by Jack Du Brul
“I’ll stay with them,” Marty volunteered quickly and then added to defuse the tension he’d caused unnecessarily, “At my age, I can’t risk cutting off all my hair. It may not come back.”
“Okay.” Mercer began hacking at his hair with the knife. “If you’re up to this, Erwin, you’re next.”
“I’ll be okay.” He fingered the fringes around his head. “And like Ira, I won’t be losing much.”
Twenty minutes later, Ira, Mercer, and Erwin Puhl had the robes draped over their regular clothes, sleeves hiked to their elbows and pants carefully folded so their bare legs and sandled feet were exposed. Each was freshly shaved and their bald heads gleamed.
“I look like an orange bowling pin,” Mercer told his reflection in the bathroom.
“I think you look handsome,” Anika said. “Like Yul Brynner in The King and I.”
Ira rubbed Mercer’s naked skull. “If I was a phrenologist, I’d say you thrive on danger and alcohol, have impure thoughts about farm animals, and probably wet the bed.”
Mercer chuckled. “Remember, my hair will come back.”
“Touché.”
Back in the little office in the garage, Mercer handed the Schmeisser to Marty, keeping the broom-handle Mauser for himself. “Don’t use it unless you absolutely have to. If you get caught, Rath won’t execute you until he has all of us. He’ll lock you up instead and we’ll find you.”
“I understand.” Bishop took the weapon. “Sorry about what I said earlier. It’s just that I, ah, I’m…”
“Don’t worry about it. I’m scared too. Once we link up with Vatutin, we’ll be safe in his cabin until we can figure out what to do next.”
“Before you guys go out, I have something for you.” Anika removed a tube of lotion from the sundries rack near the office counter. “Suntan lotion with bronzer. It’ll darken your complexion a bit. Make you look more… I don’t know… Tibetan.”
They smeared their hands, faces, and heads with the darkening cream. All things considered, their disguises weren’t too bad.
“We should be back in a half hour.”
“This ship is enormous. How are you going to find Vatutin so quickly?”
“It’s nearly twelve,” Mercer replied. “Cruise-ship tradition is the midnight buffet. Where else could he be? We’ll even bring back some food.”
In a tight bunch, the three men left the boat garage and started down the carpeted corridor. At a bank of elevators, their costumes were given their first scrutiny by a pair of French-speaking priests. The clerics eyed the makeshift sling Anika had made for Erwin but otherwise ignored the fake monks. Mercer exchanged relieved glances with Ira and Erwin. They rose seven decks in silence, following the priests when they exited. Eavesdropping on their conversation, Mercer understood they were headed for the buffet in the main dining room. He walked slowly, letting the Frenchmen draw out of earshot. “So far so good.”
“What happens when we run into some real Buddhists?”
“Pray they think we’ve taken vows of silence.”
They reached one of the ship’s two cavernous atriums and crossed on a bridge next to a waterfall, glancing down to see a group of rabbis chatting in a piano bar surrounded by a riot of jungle vegetation. Above them, the aurora borealis washed through the skylights and cast wavering slashes of color on every surface it touched. Particularly brilliant flashes brought appropriate gasps from the people loitering at the railings of the multilevel atrium.
The crowds thickened as Mercer and the others approached the dining room in the center part of the Sea Empress. The noise of conversations grew. Most people ignored them, but a pair of sharp-eyed Sikhs stared as they walked into the huge room. Mercer didn’t know if it was cultural animosity or if their disguises didn’t fool the turbaned men. He submissively bowed his head as he shuffled past. And stumbled into a man dressed in black, like a priest.
The man turned and snapped something in angry German.
Falling back into Ira, Mercer couldn’t suppress the recognition. The German was from Geo-Research! He wasn’t wearing a priestly suit. He wore a uniform. The man said something again, jabbing a finger into Mercer’s chest.
“Ungalabu,” Mercer said quickly, casting his eyes down in apology. “Ee ala haboba.”
Rath’s guard continued to glare, but Mercer refused to meet his eyes. A trickle of sweat ran like a finger down his ribs. Sneering, the German turned to his compatriot next to him, said something derogatory, and laughed. He hadn’t recognized Mercer with his orange robes and shorn pate.
Before joining the buffet line, they waited until the guards were a dozen places in front of them. “How do you know Tibetan?” Ira whispered.
“I don’t.” Mercer grinned. “And neither did he. We’ll get a table near them so Erwin can listen to their conversation.”
“I don’t see Vatutin anywhere,” Erwin said after a quick search of the room.
“When we grab a seat, you walk around and look more carefully. If he’s not here we can maybe try out on deck.”
