Charon's Landing (16 page)

“I told you before,” Mossey sighed. “Your program was buried inside the computer core during the 1986 system upgrade. When your programmer hardwired it into the mainframe, he made it impossible to activate from anywhere other than the main computer room in Valdez. That way, no one could ever stumble across it at a desktop unit or find it by hacking into the system. He made it impossible to discover and at the same time very difficult to access. My antibacktracker is child’s play compared to the protection your guy put into the system.”

Kerikov understood that there was no other option than to get him into the computer room at Valdez in order to initiate the programs planted over a decade ago by one of Kerikov’s best agents. The computer sabotage had been the only active element of Charon’s Landing Kerikov had carried out prior to the collapse of the Soviet Union. Everything since then had been his own doing, with financial backing from Hasaan bin-Rufti and others. The computer codes were the only items Kerikov needed to pirate the former KGB operation.

“How soon can you lock them out and get yourself to the facility?” Kerikov asked, the ripe scent of victory already detectable. Philip Mercer might still be alive, but there wasn’t anything he could do to stop Kerikov once the control program was primed.

“About four hours after I get to my apartment in Valdez. Once I freeze the system, they’ll call me within minutes. After that, I can start your program in just a few hours.”

“Excellent. I want you to drive back to Valdez tonight, but don’t lock them out until I call you. The delay shouldn’t be more than twenty-four hours, thirty-six at the most, understand?”

“Yes, sure, but why wait?”

“Initiating my computer program is only one phase of the overall operation; there are others that you are not aware of. I have to make certain that everything is in place before we take over the system entirely.” Kerikov wasn’t in the habit of explaining his orders.

Kerikov didn’t wait for Mossey to leave before he strode from the living room to his bedroom. The phone extension there was now the only working unit in the suite. As he dialed an in-house line to reach Abu Alam two floors below, he fished in his pant’s pocket for his pack of cigarettes and lighter.

“Yes,” Alam answered.

“We are leaving in a few hours. There has been a slight complication. The people in Washington failed.”

“Mercer is still alive?” Despite his instability, Alam retained enough professionalism to ask the right questions.

“Yes. Rather than try again, I’ve decided to draw him to Alaska, then send him on a wild-goose chase. We can take care of him later. To ensure he comes, we need to return to Homer. Fuel the car. I’ll meet you in the lobby” — Kerikov looked at his watch — “at ten o’clock.”

“Should we be armed?” Even Alam had some respect for American law enforcement and traveled with his beloved SPAS-12 semiautomatic shotgun only when necessary.

“Yes. We will take my own men on this trip.” Kerikov needed the steadier hands of his two German guards instead of Alam’s murderous Arab gunslingers. While the former Stasi agents had bungled the interrogation of the fisherman and his son, they were well trained and disciplined, and tonight’s work would need their professionalism. He cut the connection and immediately redialed the phone.

“I can’t speak now, we’re still loading,” a voice responded brusquely, then hung up.

Kerikov looked at the mute instrument for a moment, but since he’d called to get a situation report from his agent, he was satisfied. He made another call, ignoring the time difference, not caring that he’d wake the man at the other end.

“Hello,” came a sleepy voice after a few rings.

“You’ve failed again. Mercer is still alive.” Kerikov could hear the man swing himself out of bed.

“That’s not possible. I sent my best man. He’s never failed me.”

“One of my old contacts in Washington just called me from Mercer’s block. There are about two dozen cops there right now and he said he saw Mercer talking to Dick Henna himself.”

“Was anyone else involved?”

“What does that matter? Mercer is alive, and now you’ve failed me twice. Your ineptitude is intolerable.” Kerikov left his last statement hanging in the silence.

“He’ll be dead tomorrow if I have to kill him myself.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Kerikov barked. “He’s under the protective custody of the FBI now. The only way to stop him is to lure him to Alaska, where I will take care of him personally. I have an old score to settle.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing for the moment. Is everything set with Rufti?”

“I spoke with him this evening. He says that Khalid Al-Khuddari is suspicious, but he assures me that he’s ready to strike before Khuddari has figured just how real the threat to the royal family is.”

