The Medusa stone Read Free Page B

overlooking the atrium. An antique spiral staircase connected the levels. He dressed quickly and spun down to retrieve the morning paper from the front step.
    The second floor had two small guest rooms and a balconied library with a view of the tiled mezzanine. It also contained what had become Mercer's living room, a reproduction of an English gentleman's club that he and his friends affectionately called The Bar . It had two sectional leather couches, several matching chairs, a television, and a large ornate mahogany bar fronted by six dark cane stools. The lump under a blanket on one of the couches was Harry. Behind the bar was a circa 1950s lock-lever refrigerator and shelving for enough liquor to shame most commercial drinking establishments. The automatic coffee maker on the back bar had already brewed a barely potable sludge.
    Seated with his coffee and paper, Mercer tried to read through the day's fare. The Post led with another story about the fatal bombing at Jerusalem's Western Wall six weeks ago. Defense Minister Chaim Levine, a hard-line candidate for the upcoming elections, said that if he were leading the country, such attacks would never happen, and if they did, the investigation would take days, not weeks. He was calling for a draconian crackdown on all Palestinians and a suspension of the latest peace talks. Mercer read that another victim had died in the hospital, bringing the death toll to one hundred and sixty-seven. The destabilized Middle East held his attention for only a couple of paragraphs, and he slid the rest of the paper out of reach.
    Harry still snored from the couch. His rattling breathing sounded like the explosive grunts of some large animal. He gave a startled snort, and then he was awake, yawning broadly.
    Mercer smiled. "Good morning. How do you feel on the first day of the rest of your life?"
    "Jesus Christ," Harry rasped "What time is it?"
    Mercer looked at his watch. "Six-thirty."
    "I liked it better when you and Aggie were together. You never came downstairs until after nine." Harry immediately recognized his gaffe. "Oh, shit, I'm sorry. That was a rotten thing to say."
    Aggie Johnston had been ged b but Aggie reminded you of the actual price you've been paying. You haven't been yourself since you two split."
    Mercer considered Harry's words. "I've been thinking it has to do with the danger we went through. It was the excitement I was missing."
    "I'm sure that's part of it. I never felt more alive than during the waar. Nothing was out of the ordinary, but there was a tingle at the base of his neck and he didn't know why. He swung back and followed the retreating maitre d' into the dining room.
    The watcher was not certain if she had been seen; but her orders were clear. While Mercer's glance had passed right by her as she sat unassumingly in a corner thumbing a Washington guide book, she felt it wasn't worth the chance.
    She reached into the pocket of her skirt, making sure her motions were masked by the folds of her sweater and double-clicked the micro-burst transmitter all of the team carried. Seconds later, another member of their detail walked in, alerted by a similar transmission from their cell leader. The woman did not acknowledge her teammate. She simply finished what little remained of her diet soda and signaled the waitress for her bill.
    While no surveillance is immune from detection, usually no more than ten people are needed to maintain a twenty-four-hour watch on even the most paranoid target. Such was their interest in Mercer that all twelve operatives stationed in Maryland were assigned to shadow him and report on his every movement. As the woman walked out of the hotel to catch a taxi, she realized she hadn't been told who Philip Mercer was or what the interest in him could be.

    "Dr. Mercer, I presume?" Prescott Hyde laughed at his tired joke as he proffered a hand.
    Hyde was in his early fifties, almost completely bald, with a fleshiness that showed self-indulgence.