Hot Mercy (Affairs of State Book 2) (12 page)

                                          11

After the Interpol agent left the room, Margaret Storey arranged for lunch to be brought into the conference room for herself, Geddes, and Mercy. While she was gone, Geddes excused himself and left Mercy alone in the room with a file he asked her to read. She was still digesting its shocking contents when Geddes came back into the room, followed by Agent Storey with a bulging white paper sack of sandwiches and snack chips.

Mercy nibbled distractedly on half a tuna-salad sandwich.

“All right, let’s talk about your mission,” the director said after wolfing down his lunch. “You finished reading the report?”

“Yes.” It had been a statement of the current status of the war on terror. And it looked as if they—the good guys—were losing. She pushed away the remainder of her sandwich.

“It’s a fact,” Geddes began, “that terrorists can function only as long as they have funds to cover their expenses. They need not only weapons and transportation, they have to keep cash on hand for bribes and to attract recruits, pay day-to-day living expenses for their local soldiers and for spies they plant in foreign countries.”

“That’s why, after the 911 attacks,” Mercy said, “the President went after numbered Swiss bank accounts?”

“Exactly. Now that it’s more difficult to hide money in traditional bank accounts, terrorist cells have been forced to find alternate ways of accumulating funds and storing them. We’ve managed to track down many of these, but one strategy has proven particularly elusive.”

“Precious gemstones.” Margaret Storey said. “Diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, high-quality pearls, amber and opals. All are ideal for money laundering and international trade for services or goods.”

“But this is nothing new,” Mercy pointed out. “Gold, jewels, art have always been used in lieu of paper money.”

“Not new,” Geddes agreed, “but one terrorist cell—we call it Chameleon for its ability to restructure itself whenever it feels threatened—has taken the gem trade to a new level.”

He pushed a button on the laptop computer in front of him. A map of Australia flashed on a large screen mounted on the wall to her right.

“A month ago, Chameleon hit the Coober Pedy opal mines in the outback of Southern Australia. The gang murdered guards, laborers, visitors…eighteen people, in total. They made off with an estimated half a ton of sandstone that—”

“Sandstone?” Mercy shook her head in disbelief. Of all the things to steal, this seemed among the most surprising.

“That’s the basal rock that holds veins of precious opal,” said Storey.

Mercy knew a little about opals already. She’d inherited a fiery white opal ring from her grandmother. She had the perfect 2-carat stone appraised and then insured for $8000. “Isn’t a half ton of rock a bit awkward to transport or hide?”

“It would seem,” Geddes said. “But then, the stuff looks pretty innocent, much like any other rock―at least, to the ordinary person.”

“But why risk such a daring robbery for opals? Why not a South African diamond mine?”

“Security. Historically, diamond mines are a favorite target. The security there is insanely obsessive. But have you ever heard of an opal mine being robbed?”

Mercy shrugged. “Guess not. Why did they choose that particular mine to hit?”

“Near as we can figure, the remote location appealed to the thieves. Plus, the Coober Pedy mine is relatively close to a large port—Adelaide. It would make sense that they would try to ship the ore elsewhere before processing it.”

“But even more important is the stone itself, the quality and grade,” Margaret Storey explained. “A very special vein was only recently discovered at Coober Pedy. White or crystal opal is unquestionably valuable. But this was a streak of rare black opal, which until now had been mined almost exclusively at Lightning Ridge in New South Wales. It’s exotic stuff, very high in demand the world over. A single carat of premium black opal can go for $15,000. God only knows how much pure top-grade opal is in that truckload of raw ore.”

“Estimates from the mining engineer on site run to $500-million and beyond,” Geddes said. “And that’s enough to finance one hell of a lot of weapons or anything else Chameleon needs to stay in business.”

“But how will they move that much rock from the Outback without being noticed?” It seemed inconceivable to Mercy.

