Vulcan's Forge (25 page)

M
inister Lujian, the Chinese representative, scratched his name into the heavy book slid to him by Minister Tren of Taiwan. Lujian finished his signature with a flourish and slid the book across the burnished mahogany table to the person at his left, Ambassador Marco Quirino, the representative from the Philippines.

With each successive signature, the oppressive air in the meeting room lightened. There were murmurs from the small gallery of spectators allowed to see the ambassadors pledge their nations’ consent to the document. Those in the gallery had not been privy to the weeks of frustrating delays that had plagued the Bangkok summit, but still they sensed the great accomplishment these diplomats had achieved.

The official signature book was passed to the Russian ambassador, Gennady Perchenko. A close observer could easily detect a slight rise in tension among the delegates. The wily Russian had been the reason for the past weeks of utter frustration. Then, inexplicably, this morning he announced to the delegates that he had no further comments. Because the symbolic documents for the representatives’ signatures had been prepared at the start of the accords, Thailand’s ambassador Prem motioned that the delegates commence with the signing and the others nearly fell over themselves seconding him.

U.S. undersecretary of commerce Kenneth Donnelly leaned over toward Perchenko and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “I sure hope you know what you’ve been playing at, pardner.”

“Mr. Secretary, I’m not playing at anything, I simply wanted to ensure all nations’ rights were explored here.”

Perchenko heard America’s delegate mutter, “Bullshit,” under his breath, but let the comment pass. No sooner had he signed the document than a wave of applause rippled through the room. Perchenko acknowledged the ovation with a smug smile and slid the book to Donnelly.

Donnelly signed with a tight smile focused on Perchenko and closed the book with a resounding snap.

 

A pounding rain lashed the night, the drone of the water interrupted only by the booming thunder that echoed across the city. The storm did little to cool the overpowering heat, and Perchenko found himself nearly panting as he raced from the courtyard of the Arun Wat toward the protection of the temple itself.

Kerikov’s orders had been explicit; that he wait by the low stone wall that separated the Temple of Dawn from the Phraya River at eight p.m., but the spy had said nothing about drowning in a torrential downpour.

Gennady dashed into the shadow of one of the four ceramic-tiled towers which surround the conical two-hundred-and-sixty-foot spire of the Wat. His suit was soaked through and his sparse hair hung limply against his pale face, a face once tight and healthy looking, but now worn by exhaustion so that bags drooped under his eyes and slabs of skin hung down his cheeks and throat.

He could hear the faint chanting of monks within the huge temple, but the storm drowned out all other sounds save his labored breathing.

“What the hell am I doing here?” he wheezed aloud.

“Not following instructions, Gennady Perchenko,”

Ivan Kerikov replied from the deep shadows to Perchenko’s right.

Kerikov stepped into the light given off by the temple’s numerous floods and spots. He seemed unaffected by the rain; his shoulders were squared against the deluge and his eyes remained open and alert. In contrast, Gennady hunched miserably, and he squinted at Kerikov as if he were a spectral apparition.

“I told you to wait by the wall.” Kerikov gestured with his arm, then smiled warmly. “But under the circumstances, I understand.”

Gennady relaxed a bit and smiled, but still regarded Kerikov with a wary, nervous eye.

“I assume that all went well?” Kerikov moved toward Gennady so that he stood in the protection of the temple’s massive portal.

“Yes,” Gennady muttered. His fear of Kerikov, oppressive yesterday in the open crowd of the Royal River Hotel’s bar, was crippling now that the two were alone.

He had been terrified of Kerikov since learning of the KGB man’s unlimited influence so when he had shown up the day before, Kerikov had dismissed Gennady’s concerns over the missing maître d’ and assured him that the time had come to wind up the Bangkok Accords. Gennady wanted to ask why the delay had been necessary in the first place, but fear froze the question in his throat. Even in the relaxed atmosphere of the open-air bar, Kerikov was the most malevolent man Gennady had ever seen.

