The Medusa Stone

Asmara, Eritrea

If asked, Habte Makkonen said he was a carpenter by trade. If pressed, he acknowledged that he had done some work in the open-pit copper mine the Japanese had run in southern Eritrea during the Ethiopian occupation. It wasn’t in his nature to conceal the truth from people, but it was his practice to maintain his privacy.

It was a survivor’s mentality and Habte was a survivor. It was a skill learned in his youth, and a trait that continued to shape him into adulthood. There was a quiet reserve about him that kept him permanently and intentionally separated from everyone he met.

Few people knew his record during the war of liberation, and they were all on the Eritrean side. Of the Ethiopian, Cuban, and Russian soldiers he’d faced during his fifteen years under arms, few were alive to talk about him, one of the greatest soldiers to come out of the war. That he had survived the war unscathed, physically, was a miracle.

Habte had devoted himself to securing a life of freedom for his people, but it seemed he himself had no place in the world he had helped create. He kept himself aloof purposely, believing that one day the fragile peace would come crashing back down around him. He would not allow himself to share in the postwar calm, for he knew too well its price and also its frailty.

At five foot eight inches, thin under his black leather coat, he did not look like one of the most dangerous men in Africa, though he had a confirmed record of seventy-five kills. He smoked nervously, his fingers in constant motion bringing cigarette after cigarette to his thin lips. His hands were too long for his body, alien appendages probing outward from the sleeves of his coat. Under his sharp nose was a thin wisp of mustache, little more than a carefully groomed five o’clock shadow.

Habte was not handsome in the traditional Western sense, but there was something compelling about him, which caught the attention of those waiting for the flight from Rome with him. He held himself apart from the crowd even while he was in the thick of it. He’d been told once by a comrade that his eyes possessed a gaze that made a thousand-yard stare seem shortsighted. He’d scoffed at the notion, but anyone paying him attention would have agreed. The crowd perceived that he was someone of importance and left him alone, an island amid the press of humanity waiting for the Ethiopian Airlines flight.

Asmara’s airport was an ambitious building, constructed several years before with an optimism for Eritrea’s future that had yet to come to pass. It could handle four times the volume of traffic that currently used the facility. The one-story terminal was built with cement, yet still it shook as the Rome flight powered over the runway. A cheer went up among the waiting crowd because the flight had been delayed in Europe. Some instinct made Habte tense as people surged toward the windows in anticipation of rejoining loved ones.

A group of Sudanese refugees waited at the back of the crowd. It wasn’t unusual that they were all men. In their society, women were rarely allowed in public. What caught Habte’s attention was their grim expressions and the fact they were all well dressed; slacks and open-collared shirts. Their appearance was incongruous enough to alert him, and as he looked carefully, he realized they were shifta, Sudanese bandits. Habte had spent enough time as a soldier to recognize them as combatants.

He casually drifted back into the crowd until he stood behind and just to the left of the four Sudanese. At this range, he could see that one of them held a piece of paper in his hand, a fax sheet imprinted with a photograph of a Caucasian male. He recognized the face from Selome Nagast’s description of Philip Mercer. He could also see the bulge of a weapon under the untucked tail of the man’s shirt.

As passengers began streaming into the terminal, the Sudanese guerrilla scanned each face, eyes darting from the travelers to the picture. A single white man entered from the tarmac, the last passenger to deplane. The Sudanese and Habte recognized the face at the same instant. Of the two hundred and fifty people packed into the crowed room, only he felt the tension that fouled the air.

Habte felt powerless. He was not armed, for guns were outlawed in Eritrea, and he did not have enough faith in the two bored soldiers watching the debarkation to help him when Mercer came within the reach of the shifta. The war had been over for too long; Habte had become soft. Just a few years ago, he could have come up with a tactical plan instantly. Now, he found himself standing idly as Mercer came closer to the head of the customs line, briefcases hanging from both hands. The leader of the Sudanese terrorists bunched the picture in one fist. His other hand rested on the pistol tucked into his belt.

Thinking that he could reach Mercer before the shifta made their move, Habte launched himself across the terminal floor, shouldering aside families still in the rapture of reunion. No sooner had he made his move than the leader of the bandits also started forward, not quite as moderate in thrusting away those who stood in his way. He did not appear to notice that Habte shared his interest in the white passenger. His three comrades followed suit, unknowingly vectoring to cut off Habte’s advance.

Mercer stood at the customs deck, his cases at his feet and his passport spread before him, the distinctive pale pink Eritrean visa sticker prominently displayed on the page awaiting an official stamp. Habte increased his pace to get ahead of the bandits and stole a quick glance behind him to see that the shifta’s pistol was still out of view. So these men did not want to see the American killed, he thought. That gave him latitude he hadn’t realized he possessed.

Habte turned sharply, but the crowd slowed his momentum. He raised one fist and punched with all the force of his spin. It was enough to send the nearest Sudanese to the floor, his jaw either broken or severely dislocated. Several women screamed. Habte took advantage of the confusion, twisting so he was in range of another of the shifta, still keeping himself away from the armed leader. He let his wristwatch slide down to his hand so its face stretched across his knuckles, then pounded it into the Sudanese’s face. Three rapid blows dropped the man, his mouth and cheeks bloodied and deeply scarred by the watch’s sharp bezel.

The two Eritrean soldiers guarding the arrivals lounge came alive, shouting over the din and racing across the room, weapons held low to better push aside the people who were in their way. Mercer came through the gate oblivious to the tumult. Before the shifta leader could react, Habte grabbed Mercer by the wrist. A shot rang out, a concussive explosion that echoed painfully. Towing his charge, Habte ducked and dashed out the doors of the terminal. He owned a Fiat sedan and Mercer was just barely in the rear passenger seat when Habte gunned the engine, kicking up twin spirals of dust from the unpaved road.

“Welcome to Eritrea, Dr. Mercer. My name is Habte Makkonen,” Habte said, relieved and amazed to be away from the airport. It would take hours for the authorities to sort out what had just happened if they even bothered to try.

“Je ne comprend pas. Je m’appelle Claude Quesnel.” Habte’s passenger was near hysterics as he spoke in rapid-fire French. “Qu’est-ce que se passe maintenant? Et qui est Docteur Mercier?”