The Medusa Stone

Eritrea

Africa lolled tiredly below Europe, looking like the bowed head of some exhausted horse curled against itself as if struggling to draw life’s last breaths. Even its very shape was sorrowful, as bereft as the place itself. The red and white Ethiopian Airlines Boeing jet arced in off the Red Sea, taking an indirect route to avoid flying over Sudan. Even at twenty-nine thousand feet, the Boeing 737 was not safe from an errant missile from one of the world’s longest and bloodiest civil wars.

The eastern escarpment of the Great Rift Valley rose nearly vertically from the coast in a solid wall of rock that stretched over a thousand miles, a buttress that had protected Africa’s interior for millennia. Mercer was looking out the ovoid window of the plane when it crossed this threshold; one moment the aircraft was a mile above the dry scrubby desert that meandered along the coast and the next, they were barely a hundred feet above the ground, the jetliner bucking in the thermal updrafts created by the hot winds lofting up the sheer cliffs.

Though hammerheads of black clouds had gathered at the coast, lashing the shore with torrential rains, inland the air was clear. The sky was a particular shade of clear blue found only in nature; man’s pallet lacked the subtlety of light needed to create the effect. The African sky, Mercer felt, had an intimacy found nowhere else on earth.

The last minutes of the flight seemed to be a battle between gravity and the pilot’s desire to see his plane land where he intended. Even as the Boeing recovered from a last whimsical twist of wind, the aircraft lined up for its approach. The plane landed right-side heavy, stripping rubber from the starboard tires in a rancid puff of smoke before it settled onto an even keel, slamming the remaining tires to the earth with enough force to ensure they stayed.

Knowing he wouldn’t be able to enjoy ice until leaving Africa because it carried the same microbes as the water tourists were invariably told to avoid, Mercer swallowed the last cubes from his drink. He tucked the empty glass in the expandable magazine pouch on the seat in front of him and stood with the rest of the passengers to await his turn to deplane.

Because of the gunfire in Rome the day before, da Vinci Airport had been temporarily closed, canceling last night’s flight. Good to her word, the ticket agent had secured him a first-class seat on this morning’s, which was the next available. He carried only the two matching briefcases. The remainder of his clothes and nearly four hundred pounds of essential equipment had been express-shipped to Asmara and was waiting for him at his hotel. He was through customs in a few minutes.

Mercer noticed security in the terminal was high. No less than ten soldiers watched those stepping through customs and the people waiting to greet them. He hadn’t expected Habte Makkonen to meet him because of the delay, but a dusky youth leaning against one of the few cars outside the building approached as soon as Mercer exited.

“Dr. Mercer?”

“Yes.” There was a wary edge to his voice. “Are you Habte?”

The boy grinned. “Habte’s cousin. Habte wait for you at hotel. Much trouble yesterday. He tell you.”

On guard but with little option, Mercer shrugged. “Let’s go, then, Habte’s cousin.”

Three miles separated the airport from downtown, and the road was lined with a sprawling, ill-kept housing project built by the Chinese during the Ethiopian occupation. The air blowing into the car’s open windows was dry and pleasantly cool, spiced with the desert scent and the cleanliness of a city without industry. Asmara itself, a city of half a million, was not what Mercer had expected.

It was spotless. Old women meandered the hilly streets with brooms and rickety wheelbarrows, cleaning any rubbish from the gutters. The architecture was mostly Italianesque and because the capital had been spared during the war, the buildings were in excellent repair. Few were over four stories. The tallest structure was the brick bell tower of the Catholic church. If he could ignore the distinctive dome of a mosque nearby and the darker skin of the people, Mercer felt as if he had been transported to a Tuscan village rather than the capital of one of Africa’s poorest nations. Because there was little vehicular traffic, the roads had been turned over to a great many donkey carts.

Mercer kept one eye out for possible tails, but they made it to his hotel without incident. Mercer had images of a classical colonial structure with columns and gardens, much like the British had left dotted all over the globe. The Ambasoira, however, was only four stories tall and located in a residential neighborhood. The “best” hotel in Asmara was boxy and uninspiring, and the lobby’s furnishings were hard-used and tired.