“Relax, Gennady, it is done and you have triumphed.” Kerikov slipped a sterling hip flask from his jacket pocket. “Vodka from home.”

Gennady took a long pull from the flask. Even warm, the vodka went down his throat with the smoothness of silk. Kerikov motioned for Gennady to take another drink, and he did so gratefully.

“Tell me, were you able to insert my amendment into the accords?”

“Yes, that was done weeks ago. It was simple, really. I’ve had more difficulty in actually delaying the signing ceremony. I’ve made some promises to the Taiwanese ambassador that may be out of my bounds.”

“Yes, yes,” Kerikov said dismissively. “You had no trouble with my amendment, though?”

“The wording had to be changed some to accommodate the American, Donnelly, but they all agreed to it.”

“Changed?” There was no panic in Kerikov’s voice, but its pitch had raised slightly. “How?”

“I thought you’d ask, so I brought that section of the accords with me.” Perchenko pulled a sheet of paper from within his jacket and read aloud:

“Donnelly wanted that last bit about the World Court in Holland.” Gennady took another swallow of vodka, waiting for a reaction from Kerikov.

Kerikov thought for a few seconds, letting Perchenko’s words soak in, then decided that the diplomat had followed close enough to the original wording. Thanks to that single amendment, Kerikov could turn over the volcano to the Korean consortium without any fear of international recriminations. The United States and Russia had just signed away any title to the volcano and its unimaginable wealth.

Kerikov did not betray his emotions to Perchenko when he spoke. “This is acceptable. Come, I have a boat waiting in the river; we will celebrate your success.”

Kerikov hurried Gennady away from the towering temple. They nearly sprinted through the driving rain toward the stone wall and the river beyond. Despite the water streaming into Gennady’s eyes, he could see enough to realize that there was no boat waiting at the quay. He had just turned to question the KGB man when Kerikov struck.

Kerikov moved with the speed of a mamba, smashing a short truncheon over Gennady’s head. Blood sprang from the wound over his left eye, mingled with the falling rain, and ran down Perchenko’s face in a pink sheet.

The diplomat crumpled to the ground in an untidy heap. Kerikov easily dragged Gennady to the low stone wall; the river beyond was as black as an oil slick. Hidden in some shrubs near the wall was a large plastic ice chest. Beside it were two large cement blocks connected by a chain. The chain was wrapped in soft cloth and its two ends were joined not by a padlock, but rather by the thick chunk of ice that nestled in the cooler.

Kerikov rubbed the falling water from his eyes. On a night like this he didn’t have to fear discovery by a casual stroller, but there was always a chance that a monk might come to the river to make an offering. He hoisted Gennady’s still-unconscious body onto the low wall; the diplomat’s breathing was shallow but even. Good.

After lifting the two cement blocks and the ice chest onto the wall, Kerikov slung the chain around Perchenko’s neck. He had to hurry—the ice was melting faster than he’d anticipated. Kerikov heaved the loyal ambassador into the turgid water. The dark river swallowed Perchenko with a minimal splash, the cement blocks dragging him quickly toward the bottom.

Kerikov threw the cooler in also and watched as it was washed away by the river’s subtle current, then started back to his hotel, shoulders hunched against the biting rain. He could imagine the police report when the body was finally discovered. Perchenko had been out celebrating the conclusion of his meetings; the alcohol in his system would show he wasn’t drunk but certainly tipsy. He had slipped in the rain near the river, smashed his head against the stone wall, and fallen in.

There would be no indication of foul play because the padding around the chain would leave no marks around his throat and the chain that anchored him to the muddy bottom while he drowned would have vanished. The ice that held it together would melt in about ten minutes and then Perchenko’s lifeless body would simply float free.

An hour later, Kerikov was seated in the living room of his hotel suite, showered and dressed in a conservative suit with a Scotch in his hand. He could hear the rain pelting the patio just outside the curtained French doors. The lighting in the elegant room was muted except for the lamp over the couch, which shone brightly on the papers spread across the coffee table. Kerikov had gone over them a dozen times in the past few days and felt he could recite them by heart. They were his ticket to a future outside Russia, a future that he had barely dreamed of.