With his stomach straining to get at the magnificent displays of food ringing the room, Mercer placed just a few vegetables and some rice on his plate in keeping with Buddhist practice. Yet when he reached the deli station, he made two foot-long sandwiches and slid them into the pockets of the robe. The chef shot him an odd look, but he had seen a number of dietary taboos broken on this trip.
There were only two people at the ten-place table closest to where the Germans sat: a man and a woman unlike any Mercer had seen outside of a Hollywood stereotype. The man sported a shimmering blue sharkskin suit with a shirt and tie of the same color. His toupee looked like a dead animal perched on his head. The woman had poured herself into a silver dress that showed silicone cleavage to an inch above her nipples. Her big hair was bottle blond and styled into a towering cone. Her makeup would have been comical if it wasn’t so appropriate to her overlifted face. Each individual eyelash seemed as long and thick as a baby’s pinky.
With his eyes, Mercer asked permission to sit.
“Absolutely,” the man slurred. In front of him were three empty glasses and a full one. “I’m Tommy Joe Farquar and this is my wife, Lorna. We’re from the U.S. of A.”
“Gosh,” Lorna squeaked in a voice shrill enough to shatter crystal. “It’s good to have some company. For some reason no one wants to sit with us no more.”
Mercer made a sympathetic gesture and shoveled rice into his mouth to keep from laughing.
Tommy Joe leaned his elbows on the table and, in an earnestness honed during his years of selling used cars, asked, “Have you gentlemen accepted Jesus as your personal savior?”
Another mouthful of food went in before Mercer could swallow the first.
“I suspect you haven’t, ’cause of the crazy getups you’re wearing. Now, I know it’s not your fault, so I don’t blame you none. But I think it’s time you reconsidered the path you’ve chosen. It’s never too late to find Christ, our Lord.”
“Tommy Joe knows what he’s talking about,” Lorna cooed. “He’s on television.”
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 everlastin
g 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.”
The young Englishman opened a closet and rummaged through the detritus at the bottom for his sneakers. “Here, here you are. You won’t hurt me?”
“I promise. Now turn around and put your hands behind your back.” Mercer used a tie from the closet to bind the waiter’s hands to the metal bed frame. The ball of socks he found was still warm and damp from the day’s use. Mercer jammed the socks in the youth’s mouth.
Gagging at first, the young waiter calmed enough to start drawing even breaths. Mercer put on the shoes, pleased that they fit. “When your roommate unties you and you go to the security office, you might want to come up with a better story than a deranged terrorist stealing shoes.”
The boy mumbled into his gag and Mercer laughed. “Don’t worry, kid. Believe it or not, your sneakers might save everyone on this ship.”
Back in the hallw
ay, Mercer took up the trail again. The scuff marks led him to a watertight door much thicker than any he’d seen in the below decks area. It was marked ENGINEERING STAFF ONLY. The floor thrummed with the force of the ship’s mighty power plants. He decided that he’d come as far as he should. Fumbling around down here was wasting time he didn’t have. He’d take his chances getting into the communications room without Rath’s prisoner. He had the Mauser and the element of surprise.
Backtracking, he passed the waiter’s cabin again. He couldn’t hear anything from within. Satisfied, Mercer rounded a series of corners, brushing past a few off-duty crewmen who shot him queer looks but said nothing. As he turned one more corner, he had just enough time to recognize a mass of blond hair before his crotch exploded in agony. Mercer dropped to his knees and through tear-streaked eyes saw a knee coming at his face. He could do nothing. His world had gone black by the time his head hit the deck.
Fighting the urge to retch, Mercer came awake in slow increments. His lower body felt distant, like the pain belonged to someone else. But as he became more aware, he knew the agony was his alone. The pulsing waves radiated from his genitals and settled in his lower belly like molten lead. To distract himself, he concentrated on the sharper pain in his face. Experimentally he traced his tongue across his teeth and was relieved they were all there. He tasted blood. Opening his eyes sent bolts of electricity to his battered nose. He spat.
“Who are you?” The question came from beyond Mercer’s gray vision.
“An idiot.” Mercer’s voice was pinched by clotted blood in his nose. He braced himself for what was about to come and sharply exhaled twin jets of red mist. After a surreal moment where his head felt like it had shattered, he peered around the spiky pinwheels of pain. It took him a minute to realize where he was — a crawl space below some kind of engineering room tangled with piping — and who had spoken — the blond man he’d first spotted talking to Gunther Rath in the Pandora cavern.
“I promised myself when I saw you again I’d kill you.” Mercer pulled his hands against the plastic strip ties binding his wrists over an insulated pipe above him. The man was similarly shackled. “You’re Rath’s boss, aren’t you?”