“The weapons?”

“Are stowed aboard the
Petromax Arabia
, which is berthed in Abu Dhabi for an unscheduled maintenance inspection as you planned.” As the other man spoke, his voice grew more confident. “The
Arctica
should be leaving Valdez within a couple of hours, so everything is on track. Even with Mercer still alive, there’s no way to stop everything we’ve set in motion. Don’t worry, Ivan. Within a couple of days America’s last source of domestic oil will become inaccessible, petroleum prices will double, and the map of the Middle East will be redrawn again. And this time, no one will be able to lift a finger to change it back. All three of us get what we want — you your money, me my profits, and Rufti his own country.”

“I will believe that when it occurs. Hubris has taken down greater men than you,” Kerikov chided before his voice took on a thoughtful calm. “I’m concerned about Rufti. I just don’t believe that fat bastard has the guts or the brains to pull off his part of the operation. If he fails, everything will come unraveled.”

“Is there enough time for you to derail Khuddari?” Kerikov’s partner asked.

“No. And that’s what concerns me. I’ve pushed up our timetable by a full day, so there is nothing we can do about him. Rufti, I’m afraid, will be on his own until this is over.” Kerikov kept his anger hidden. In the old days, he could have simply dispatched an assassin to kill Khuddari and tie up that loose end, but he no longer had that sort of power.

“I’ve known Hasaan Rufti longer than you. I too was distracted by his weakness for food and thought it connoted a deeper weakness within the man. Khuddari may prove to be difficult, but Rufti is greedy enough, and crafty enough, to get rid of him. And he won’t care what it costs or who gets in the way. He has absolutely no morals. You’ve met his lackey, Abu Alam. Christ, Rufti is twice as sick as that lunatic and ten times as dangerous. However, I’ll be speaking with Rufti again tomorrow. I’ll make sure he understands your concern.”

“He doesn’t know that you and I are working together?” Kerikov nearly shouted, panic forcing blood to his face in an angry flush.

“Of course not,” the other man soothed quickly. “He’ll think that the concern is mine. Don’t worry, Ivan. He doesn’t know of our deal at all.”

“Don’t fuck this up, or so help me God, death would be a relief from what I’d do to you.” He angrily hung up the phone, the cavalier attitude of his partner threatening to send him into cardiac arrest.

He’d been this close to his goals before and had them stripped away by perfidious greed and the work of Philip Mercer.

He lit another cigarette to steady his fraying nerves. He had only a few minutes to meet Alam and his two men for the trip down to Homer. Once he’d laid the false trail for Mercer, he could again concentrate fully on all the other aspects of Charon’s Landing.

Before he left the suite, he had one more call to make. The connection took a few seconds longer than normal as the signal was bounced off an orbiting satellite and converted to a marine band frequency. A female answered.

“Is this Hope?” he asked.

“Yes, it is,” she chirped brightly.

“This is Ivan Kerikov. Tell your boss that we’re pushing up the strike by twenty-four hours. Make sure that you’re ready. I’ll be back in touch in the morning if there are any questions.”

T
he headquarters of the FBI was located in downtown Washington, a massive steel and glass building that more befitted a high-tech corporation than America’s premier law-enforcement agency. Behind the walls of the building named for the most vigilant American ever born, the FBI ran countless operations all over the nation, from the mundane to the most dangerous, each conducted with a thoroughness that many felt bordered on paranoia. Yet the tireless men and women of the Bureau knew that their work secured the nation as no other on earth.

Dick Henna had a suite of offices on the top floor. When it wasn’t necessary to impress guests and he needed privacy, he preferred one of the plain conference rooms several floors below. It was just one more way he tried to remain connected to his organization and not hide himself in the ivory tower of his position as had so many of his predecessors. Henna’s bulldog face was heavily jowled, with a sloped nose and small eyes. His body matched his face, wide shoulders and thick gut stacked on short legs. He looked like a Teamster enforcer from the union’s nefarious past. Despite his years spent steadily gaining positions in the agency and his year as the Director of the FBI, he’d never lost the look of an overworked street agent.