The ice in the glass tinkled delicately as he took a sip. He placed the glass exactly onto its condensation ring on the glass-topped table and picked up a sheet of paper at random. It was the assay values of the mineral compiled by Dr. Borodin in his survey runs over the past few months. The figures were staggering. In one ton of mined volcanic material, eight pounds of usable ore were present. Processed, those eight pounds would produce about one pound of high-grade metal with all its extraordinary properties. By comparison, Borodin had explained that in open-pit diamond mining, 250 tons of overburden had to be removed per carat of diamond recovered, a ratio of one billion to one.

Kerikov selected another sheet of paper. This one was Borodin’s plan for the actual mining of the mineral. A ship fitted with a huge cycloidal pump would be stationed near a less active vent of the volcano. A tungsten steel tube would be lowered into the vent and the pump turned on. Lava would be drawn directly from the volcano into the ship, where it would be cooled and systematically broken up into workable chunks, which would be off-loaded onto waiting ore carriers for refinement at a land-based smelter. The only real cost in the mining operation was the pump ship and since selling the idea to the Koreans, they had already had the ship built in Pusan.

There was a knock at the door. Kerikov stacked the papers neatly, took another sip of Scotch, and went to answer it. Two young Orientals stood there, each holding a bulky suitcase. He let them in without a word.

The Koreans opened the suitcases, revealing a daunting mass of electronics. They hurriedly set up the equipment: camera, monitor, and computerized transceiver. One man placed a small collapsible dish antenna on the teak railing of the patio. From the street seventy feet below, the steel mesh dish was invisible.

Once the equipment was set up, one of the young men began typing commands. The machines beeped and whirred and a test pattern appeared on the color monitor. The other man held a cardboard card in front of the camera. In Pusan, the image of that second test pattern filled the screen of a huge wall-mounted high-definition television. The two technicians nodded to each other and retreated from the room. An instant later the test pattern vanished from the monitor and was replaced by a view of a beautiful room.

Kerikov sat on the couch in front of the cyclops eye of the minicam. On the monitor, nine aged gentlemen were seated around a black lacquer table. None of them was under seventy years of age, yet their dark eyes were all alert and steady. Each man’s face was deeply lined and there was not a single dark hair to be seen. Behind the men hung a red tapestry chronicling Genghis Khan’s conquest of Asia, flanked by two huge terra-cotta vases.

Kerikov nodded slightly to show respect to the nine heads of Hydra Consolidated. In turn, the men merely dipped their eyes for a moment. That piece of Eastern nonsense complete, Kerikov spoke. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Good evening to you, Mr. Kerikov.” The satellite feed scrambled their voices and automatically translated from Korean into Russian and vice versa. The system worked well enough, as long as their sentences were not filled with enigmatic phrases. Way Hue Dong spoke for the syndicate, as he had during all their earlier negotiations. “I trust that this method of meeting is agreeable.”

“I am ready now to commit to our agreed-upon proposal.”

“We would like to know why the delay was necessary?” The electronics masked the annoyance in Way’s voice, but the question made his emotions clear.

“It was needed, I assure you, gentlemen.” Kerikov knew that a placating smile would be lost on these men, so he refrained. “When you see the location of the mineral deposit, you will understand that significant steps were needed to ensure its safety.”

“I trust that our future activities will not be disturbed?”

“No, they will not,” Kerikov responded hurriedly. With the Americans’ and Russians’ hands tied by the Bangkok Accords, only Takahiro Ohnishi presented any obstacle, and by the time the Koreans reached the volcano, Ohnishi would be eliminated.

Dealing with the race-crazed billionaire was a necessary hazard during the final play of Vulcan’s Forge. Ohnishi had been programmed to attempt his break away from the United States, and up until the last possible moment, Kerikov had needed him. But now the mineral wealth lay beyond America’s control—and beyond Ohnishi’s, if he ever succeeded in his bid for independence.