Deep Fire Rising m-6 Read online

  Mercer waited at the rail while they made their mass exodus. The small dock was soon a sea of milling humanity. There were three ways up to the town. There was a winding footpath of switchback stairs that people could climb. They could ride one of the dozens of sturdy donkeys that shared the path. Or there was a modern cable car that shot straight into Fira. Admitting he was too tired to hike the ascent and dismissing a donkey ride as too touristy, he decided on the cable car, but only after it made several runs to ease the congestion.

  He hefted his light bag and meandered down two decks to where the ramp had been lowered. Once on the cement quay, the heat hit Mercer full force. There was no wind in the volcanic bowl and flies rose in clouds from the manure piles left in the donkeys’ wake. People climbing the trail looked as bowed as Sherpas under their packs. A few had already given up and were headed down again to take the cable car.

  Mercer had to wait ten minutes for his turn to pay for the ride and climb onto the glass-enclosed car. Around him people chatted animatedly in a Babel of differing languages. To his ear, most sounded German or Scandinavian, though there were a trio of twangy Australian girls and a young American couple who looked like they just stepped out of a hippie commune. Through it all he could feel their excitement and wished a little would rub off on him. They were here for the trip of a lifetime. He didn’t know what to expect and in his present frame of mind he began to regard the unknown with suspicion.

  The Beretta felt comfortably cool under his left arm.

  The cable car lurched as it started up the steep mountain, swinging free for a moment like a pendulum. As they rose, the view grew more expansive and breathtaking. Far out in the caldera a snowy-sailed yacht searched for a breeze to send her on her way. In the distance the sun was beginning to blush, shooting lances of ruddy light skipping atop the waves. More of the town was revealed as well — narrow twisting alleys, barrel-vaulted churches, fabulous houses with balconies hanging hundreds of feet over the water.

  If this was a favorite spot for Tisa, Mercer could understand why she felt safe here. It was an enchanting place, full of charm and dramatic beauty. He wished he were here for a vacation with Tisa rather than whatever she had planned.

  The cable car shuddered as it reached the upper station. To the right, hundreds of mostly young tourists had gathered along the stairs and promenades of Nomikos Street, the most popular spot in the town to wait for Santorini’s notoriously beautiful sunsets. Their faces were pointed at the sun like flowers.

  Mercer instinctively scanned the crowd, looking for anything out of the ordinary, like pairs of men wearing jackets that could conceal guns or someone watching people rather than the view. He spotted a few of those, but they were young men on the hunt for women or women on the prowl for men. On the ship he’d overheard enough people to know that Fira was famous across Europe for its nightlife.

  The cable car doors slid open and Mercer followed the passengers outside, thankful because the miasma of patchouli oil from the bohemians was burning his sinuses. People often wore the pungent essence to mask the reek of marijuana in their clothes. Mercer would have preferred the dope.

  He allowed the tide of people to push him toward Nomikos Street as he looked for Tisa. He was careful to keep one hand on his bag and the other casually draped across the shoulder holster so no one accidentally bumping into him would feel it. The crowd was too dense to pick out a single person and Mercer was drawing attention to himself by not watching the sunset as everyone else.

  The faces around him were bright with anticipation, eagerly awaiting the simple delight of a setting sun. They were here to make a ritual out of the usual. Mercer had never felt more detached in his life. From the moment the gunmen had attacked him at the Luxor he’d felt a building sense of dread, like he’d glimpsed only the tip of an iceberg. Even if more of it hadn’t been revealed yet, he sensed it lurking just below the surface.

  In the jostle of people still spilling onto the promontory overlooking the caldera he didn’t feel the figure sidle up to him until it was too late.

  He reeled back and found himself staring into the laughing eyes of Tisa Nguyen. She’d just kissed him. He hadn’t realized she was almost as tall as he was. “I just knew you’d come,” she said with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment at her unbidden display.