Across from him, Mercer slouched comfortably, none the worse after the attack and a night under FBI protective custody at the Willard Hotel, one of Washington’s finest. The bullet wound wasn’t deep, more of a nuisance than an injury, a weal that would mend in a few days. In deference to the meeting, he wore a suit, one that hung off of his long frame as easily as a favorite pair of jeans and rugby shirt. When the police had arrived at his brownstone the night before, with Henna and two cars of FBI special agents, they’d given him just enough time to pack an overnight bag before bundling him off to the Willard. Harry White was brought back to his own apartment for debriefing.

Until midnight, a tag team pair of investigators grilled Mercer over every element of the assault on his house, each retelling gleaning some other detail as he racked his brain for information. He was entirely honest and cooperative about the whole affair except that he maintained that he was alone when Harry had come over. Though he felt a tremendous sense of betrayal, he thought it best not to mention Aggie Johnston. As a favor to Mercer, Harry would verify that his friend was alone when he arrived.

Mercer hadn’t really had the time to analyze Aggie’s reaction. The FBI had kept him up so long that exhaustion had overwhelmed him even as he was retelling the events of the previous night. But he was disturbed by her sudden departure and what it could possibly mean.

Henna was uncharacteristically subdued. He’d spoken with Agent Peters’ widow the night before and was going to visit her later in the day. It was a duty he was not looking forward to but one that he wouldn’t allow anyone else to handle. Though he’d never met the young agent, he took Peters’ death as hard as if it were his best friend who would be buried the following day.

An aide stepped into the office with a tray of coffee. Mercer took his black and waited for Dick to dilute his with a heavy drop of milk and two spoons of sugar.

“Why is it you look worse than I do and I was the one who was attacked last night?” Mercer tried to put some levity in his question, but he couldn’t cut through Henna’s morose air.

“I don’t know what it is about you, but since last night, the shit’s really hit the fan.” Henna shook his head sadly. “After you were attacked, I called the President, woke him, actually. He gave me the authority to dig around in the archives of the CIA and the National Security Agency for anything pertaining to Alaska or you.” Henna pulled a tightly folded piece of paper from his pocket, easing out the creases as he spoke. “The NSA came up with this about two hours ago.”

Mercer scanned the page, ignoring the bureaucratic language and extraneous words that littered any government document. The meat of the letter was that a man named John Krugger had entered the country twelve days earlier. “So?”

“The NSA’s computers automatically flag passports with suspicious names. They process thousands of yellow flags per week, names and aliases that are the same or sound similar to those of terrorists or other undesirables. Naturally, most of these are meaningless coincidences. Yet the computer will red-flag certain ones depending on our interest in the person being sought. This name sent up a red flag immediately.”

“Means nothing to me.” Mercer was nonchalant, though the hairs on the back of his neck were beginning to bristle with premonition.

“John Krugger is an Anglicized version of Johann Kreiger,” Henna said flatly.

Mercer shrugged his shoulders, but unconsciously he braced his feet as if expecting a physical blow.

“Johann Kreiger was a favorite alias of Ivan Kerikov, and according to the KGB, who still wants him dead, he has an English passport under the name of John Krugger.”

“Kerikov’s in the country?” Mercer rasped.

A thousand emotions swirled through him, undirected and random. Through the chaos, a pattern formed and a dominant desire cut through the tempest. Mercer wanted revenge. Ivan Kerikov, the mastermind behind Vulcan’s Forge, had nearly killed Mercer a dozen times over when the Russian stole that former KGB plot. Mercer had wanted a chance to kill the Russian then, but Kerikov hadn’t been close enough. He had expertly manipulated others to do his bidding while remaining safely outside the country.

But now, Kerikov was here, in America, on Mercer’s home turf, and he wanted another chance to bring the Russian down. His stomach tightened with fury.

“I want him, Dick.”

“We’ll discuss that later. Right now, we have to figure out why he’s here.”

“You think it has something to do with me and Alaska?”

“Since you cost him a hundred million dollars in Hawaii, I’m sure it will involve you, and, given the mood of the country and the administration, I assume everything has to do with Alaska.”