for damned sure,” Mercer said, sipping a fresh gimlet.

“If you need to, you can stay with me,” Harry volunteered.

“No, I’m allergic to roaches. Seriously, I have other plans. We’re going to New York.”

Tish looked at him sharply. “What?”

“Tiny, call us a cab, have him meet us at the Safeway.” The giant grocery store was a couple of blocks away. “Harry, thanks for your acting job.” Mercer pulled a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet and slapped it on the bar. “This should clear your tabs.”

He led Tish through the deserted kitchen and out the back door.

“Why are we going to New York?” Tish asked as they walked up the street.

“When we read those faxes, you must have seen that David Saulman suspects that Ocean Freight and Cargo may be a Soviet front. If that’s true — and I believe it is because you heard Russian — then checking out their offices is our next logical step.”

“You mean we just waltz in there and make accusations?”

“Not at all.” Mercer laughed. “We’re going to break in tonight.”

Tish stopped to look at him; his gray eyes were hard as flint and just as sharp. “You’re serious?”

His voice was soft when he responded, but his conviction stung the air. “Deadly.”

“Youse guys sure youse want to do dis?” the Hat asked.

“Yeah, Hat, we’re sure,” Mercer said evenly.

They were sitting in a late-model Plymouth, on lower Fifth Avenue, about ten blocks from the brownstone that was the OF&C headquarters.

“My scags could hit it in no time, lift any swag you want and be out before nobody knew nottin’. Youse don’t need ta go in a’tall.”

“That’s the whole point, Hat. We do need to go in, and I want them to know that they were hit.”

For the first time Mercer had a vent for the anger that had begun the moment Tish entered his life. Until now, he had been simply reacting to the actions of his unknown enemy. Now he was about to act, to take the fight to them, as he had promised.

“Babes in da woods,” Hat said with a wave of his hand. The ember of his cigarette was like a comet in the dark car.

Danny “The Hat” Spezhattori was a professional thief. His gang of burglars were responsible for making New York City’s wealthiest denizens several million dollars poorer over the years. The Hat’s fourteen-year-old son had once made the mistake of trying to pick Mercer’s pocket in front of the United Nations Building. Rather than turn the boy over to the police, Mercer had forced him to tell him who his father was. Mercer and the Hat met an hour later.

In a world where more business is done through people owing each other favors, Mercer had decided that a favor owed to him by a man in the Hat’s position might someday be worthwhile. He was right. Tonight, that three-year-old debt would be paid off.

“Hat, give us an hour to get in position and then send your boys in, all right?”

“Mercer, once we hit da doors and d’alarms trip, dey will station a guard in da building.”

“I’m counting on that.”

“Youse ain’t gonna murder no one, are you? Cause if ya do, I’ll have nottin’ ta do wit it.”

“Hat, we had a deal.” Mercer’s voice was like ice. “No questions asked. Your boys do what they’re told and they will be in their pajamas in no time. No risk to any of them.”

“I just gots ta say dis, Mercer. What kinda swag can be worth it, man? Youse got money; we bote knows it. It’s a fuckin’ shippin’ office; even their payroll will be shit.”

“It’s none of your business, Hat. Just do your job and we’re square.” Adrenaline sang in Mercer’s veins like the heroin injection of a career junkie. “I know what I’m after.”

Mercer looked at Tish in the backseat. Her face was very white, framed by shimmering black hair. Her blue eyes were wide but trusting. Mercer looked into them, searching for a sign of weakness, but saw none. “Ready?”

“Yes.” Her voice was a whisper, but her eyes were hard.

They left the car. The dome light had been broken so there was only the soft click of the door latches to give away their exit. In seconds, they had both blended into the shadows of the steamy New York night.

One hour later, a little before one in the morning, a Camaro, its body work covered with more Bondo than paint, streaked down Eleventh Street, just off Fifth Avenue. A dog barked at the noise of the racing engine on the quiet street.

The driver was intent on the road. A slight drizzle had made it slick, but his passenger was enjoying and savoring the moment. The shotgun in his hand was cool and heavy. The wind blowing through the open window was hot and humid but fresh in his nostrils. The adrenaline in his body had heightened all of his senses.

