The Medusa Stone

Nacfa, Eritrea

For three days they waited in Nacfa, roughly sixty miles south of the Sudanese border, before accepting that Mercer had slipped by them. When the refugee buses stopped passing through following Sudan’s border closure, activity in the town came to a halt. There was little to do except drink endless cups of coffee and watch work crews repairing the roads. For Yosef’s team, boredom was the most difficult problem they faced while waiting for Mercer and Selome.

Yosef had the added distraction of thinking about what had happened in Asmara. He remembered the maid’s scream while he and one of his men were sitting in the lobby reading a week-old issue of the Profile, Asmara’s only English-language newspaper. Both of them threw aside the meager papers and charged up the stairs. Yosef caught a glimpse of a tall African in Mercer’s room holding a silenced automatic while his partner tore apart one of Mercer’s suitcases. Instinct and training took control, and Yosef jumped aside a fraction of a second before the Sudanese fired. The younger Israeli caught two rounds high in the chest, propelling his lifeless body over the second-floor balcony to the lobby below. Yosef unholstered the big Desert Eagle from under his coat, paused for half a heartbeat, and rolled across the threshold of Mercer’s room, the gun booming three times in a continuous thundering crash. Both Sudanese went down, their bodies leeching blood from massive wounds.

Yosef had scooped up his partner’s weapon before fleeing, meeting up with the rest of his team where they waited in a different hotel. By the time they got reorganized and scouted the Ambasoira again, Mercer’s Toyota Land Cruiser was gone. Yosef had lost him.

In an effort to get ahead of the geologist, the Israelis had chartered a plane in Asmara and flown to the rough strip just outside of Nacfa. He had one of his men drive northward on the off chance he could spot Mercer and his party. But now, three days had passed and still nothing. Mercer had taken a different route than Yosef had suspected. The Israelis had little choice but to return to Asmara and cultivate some contacts to gather information.

Yosef didn’t like relying on second-party information, but their failure to follow Mercer made it necessary. He felt control of the operation slipping. His men were still loyal and eager; the failure was with him only. He cursed and turned to the two men with him. The other agent was outside watching the southern approach to the town.

“We’re getting out of this shithole,” he said angrily. “Get Avi and bring the car around. I want to be out of here in ten minutes.”

He had underestimated Mercer for the last time. The next chance he got, Yosef would torture the mine’s location from the American and dump his body far in the wasteland. As for the Sudanese, who he realized must be responsible for Ibriham’s murder in Rome, that would be another battle for another time.