Vulcan's forge m-1

by Jack Du Brul

  When Mercer entered the bar, Tiny waved one small arm and immediately poured a vodka gimlet, easy on the Rose’s lime.

  “Thanks, I need this.” Mercer took his drink to the red leatherette booth occupied by Tish and Harry White. Apart from two workers from the industrial laundry around the block, the bar was empty.

  “Sorry I had to take Tish out of your house, Mercer, but you ran out of Jack Daniel’s.”

  “I have a fresh bottle under the back bar.”

  “Had, Mercer. You had a fresh bottle under the back bar. Besides, who the hell would look for her in this hole in the wall?”

  “I agree, no harm done.” Mercer turned to Tish. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine.” She giggled, slightly drunk. “But I must say I’m not used to drinking in the afternoon.”

  “Stick with Harry and me, we’ll show you the ropes.” Mercer smiled warmly. Perhaps a little buzz would be good for her. Brace her for what he was going to ask her to do.

  “What did you find in your office?”

  “More clues, I think. There’s one more thing I want to check tonight and then I’ll turn us both over to the authorities.”

  “What do you mean ‘turn us over’?”

  “Tish, you were under the protection of the FBI when I nabbed you, and I’m sure they want you back. Also, I have to answer for the corpses I left in the gutters downtown.”

  “Oh.”

  “Hey, Harry, I see two suits coming in,” Tiny said, peering out the filthy front window.

  Mercer turned to Harry, one eyebrow cocked in question.

  “Tish told me the story about yesterday, so I took the precaution of having Tiny keep an eye out.”

  “Good thinking.” Mercer held out his hand to Tish. “Come on.”

  He led her out of the barroom and into the small kitchen in the back. They paused in front of a pane of glass set into the tiled wall, and Tish realized that the mirror behind the bar was a two-way mirror. She looked over Tiny’s shoulder as two beefy men strode through the front door and flashed badges. FBI, not local cops, was Mercer’s guess.

  “Philip Mercer?” Tiny responded to their question. “Yeah, I know him. I haven’t seen him in a week or more. He travels a lot.” Tiny’s thin voice raised a notch. “If I had seen him, he wouldn’t owe me eighty bucks in old bar tabs.”

  Tiny thrust a wad of chits under one agent’s face. Mercer winced, hoping the agent didn’t look too closely. Those tabs all belonged to Harry.

  Harry stood up and staggered one step, steadying himself on the back of the booth. Mercer wondered if his friend was acting.

  “I seen Mercer,” Harry nearly shouted, spit spraying from his lips. Acting, for sure.

  “Where?” one of the agents asked eagerly.

  “It was 1943; he was a cook for my battalion. Couldn’t cook worth a damn; gave us all food poisoning on Tarawa, or maybe it was Iwo Jima.” Harry downed a heavy slug of bourbon. “If it was on Iwo, that must have been ’45. Poor Frank Merker bought it on Okinawa.”

  “No, it’s Philip Mercer we’re looking for.”

  “Don’t recall any Philbert Mercy,” Harry said slowly. His eyes glazed over and he slumped into his seat. “I once knew a stripper named Phyllis mmmm…” His head hit the table with the sound of a fallen coconut, snores following a moment later.

  The two agents left after warning Tiny to call if Philip Mercer showed up. Tiny and Harry played their roles for a few minutes more, until they were satisfied that the FBI men had moved on. As Mercer led Tish out of the kitchen, he noted that he had not let go of her hand during the whole episode. The simple touch was comforting.

  “Harry, you should get an Oscar for that.”

  Harry sat up and smiled brightly. “I did once know a stripper named Phyllis. Phyllis Withluv she called herself; hot little redhead I met in Baltimore.”

  “What are we going to do now?” Tish interrupted before Harry could begin some lurid story.

  “We can’t go back to my place, that’s for damned sure,” Mercer said, sipping a fresh gimlet.

  “If you need to, you can stay with me,” Harry volunteered.

  “No, I’m allergic to roaches. Seriously, I have other plans. We’re going to New York.”

  Tish looked at him sharply. “What?”