Habte’s cousin chatted with the hotel’s manager while Mercer checked in, making certain that the crates he’d shipped from home had arrived. Then the young man led Mercer to the small bar in a back of the lobby, tucked behind the curving stairs leading up to the rooms. The alcove could seat no more than a dozen people, and Mercer counted only eight different types of liquor behind the bartender. A couple of European businessmen conferred at one table, and a lone Eritrean was seated at another. The local watched Mercer critically, as if weighing a decision, before he stood.

“Dr. Mercer, I am Habte Makkonen.” Habte’s handshake was brief but firm. “Welcome to Eritrea. I am sorry I could not meet you at the airport, but there was trouble yesterday and I could not risk being recognized.”

“Your cousin mentioned something.” Mercer noticed the young man had vanished. “Do you mind telling me what happened?”

Mercer had already decided to trust Habte. If the Eritrean wanted him dead, he could have easily been killed on his way to town and left for the wild dogs. The fact that they were having a conversation lent credibility to Habte’s intentions. And on a deeper level, Mercer recognized a world-weary competence in the slim African that seemed to elevate him above the political machinations and dangers that Mercer had faced in Washington and Rome.

Habte Makkonen smoked through several cigarettes while recounting the fight at the airport. He had already learned that Claude Quesnel, a medical supply salesman from Paris, had left Asmara, taking the first flight out of the country early this morning. When Habte had finished, Mercer told him about the gunman in Rome and the kidnapping of Harry White.

“I think if they wanted you dead in Rome, you would not be here today,” Habte deduced. “You did not see who shot the man in Italy, but I am sure that he was part of the same group responsible for the attempted kidnapping here in Asmara. They apparently are opposed to the people who captured your friend.”

“I agree.” Mercer rubbed the rough beard he hadn’t had the chance to shave. “Who are they and what do they want?”

“They were no ordinary Sudanese rebels. They were too well dressed, too far out of their element, even for Asmara. And to operate like they did in Rome, they must have outside contacts and help. Perhaps they have been bought to act as mercenaries.”

“Then, who’s paying them?”

“That is something we will have to find out for ourselves.”

“We don’t have the time to play detective.” There was an urgency to Mercer’s voice. “If I’m to get Harry back, I need to be in the bush no later than Monday. That gives us only five weeks to find the kimberlite pipe.”

“There is nothing I can add to what you know of the region in terms of its geology. I know of no diamonds ever found there. But I do know the area. I have buried many friends in those desert mountains during the war.” A dark shadow passed behind Habte’s eyes.

“We’ll get to that in a minute.” Mercer changed the subject. “Do you know Selome Nagast?”

“I know of her family. But I do not know her,” Habte admitted. “They are wealthy by Eritrean standards, an old and honored family from here in Asmara. I only spoke with her on the phone when she hired me to be your guide.”

“She’s not who she appears to be. You should watch her carefully.”

“Why is that?”

Mercer told the former freedom fighter about Selome’s connection to Israel and Prescott Hyde and how she’d lied to him from the beginning.

“Is she coming with us when we head north?”

“I’m not going to let her out of my sight until this is over.”

Mercer and Habte spent the rest of the day at the bar discussing the upcoming expedition. Habte had secured a newer Toyota Land Cruiser for their transportation and had hired two locals as laborers. From Mercer’s earlier request to Selome, he had also rented an old Caterpillar tracked excavator and transporter that were waiting in Nacfa, the closest town to their target area. The other heavy equipment Mercer had leased was still en route and wouldn’t arrive in Eritrea for weeks.

After a meal of overcooked pasta with a watery sauce and an unidentifiable slab of meat, Mercer retrieved some of his luggage from storage, made arrangements to meet Habte the next morning, and retired to his room. The shower produced only a thin trickle of cool water and Mercer had wisely brought his own soap. He was on the small balcony admiring the dark city below when the satellite phone still in his luggage chirped quietly. Mercer cursed himself. He’d accidentally left the phone on receive mode, and when he snapped it open, the LOW BATTERY light glared back at him. Shit. Expecting Dick Henna, he didn’t recognize the voice on the other end, though the accent matched that of the man killed in Rome.

“Harry White has suffered terribly because of what happened to our comrade in Italy,” the voice said. “That is the second time you have tried to foil us. If you attempt a third, White will be executed and his body buried forever.”

Mercer absorbed the news like a body blow. Harry was tough, but he didn’t know how much his friend could take. His sense of failure deepened.