Hat owed Mercer a great debt. The driving he could trust to a lieutenant in his organization, but he would do the shooting himself. Four doors away from the target, the driver pounded his hand against the horn and shouted like a Comanche.

Hat thrust the barrel of the Remington pump-action 12-gauge out the window. He had loaded the ammo himself and was pleased with the result when he fired. The first shot obliterated the window of one ground floor apartment, the explosion of the cartridge and the shattering glass one continuous sound.

The second shot blew in the door of another brownstone. The thick oak splintered under the charge of lead. Another shot and another window vaporized. The driver was still yelling and the horn continued to blare, but Hat heard none of it. His eyes were locked onto his next target.

He fired, pumped the gun, and pushed his body nearly out the window to fire again. The door of the Ocean Freight and Cargo Building was much stouter than others on the street, but it couldn’t withstand the shock of the double blast. The door, as if mauled by a predatory animal, dangled from its top hinge; the hardened lead shot had shredded the wood completely.

Immediately an alarm began to shriek within the brownstone, piercing the night even above the din of the Camaro’s horn. Hat shot out one more window before lowering his weapon. The driver released the horn and the car raced out of the area, anonymous after only a couple of blocks.

Two police cars reached the scene within six minutes.

The officers made a cursory search of the area and began taking statements from panic-stricken residents. Already the cops had figured that the shooting was just a joy ride by a couple of kids. Random violence in a city that was renowned for it.

Greg Russo knew that nothing that happened to OF&C was random. He arrived as soon as possible after the alarm company had phoned him. According to company records, he was the vice president in charge of the head office in New York, but Ocean Freight and Cargo had no company president. The Swedish group named as the directors of the corporation was nothing more than a Stockholm post office box. The only person above Russo was Ivan Kerikov, the head of Department 7, Scientific Operations, KGB.

Russo spoke to the police officers for several minutes, getting the details of the incident but not really listening to their explanations. Twenty years in the KGB had taught him to take nothing at face value.

“Again, Mr. Russo,” one of the cops was saying, “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. This is like no break-in I’ve ever seen. It’s just kids, out for a night of terror. I’ll make sure that this area is heavily patrolled tonight. There won’t be any more disturbances.”

“Our company pays a great deal in city taxes, Sergeant. I expect that you will provide ample protection.” Russo spoke in a flat, accentless English.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot place men here to guard your office. If you want the name of a private security firm, I can give it to you. They could have men here in ten minutes.” The sergeant moonlighted for them on Saturdays when his wife visited her mother in Trenton.

“That is all right.” Russo acted mollified. “I’m sure that it’s just my imagination. Whoever hit this street didn’t seem to be targeting our offices. You are probably right that it was just kids.”

“Just to make you feel better, Mr. Russo, I called in a helicopter. It should be here in about a half hour. They’ll hit the back of your building with a spotlight and make sure nothing is goofy back there.”

“You did go back there yourselves, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir, we did. Nothing in that courtyard but a couple of winos and a heap of trash.”

“Well, having that helicopter coming is a relief.”

A few minutes later both cop cars left. The few people out on the street, the type attracted to all police activity, slowly made their way back to their apartments, the excitement over for the night. Russo, whose real name was Gregory Brezhnicov, waited until the street was deserted before giving a signal to the driver of the van that had arrived only moments after him.

Two men dressed in black leapt from the back of the van. They marched toward Brezhnicov, thick arms held stiffly by their sides, chests puffed as if on parade. Their eyes continuously scanned the street, never resting on one object for more than a fraction of a second, but seemingly missing nothing.

No matter how long they remain in the West, Brezhnicov thought, a KGB assassination team never loses the discipline drilled into them during years of training. They were some of the best trained men in the world, capable of killing with nearly every weapon conceived as well as with their bare hands.

They stopped in front of Brezhnicov, grim-faced men with lifeless eyes.

“Search the entire building, look for anything out of place, then take up guard duties. Also check the courtyard out back. There are two derelicts there, get them out. No one enters the building until after nine in the morning. I will be the first here.” There was no reason for Brezhnicov to stay; these men were more than capable of handling any situation.