  Mercer didn’t speak. It was the crimson sun or the romance of the moment or maybe it was something deeper. No matter what the cause, he knew that he’d never seen anyone look more beautiful than Tisa standing there like an ancient high priestess holding rites at dusk. She wore sandals and a tight sleeveless dress that poured seamlessly down her body, rising at her breasts and flaring in at her waist. Her skin shone with a fresh tan that made the dress appear even whiter than white. She almost glowed.

  “Er, hi,” Mercer managed to stammer.

  “What a smooth rejoinder,” she teased. “Sorry I startled you, but you looked so serious. You were ruining the sunset by being so gloomy. What were you thinking?”

  Mercer was about to tell her how hollow he felt. The words were already formed. Instead he smiled and said, “I was thinking how much better the view would be if you showed up.”

  Tisa smiled at the compliment. “Wishing makes it true.”

  He studied her in the dying light. It wasn’t just the outfit or the tan, he saw. Something else made her appear so buoyant. He remembered the suffering he’d seen in her eyes when she’d saved his life and looked for it again. Her sloe eyes were bright and clear. There was no trace of the agony that had made her vulnerable. Then, even as he watched, it flooded in, darkening her expression, crowding in on her simple happiness. Tisa turned away. It was as if just seeing him reminded her of her suffering.

  “I suspected you’d actually come a day early,” she said. “I’ve met every ferry entering Santorini since I got here.”

  Mercer hated that he’d already poisoned her happiness. “I would have if I could,” he said awkwardly. “You left some compelling evidence that I should take you seriously.”

  She looked stricken for a moment. “You have to believe I didn’t know about that ship that sank. I heard it on the news. I was sick.” Her words came as a rush. “When I told you something unusual was going to happen in the Pacific, I expected that a research ship called the Sea Surveyor was going to discover the elevated levels of methane and eventually discover the tower.”

  “I just came from the Surveyor.”

  “Then you know they were doing studies on deep-ocean currents. Part of my job within the Order is to monitor some of our more prominent sites around the world, to ensure that nothing happens to them. I learned months ago about the Surveyor’s mission and was sure that they would find the hydrate deposit. Please, I didn’t know about the navy ship that went by there earlier.”

  Her tone was plaintive. Mercer glanced around. A few tourists were watching them. From their sour expressions, it looked as though they thought Mercer and Tisa were having a lovers’ quarrel and fouling the romantic atmosphere. “We should get out of here,” he said.

  Tisa immediately understood. “Where are you staying?”

  Ira’s office had handled the travel arrangements. From inside his jacket pocket Mercer withdrew his itinerary. “Let’s see, the Hotel Kavalari.”

  “Okay. I don’t think it’s far.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Hey,” she protested playfully, “I’ve never been here before and I’ve spent most of my time at the ferry dock waiting for you.”

  Since the moment she asked him to meet her on Santorini, Mercer had believed she knew the island well and felt safe here. It was yet another assumption that had been proven wrong.

  The sun was well down on the horizon and the crowd was beginning to disperse. Tisa led Mercer toward the center of town, climbing a winding set of stairs to Ipapantis Street. The narrow lane was hemmed in by bars that were just getting going and glittering jewelry shops that were just closing. The air was scented with cooki
ng smells, lamb and beef and the light aroma of the world’s premier olive oils. Packs of rowdy teens roamed in search of the opposite sex, their mood carefree and alive.

  Like so much of the town, the rambling hotel was built into the cliff face and the rooms were accessible only by walking down rickety stairs. The maitre d’hotel checked Mercer in and led him and Tisa down three flights along the serpentine steps to a private balcony and the room. The room itself had been carved into the stone, and once inside they saw the bathroom had been left as undressed rock.

  Mercer tossed his bag on the bed and excused himself to use the bathroom while Tisa stared at the darkening sea lapping a hundred feet below. He shaved as quickly as he could using the tepid water, dragged a stick of deodorant under his arms, and changed his shirt.

  He paused coming out of the room. A breeze had kicked up, snapping and tangling Tisa’s hair around her head. She’d removed her glasses and faced the salt-tinted wind with her eyes closed. Her mouth was slightly parted, as if tasting the air. He was struck again by her beauty and how innocent she looked when he could not see her eyes. He committed the moment to memory.

