Authors: Jack Du Brul
The Medusa stone (12 page)
Gianelli's majordomo in Venice had alerted his African counterpart to prepare for the visit. The staff was lined up when the limo eased through the gate and up the long drive. The headlights flashed into their faces as the car swept under the covered portico, stopping so that the head butler could simply bend at the waist to open Gianelli's door.
"Grazie,
Ali," Gianelli said to the majordomo. "How have you been?"
Ali," Gianelli said to the majordomo. "How have you been?"
"Very well, sir," the elderly Sudanese replied gravely in Italian. "I was not told how long you would be here, sir. Should we prepare for an extended stay?"
"No, Ali, I won't be here long at all." Gianelli eyed his staff. Not recognizing two girls dressed neatly as maids, he asked Ali about them.
"I bought them about a month ago from a slaver selling off the last of his stock. They were expensive, but they have already been well trained," Ali said proudly.
Sudan was one of a handful of countries that maintained a slave trade. The practice was illegal but more than tolerated by the government. Slaves, usually young girls, were routinely captured during raids in the south by either the army or regular slavers and brought to Khartoum for the pleasures of the city's elite or sold off to Arab countries across the Red Sea. Ever open to possible business opportunities, Gianelli had considered entering the trade, but the big markets had already been exploited and he found it wouldn't be worth his time or effort to open up a new conduit to move girls from Sudan to the Middle East.
He turned his gaze away from the girls and addressed Ali again. "Has he arrived yet?"
"Your guest arrived an hour ago." Ali couldn't keep the contempt out of his voice. "He is in your study. There is a guard waiting with him to make sure he does not move."
Giancarlo chuckled at his man's foresight. He himself wouldn't leave Mahdi alone for a second. Gianelli entered the house, enjoying the sweet coolness provided by the air conditioners. The house was stucco on the outside, but much of the interior was marble, built in the Mediterranean style with a large open foyer. He hadn't dared to bring any of his European artwork to Khartoum, so the decorations were all native pieces bought for him from all over the continent by a professional collector. Ashante masks and Ndebele shields mixed with woven Dinka wall hangings and displays of ancient gold jewelry from every corner of Africa.
The study was at the end of one wing of the great house. Gianelli strode in, ignoring the shelves of books and the tall elephant tusks that flanked the native stone fireplace, their butter patina glowing in the room's subdued lighting. Instead, he kept his eyes on the young Sudanese lying on one of the leather couches, his feet indolently resting on the glass topys of a to attention. "Leave us," Gianelli barked at the guard, then stared at his guest.
"Make yourself at home," he sneered, switching to fluent Arabic.
Mahdi wore Western clothes, black jeans and a baggy T-shirt under a loose-fitting leather jacket. His head was covered with a brightly colored
keffleye
like a Palestinian freedom fighter, though he was a Christian and a member of Sudan's rebel movement. "Have I offended you in some way,
effendi
?"
keffleye
like a Palestinian freedom fighter, though he was a Christian and a member of Sudan's rebel movement. "Have I offended you in some way,
effendi
?"
"Yes." Gianelli lowered himself into his chair and slid the video cassette from the outside pocket of his suit coat. "That fool you sent to Rome nearly got Philip Mercer killed. He was ordered to tell me if anyone approached Mercer, not open fire with an automatic weapon in the international departure area. You'd better pray the
carabinieri
never learn of my involvement with this."
carabinieri
never learn of my involvement with this."
"Why did he start shooting?"
"How should I know?" Gianelli's face darkened with anger. "He killed four people."
"He must have had a good reason. Abdula's my cousin, I trust him completely," Mahdi said. "He was with me when we tracked and killed that European scientist a few months ago. Remember, he was exploring near where you thought your mine might be. You questioned Abdula afterward, yes?"
Giancarlo laughed. "I wouldn't call it questioning exactly." He slid the tape into the VCR sitting on a credenza behind him and turned on the attached television.
He watched Mahdi's expression change when he recognized his cousin pinioned between the forklifts. The Sudanese couldn't tear his eyes from the gruesome scene as it played out.
Gianelli shut off the machine when the recording ended. "That is the price of disobeying me," he said mildly. "Your cousin made a mistake that you can learn from, Mahdi, and I think now you see how serious I am."
He stood and went to the small bar near the fireplace, filling two crystal goblets with a fortified wine. He had no way of knowing how Mahdi would react, so one hand didn't stray from the small Beretta automatic in his coat pocket. Mahdi took the offered glass and knocked it back with a quick swallow. Gianelli took a seat opposite the killer, his drink dangling from his long fingers. He filled Mahdi's shocked silence with words.