There was a slight squeak in Mercer’s miniaturized earphone before a voice came through. “Mercer, two of the baddest dudes I’ve ever seen just entered the building. Seems the bossman is heading back home.”

Mercer clicked the button on the transmitter, acknowledging the information from Hat’s son, called Cap, standing on a roof across the street.

“Get ready,” he whispered to Tish, who was lying next to him. “They should come back here first.”

A minute later, the two assassins eased out the back door of the OF&C building, pistols held competently. Their eyes searched the dark courtyard, checking the back windows of the buildings opposite, penetrating the shadows created by the single street lamp before resting on the two winos lying next to an overflowing Dumpster.

One guard came across the courtyard, hugging the shadows. Mercer, watching, knew this man was a true professional. The other man stayed hidden near the doorway, his gun covering his partner. Mercer tensed.

The first man approached a wino and, without warning, jerked the derelict to his feet.

Mercer winced as if physically struck. He could only imagine the strength it took to pull a man from the ground and onto his feet and make the action look effortless.

Hat’s decoy stood limply in the man’s grasp, babbling incoherently. The other wino, also part of Hat’s team, slowly started to waken, as if from a lifelong binge.

“Get out of here now,” the guard hissed, shaking Hat’s man in his grasp. He kicked at the other wino. “You, too. Get out of here, before I break your fucking necks.”

Mercer noted from his vantage in the Dumpster that the man’s English was thickened by a heavy accent.

“We ain’t done nothing,” the wino on the ground said as he rubbed his mouth with a filth-stained hand. “We got rights.”

“Out, now.” The assassin dropped the first of Hat’s crew and took his pistol from a holster behind his back. At the sight of the gun, the two winos retreated hastily from the courtyard, nearly falling over each other as they ran toward the alley that led to Sixth Avenue.

When Hat’s men had gone, the guard kicked at the pile of rubbish next to the Dumpster until satisfied that there was nothing hidden within. He turned his attention to the Dumpster. Inside, Mercer crouched lower.

The guard lifted the plastic lid and recoiled in disgust. The Dumpster reeked of human feces, rotted food, and decay. He let the lid drop, gagging slightly.

Mercer groped through the filth until he felt Tish’s hand, then gave it a reassuring squeeze. He couldn’t feel her skin through the thin rubberized protection suit, but he knew that it had to be as sweaty as his. He adjusted the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth and took a deep breath. The oxygen from the small tank at his side was crisp and cool. The suits and oxygen tanks, the same type worn by sewer workers, had been provided by Hat, who asked Mercer if he could use them to take an art gallery that he knew backed against a Chinese restaurant. The restaurant produced some particularly pungent rubbish.

The two guards, fooled into believing that the two “winos” were the only humans in the courtyard, cut short their search and reentered the OF&C building.

Ten minutes later Mercer opened the lid of the Dumpster and climbed out. He helped Tish to the ground and both peeled off the protection suits. They threw the suits into the Dumpster and gratefully closed the lid.

“This is one side of New York I never thought I’d see on a first date.” Tish grinned.

Mercer would have cautioned her about silence, but he knew that she needed to speak in order to relieve some of the tension.

“Only the finest for you. Next time we’ll go for a moonlight dip in the East River near an industrial vent I know. Very romantic this time of year.”

“You are a charmer.”

Mercer pulled a duffel bag from beneath a pile of garbage and unzipped it. He retrieved a pair of night-vision goggles, purchased from the Hat, and scanned the back of the OF&C building.

It was a typical New York brownstone, five stories high with a flat roof speared by chimneys and TV antennas. Firewalls separated it from its neighbors. There were four windows on each floor except for the ground floor, which had no opening other than a thick steel door. Wrought-iron grilles covered the windows on the second and third floors, making it impregnable from the ground. The upper windows were unguarded, but Mercer knew that a sophisticated security system protected the whole building.

When Mercer had outlined his plan to Hat, the professional thief’s opinion was, “You’re fucked if da system’s zoned.” If the brownstone’s security system lacked individual secure zones, then the destroyed front door would have crippled the entire system. But if individual zones could be compromised without affecting other areas of the building, then Mercer’s attempt to breach the back of the offices would trip further alarms.