  “Tiny, call us a cab, have him meet us at the Safeway.” The giant grocery store was a couple of blocks away. “Harry, thanks for your acting job.” Mercer pulled a hundred dollar bill out of his wallet and slapped it on the bar. “This should clear your tabs.”

  He led Tish through the deserted kitchen and out the back door.

  “Why are we going to New York?” Tish asked as they walked up the street.

  “When we read those faxes, you must have seen that David Saulman suspects that Ocean Freight and Cargo may be a Soviet front. If that’s true — and I believe it is because you heard Russian — then checking out their offices is our next logical step.”

  “You mean we just waltz in there and make accusations?”

  “Not at all.” Mercer laughed. “We’re going to break in tonight.”

  Tish stopped to look at him; his gray eyes were hard as flint and just as sharp. “You’re serious?”

  His voice was soft when he responded, but his conviction stung the air. “Deadly.”

  “Youse guys sure youse want to do dis?” the Hat asked.

  “Yeah, Hat, we’re sure,” Mercer said evenly.

  They were sitting in a late-model Plymouth, on lower Fifth Avenue, about ten blocks from the brownstone that was the OF amp;C headquarters.

  “My scags could hit it in no time, lift any swag you want and be out before nobody knew nottin’. Youse don’t need ta go in a’tall.”

  “That’s the whole point, Hat. We do need to go in, and I want them to know that they were hit.”

  For the first time Mercer had a vent for the anger that had begun the moment Tish entered his life. Until now, he had been simply reacting to the actions of his unknown enemy. Now he was about to act, to take the fight to them, as he had promised.

  “Babes in da woods,” Hat said with a wave of his hand. The ember of his cigarette was like a comet in the dark car.

  Danny “The Hat” Spezhattori was a professional thief. His gang of burglars were responsible for making New York City’s wealthiest denizens several million dollars poorer over the years. The Hat’s fourteen-year-old son had once made the mistake of trying to pick Mercer’s pocket in front of the United Nations Building. Rather than turn the boy over to the police, Mercer had forced him to tell him who his father was. Mercer and the Hat met an hour later.

  In a world where more business is done through people owing each other favors, Mercer had decided that a favor owed to him by a man in the Hat’s position might someday be worthwhile. He was right. Tonight, that three-year-old debt would be paid off.

  “Hat, give us an hour to get in position and then send your boys in, all right?”

  “Mercer, once we hit da doors and d’alarms trip, dey will station a guard in da building.”

  “I’m counting on that.”

  “Youse ain’t gonna murder no one, are you? Cause if ya do, I’ll have nottin’ ta do wit it.”

  “Hat, we had a deal.” Mercer’s voice was like ice. “No questions asked. Your boys do what they’re told and they will be in their pajamas in no time. No risk to any of them.”

  “I just gots ta say dis, Mercer. What kinda swag can be worth it, man? Youse got money; we bote knows it. It’s a fuckin’ shippin’ office; even their payroll will be shit.”

  “It’s none of your business, Hat. Just do your job and we’re square.” Adrenaline sang in Mercer’s veins like the heroin injection of a career junkie. “I know what I’m after.”

  Mercer looked at Tish in the backseat. Her face was very white, framed by shimmering black hair. Her blue eyes were wide but trusting. Mercer looked into them, searching for a sign of weakness, but saw none. “Ready?”


  “Yes.” Her voice was a whisper, but her eyes were hard.

  They left the car. The dome light had been broken so there was only the soft click of the door latches to give away their exit. In seconds, they had both blended into the shadows of the steamy New York night.

  One hour later, a little before one in the morning, a Camaro, its body work covered with more Bondo than paint, streaked down Eleventh Street, just off Fifth Avenue. A dog barked at the noise of the racing engine on the quiet street.

  The driver was intent on the road. A slight drizzle had made it slick, but his passenger was enjoying and savoring the moment. The shotgun in his hand was cool and heavy. The wind blowing through the open window was hot and humid but fresh in his nostrils. The adrenaline in his body had heightened all of his senses.