  Tisa felt his presence and quickly put on her glasses. She turned to face him. She looked guilty. “Do you want to talk here?”

  Mercer grinned. “Nope. I want a drink. I spotted the hotel bar two floors above us.”

  Five minutes later they were seated at an intimate table overlooking the caldera. The night had turned chilly and tall gas heaters threw coronas of warmth over them both. Not trusting an unfamiliar bartender with his usual, though not usually popular, vodka gimlet, Mercer had a double vodka and soda with a standing order for at least two more. Tisa drank water.

  “Okay, now we can talk,” he said, feeling the knots of muscle at his shoulders losing a fraction of their rigidity. “Tell me about the tower.”

  “In order for you to understand, I have to give you a little background. Do you know anything about acupuncture?”

  Mercer hadn’t expected such an odd question and was taken aback. For a fleeting moment he was back in an underground cell in Panama with a psychotic Chinese torturer named Mr. Sun, his skin pierced with hundreds of tiny needles that Sun used to induce unimaginable pain from all parts of his body. The memory was fresh and while Mercer hadn’t been physically harmed, the mental scars still felt raw. The old terror welled up, forcing him to swallow heavily at his drink to cleanse his throat. “I know a bit.”

  Tisa hadn’t seen his discomfort. “Then you know that the body is connected by force lines that transfer a person’s chi, or essence, and that these pathways can be manipulated to relieve stress or pain.”

  “Or to cause it,” Mercer said mildly.

  “There is a dark side to the art,” she acknowledged. “But used properly, acupuncture is a proven healing technique that works on animals as well as people. Do you believe that?”

  “How’s this? I don’t not believe it.”

  “Good enough. Now, what if I told you the earth was like the human body and that it too has pathways for a chi force.”

  “Are you talking about magnetic lines?”

  “No, not a tangible force. Something more” — she sought the right word and failed — “intangible.” She paused again. “I will give you the proof in a while, but for the sake of this discussion, accept that the earth has a life force, like a person.

  Mercer nodded. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. For now.”

  She shot him a secretive smile, as if she would make him pay for his skepticism. “This force is very real, you’ll see. Now if someone can detect the force and understand how it concentrates in certain places on the earth’s surface, they can also manipulate it.”

  Mercer raised an eyebrow. “Acupuncture for a whole planet?”

  “Exactly!” Tisa was delighted he understood.

  “Please don’t tell me you built the tower as a giant acupuncture needle to ease earth’s aches and pains.”

  She frowned at his mocking tone. “In a sense, that’s exactly what it is. What I’m about to tell you can be verified by checking oceanographic data. Over the past fifteen years a new ocean current has developed in the Pacific that is raising mean bottom temperatures.”

  “Yes, I know. I spoke with scientists aboard the Sea Surveyor. My theory is that your group knew about it, and also knew that a large hydrate deposit was right in the current’s path. You built the tower to keep it stable.”

  “You do understand. Methane hydrate can exist in only a very narrow range of temperatures and pressures and the new, warmer current would eventually cause a tremendous release. We had to do something. The tower uses the current itself to power machinery to chill a special liquid that keeps the deposit from erupting. Some methane manages to escape, however. That’s what I thought the Sea Surveyor would find and follow back to the site.”

  “You said that you monitor other sites for your organization.”

  “The Order.”

  “Yes, the Order. Are there other towers like the one I was just at?”

  “That’s the only one, but I think I know what you’re really asking. Are there other installations that can be used to harm people? The answer, I’m afraid, is yes. But I don’t know if my — if the splinter faction I mentioned has tried to gain control of them. I doubt it because many sites have full-time employees. The tower was easy for them to commandeer because it ran autonomously.”

  “If you knew about the current and the methane hydrates, why not tell the world? The UN or someone? Why do it yourselves.”

  “Because that is what we do, or at least that’s what we’ve been doing for almost twenty years.”

  That shook Mercer and he asked incredulously, “Your group is a hundred years old?”

