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“Mercer,” she said. “His name is Philip Mercer.”
* * *
A FEW HOURS LATER they were close enough to the fabled playground of Monte Carlo to ferry Dr. Huxley, Soleil, and Cabrillo ashore in one of the hydrofoil lifeboats. They couldn’t go in by chopper because their arrival would be logged by French aviation authorities. Kevin Nixon had forged a passport for Soleil, so there were no problems when they got to the dock. She was along in case this Mercer guy needed more reminding if the code words she’d already supplied weren’t enough.
Juan paid cash for a prepaid cell phone, and they found a quiet park bench. He dialed the number Eric had tracked down for the mining engineer and handed the phone to Hux. After a couple of rings, a voice that grated like the business end of a wood chipper answered. “Hello.”
“Is this Philip Mercer?” Hux asked.
“Sure. Why not.”
“Mr. Mercer, I’m calling on behalf of—”
“First off, it’s Dr. Mercer. Second, if you’re c
alling on behalf of Jerry’s Kids or any other damned charity, I’m going to hold the phone next to my wrinkled white butt and—”
She heard another voice say, “Harry! Give me that, you old pervert. Hello. This is Mercer. Sorry. A friend of mine was at a bar when God handed out manners. Who is this, please?”
“I’m calling on behalf of someone you used to know. Please don’t say her name because this is not a secure line. You called her a Frenchy once, and she told you she was a Swissy.”
He gave a throaty chuckle. “I remember her fondly.”
“That’s good,” Hux said. “Not to sound overly dramatic, but this is a matter of life and death. Do you recall the place you met?”
“Yeah. Is she with you now?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Since this is just a little on the bizarre side, I want to verify. Ask her where she has a mole.”
Hux asked and relayed the answer. “She says it’s private and you are still a cochon.”
“Good enough for me,” Mercer said with a grin that carried over the airwaves.
“We need to know everything there is to know about the salt mine.”
“Are you looking to throw good money after bad too?”
“Nothing like that. All I can say is that some very bad people have taken it over, and the group I work for plans on taking it back. What we need is a detailed schematic of the entire place, above ground and below.”
“It’s a little hard to describe over the phone,” Mercer informed her. “There’s about thirty miles of tunnels, as I recall.”
Hux was ready for this. “Could you draw it out for us? We have a courier already heading to Washington, D.C.” Tiny Gunderson wouldn’t like the idea that he’d been demoted from chief pilot to courier, but it was the fastest way without putting the plans into the electronic ether. “He’ll be in D.C. by nine o’clock your time, tonight.”
“I guess you don’t know that I’m playing poker tonight with a guy who’s got a tell a blind man can see.”
“This is urgent, Dr. Mercer, or we wouldn’t be asking.”
“Do you have my address?” he asked.
“Yes, we do.”
“All right. I’m game. Do me a favor. Say to her, ‘Mauve peignoir,’ and tell me what she does.”
“She blushed, and called you a pig again.”
Mercer laughed and said, “I’ll meet your courier at nine.”