  Hat owed Mercer a great debt. The driving he could trust to a lieutenant in his organization, but he would do the shooting himself. Four doors away from the target, the driver pounded his hand against the horn and shouted like a Comanche.

  Hat thrust the barrel of the Remington pump-action 12-gauge out the window. He had loaded the ammo himself and was pleased with the result when he fired. The first shot obliterated the window of one ground floor apartment, the explosion of the cartridge and the shattering glass one continuous sound.

  The second shot blew in the door of another brownstone. The thick oak splintered under the charge of lead. Another shot and another window vaporized. The driver was still yelling and the horn continued to blare, but Hat heard none of it. His eyes were locked onto his next target.

  He fired, pumped the gun, and pushed his body nearly out the window to fire again. The door of the Ocean Freight and Cargo Building was much stouter than others on the street, but it couldn’t withstand the shock of the double blast. The door, as if mauled by a predatory animal, dangled from its top hinge; the hardened lead shot had shredded the wood completely.

  Immediately an alarm began to shriek within the brownstone, piercing the night even above the din of the Camaro’s horn. Hat shot out one more window before lowering his weapon. The driver released the horn and the car raced out of the area, anonymous after only a couple of blocks.

  Two police cars reached the scene within six minutes.

  The officers made a cursory search of the area and began taking statements from panic-stricken residents. Already the cops had figured that the shooting was just a joy ride by a couple of kids. Random violence in a city that was renowned for it.

  Greg Russo knew that nothing that happened to OF amp;C was random. He arrived as soon as possible after the alarm company had phoned him. According to company records, he was the vice president in charge of the head office in New York, but Ocean Freight and Cargo had no company president. The Swedish group named as the directors of the corporation was nothing more than a Stockholm post office box. The only person above Russo was Ivan Kerikov, the head of Department 7, Scientific Operations, KGB.

  Russo spoke to the police officers for several minutes, getting the details of the incident but not really listening to their explanations. Twenty years in the KGB had taught him to take nothing at face value.

  “Again, Mr. Russo,” one of the cops was saying, “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. This is like no break-in I’ve ever seen. It’s just kids, out for a night of terror. I’ll make sure that this area is heavily patrolled tonight. There won’t be any more disturbances.”

  “Our company pays a great deal in city taxes, Sergeant. I expect that you will provide ample protection.” Russo spoke in a flat, accentless English.

  “I’m sorry, but I cannot place men here to guard your office. If you want the name of a private security firm, I can give it to you. They could have men here in ten minutes.” The sergeant moonlighted for them on Saturdays when his wife visited her mother in Trenton.

  “That is all right.” Russo acted mollified. “I’m sure that it’s just my imagination. Whoever hit this street didn’t seem to be targeting our offices. You are probably right that it was just kids.”

  “Just to make you feel better, Mr. Russo, I called in a helicopter. It should be here in about a half hour. They’ll hit the back of your building with a spotlight and make sure nothing is goofy back there.”

  “You did go back there yourselves, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir, we did. Nothing in that courtyard but a couple of winos and a heap of trash.”

  “Well, having that helicopter coming is a relief.”

  A few minutes later both cop cars left. The few people out on the street, the type attracted to all police activity, slowly made their way back to their apartments, the excitement over for the night. Russo, whose real name was Gregory Brezhnicov, waited until the street was deserted before giving a signal to the driver of the van that had arrived only moments after him.

  Two men dressed in black leapt from the back of the van. They marched toward Brezhnicov, thick arms held stiffly by their sides, chests puffed as if on parade. Their eyes continuously scanned the street, never resting on one object for more than a fraction of a second, but seemingly missing nothing.

  No matter how long they remain in the West, Brezhnicov thought, a KGB assassination team never loses the discipline drilled into them during years of training. They were some of the best trained men in the world, capable of killing with nearly every weapon conceived as well as with their bare hands.

  They stopped in front of Brezhnicov, grim-faced men with lifeless eyes.

  “Search the entire building, look for anything out of place, then take up guard duties. Also check the courtyard out back. There are two derelicts there, get them out. No one enters the building until after nine in the morning. I will be the first here.” There was no reason for Brezhnicov to stay; these men were more than capable of handling any situation.

