Mercer jumped when he felt pressure against his crotch. Carefully, he reached under the table and grabbed at what he feared was Lorna Farquar’s hand. His fingers sank into something warm and furry, and before he knew what he’d touched, tiny needle teeth sank into his thumb. He pulled his hand away with a gasp and flung the Farquar’s Pekingese onto an adjoining table. The dog had been snuffling into Mercer’s pocket for the sandwiches.
“Pookie, you bad boy. Get back into your bag.” Ignoring the repulsed diners, the dog defiantly lifted its leg against the flowered centerpiece. After emitting a single drop, the Pekingese trotted through plates, jumped to the floor, and curled up in the carpetbag Lorna carried for him. “Good boy.”
The other table cleared.
“Unless you accept Christ into your heart,” Tommy Joe continued drunkenly, “you’ll never find salvation in the hereafter. You’ll be denied His everlasting love in Heaven and be cast into the Pit. I can imagine all the pagan things you’ve done and don’t you worry. I have a special program in my ministry to help all sorts of people find His light, including” — he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper — “homo-sexuals. If Jesus can forgive them, you can believe you’ll be forgiven for praying to cows and false idols and such.”
“Honey, I don’t think they understand you none,” Lorna said into the first silence since Mercer and Ira had sat down. “Do you speak American?”
Mercer shrugged. To keep from laughing out loud, he had to remind himself that Rath’s men were right behind him.
Tommy Joe dropped his public persona. “Godless heathens.”
“I think the younger one’s kinda cute.” Lorna bat-ted her eyes at Mercer.
“You think anything in pants is kinda cute.” Tommy Joe pushed back his overflowing plate and gulped the last of his triple scotch.
“Ha! They’re not wearing pants,” Lorna snapped with a child’s logic and obstinacy.
“Shut up.” Farquar lumbered to his feet. “Let’s go find a bar.”
“I want to talk with these two some more.”
“Lorna, you’d be the one doing all the talking. They can’t understand you.” He stalked off. She considered remaining but gave Mercer and Ira a quick smile and wiggled after her husband.
The ex-Navy man leaned into Mercer’s ear. “Remind me to renounce my U.S. citizenship when we get home.”
Mercer looked around the room and spotted Erwin Puhl weaving his way around tables toward them. His dark expression told Mercer that he hadn’t found Father Vatutin. He sat and mechanically ate his bland food, leaning back far enough to overhear the conversation behind him. Rath’s two men had been eating like wolves and finished a few minutes later. They left their plates and strode away.
“Anything?” Mercer asked when they were gone.
“I think they brought one of the boxes!” Erwin said in a rush.
Mercer’s expression turned frigid. “Are you sure?”
“Not positive, but I think so. They talked about cargo transferred from Rath’s chopper to the boat they used to get here.”
“Goddamn it! Our status just went from fugitive to hostage.”
That single box of meteor fragments meant Rath had complete control of the Sea Empress. He could open it at any time and resign some of the greatest leaders on the planet to an unspeakable death. Mercer closed his eyes, trying to block out the image of the Sea Empress becoming a coffin ship, doomed to forever sail the seas with her decks covered by thousands of radioactive corpses, a modern, horrific Mary Celeste.
His goal to save the survivors was no longer enough. They couldn’t hide out when there was another Pandora box loose. He had to stop Rath himself. If just that single box got off the vessel, the whole world was at risk.
“They also mentioned they had a prisoner with them,” Erwin continued. “Someone who could get them onto the Sea Empress without raising suspicion.”
“Who the hell would Rath need?” Ira asked. “He’s got to be high up in Kohl Industries.”
“Apparently not high enough,” Mercer mused. “No sign of your priest friend?”
“I didn’t see Anatoly anywhere. We should try calling his cabin again from the phone in the corridor.”
Mercer shot to his feet and handed the two sandwiches to Ira. “You two make the call and get back to the boat garage.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to the radio room to call Dick Henna. Rath may prevent passengers from calling from their rooms, but I can’t believe communications are really out. No matter what happens to us, we have to get the word out about the box.”
In the corridor, Mercer checked his watch. The half hour he’d promised Anika was gone. He looked around and spotted the two Germans walking across the catwalk spanning the atrium. If Rath needed leverage to get him on the cruise liner, Mercer would need their prisoner to get into the radio room. He began to follow the Germans.
The guards turned along one of the hanging promenades, passing darkened storefronts that read like a one-block section of Rodeo Drive — Gucci, Movado, Armani, Chanel, Godiva. Mercer stayed well back, partially to find cover in the thinning crowds, partially because he couldn’t match their pace wearing ill-fitting sandals. The Mauser was tucked into his waistband, and he cleared away a fold in his robe so he could reach it easier.
The two Germans wound through a couple of corridors and stopped at an elevator. When the car arrived, they stepped inside. Mercer ran down the hall when the doors closed. Above the elevator was a digital counter indicating the floor the car was on. He watched it descend to one deck below where the marina was located.
He charged through the staircase fire door behind him. Pounding down two steps at a time, his feet hurting with every impact, Mercer paused after descending three flights when he thought he heard a door open above him. He captured his breath in his mouth but could hear nothing over the blood thumping in his ears. He continued downward.
One flight above his destination a STAFF ONLY door blocked his path. He stopped to listen again and then swung open the unlocked door. Gone were the rich carpets, subtle lighting, and wood paneling. This was the crew’s area of the vessel. It was as utilitarian as a battleship and painted the same institutional gray.
He paused for a minute, his head held at an angle to see if anyone had followed him. The pistol grip became sweaty. Nothing. Dressed like a passenger, he knew he couldn’t spend any length of time in the bowels of the ship without catching the attention of a crew member. Still, he needed to find Rath’s prisoner.
Edging down a companionway so long he couldn’t see the other end, he kept his back pressed against one wall. There were countless doors lining the corridor and every thirty feet or so another hall ran off at a right angle. The ship was a maze. The linoleum was so new he could see individual scuff marks and amid the subtle abrasions of waiters’ loafers he recognized the heavy black smears left by rubber-soled combat boots. Rath’s men.
He followed the trail like a bloodhound, twisting through the labyrinth while a subconscious part of his brain mapped his route of retreat. A door opened just as Mercer passed, and without breaking stride, he threw himself into the handsome, twenty-something man who had come out wearing a purple robe. They crashed into the bunk beds on the far wall of the cabin, the young man yelping in pain. Mercer closed the door with his foot.
“Don’t hurt me please!” the blond boy said. He was English, delicate as a girl. A waiter, Mercer guessed.
“I won’t.” Mercer kept menace in his voice. “What size shoes do you wear?’
The boy’s eyes widened. “What?”
“Shoes? What size shoes?”
“Twelve.”
“Got any sneakers?” Mercer hoped the American and English sizes were the same, or at least close. The boy nodded. “Give them to me.”
Mercer let the waiter back to his feet and stripped off his monk’s robe. The boy blubbered when he saw the handle of the Mauser. “Give me the shoes and keep your mouth shut, and I’ll leave you alone.”