“I had nothing to do with that,” he protested quickly. “I never saw who shot him, but it wasn’t me.”

“That doesn’t matter,” the caller said with menace. “Your friend has paid for the murder. We will be calling you on this phone every three days at midnight for an update on your search for the mine.”

“Save yourself the trouble.” Mercer couldn’t contain his anger. “It’ll take at least a week just to get started, and I don’t need you sons-of-bitches breathing down my neck every couple of days.” He didn’t want to consider how they had gotten the number to the satellite phone. “Contact me two weeks from Monday at midnight and every Monday after that. I may have something for you by then.”

It was a small point of negotiation, Mercer knew, but he hoped it would open the way for more when the time came. “That sounds reasonable,” the kidnapper conceded. “Remember that you will be under observation at all times.”

Mercer knew there was no way they could watch him once he was in the mountains. “I understand. I don’t want anything to happen to Harry. I guarantee that I will uphold my end of the bargain.” He nearly choked on the last words.

“Two weeks, Dr. Mercer.” The phone went dead.

Three rooms down the hallway from Mercer’s, Yosef snapped off his own sat-phone and turned to the other “European businessman” who’d been with him in the bar recording Mercer’s conversation with Habte Makkonen. The other Israeli, younger than Yosef by thirty years, was cleaning a pair of Desert Eagle.50-caliber Action Express automatic pistols. The heavy weapons were perhaps the most powerful handguns in the world. A bullet anywhere in the body would take a man down permanently. A head shot would decapitate. Their other weapons and the remainder of their equipment was with the rest of the team at another hotel.

“I’m still concerned about Ibriham’s true assassin,” Yosef said with hatred. White hadn’t been harmed, but he liked to hear the pain in Mercer’s voice thinking that he had.

“We’ll find him,” the other man replied, filled with the confidence of youth.

“That’s not my concern. The gunman wasn’t acting alone, and we don’t know who was behind the murder. We also don’t know their connection to Mercer and our own plans.” Yosef sat back on his bed, his eyes focusing into middle distance. “It’s inconceivable that anyone knows about us, our security is too tight. Yet Ibriham is dead, and we have a threat we’ve yet to identify.”

“Is it possible we’ve been betrayed by our own people?” Yosef knew what the younger man was intimating, but he shook his head quickly. “No, it’s too soon for Shin Bet or Mossad to learn that much of our operation. Informants have reported on Selome Nagast’s meeting with her control in Israel. She hasn’t made any move that leads me to believe she knows who we are.”

His companion said nothing.

“She’ll be here tomorrow anyway, totally cut off from her superiors. On her own, she can’t pose a serious threat to us.”

“She’ll be with Mercer.”

“As long as we hold Harry White, he’s not a threat either.” Yosef accepted one of the Desert Eagles from his partner, slipping it under his pillow for the night.

It was well past midnight when Mercer awoke. The room was cool and dark, but his body was bathed in sweat, his blankets and sheets twisted around him as if he’d been in the throes of a nightmare. In fact, for the first time since Harry had been taken, his sleep had been dream-free. And in the depths of unconsciousness an inconsistency that had been nagging him for days came clear. The realization jerked his mind so sharply he swung himself out of bed, his chest heaving.

Since the time he had been first approached by Prescott Hyde, Mercer had felt there were diamonds in Eritrea. Hyde had spoken of, and indeed the Medusa photographs showed, a kimberlite pipe in the northern wastelands, naturally formed millions of yeas ago. Selome, too, had talked about what the pipe’s discovery would mean to her people. But not the kidnappers. The men who’d taken Harry talked about Mercer’s search for a mine, something built by human hands, not the earth’s fiery heart. On three separate occasions — the original tape of Harry left in his house, the call in Rome’s airport, and tonight’s call — they spoke as if they knew the pipe had once been discovered, opened, and actively worked. They weren’t after an unknown kimberlite pipe; they wanted a long-forgotten mine. They knew the diamonds were there, and now so did Mercer.

The game had changed once again, he thought. He was still at a severe disadvantage, but knowing he was looking for an old excavation gave him his first spark of something he’d lost the moment he saw Harry’s image on his VCR. Hope. He pushed aside his self-doubt, buried his self-recriminations. He was ready to face whatever might come.