"Our association has been very profitable in the past. There is no need for this unfortunate incident"--he waved his free hand at the darkened television--"to interfere with that. I've given your cause billions of lire over the years, and I've asked for very little in return. I simply want your continued friendship when you eventually succeed in splitting the Sudan into two separate countries.
"I've supported your cause for years. Still, I believe I am entitled to a simple favor for my efforts, a goodwill token to prove that my money hasn't been wasted on a lost cause headed by a group of fools."
Mahdi wasn't a diplomat or a politician, which was exactly why Gianelli chose him as his liaison with the rebel movement. Mahdi was a soldier experienced in the field of warfare, not words. It was this fact that made him easy to manipulate. Giancarlo suspected Mahdi's superiors knew this too but allowed it to continue as long as the money poured in. If they had any opposition to Giancarlo Gianelli using some of their people as a mercenary army for his own personal reasons, they never voiced it.
Mahdi stood slowly and Giancarlo tensed, his finger tightening around the Beretta's trig Gianelli ative. Her clothes, however, were Fifth Avenue elegant and she wore them with the comfortable neglect of a fashion model. Again, there was the enigmatic confidence about her that Mercer found interesting and more than a little dangerous. He'd thought that her going to Israel would have extinguished that delicate spark he'd felt on the flight from Washington, but looking at her, he knew it hadn't. Whether it was Mercer's earlier warning or some sexist cultural attitude, Habte Makkonen greeted her coolly. Mercer noticed the slight, but if Selome had too, she didn't show it. She gave Mercer a dry kiss on his cheek and sat.
"I see you're heeding my warning about the coffee here." She nodded to the half-empty cups of cappuccino on the table.
"I tried their regular stuff," Mercer grinned. "Crude oil."
She gave him an I-told-you-so smile. "The meals here are safe enough, if a little uninspired. Like most hotels in town, they only serve Italian food, a holdover from the occupation. If we have time, I'll take you to a traditional Eritrean restaurant. If you think our coffee curls your toes, wait until you try our stew called
zigini
. The peppers in it are tiny but pack the fire of a volcano."
zigini
. The peppers in it are tiny but pack the fire of a volcano."
"Thank you for your offer but it'll have to wait until after we return here," Mercer said gravely. "Habte's cousin is getting our Land Cruiser right now. This morning I want to load it up, get some fresh provisions here in Asmara, and be on the road north by this afternoon. We'll sleep in Keren tonight and continue on to Nacfa and the open country at sunup tomorrow."
"Why the rush?"
"Because we're not safe here." Mercer wondered how much to tell her about what had happened since seeing her off in Rome. Discretion was still his best ally, he thought. Harry's kidnapper said she was the only person he could trust, but what kind of assurance was that? He wanted to trust her, but until he knew more, he would keep her at arm's length. Sad, he mused, the first woman to attract him in a long time turned out to be a secretive liar with an agenda of her own.
Like his optimism about the pipe having been discovered before, he kept what happened in Rome to himself. He did tell her about the incident at Asmara's airport when Habte was awaiting his arrival. "It was my good luck that I missed the afternoon flight," he lied, "and had to take one the next morning. Otherwise, I would've been captured by the Sudanese."
He watched her reaction carefully. Her surprise and concern were genuine. "Nothing's happened to you since? My God, I can't believe it. It's only a matter of time before Sudan's war destroys us as well."
"Selome, you're missing the point. They were waiting for me, specifically. That means someone else knows about our mission." Her eyes went wide with the realization. Mercer continued. "We're vulnerable in the city. That's why I want to be as far from Asmara as soon as possible. That means all of us. You included."
"I wanted to come with you anyway," Selome admitted. "But this is certainly a good motivation. Our police forces and military leave a lot to be desired. After the war, it seemed few of our people wanted to remain under arms. We'd seen enough fighting. The authorities will be powerless against guerrillas."
"She's right," Habte added. "Our best chance is to get into the northern lowlands quickly."
"Then it's settled." Mercer finished the last of his cappuccino. "Habte, when your cousin gets back with the L high brick walls. Usually, the crowds moved with purpose, leading cows, sheep, and goats to and from the pen, but everyone was standing still, watching the flames already rising above the market.