Mercer didn’t see movement in any of the darkened windows, but knew that a watcher would not give himself away so easily. He had to take a chance. From under a urine-soaked tarpaulin that Hat had placed in the courtyard hours before, Mercer took four lengths of ten-foot pipe, each with rungs protruding at regular intervals. Joined, the sections became a crude forty-foot ladder.

Mercer carried the ladder to the base of the building and set it up with minimal effort, resting the top between the building and a rusted drain pipe. Then he drew his gun, a Browning Hi-Power, a souvenir from Iraq. The 9 mm pistol could not carry as many rounds as the H&K he had lost in Washington, but its stopping power was fearsome. The gun and the spare clip were loaded with mercury-filled hollow point bullets that would break up on contact. If a man were hit, nearly anywhere on his body, the shock alone would kill him.

He cocked the pistol and thumbed off the safety. The silencer attached to the barrel made it slow for a quick draw, but he needed both hands for the next few minutes. He reholstered the weapon and climbed the ladder.

On the train ride to New York, Mercer had explained his plan to Tish. At first she had balked at his intentions, but as he spoke, he could see the trust growing in her eyes. He outlined the four weeks of CIA training he had received prior to his insertion into Iraq, and that seemed to alleviate most of her fears. Though his training had focused on weapon tactics, he had learned the basics of breaking and entering and felt confident in his abilities.

At the top of the ladder, just level with the fourth-floor window, Mercer paused and scanned the darkened room. He saw nothing. From a pocket in his black pants, he withdrew a three-quarter carat cubic zirconia engagement ring he’d bought that afternoon while shopping for clothing for Tish. The retailer at the jewelry store had scoffed at Mercer’s poor choice, but he didn’t know that the ring would never be used as a betrothal gift.

At 8.5 on the Mohs’ hardness scale, the zirconia easily etched the glass. Mercer traced one of the panes of the window. The protesting squeal of the cutting glass was loud in his ears. Judging that three times around had weakened the glass sufficiently, Mercer paused for a deep breath. He was about to find out if the system was zoned. If the alarm sounded, neither he nor Tish would have enough time to escape the courtyard before the guards rushed out to investigate. He took another deep breath, his pulse pounding.

“Fuck it,” he said as he gave the weakened pane a slight tap with the heel of his hand.

The tiny filament wires of the security system parted and the glass fell softly to the carpeted floor of the building. An alarm screamed in Mercer’s head, but the building itself remained silent.

He could hear his heart pounding a furious tattoo in the eerie gloom of the courtyard. Then he realized that the noise wasn’t his heart. Searching the square of visible sky above his head, Mercer saw the lights of an approaching police helicopter. The chopper was no more than ten blocks away and already the powerful halogen spotlight mounted in the nose was piercing the dark streets.

He tried to open the window, but countless coats of paint applied to the frame had glued it solidly shut.

“Shit,” Mercer cursed under his breath, and hammered at the underside of the open pane. The small amount of glass left in the windowframe sliced painfully into his hand.

After several hard blows, the window sprang up, slamming into its upper stop. Mercer didn’t worry about noise being heard inside — the sound of the police helicopter would easily drown it out. He wriggled through the window as the downblast of the chopper’s rotors whipped up a maelstrom in the small courtyard. Dust and debris choked the air. The sound was deafening.

“Tish, come on,” Mercer called, trying to be heard above the din.

Tish scrambled up the ladder as the searchlight beam blasted into the courtyard, probing into the darkest corners, seeking its prey.

Mercer grabbed Tish by the wrists when she reached the top of the ladder. The searchlight was systematically spotlighting every window of the OF&C building, and it was only seconds before her form would be in the beam. He yanked her into the room. She yelped as her breasts scraped over the hard wooden sill. Mercer lunged up and slammed the window closed just as the searchlight probed into the office. He thought for a moment that the cops above had seen his face, but quickly the light passed on. He could see its beam forming bizarre shadows in the hallway beyond the room. From the helicopter, the ladder would look like any of the wiring conduits that clung to the building like ivy.

“Jesus, that hurt,” Tish said, massaging her chest.