  There was a slight squeak in Mercer’s miniaturized earphone before a voice came through. “Mercer, two of the baddest dudes I’ve ever seen just entered the building. Seems the bossman is heading back home.”

  Mercer clicked the button on the transmitter, acknowledging the information from Hat’s son, called Cap, standing on a roof across the street.

  “Get ready,” he whispered to Tish, who was lying next to him. “They should come back here first.”

  A minute later, the two assassins eased out the back door of the OF amp;C building, pistols held competently. Their eyes searched the dark courtyard, checking the back windows of the buildings opposite, penetrating the shadows created by the single street lamp before resting on the two winos lying next to an overflowing Dumpster.

  One guard came across the courtyard, hugging the shadows. Mercer, watching, knew this man was a true professional. The other man stayed hidden near the doorway, his gun covering his partner. Mercer tensed.

  The first man approached a wino and, without warning, jerked the derelict to his feet.

  Mercer winced as if physically struck. He could only imagine the strength it took to pull a man from the ground and onto his feet and make the action look effortless.

  Hat’s decoy stood limply in the man’s grasp, babbling incoherently. The other wino, also part of Hat’s team, slowly started to waken, as if from a lifelong binge.

  “Get out of here now,” the guard hissed, shaking Hat’s man in his grasp. He kicked at the other wino. “You, too. Get out of here, before I break your fucking necks.”

  Mercer noted from his vantage in the Dumpster that the man’s English was thickened by a heavy accent.

  “We ain’t done nothing,” the wino on the ground said as he rubbed his mouth with a filth-stained hand. “We got rights.”

  “Out, now.” The assassin dropped the first of Hat’s crew and took his pistol from a holster behind his back. At the sight of the gun, the two winos retreated hastily from the courtyard, nearly falling over each other as they ran toward the alley that led to Sixth Avenue.

  When Hat’s men had gone, the guard kicked at the pile of rubbish next to the Dumpster until
satisfied that there was nothing hidden within. He turned his attention to the Dumpster. Inside, Mercer crouched lower.

  The guard lifted the plastic lid and recoiled in disgust. The Dumpster reeked of human feces, rotted food, and decay. He let the lid drop, gagging slightly.

  Mercer groped through the filth until he felt Tish’s hand, then gave it a reassuring squeeze. He couldn’t feel her skin through the thin rubberized protection suit, but he knew that it had to be as sweaty as his. He adjusted the oxygen mask over his nose and mouth and took a deep breath. The oxygen from the small tank at his side was crisp and cool. The suits and oxygen tanks, the same type worn by sewer workers, had been provided by Hat, who asked Mercer if he could use them to take an art gallery that he knew backed against a Chinese restaurant. The restaurant produced some particularly pungent rubbish.

  The two guards, fooled into believing that the two “winos” were the only humans in the courtyard, cut short their search and reentered the OF amp;C building.

  Ten minutes later Mercer opened the lid of the Dumpster and climbed out. He helped Tish to the ground and both peeled off the protection suits. They threw the suits into the Dumpster and gratefully closed the lid.

  “This is one side of New York I never thought I’d see on a first date.” Tish grinned.

  Mercer would have cautioned her about silence, but he knew that she needed to speak in order to relieve some of the tension.

  “Only the finest for you. Next time we’ll go for a moonlight dip in the East River near an industrial vent I know. Very romantic this time of year.”

  “You are a charmer.”

  Mercer pulled a duffel bag from beneath a pile of garbage and unzipped it. He retrieved a pair of night-vision goggles, purchased from the Hat, and scanned the back of the OF amp;C building.

  It was a typical New York brownstone, five stories high with a flat roof speared by chimneys and TV antennas. Firewalls separated it from its neighbors. There were four windows on each floor except for the ground floor, which had no opening other than a thick steel door. Wrought-iron grilles covered the windows on the second and third floors, making it impregnable from the ground. The upper windows were unguarded, but Mercer knew that a sophisticated security system protected the whole building.