Trucks and buses clogged the side streets, making it impossible for Mercer to lead Selome out of the area. Knowing the fire would slow the Sudanese for just a few moments, and with only one avenue of escape opened to them, they raced into the cattle stockade. It was only after they were a quarter way across the circular plaza that Selome stopped, bending double to catch her breath. Cows and men had cleared a path for their mad charge, both equally upset by the intrusion.
"Mercer," she panted and pointed over her shoulder. "That's the only way out of here."
"Oh shit," he wheezed, realizing they were trapped. If they turned back now, they would run straight into the assassins.
The cows weren't like those Mercer had seen in the United States. These were
Bovus indicus,
called Brahmans in America, a heartier breed better suited to hotter climates. Because of Eritrea's sour grazing, they were not prime specimens but all weighed over a ton, with heavily humped backs, sweeping dewlaps, and wickedly curved horns that could pull a man apart with one toss of the head. To Mercer's left, a female had just dropped a calf. The young heifer was still wet and stood on shaky legs as it tried to get under its dam to suckle. The mother was more interested in protecting the calf than feeding it. She had formed a clearing around them both, jealously charging man and animal alike when she felt they got too close.
Bovus indicus,
called Brahmans in America, a heartier breed better suited to hotter climates. Because of Eritrea's sour grazing, they were not prime specimens but all weighed over a ton, with heavily humped backs, sweeping dewlaps, and wickedly curved horns that could pull a man apart with one toss of the head. To Mercer's left, a female had just dropped a calf. The young heifer was still wet and stood on shaky legs as it tried to get under its dam to suckle. The mother was more interested in protecting the calf than feeding it. She had formed a clearing around them both, jealously charging man and animal alike when she felt they got too close.
Mercer grabbed a wooden staff from a farmer standing close by and dodged through the lowing herd toward the new mother. She watched his movement with tired, angry eyes, keeping her body between her baby and this new threat. He ignored her first halfhearted charges, angling the brahman with the finesse of a matador, forcing her around so her calf was behind her.
She came forward again, her horns like scythes as she lowered them to Mercer's waist. He timed his lunge perfectly and rushed to meet her charge. Dropping to the ground, he rolled as one great horn slit the air just above him, regaining his feet as the brahman turned to follow. The calf was in front of him--unprotected for a fraction of a second. He gave the tottering animal a sharp crack on its rump with the staff.
It squealed more out of fright than pain and began running in a weaving gait that took it in the direction of the exit. Mercer could feel its mother right behind him and dove to the side, missing a fatal goring by inches. He landed on a small flock of sheep, cushioning his fall in the woolly, bleating mass. The new mother ignored him and chased after its child, but the young cow was too panicked to be calmed. Quickly, the alarm spread to the other nervous members of the herd, and suddenly they were stampeding. The peasants were powerless to stop it and wisely concentrated on staying out of the way of the maddened rush.
The two Sudanese had just passed through the entrance when the leading edge of the charge reached them. Their reactions were lightning fast, and cows went down under scathing fire from their weapons. Yet the herd paid no attention to their fallen brethren. When a huge bull was felled by a double tap from one of the silenced pistols, two more filled the gap in the solid wall of fleeing animals.
The gates to the stockade were roughly ten feet wide and three hundred and fifty tons of terrified cattle ract of the city and traffic was light, only a few lumbering trucks loaded with cotton grinding across the arid landscape. There were signs of the war along the road's verges, the rusted hulks of military equipment slowly disintegrating back into the soil. Soviet trucks and T-55 tanks, badly damaged by mines or missiles, littered the highway like the decomposing bodies of mechanical dinosaurs.
Mercer had read that the highlands were Eritrea's most fertile region, yet the land was rocky and nearly barren, wiped clean by scouring winds and left to bake in the unrelenting sun. The little vegetation was predominantly low scrubs, sage, and cactus. He spotted a farmer working behind two draft oxen, his plow not much more advanced than those developed in Egypt at the time of the Pharaohs. The plow dug deep runnels in his field, turning back the soil that was as parched as the surface. It seemed futile, but with a peasant's patience, he continued on.
Other books
Karate Kick by Matt Christopher
A Flag of Truce by David Donachie
Is That What People Do? by Robert Sheckley
Saving Maddie by Varian Johnson
Dead Americans by Ben Peek, Ben Peek
Terry Jones' Medieval Lives by Alan Ereira
Heart by Garrett Leigh
The Young Intruder by Eleanor Farnes
The Kinsella Sisters by Kate Thompson
Wishing in the Wings by Klasky, Mindy