“I’d do that for you, but you’d probably slap me.”

The grin she gave told him that she would be all right. Mercer pulled a flashlight from his jacket and switched it on. A red lens diffused the light, but he could see easily enough. Before beginning the search, Mercer pulled the Browning from its holster.

He didn’t know how long they would be in the offices, so he had to eliminate the pair of guards. He couldn’t chance being discovered unexpectedly. Mercer had no illusions about taking on two professional assassins in a fair fight, but he had no intention of being fair.

“Do you have any doubts about what we are going to do?” Mercer asked Tish, perhaps more for his own benefit.

“If these people have anything to do with the destruction of the Ocean Seeker, then they deserve to be punished.” The steel in her voice was chilling.

“All right then, I want you to wait here until it’s over. I’ll come back to get you.” Her eyes were fearful in the dim light, but there was a determined set to her jaw. When he took her hand for an instant, the trembling he felt was mild.

All the lights on the top floor were off, but dim light spilled up the stairway. Mercer handed Tish the flashlight and began his search, the night-vision goggles over his face giving the building an eerie green glow.

The rooms on the top floor, storerooms mostly, were all empty, dust coated, and neglected. Mercer padded silently down the stairs. On the third floor, a single wall sconce illuminated the narrow carpeted hallway. The doors which led off the hall were all locked and there was no one in sight. Mercer licked his fingers and unscrewed the bare bulb, plunging the hallway into darkness.

The old wooden stairs creaked as Mercer eased himself down one more flight. The entire second floor was one huge room, divided into small cubicles each containing a desk, chair, and computer. There were plenty of lights in the large work area, so Mercer removed the goggles and left them on a desk. He was thankful to have his peripheral vision restored.

He slid down to the floor and scanned the room. He saw only the legs of desks and chairs and not those of a guard. Like a snake, he slithered through the room, every sense tuned to perfection.

An instructor at the CIA facility had said: More often than not, you will find your enemy with your nose or ears before you will ever see him. When the wisp of tobacco smoke tickled Mercer’s nostrils, he silently thanked the instructor. The room was so quiet he could even hear the sizzle of tobacco as the guard drew on the cigarette. The man was no more than ten feet away, on Mercer’s right, shielded by a thin cubicle wall.

Mercer glanced at his watch. He had left Tish more than fifteen minutes ago, so he had to hurry. Panic would begin to overwhelm her soon.

He decided to be bold. He removed his black leather jacket, figuring that the black pants and shirt he wore were similar enough to the guard’s to confuse him for a second. He stood and began to whistle cheerfully. Immediately, he heard the unseen guard spring from a chair and begin moving toward him.

The guard turned a corner directly in front of Mercer, a machine pistol held at the ready. In the millisecond it took him to realize that Mercer wasn’t his partner, Mercer brought the Hi-Power to bear. The guard died an instant before his own trigger finger could squeeze. His body crumpled against a steel desk, his arm sweeping a pile of papers to the floor. The massive tissue damage caused by the Hi-Power sickened Mercer; a hole had been punched almost completely through the guard’s body.

Reclaiming his jacket, Mercer retraced his steps to the stairway and cautiously made his way to the ground floor.

The lobby of the building also occupied an entire floor. The waiting area was furnished with several tasteful couches, a large Turkish carpet, and an expansive reception desk. The walls were painted a calming salmon color and the prints which lined them were all of ships. A few dim lights kept the room more in shadow than light.

A figure leaned against the front doorframe, a holster cocked off one hip. For a moment, Mercer wondered if he could kill a man from behind, without warning.

As if alerted by some primal instinct, the guard whirled around, drawing his pistol and firing in one continuous motion. The bullet grazed Mercer’s pantleg as he dove out of the way. Mercer hit the floor rolling as bullets gouged the marble floor near his head and torso. He managed to duck behind the reception counter, and when he looked back to see where the guard had gone, another round slammed into the wood, driving splinters deep into his jaw and right cheek.

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, wiping blood from his face.

Suddenly, the lights went out in the lobby.

Mercer rolled silently from behind the counter, hugging one of the walls. His plan was to crawl to the light switch and flip it back on, hopefully using the surprise to target his opponent. Halfway to the switch, he bumped into the guard’s leg.

