The Medusa Stone

Asmara, Eritrea

Night was his element. Yosef had the ability to blend with the shadows so he was like a wraith on the nearly deserted streets, easing around the puddles of light cast by an occasional street lamp. His motions were deliberate, his pace deceptively quick though he did not hurry himself.

After eleven in the evening, Asmara virtually shut down. Even the busiest streets were devoid of cars, and there was little chance of running into pedestrians. In all his previous nocturnal meetings, the rogue Mossad agent had yet to see a police patrol.

Since their return from Nacfa, he and his team had holed up in a rundown hotel near the old Soviet-style parade ground. The hotel’s owner, though harboring suspicions, had been paid enough not to ask questions about his guests. Asmara’s police were on the alert for a European in connection with the shootings at the Ambasoira Hotel, and while they did not have a good description of Yosef, he maintained constant vigilance. According to Profile, the authorities were more interested in the two Sudanese terrorists and the others responsible for a disturbance at the old market and cattle stockade. The newspaper’s editorial was calling for a crackdown on all Sudanese in the city, many of whom were there illegally, and barely mentioned the white man who had killed the two rebels.

This apparent lack of interest gave Yosef the time he needed to cultivate a contact in the city. Because of his nationality, he already had an established support network nearly everywhere in the world. After returning to Asmara, he had needed only a few hours to find it.

Asmara boasted a very small Jewish community, just a few families, and only a couple of them had the resources he could use. Of course, there was Selome Nagast’s family, who would certainly be able to get the information he needed, but it would be impossible to go to them for obvious reasons.

Though there were no formal synagogues in the city, there was a rabbi who taught and held services in his home, a man in his late thirties with a pretty wife and two children. His father had been a rabbinical student in the United States during the fifties who had trained his son so he too could shepherd Eritrea’s Jews. Hoping for a better life for his own children, the ersatz rabbi wanted his children to go to university in Israel when they were old enough, and Yosef used the leverage to make him an accomplice.

Aharon Yadid had welcomed Yosef that first night with something akin to worship. Not only was the secret agent from the fabled Holy Land, but he was also a member of the Mossad, the agency most responsible for protecting the Jewish state. The young rabbi had never been to Israel himself and felt disconnected by his isolation from the rest of world Jewry, especially since Operation Moses had air-lifted thousands of Ethiopian Jews to the homeland.

Aharon met Yosef at the door of his one-story bungalow, having observed the Israeli agent through the curtained front window. “Shalom, shalom,” he greeted eagerly, showing off his only word of Hebrew.

“Hello, Rabbi. I hope this night finds you and your family well?” Yosef spoke in English, the only language both men could use.

“Yes, we are well, come in, please. The children are already asleep and my wife has gone to a friend’s. She won’t be back for a while, so we can be alone.”

“Good.”

Aharon turned on a single lamp. The interior of the house was Spartan. The Yadids were not wealthy, although the furniture was well cared for and the feminine touches of flowers and colorful prints on the scrubbed walls made it cheerful. Yosef demurred an offer for refreshment and both men sat quickly.

“I know I have said this at all of our meetings,” Aharon gushed, “but I want to tell you again how much it means to me to help you and to help our beloved Israel.”

Yosef regarded Aharon’s open face, saw the innocence in his eyes. He wondered how many years had passed since he too had believed so strongly in what he did. “It’s the duty of every Jew to help our homeland, and it’s refreshing to find a man who knows this and embraces it. Jews in America just give money as long as it isn’t too much of a sacrifice.”

“My father spoke of that often,” Aharon agreed.

“So, my friend, what have you found out for me?”

“You were wise to come to me, but not for why you think. There is only one Jewish family living in the north, and when I reached them, they knew of nothing unusual taking place near the border. But the brother of my wife’s closest childhood friend owns a small shop in Nacfa, and he said there was a truck there for many days working on the roads.”

“Yes, I remember seeing it, an excavator of some kind. I assumed it was owned by the government.”

“It wasn’t. This friend of a friend spoke often with the machine’s owner and learned that he was waiting to take his equipment up near the Hajar Plateau for another job, a secret job.” Aharon was gladdened by the look of interest in Yosef’s eyes. “I learned just today that the excavating machine has left Nacfa and headed for Hajar, or more accurately, a place the nomads call the Valley of Dead Children.”

“Do you know this valley?”

“I’ve heard it is a bad place. There was a massacre there during the war, several hundred Eritrean soldiers were killed in a surprise artillery attack, but even before that, it was a place that people avoided. Eritrea is riddled with superstition, and I’ve learned that the Valley of Dead Children is one of the most feared places in the country.”

“Do you know why?”

“No. I don’t believe in superstitions. They are the providence of the ignorant and unenlightened. Many of the nomad clans are still animists. They worship their ancestors and hold pagan rituals. Their petty fears are of no interest to a learned man like me.”

