The Medusa Stone

Washington, D.C

Dick Henna broke years of training when he made that call. Since the early days of their marriage, Fay had worked tirelessly to get a little culture into her workaholic husband’s life. She had started out easy on him, the occasional foreign film or ethnic restaurant, and over time she had him going to musicals and actually enjoying the opera. Her only major setback had been a too-early introduction to ballet that had soured him forever, but the night he made the call to Mercer’s phone, she’d crossed another invisible line. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about the plight of Tibet, but two hours of gongs and chanting and dance moves he couldn’t identify by the Tibetan National Troupe were just too much.

He’d mumbled an apology to Fay about needing the rest room and slid from the box at the Kennedy Center, dodging out of the huge theater and into the red-carpeted lobby. His Secret Service escorts seemed equally relieved at their temporary escape from the performance. Next to the bronze bust of the late President Kennedy, which to him was the ugliest statue he’d ever seen, he snapped open his cell phone and dialed Mercer for the hundredth time in the past weeks. It was a fruitless gesture, he knew, but he hadn’t had word from his friend and State Department reports about violence in Asmara had him concerned.

He was about to cut the connection after the fifth ring, when an unfamiliar voice answered in accented English. “Hello, you have reached the phone of Philip Mercer. He’s been buried alive. May I help you? My name is Habte Makkonen.”

Their fifteen-minute conversation cut short Henna’s concert. He sent an agent back to his seat to apologize to Fay. Like just about every other husband in the country, he figured he’d spend his retirement making up to his wife for the years of broken promises. The phone in his limo was more secure than his cell phone, and the attached scrambler had the latest in encryption software. He was on it for the entire drive to the Pentagon.

After alerting Marge Doyle, he called the Pentagon and had them track down C. Thomas Morrison. The limo reached the Department of Defense’s sprawling headquarters just as Admiral Morrison was located.

“Evening, Dick, how’re you doing?” the Joint Chiefs’ chairman asked jovially.

“I’ve got a present for you, but you’re going to have to unwrap it,” Henna replied. “Where are you right now?”

“Home. My son’s in town looking at colleges for his daughter. She wants Howard because it’s a black school, and he wants her at Georgetown because of its reputation.”

“Tell them they’re going to have to thumb through the catalogs without you. I’m at the Pentagon and you’re going to want to be here too.”

“What’s happening?”

“I found your Medusa photographs and we’re going to need some firepower to get them back.”

Admiral Morrison’s voice went serious the instant he heard the word Medusa. “Say no more. I’m putting on my shoes right now. I should be there in half an hour.”

Leave it to a military man to know the exact time of his commute no matter what the traffic situation. Twenty-nine minutes later, Morrison strode through the entry doors closest to his E-ring suite of offices, two uniformed aides pacing behind him in an arrowhead formation. He and Henna shook hands and strode to the elevators, arriving at Morrison’s office just an hour after Habte’s call. That hour was the longest delay in the chain of events to follow. Henna quickly outlined his conversation with Habte and the circumstances surrounding it.

“Northern Eritrea, huh?” Morrison studied the world map behind his desk. He chuckled. “Isn’t that a coincidence. Since our last conversation, a detachment of Force Recon Marines found themselves rotated to an amphibious assault ship off the coast of Somalia. There are two hundred soldiers on that ship who’d been planning a piece-of-cake tour in Italy and are mighty pissed off at their new deployment. I bet they’d love to vent some of that anger.”

Henna’s reply had the same mocking tone. “Coincidences are compounding as we speak. I called Lloyd Easton at the State Department while I was waiting for you. Right now he’s convincing the president of Eritrea that an American training exercise in his country would be in his best interests.”

“What about authorization from the president?”

“As soon as we’re done here, I’ll contact him. In light of our conversation with Israel’s prime minister, he’s been expecting that something like this might happen. He’ll be astounded when he hears Gianelli is involved. Marge pulled his file for me when I was in my limo and it must be a foot thick. Interpol has never been able to directly link him to anything illegal, but if we’re quick here, we’ll nail the bastard to the wall. It’ll be a feather in the president’s cap during the next G-7 summit if we can haul him into a courtroom.”

“As long as the political end’s covered, I’ll handle the military side. It’ll take some time to get this ball rolling.” Morrison snatched up a phone and ordered a call put through to the National Security Agency and the National Reconnaissance Office. He offered Henna a zeppelin-sized Cohiba when he finished. “We’re going to need some photo intelligence of the area, and the Marines are going to need some prep time.”

“I’ve got to call Habte Makkonen back and give him a time line. What do you think?”

“Six hours minimum and even that’s pushing it too hard.”

“Not from where Mercer’s sitting,” Henna said through a cloud of fragrant cigar smoke.

The phone rang, and Morrison spoke with the duty officer at the NRO. “There’s a civilian on the ground reporting a heavy cloud cover in the area, but there’s a lot of machinery working at the site. If you can’t get clear pictures, switch to IR and we’ll find the bastards by their heat signature.” He clamped his hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to Henna. “This is going to take a while. If you want, use the phone on my secretary’s desk to brief the Old Man and reach Makkonen. Tell him what to expect and to get his butt under cover when the Marines hit the mine.”

Henna left Morrison coordinating satellite coverage and planted himself at a desk in the outer office. He figured he could afford a little time, so he placed a call he felt was equally important. He’d personally met the plane carrying Harry White from Israel at Dulles, driving into the city with the octogenarian and seeing him ensconced at an FBI safe house until the situation settled. True to his word, Harry was stone sober and didn’t complain through the subsequent hours of questioning. It wasn’t until after Henna’s agents had finished that Harry demanded to know what had happened to Mercer. His glare had spoken volumes when Henna admitted that they had no idea where he was or what had happened to him.

“Hello.”

“Harry, it’s Dick Henna. We’ve found Mercer.”

Harry heard Henna’s declaration, but it took a few seconds for him to absorb it. “You really found him?” he asked at last.

“He’s at an abandoned mine in Eritrea. He’s okay.”

“No, he’s not,” Harry snapped. “He’s in deep shit or you wouldn’t be calling me, he would.”

“Harry, really, he’s all right.”

“I’ve been more than cooperative with you. The least you can do is be honest with me. What the hell is really going on?”

Henna couldn’t fathom how Harry knew he was lying. It was just one of those things, part of that bond that Mercer and Harry shared. He blew out a breath. “Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry. He is in Eritrea, but he’s the prisoner of a group of Sudanese rebels who’re working for an Italian industrialist who’s a known criminal. From what we know so far, he’s buried himself in the mine with some Eritrean refugees as a way to buy us some time to get Marines into the area.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Do you have Marines going in?”

“I’m at the Pentagon right now with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Harry, we’re moving heaven and earth to get him back.”

“He’s pulled your asses from the fire a couple of times now. You had goddamned better move a lot more than that or so help me, Christ, by the end of the week I’ll be on every talk show in the country.”

“Harry—”

“I’m not fooling around. You get Mercer back or you can kiss your job and this Administration good-bye. I know enough to bury all of you.”

“Jesus, Harry, it doesn’t need to come to that.”

“I know it doesn’t because you’ll rescue him. End of discussion.”

Seven and a half hours later, a swarm of UH-60 Blackhawk helicopters thundered into Eritrean airspace, the Marines on board eager for a good fight.