Neither man had anticipated the contact, so neither had an advantage. Mercer reared back, then sprang forward like an all-pro lineman playing in the Super Bowl, his shoulder connecting with the guard’s knee. The joint failed and the guard fell forward, but he still had time to whip his pistol at Mercer’s head, shearing skin from his already bleeding cheek. Mercer smashed a fist into the guard’s thigh, paralyzing the leg momentarily and giving himself time to bring up the Hi-Power.

The guard kicked out with his good leg and sent Mercer’s pistol skittering across the marbled floor. Mercer twisted away from the guard who was already trying to regain his feet. The room was too dark to see where the pistol wound up, so Mercer ignored it and concentrated on his opponent. He leapt to his feet and charged again, catching the guard low in the stomach and forcing the breath out of him in a loud whoosh. The guard backpedaled as Mercer continued to push him but twisted aside just before they hit the sofas. Mercer flew over one of them and crashed to the floor, wrenching his shoulder painfully.

There was a brief spark of muzzle flash as the guard fired his silenced pistol at Mercer, but the shot was several feet off target. Mercer used the flash to locate the other man in the darkness and leapt at him, but missed. The guard had moved. Mercer hit the floor and rolled twice, coming up hard against another wall. It was cat and mouse again. Neither man could see the other in the gloom and neither could hear the other over his own labored breathing. Mercer edged forward, feeling along the floor, and found his pistol. The cool steel was a needed reassurance.

Just then the lights snapped back on in full brilliance. The nerves and muscles that controlled Mercer’s pupils reacted just the barest fraction of a second faster than the assassin’s. While the other man was squinting through nearly closed eyes, disoriented by the glare, Mercer’s gaze was sweeping the room. Tish stood next to the bank of light switches, one hand still on the rheostat, the other holding the bulky night-vision goggles. The guard was twenty feet away, peering off to Mercer’s left. Mercer didn’t take the time to properly aim. He fired from the hip, his first two shots going wide but his next six catching the guard squarely, pounding his torso into an unrecognizable mess.

Mercer moved over to Tish and took the goggles from her slack hand. “Tish.” Her eyes swiveled to his. “I told you to wait upstairs. Please, from now on, never listen to me again, okay?”

He slid his arms around her and her body eased into his embrace. He calmly stroked her hair for a moment. “Now we’re even. I saved your life and you just saved mine. Thank you.”

“I waited until you had your gun and he was turned away from you,” she replied after a moment.

They went back up to the third floor, dousing all the lights again and relying on Mercer’s goggles to get them to the executive offices. Quickly scanning the names on the doors, they found the locked door of the highest ranking employee, a vice president. Mercer smirked at the man’s name: Russo.

“Nice touch,” he commented.

“If they are Russian,” Tish replied.

“To have guards like those two, they’re something.”

It took Mercer five frustrating minutes to pick the lock. Although he remembered the technique from his CIA training, theory and practice were two entirely different things. One of Hat’s men could have done it in ten seconds.

The office was paneled in rich oak, the carpet was soft under their feet. A window behind the broad desk looked out onto Eleventh Avenue. Mercer shut the thick drapes and turned on the desk lamp. Pictures of the OF&C fleet adorned the walls. David Saulman in Miami had been right. Each ship had a different bunch of flowers painted on the funnels: April Lilac, September Laurel, December Iris, and a score of others. There was a fish tank against one wall, and though it was large it only contained a single fish.

Mercer turned to the four squat filing cabinets and opened a drawer at random. He started leafing through the folders within.

“Pick a drawer, any drawer,” he said lightly.

“What are we looking for?”

“Anything that might jog your memory. There could be something here that you may remember from when you were rescued, a name, anything.”

Tish pointed to a picture on the wall. “That’s the ship that rescued me, I think.”

Mercer looked at the picture and recognized the September Laurel as she calmly plied some distant sea.

“That may be the ship that reported finding you, but I don’t think it’s the ship that pulled you from the water. You remembered a black circle and a yellow dot on the funnel, not a bunch of flowers. Besides, Dave Saulman told me that her crew are mostly Italians, not Russians.”