“We think they already have moved it,” Storey said. “Aussie police believe they’ve tracked the thieves from Coober Pedy to the port in Adelaide. They believe a ship left there with most if not all of the ore.”

“They just don’t know which ship,” Geddes added. “Adelaide is an incredibly busy port, and manifests aren’t always complete or accurate.” He clicked to another map, this one of the world. “We suspect that the shipment will either remain in the Pacific Ocean and end up in Hawaii, on the way to more remote islands for processing—” he traced a line with a laser pen “—or move along an alternate route through the Panama Canal to the Virgin Islands. Our intelligence indicates that Chameleon has sent cargo to ports they favor in both of those places in the past. Wherever this shipment ends up, we believe they’ll store it
in situ
until they find a way to break the ore down into jewelry-grade stones, or use it in its raw form to barter for weapons.”

Mercy leaned forward, intent on every word now. The best antidote she knew for feelings of helplessness or depression was action―the more intense the better. “So what is my role in all of this?”

Geddes turned away from the projected map. “We’ve narrowed your area of concern to two ships that are scheduled to arrive soon at the island of St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Islands. One of these has already passed through the canal.”

“Three other suspect ships are on their way across the Pacific,” Margaret added. “They’re someone else’s babies.”

“One of the two St. Thomas ships is a commercial mega carrier registered in Libya. Seafarer. Ultimate destination the Bayonne, New Jersey shipyards,” Geddes said. “The other is a luxury motor yacht with Australian registration, Mystic Voyager, owned privately by a man from Sydney. He told friends that he and his wife intend to cruise through the Caribbean, stop in the VI’s for a while then continue up the Atlantic coast to summer in Nova Scotia. They had some work done on the ship in Adelaide, before they left port—keel repaired, hull sandblasted and repainted, updated electronics installed.”

“Nice vacation, if you can afford it,” Mercy commented.

Storey smiled. “Indeed.”

“But how would a private yacht carry half a ton of rock?”

“She’s a whopper, that’s how.” Geddes opened a folder on the table. “Here’s a photo. It’s a power yacht, two hundred feet of teak, glass, and pure luxury. Full crew on board, including a chef. Lots of places to hide stuff, believe me.” And indeed, Mercy could see that from the photo.

“The container ship will be covered by a field agent who’s already in place in the Red Hook shipyards on St. Thomas. As soon as Seafarer reaches port your partner will find a way to get on board. But there’s no easy way to check out the yacht without arousing suspicion.”

“Unless someone is invited on board?” Mercy guessed.

“Exactly,” Storey said. “We can’t send an assault team to search any of these suspect ships until we’re sure of the location of the opal ore. A mistake will alert Chameleon that we’re getting close. They’ll disappear like they have before, and we may never recover the ore or catch any of them.”

“It will be your responsibility, Mercy, to first gain access to the yacht and become familiar with the owner and any passengers or crew,” Geddes said. “My suggestion is to approach the couple who own the Mystic Voyager and ask for advice about purchasing a yacht similar to theirs. Win their confidence. See if they will invite you on board for a tour of their toy, for cocktails or a day cruise, whatever. Be your charming diplomatic self.”

“I don’t expect they’ll leave chunks of opal strewn about the deck,” Mercy pointed out.

“No.” Storey gave her a grim smile. “It may not be easy to find the stone, if it’s onboard at all. You’ll have to be cautious about your search. If these are the people we’re after, they’ve already killed at least eighteen people. They won’t hesitate to kill again to protect themselves and their cargo.”

A cheerful thought that!
Mercy mused later that afternoon as Margaret Storey drove the two of them back through the rolling countryside toward the city. “Use your last day in DC to quietly tie up personal loose ends,” she advised Mercy.

“Can I drop by the gallery to reassure Evelyn and see how she’s making out?”

“Absolutely not. You’re supposed to be recuperating in West Virginia. Stick to your cover story. Stay out of sight as best you can while putting your house and finances in order and packing.”

