Neither man had anticipated the contact, so neither had an advantage. Mercer reared back, then sprang forward like an all-pro lineman playing in the Super Bowl, his shoulder connecting with the guard’s knee. The joint failed and the guard fell forward, but he still had time to whip his pistol at Mercer’s head, shearing skin from his already bleeding cheek. Mercer smashed a fist into the guard’s thigh, paralyzing the leg momentarily and giving himself time to bring up the Hi-Power.
The guard kicked out with his good leg and sent Mercer’s pistol skittering across the marbled floor. Mercer twisted away from the guard who was already trying to regain his feet. The room was too dark to see where the pistol wound up, so Mercer ignored it and concentrated on his opponent. He leapt to his feet and charged again, catching the guard low in the stomach and forcing the breath out of him in a loud whoosh. The guard backpedaled as Mercer continued to push him but twisted aside just before they hit the sofas. Mercer flew over one of them and crashed to the floor, wrenching his shoulder painfully.
There was a brief spark of muzzle flash as the guard fired his silenced pistol at Mercer, but the shot was several feet off target. Mercer used the flash to locate the other man in the darkness and leapt at him, but missed. The guard had moved. Mercer hit the floor and rolled twice, coming up hard against another wall. It was cat and mouse again. Neither man could see the other in the gloom and neither could hear the other over his own labored breathing. Mercer edged forward, feeling along the floor, and found his pistol. The cool steel was a needed reassurance.
Just then the lights snapped back on in full brilliance. The nerves and muscles that controlled Mercer’s pupils reacted just the barest fraction of a second faster than the assassin’s. While the other man was squinting through nearly closed eyes, disoriented by the glare, Mercer’s gaze was sweeping the room. Tish stood next to the bank of light switches, one hand still on the rheostat, the other holding the bulky night-vision goggles. The guard was twenty feet away, peering off to Mercer’s left. Mercer didn’t take the time to properly aim. He fired from the hip, his first two shots going wide but his next six catching the guard squarely, pounding his torso into an unrecognizable mess.
Mercer moved over to Tish and took the goggles from her slack hand. “Tish.” Her eyes swiveled to his. “I told you to wait upstairs. Please, from now on, never listen to me again, okay?”
He slid his arms around her and her body eased into his embrace. He calmly stroked her hair for a moment. “Now we’re even. I saved your life and you just saved mine. Thank you.”
“I waited until you had your gun and he was turned away from you,” she replied after a moment.
They went back up to the third floor, dousing all the lights again and relying on Mercer’s goggles to get them to the executive offices. Quickly scanning the names on the doors, they found the locked door of the highest ranking employee, a vice president. Mercer smirked at the man’s name: Russo.
“Nice touch,” he commented.
“If they are Russian,” Tish replied.
“To have guards like those two, they’re something.”
It took Mercer five frustrating minutes to pick the lock. Although he remembered the technique from his CIA training, theory and practice were two entirely different things. One of Hat’s men could have done it in ten seconds.
The office was paneled in rich oak, the carpet was soft under their feet. A window behind the broad desk looked out onto Eleventh Avenue. Mercer shut the thick drapes and turned on the desk lamp. Pictures of the OF&C fleet adorned the walls. David Saulman in Miami had been right. Each ship had a different bunch of flowers painted on the funnels: April Lilac, September Laurel, December Iris, and a score of others. There was a fish tank against one wall, and though it was large it only contained a single fish.
Mercer turned to the four squat filing cabinets and opened a drawer at random. He started leafing through the folders within.
“Pick a drawer, any drawer,” he said lightly.
“What are we looking for?”
“Anything that might jog your memory. There could be something here that you may remember from when you were rescued, a name, anything.”
Tish pointed to a picture on the wall. “That’s the ship that rescued me, I think.”
Mercer looked at the picture and recognized the September Laurel as she calmly plied some distant sea.
“That may be the ship that reported finding you, but I don’t think it’s the ship that pulled you from the water. You remembered a black circle and a yellow dot on the funnel, not a bunch of flowers. Besides, Dave Saulman told me that her crew are mostly Italians, not Russians.”
“I could have been wrong about hearing Russian.”
“Even if you are, it’s obvious that something is going on here. Let’s just go through the files and see if anything turns up.”
For the next half hour, Mercer and Tish pored through the files without turning up anything conclusive. The only odd thing was a loose file tab labeled “John Dory” lying on the bottom of the drawer containing the ownership papers of the OF&C ships. There was no file to go along with the tiny scrap of paper. Because all OF&C vessels were named after a month and a flower, Mercer guessed that John Dory was the name of a captain or ship’s officer employed by OF&C.
“This has been a complete waste of time, hasn’t it?” There was hopelessness in Tish’s voice.
“I know I’m right. There has to be something here that we haven’t seen,” Mercer persisted. “But we have to get out of here.”
“Did you kill those guards without a reason?”
Mercer looked up from the file. It was a question he did not want to address. Was there a chance he was wrong about OF&C’s involvement?
“No, we didn’t, and I’ll tell you why. Look around this office. There’s nothing personal anywhere, no photos, no diplomas, nothing. This may be a legitimate shipping line to some, but to the man who occupies this office, shipping is not his career.” Mercer walked to the desk and scanned the address file. “There isn’t one ship broker’s number in here, not one chandler. Christ, he doesn’t even have the private numbers of his captains.”
“He could be just a figurehead.”
“He is, don’t you get it? Most shipping lines are built by individuals and based on personal contacts. I’m willing to bet this Greg Russo wouldn’t know a hawsepipe from a hole in the wall. Whoever occupies this office has a job to do, but it has nothing to do with shipping.”
“Hold it right there,” a male voice commanded.
Mercer froze, his pulse pounding. Hat’s son had said only two men had entered the building, and they had already been eliminated. Whose was the voice behind them?
“Step away from the desk and turn around slowly.” The command was punctuated with the cocking of a revolver.
An overweight security guard stood in the doorway. He was a frightened rent-a-cop with a pale, jowled face and a trembling grip on his weapon.
“You got a lot to answer for. Keep your hands where I can see them. Move toward the fish tank.”
Mercer backed away from the desk, Tish right beside him. She hadn’t screamed when the guard entered and seemed in control. Mercer wished that he felt as calm as she appeared. The guard had scared the hell out of him.
Greg Russo must have called in additional security after Cap had left his post across the street. Mercer had no way of knowing if more men were scouring the building. The guard crossed to the desk, his eyes and gun never straying from Mercer. With his free hand he fumbled for the telephone. Mercer’s chance was coming.