  “Oh, gosh no. Its roots date back almost five hundred years. It’s only been the past two decades that we’ve done anything other than monitor the earth’s chi.”

  “Five hundred?” Mercer rocked back in his seat. He had assumed the Order had only formed recently, another New Age fringe group speaking of chi and force lines. Five hundred years made it feel more like a religion.

  “Yes, since the time of Admiral Zheng He and China’s treasure fleets.”

  “I’m not familiar with-”

  “Not too many people are,” Tisa said. “Zheng He was a eunuch slave who became one of China’s greatest military commanders. From 1405 to 1433 he was in command of seven epic journeys that ranged as far as the Persian Gulf, Madagascar and the mainland of Africa. Some say he went to South America too, and there’s archaeological evidence to back that claim. His ships were the most magnificent ever built and the largest too. The treasure ships were four hundred feet long at a time before Christopher Columbus used a puny ninety-footer to discover America. If I’m not mistaken, Admiral He’s ships were the biggest until the Industrial Revolution.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “You’re the victim of a Western-biased education,” she said to tease. “This period during the Ming Dynasty was the only time in China’s history that they looked beyond the Middle Kingdom and sought trade with other nations rather than wait for traders to come to them. The Ottoman and Persian empires were in full flower and the trade of goods and knowledge were unprecedented. The Ming navy was the most powerful in the world and stood poised to dominate the sea-lanes had they chosen. No nation could have stopped them. And then the emperor decreed an end to ocean commerce and China once again closed her borders to all but a few struggling along the Silk Road. The fleet of ships was destroyed, crews and captains who’d seen the distant lands were put to death. Much of what had been brought to China was burned.”

  Mercer was enthralled with her story, imagining the vast wealth the Chinese must have accumulated. “Why?”

  “No reason need be given. No one dared question the orders of the emperor. But one man did. He was a Confucian scholar named Zhu Zhanji, a master scribe in the emperor’s court who decried the destruction and risked his lif
e to spirit away the best of what the traders had brought back. The cache included scrolls and texts gathered from the four corners of the globe, works of advanced mathematics being developed in the Arab world, as well as priceless pieces of art, ivory carvings, gems and tons of gold. It was a storehouse of knowledge and human ingenuity, perhaps the greatest ever amassed.”

  “You’re describing something along the lines of the Library of Alexandria.”

  “Perhaps some of that collection was part of what Zhu gathered. Who knows? Legend has it that an observer standing on a tall mountain couldn’t see the entire length of the caravan. Zhu Zhanji took the treasure trove deep into western China, into an isolated valley called Rinpoche-La, and bade the local people to guard it well. Zhu died on his return to the imperial court and the archive appeared lost for all time. But Zhu hadn’t chosen this valley by accident.

  “Rinpoche-La was an enigmatic place, fabled because even though it was high in the foothills of the Himalayas, it remains warm year-round. The village was built near geothermal springs deep inside the mountains, allowing for a standard of living not found anywhere else in that barren part of the country.”

  “Sounds like James Hilton’s book, Lost Horizon.”

  “His story of Shangri-La is very likely based on the legend of Rinpoche-La,” she concurred, “similar to how Bram Stoker was inspired to write Dracula after hearing of the Transylvanian king Vlad the Impaler. For a hundred years the archive was left in vast underground storehouses beneath the monastery. Then some of the monks began to decipher what Zhu had left them. One particular part of the treasure caught their attention.”

  “I assume the gold.”

  “More Western bias,” she teased. “No, it was a set of blueprints and some texts, a gift to the emperor from the Sultan of Muscat, perhaps the richest man in the world at the time the treasure fleets roamed the Persian Gulf. No one knows how he came about the documents. It is believed they were created by one of his great mathematicians. When I heard these stories as a child, I imagined him to be like an Arab Leonardo da Vinci. It took generations for the monks at Rinpoche-La to understand the full potential of what they were studying, and many more years, centuries, in fact, for them to attempt to build the oracle described in the sultan’s plans.”