Pandora's Curse - v4 by Jack du Brul Read Free Book Online

country.”
    “I’ve been back from Africa for a while,” Mercer explained. “After taking some time off to recover from that one, I had a contract to teach mine rescue in western Pennsylvania. That’s where I was when I got your message.”
    “Who answered your home phone? He sounds like a real character.”
    “That’s Harry White. He’s a cantankerous old bastard who watches my place when I’m away. He tends to move in and make himself right at home.” Mercer didn’t need to add how much Harry meant to him. The affection was in his voice. “He and I have been friends since I moved to Arlington. He just turned eighty, and while he smokes and drinks like tomorrow’s doomsday, he’ll probably outlive us all.”
    On the second floor, Mercer glimpsed a large dining room with eight tables set for lunch. There was a fire-place at the far end of the room faced by an arc of overstuffed chairs. A couple of old men sat there either dozing or reading the paper. Bryce continued down a narrow hallway adorned with an assortment of weapons, big Holland and Holland nitro express rifles, swords from medieval Europe and Asia, spears from Africa and the South Sea islands, and blowguns from South America and Australia. They came to a closed office door that belonged to an assistant administrative director.
    “Here we go,” Bryce said.
    The office was small, crammed with books and yet more artifacts. The single window behind the desk overlooked an airshaft between the club and the neighboring brownstone. Mercer noted the window was wired for a security system and he’d already spotted five roving cameras.
    “I thought we would chat in private first,” Bryce said, “though I’m not too sure of the protocol. You are the first invitee the Society’s had since the
Titanic
was discovered
.
”
    Bryce took one of the seats in front of the desk and invited Mercer to sit in the other. From a pile of papers on the tooled desktop, Charles grabbed an issue of the Society’s quarterly magazine,
Surveyor
. “This comes out next week. Thought you might want one early.”
    Called one of the finest magazines in the world,
Surveyor
had won every award it could. Its photographers were all the tops in their profession, and most of the articles were written by authors and journalists who’d at least been nominated for a Pulitzer. Its readership wasn’t as large as the better-known
National Geographic
, but its followers were more fiercely devoted to collecting each one. Since the Society pre-dated
Geographic
by fifteen years, some of the early editions went for tens of thousands of dollars at auction.
    “I don’t know much about publishing, but I can’t imagine you make any money with this,” Mercer said, holding up the two-hundred-page glossy magazine.
    “Oh God, we lose thousands on each issue, I suspect. Subscription and circulation barely cover the printing costs. But the money’s not important. I should explain a little about how the Society works. There are three types of people who belong: real explorers, like yourself, who are invited to join; those of us who wish we were real explorers, which is my category, I’m afraid; and those who are rich enough to pay others to explore for them. They pick up the tab for the expeditions we sponsor and the publishing of our magazine and video documentaries. Did you notice the gentleman in the dining room wearing the tan suit?”
    Mercer nodded.
    “His name is Jon Herriman. Back in the early 1970s he invented some little gadget that goes into automobiles, something about pollution control. That device was only recently replaced with something newer and better. He earned royalties for every car sold in this country until about five years ago.” Charles noted Mercer’s awed expression. “He’s only one of eight billionaires on our board. That’s why I say money isn’t important. A few years ago, one member paid five million dollars to the Russian government so he could use their