Yosef struggled to keep the smirk off his face. Even this man, with secondhand knowledge of his faith, was a snob. “How can I find this valley?”

Aharon handed a folded piece of paper to the Israeli. “This is an old military map that shows the location of the valley. It is marked with a red cross denoting a site of a battle in which Eriteans were killed. There are no roads leading to it that I could see, and you must cross the Adobha River, which the friend told me is now in full flood.”

Yosef glanced at the map. They still had the rented plane they had used earlier to leapfrog ahead of Mercer when the engineer had fled Asmara. They would simply fly over the natural barrier of the river. Judging by what he’d seen of the northern desert from their drive back from Nacfa, there would be no problem finding a level place on which to land the aircraft near the valley. He forced a smile. “You have done very well, and when I return to Israel, I promise that I will make certain your children will be sponsored to study at Tel Aviv University.”

Before Aharon could show his gratitude, his wife stepped through the front door. Aharon told her of Yosef’s offer, and she rushed across the room to throw her arms around the Israeli, tears of happiness streaming down her cheeks. She spoke to him in excited Tigrinyan, her emotions transcending language.

Yosef barely acknowledged her joy. His mind was planning out the next and perhaps final phase of the operation. Mercer must have been at the mine when he had been contacted earlier and had lied about his location. The American had bluffed, and Yosef found his anger rising at such an insult. The Israeli agent had told Mercer that Harry White was going to lose a hand, though Yosef hadn’t intended to carry out the threat. But now? Yes, he would order it done. He would record the sounds with the micro-cassette he carried, as he had done for White’s previous message.

He considered that if Mercer had found the mine and was working to reopen it, there would be no reason for his team to return to Asmara after reaching the valley. And after tonight Yosef could not afford to be seen anywhere in the country.

“Yosef?” Aharon broke into his silent musings.

“Yes?”

“My wife wants to do something for you to show our thanks, perhaps a meal in your honor.”

Yosef gave him a sad smile, “That won’t be necessary. Tell her another hug is thanks enough.” He stood, his right hand hidden behind his back.

The woman’s arms came around his neck, her cheek pressed to his chest. “Yekanyelay,” she sobbed. Thank you.

“I am sorry,” Yosef said quietly in Hebrew.

He used his knife. Normal procedure dictated he kill Aharon first. As a man, he posed more of a physical threat. But Yosef decided that watching his wife die would stun the rabbi enough for him to dispatch the Eritrean before he recovered. Further, a woman’s reactions are quicker than a man’s, and her scream would likely have alerted the children asleep in their beds.

Yosef was across the room, plunging the bloody blade into Aharon’s chest before the body of his wife hit the rug covering the wooden floor. The rabbi stood still as the knife came at him, his eyes fixed on a horror beyond his comprehension. In seconds it was over, and Yosef was back on the street, heading toward his hotel.

For security reasons, he had no choice but to kill them. Someday, Aharon Yadid would have told a friend about the Israeli agent he had helped, and that was a leak Yosef could not afford.

There was a great deal to accomplish before he and his team left for the Valley of Dead Children. He had to contact the team members in Jerusalem guarding Harry White and order his mutilation, a task he would enjoy for the pain it would cause Mercer. He also had to reach Defense Minister Levine and order the helicopter for when the mission was over. The Israeli Defense Force had CH-53 Super Stallion helicopters that could make the flight with their upgraded inflight refueling capability and safely return with their precious cargo. It would take some coordination to have flying tankers standing by to support one of these choppers, and only Levine could clandestinely order all the necessary equipment.

Even through the churning ideas that flooded his brain, Yosef still found a few seconds to consider what he would find at the mine. The idea was staggering. Not only would it ensure Levine’s election, there was something even larger at stake than a political victory. Out in the desert lay hidden a tangible link to the founding of Judaism, a talisman unlike any other religious artifact ever unearthed. If they could bring it to light, it would make the great Dead Sea Scrolls pale in comparison. A piece of living history was within his reach now, something stolen from Israel hundreds of generations ago that had become his destiny to bring home.

He shook himself of these feelings and refocused on his job. Things were coming into place. First was the location of the mine. And now he finally had an idea who was behind the Sudanese attacks in Rome and at Mercer’s hotel. Yosef had learned from Archive, their secret tap into the Mossad computer system, that Italian industrialist Giancarlo Gianelli was under investigation by the FBI and Interopol in conjunction with documents stolen from the United States. Yosef harbored the suspicion that they were talking about the Medusa pictures. Taking into consideration Italy’s colonial presence in Eritrea, it seemed likely that Gianelli was after the pictures and the mine. He guessed that the Italian was behind the Sudanese, perhaps using them as a mercenary army to thwart Mercer’s and indirectly Yosef’s own efforts.

What he didn’t know was how close the Italian was and if he knew about what really lay hidden out in the northern wastelands.