“I could have been wrong about hearing Russian.”

“Even if you are, it’s obvious that something is going on here. Let’s just go through the files and see if anything turns up.”

For the next half hour, Mercer and Tish pored through the files without turning up anything conclusive. The only odd thing was a loose file tab labeled “John Dory” lying on the bottom of the drawer containing the ownership papers of the OF&C ships. There was no file to go along with the tiny scrap of paper. Because all OF&C vessels were named after a month and a flower, Mercer guessed that John Dory was the name of a captain or ship’s officer employed by OF&C.

“This has been a complete waste of time, hasn’t it?” There was hopelessness in Tish’s voice.

“I know I’m right. There has to be something here that we haven’t seen,” Mercer persisted. “But we have to get out of here.”

“Did you kill those guards without a reason?”

Mercer looked up from the file. It was a question he did not want to address. Was there a chance he was wrong about OF&C’s involvement?

“No, we didn’t, and I’ll tell you why. Look around this office. There’s nothing personal anywhere, no photos, no diplomas, nothing. This may be a legitimate shipping line to some, but to the man who occupies this office, shipping is not his career.” Mercer walked to the desk and scanned the address file. “There isn’t one ship broker’s number in here, not one chandler. Christ, he doesn’t even have the private numbers of his captains.”

“He could be just a figurehead.”

“He is, don’t you get it? Most shipping lines are built by individuals and based on personal contacts. I’m willing to bet this Greg Russo wouldn’t know a hawsepipe from a hole in the wall. Whoever occupies this office has a job to do, but it has nothing to do with shipping.”

“Hold it right there,” a male voice commanded.

Mercer froze, his pulse pounding. Hat’s son had said only two men had entered the building, and they had already been eliminated. Whose was the voice behind them?

“Step away from the desk and turn around slowly.” The command was punctuated with the cocking of a revolver.

An overweight security guard stood in the doorway. He was a frightened rent-a-cop with a pale, jowled face and a trembling grip on his weapon.

“You got a lot to answer for. Keep your hands where I can see them. Move toward the fish tank.”

Mercer backed away from the desk, Tish right beside him. She hadn’t screamed when the guard entered and seemed in control. Mercer wished that he felt as calm as she appeared. The guard had scared the hell out of him.

Greg Russo must have called in additional security after Cap had left his post across the street. Mercer had no way of knowing if more men were scouring the building. The guard crossed to the desk, his eyes and gun never straying from Mercer. With his free hand he fumbled for the telephone. Mercer’s chance was coming.

The instant the guard glanced down at the phone, Mercer launched himself.

Time slowed to a crawl. Mercer’s senses were heightened so that he could see the individual hairs on the guard’s face, smell the nervous sweat of the man, and hear his labored breathing. Mercer flew across the room, focusing on the hand holding the revolver, the rings of fat around the man’s wrist, the knuckles tightening around the trigger. The hammer began to drop and Mercer’s fingers were still inches away from their mark.

The gun discharged just as Mercer grabbed the guard’s wrist. The sound was like a burst of thunder in the small office. Cordite smoke burned Mercer’s eyes, blinding him. Next to Tish, the large fish tank exploded, water, gravel, and the fish cascading to the carpet in a frothing wave.

The recoil lifted the gun high over the guard’s head so that Mercer’s shoulder barreled into the guard’s unprotected flank. Mercer could feel the man’s ribs snap as he smashed into them. The guard was thrown across the desk, the gun spinning from his hand. He fell against a wall, moaning.

Mercer recovered the revolver, aiming it at the fallen guard, but did not pull the trigger. “You’re not with those others, you don’t have to die.” Mercer lowered the revolver and turned to Tish. “Are you all right?”

“Shaken, but not stirred.”

“We’ve got to get out of here — someone must have heard this gun go off.”

Mercer held out his hand and Tish came toward him and took it in hers. He stared at the dying fish for a moment as it flopped on the soaked carpet and the sight triggered a vague memory. “Benoit Charleteaux,” he mumbled.

“What?” Tish asked as they started cautiously back to the fourth floor and the ladder outside.

“Another clue.” Mercer’s muted voice sounded triumphant.