Mercer dragged the heavy trunk out of the closet and propped open the lid. A Heckler and Koch MP-5A3 sat on top of the pile of equipment. The West German- manufactured machine pistol was a vicious weapon, capable of firing 9mm ammunition at over six hundred rounds per minute. Mercer lifted the nasty little gun and cleared the breach to ensure the action was still smooth, then set it aside and retrieved a Beretta automatic pistol. Since replacing the venerable Colt.45 as the primary sidearm of the U.S. Army, the Beretta had more than proved its worth in combat conditions. The pistol was in pristine condition like the H&K.
The next item Mercer pulled from the trunk was the heaviest by far — a nylon combat harness, a thick belt supported by suspender straps. The holster for the Beretta was attached to the suspenders so it would rest under his left shoulder for a quick draw, and several nylon pouches full of clips for the machine pistol hung from the belt. A six-inch-long Gerber knife hung inverted from the suspenders. The final touches were a basic first aid kit and field compass in a slim padded case.
Mercer slid the Beretta into its holster and stuffed the combat rig into a light nylon duffel along with the machine pistol, then added a few other pieces of equipment. He zipped the bag, shoved the nearly empty trunk back into the closet, and locked the doors. He stashed the key back under the thick book and took one last weapon from his desk, first making sure it was loaded. Taking another big bite of his eggs, Mercer promised himself he’d never make another tuna omelet again.
“Mercer?” Tish called from the kitchen.
“I’m back here.”
Tish entered the study wearing one of Mercer’s Penn State sweatshirts. It came down to the midpoint of her smooth thighs and thrust up proudly over her unrestrained breasts. With her tousled hair and sleepy eyes, she looked vulnerable and incredibly sexy.
“That sweatshirt looks a hell of a lot better on you than it does on me,” Mercer remarked with a grin.
“Don’t even look at me; I’m a mess.” Tish ran a hand through her hair to get it away from her face. She noticed the duffel bag. “I heard you get up; what’s going on?”
“I’m leaving for a couple of days. I think I can finally put an end to everything and with a little luck bring back Valery Borodin for you.”
Tish’s eyes brightened. “I was thinking earlier and couldn’t believe how badly I want to see him again.”
“Give me a couple of days and he’s yours.” Mercer was genuinely happy for her. “Let’s go up to the bar; I need some of my famous coffee.”
“What’s that?” Tish asked as she turned to leave the study. Her gaze had fallen on the large stone near the door.
“My good luck piece,” Mercer remarked, caressing the rippled surface. “It’s a piece of kimberlite given to me by a director of DeBeers as thanks for saving his life after a cave-in in South Africa. Kimberlite is the most common type of matrix stone found in diamond mines.” He explained, “By itself it’s worthless, but nearly every diamond mined in the past hundred years has been found within a volcanic kimberlite pipe.”
Mercer didn’t tell her that this piece of kimberlite was far from worthless. Embedded in the underside of the stone was an approximately eight-carat diamond of startling blue-white color. Uncut, it was worth about a quarter of a million dollars, and if he ever had the stone finished, who could tell its value?
The door bells chimed, announcing Harry’s arrival, while Mercer was making coffee. Harry let himself in and entered the bar through the library. He needed the doorjamb for support.
“Where are you going, a costume party as a ninja?”
Mercer looked down at his black attire and shrugged. “Actually, the theme is your favorite environmental catastrophe. I’m an oil spill. What do you think?”
“I think you’re full of shit,” Harry replied, seating himself at the bar. The cigarette in his mouth jumped with each word.
“Hi, Harry.” Tish greeted the old man with a kiss on his gray stubbled cheek.
“You lied to me, Mercer. You said she’d be naked.” Tish didn’t understand the comment, but already knew Harry and Mercer well enough to not be offended. “Give me a drink, will ya.”
Mercer deftly poured Jack Daniel’s and ginger ale. “Actually, I’m going to put another pin in my map.” He jerked his thumb at the pin-studded map behind the bar.
“What color?”
“Clear,” Mercer replied.
Harry knew that the clear pin in Iraq had been some sort of covert government mission and that the one in Rwanda denoted a violent episode in his friend’s life. His whiskey-dulled eyes became a little sharper. “Where you heading?”
“I’m not supposed to tell you Hawaii,” Mercer smiled, “so I won’t.”
“So I guess the whole thing comes full circle,” Harry said softly, looking at Tish.
Mercer glanced at his watch and hoisted a nylon bag over his shoulder. “I’ve got to go. Give me your truck keys.”
Harry fished the keys to his battered Ford pickup from his pocket and tossed them to Mercer.
Mercer snatched them from the air. “I’ll be back in a few days; keep an eye on things.” He gave Tish a light kiss and told her, “You be good and don’t excite old Harry here.”
On his way out of the house, Mercer paused in the library and smiled wickedly at the stack of framed pictures on the floor. The top photo, an 8X10, showed Mercer and another man standing on the crawler track of a huge Caterpillar D-11N bulldozer. The handwritten caption read, “Mercer, you did it again; this time I really owe you one.” It was signed Daniel Tanaka. The logo stenciled on the engine cowling of the 107-ton dozer was the stylized hard hat and dragline of Ohnishi Minerals.
“Debt paid, Danny boy.”
In the black night, the sentry post at Andrews Air Force Base in Morningside, Maryland, looked like a highway toll booth. Several small glass buildings supported a metal roof that stretched across the entire road and bathed it in fluorescent lights. Mercer brought Harry’s pickup to a stop, the ancient brakes squealing like nails drawn across a blackboard. The guard, an African-American barely out of his teens, regarded the decrepit truck with suspicion until Dick Henna, standing behind him, placed a hand on his shoulder. Through the open window of the truck, Mercer heard Henna reassure the young corporal.
Henna exited the small armored-glass guardhouse, walked to the passenger side of the pickup, opened the door, and slid in without comment. Mercer started rolling forward.
“I know that until recently you drove a Jaguar convertible,” Henna said at length, his voice nearly drowned by the blasting exhaust. “I expected your second car to be a little better than this.”
Mercer coughed as the Ford backfired and an acrid cloud of exhaust was blown into the truck’s cab. He grinned. “Something old, something new. .”
“Something borrowed, something blue,” Henna finished the rhyme. “Got ya.”
“But I think, under all the rust, this truck is brown. I’m not sure.” Mercer looked at the large manila envelope in Henna’s hand. “Is that for me?”
“Yes.” Henna set it on the seat between them. “Two of the infrared photos from the spy plane, and contractor’s drawings of the homes of Takahiro Ohnishi and his assistant Kenji. What the hell do you want this stuff for? You know you’re only going as an advisor and observer.”
“Absolutely,” Mercer agreed quickly. “But when the assault occurs, I need some material to advise with, right?”
“Turn left here,” Henna directed as they drove further into the sprawling complex. “You’re one of the most ingenious men I’ve ever met, Mercer, but I’ve yet to figure out how you’re going to get off the Inchon and onto Hawaii.”