One thing still puzzled Mercy. “I thought for sure you’d give me a different identity.”

“That would defeat the purpose of your working for us as an AOI. It’s your family’s name and connections that make you valuable. You’re the real deal, my dear.”

“A real deal that Tambov can track down.” She didn’t think she should need to remind a career agent of this. “What if they find out about my involvement in the cartel arrests in Mexico? They’ll know I’m liable to be trouble for them.”

“Frankly, I expect you’ll be in and out of the Caribbean before the Russians even realize you’re a threat. This should be a quick mission, for you at least.”

Why do I not believe this?
“Has Yegorov been picked up?”

Margaret’s expression revealed no emotion, but something in her voice altered, carving an edge on her words. “We haven’t been able to locate him.”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“I suppose not. And I wouldn’t put it past him to come after you again. But we’ll deal with him, if necessary, when the time comes. Meanwhile, I’ll bet he’s still scouring Appalachia for you. We’ve laid plenty of false leads to keep him busy.”

Mercy spent the rest of the drive studying the file they’d given her, to familiarize herself with the suspect yacht owners as well as with the geography of the islands that comprised the U.S. and British Virgin Islands. An hour later, Margaret pulled into the alley behind her home in Georgetown. Mercy and her husband Peter had lived here while they were married, and it once had belonged to her parents, and before them to her grandparents. Since her childhood, she’d only ever left it for any period of time to accompany Peter on his State Department assignment as Cultural Liaison to Mexico. Her mother came for brief visits between assignments for
GeoWorld Magazine
, but Talia lived with her boyfriend in New York City, when she was in the country.

“Listen,” Margaret said as they climbed out, “I’d love to give you more time and freedom before you leave. I know this is hard on you—believe me, I do. But we can’t chance the opal ore arriving at port in St. Thomas and Chameleon unloading the ship before we get there.”

“We?” Mercy unlocked the door to her house with her shiny new key and led Margaret toward the kitchen. “You’re going too?”

The woman gave her a mysterious look. “Right. We didn’t get to that part. Got any coffee? We need to iron out a few more details.”

While Mercy ground a portion of her favorite dark-roasted beans, then brewed a fresh pot and nuked two blueberry scones she fished from the freezer, Margaret searched the townhouse for bugs.

“Clean,” she announced, returning to the kitchen, “but let’s turn on some music just in case.”

A simple but fairly effective challenge to any listening device, Mercy had learned at camp. She clicked on the satellite radio system that wafted soothing music throughout every room in the house.

“Chopin, nice,” Margaret approved, sitting down at the kitchen table. She took a bite of her scone and gave her a thumbs up. “By the way, the phone in your office is blinking.”

“I’ll check messages after we’re done.” Mercy joined her at the table.

They ate and drank in silence for a moment. Mercy was suddenly famished after not having eaten much of her sandwich in Geddes’ office.

Margaret finished first and brushed crumbs from her fingertips. “Okay, so here’s the deal. Yes, I am going to the VI, but you and I will have no direct contact. There’s a dockside café on St. John’s called, get this—” she rolled her eyes “—
Tickles
.”

“Seriously?” Mercy laughed.

“It’s a popular watering hole for tourists and yacht crews. We’ll use it as a dead drop. The seats of the stools at the outdoor bar are hollow underneath, like overturned cups. The one closest to the water has been equipped with Velcro strips.”

“So I slip my reports up inside?”

Margaret nodded and sipped her coffee. “In a special zip-lock baggie. Then leave a chalk smudge on the wooden sign by the road leading into the marina. If I see you’ve left a mark, I’ll know to go for a pickup and erase your mark when I’ve retrieved your message.”

“And if you need to get information to me?”

“Same routine in reverse.”

CIA 101: Dead drop etiquette. This was almost as much fun as her father’s spy stories. Or would have been, if so much hadn’t been at stake.

“Are we flying down together?” Mercy asked.