“By causing more global warming?”
“Yes. D’Avejan intended to use the crystals to deflect a little more of the cosmic radiation that strikes Earth, which would cause fewer clouds to form in the atmosphere. And once a planet loses a portion of its shading, it warms ever so slightly.”
“I get it,” Ira said. “He makes global warming come back, people start to panic again, and suddenly the governments lavish billions on solar and wind.”
“And on Eurodyne,” Mercer concluded.
“I assume you’re not laying all this in my lap out of the kindness of your heart.”
“Not at all,” Mercer assured him. “You can take the accolades for all this, Ira…we both know I certainly don’t want them. But I do need one thing from you. There’s an errand I have to do before I head home.”
At nine in the morning on the day after his arrival in Paris, Mercer received a visitor in his hotel room. The man had a package, and the address of a plumber not far from Eurodyne’s headquarters building. The man and Mercer headed out, and fifteen minutes later they were at the modest shop of the local plumber. The French plumber, a dour mustached man who smoked like the surgeon general had never existed, graciously accepted his fee of five hundred euros and handed over uniforms and two boxes of tools.
At exactly ten o’clock, Mercer and the CIA contact, now both dressed in authentic uniforms, were in Roland d’Avejan’s secretary’s office. The agent was explaining to her that he’d received an emergency call from the tenant below her boss’s office, and there was water leaking through his ceiling. She replied that Monsieur d’Avejan was not to be disturbed, to which the agent replied that he would call the building manager and have the terms of the lease read to her because he had emergency access to all parts of the building, day or night, and Monsieur could go screw himself.
She finally relented, buzzed d’Avejan, and explained the problem.
“Fine,” he’d huffed over the intercom.
The lovely executive assistant opened the inner office door and stood back so the plumbers could lug their toolboxes inside.
Roland d’Avejan didn’t even look up from his desk, and Mercer dared not look at him in case the man could sense his hatred. He followed the CIA agent into the bathroom and closed the door. The agent cocked an eyebrow as an invitation for Mercer to do whatever it was he wanted. Mercer opened the heavy toolbox. He donned a pair of rubber surgical gloves he’d been given earlier, followed by a pair of thick rubber gauntlets. Only then did he remove the wrapped block that had been formulated for him by a retired chemist who did occasional work for the CIA, as well as France’s own DSGE. Mercer removed the bar of soap from the tiled shower stall and replaced it with the new cake. The colors matched, but Mercer’s was a little too large, so he pared it down with a knife.
He put the heavy gloves in the box and snapped off the latex.
“C’est tout? Fini?” the agent asked.
“Oui.”
“D’accord.”
They exited the bathroom, and the agent said to the uninterested executive, “Pardon us, monsieur, but the water does not appear to be coming from your bathroom. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
They paused for a second, but d’Avejan didn’t bother looking up, so the plumbers walked out. They smiled at the pretty secretary and left the building together.
It wouldn’t break on Bloomberg News until nine hours later, while Mercer was reclined comfortably aboard a Boeing 777 somewhere over the Atlantic. Roland d’Avejan, the wealthy president of one of Europe’s most well-respected and environmentally conscious companies, had hurled himself naked through his office window and plummeted to his death. His body showed signs of second- and third-degree chemical burns. A rumor out of the medical examiner’s office was that d’Avejan’s body continued to melt even on the autopsy table. The subsequent investigation would reveal a pattern of self-abuse using stronger and stronger soaps in a masochistic spiral that obviously got out of control. His latest attempt to expunge whatever sins he thought these soaps could clean had gone terribly wrong. A sliver of the fateful bar had been recovered by investigators in his shower, and tests had revealed its active chemicals became more caustic when exposed to water. An experiment on a piece of pork revealed that when d’Avejan tried to rinse away the painful soap, his skin would have started smoking, then disintegrating. It was universally agreed that the only way d’Avejan could have ended his excruciating agony was to jump. Death by misadventure. Case closed.
Mercer arrived home early evening, Eastern Standard Time, to find Harry and Special Agent Kelly Hepburn sitting in his bar. Kelly’s leg was up on a coffee table, her crutches leaning on the sofa next to her. Drag was on her other side, his tail going like a slow-tempo metronome while she scratched his ears.
“Well, hello,” Mercer said, taking in the scene.
“Hello yourself,” Kelly said with a warm smile. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Mercer, you look like crap. Where have you been…chasing terrorists around the globe?”
“I’m taking Drag out for a smoke,” Harry announced, passing Mercer and giving him an affectionate slap on the back.
“I’ve spent quite a lot of time here in the last week, recovering and chatting with Harry. You’ve got a real friend there.”
“Well, he’s certainly not shy…or sober,” Mercer replied. “How’s the leg — did Harry take good care of you?”
Kelly laughed. “Regaled me with stories of your heroics, Mercer. I was a captive audience.”
“Never believe everything you hear. And in Harry’s case, never believe anything you hear.”
“Okay, here’s the deal,” Kelly said quickly as she levered herself off the sofa. “You’re probably dead on your feet right now, so I’m going to get out of your hair and let you get some sleep. But I do plan on coming back when you’re rested.”
“Absolutely not,” Mercer replied. “I have to atone for past mistakes and ask a lady for a proper date. Just give me fifteen minutes to shower and dress, and I’ll whisk you away to wherever you want.” Mercer started walking toward his bedroom, but he turned back when he reached the doorway. “You mentioned French and Thai. I happen to be off all things French for a while, so Thai it is.”
After dinner, Special Agent Kelly Hepburn came home with Mercer. Despite her earlier warning, they did not need the Jaws of Life, only a carefully placed pillow and a burning desire to find comfort in the arms of another.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jack Du Brul became a #1 New York Times bestselling author with Clive Cussler, cowriting the Oregon series, which has become a fan favorite. Du Brul is also the author of earlier bestselling novels featuring Philip Mercer. He lives in Vermont with his wife.