Authors: Jack Du Brul
The Medusa stone (5 page)
"I'm getting better. The last time I called it was coitus interuptus with one of your nurses."
"Yeah. She sued me for sexual harassment a week after she discovered my sperm count is too low to knock her up."
"That's what I love about you, Terry. Your lurid attention to detail." Mercer chuckled for the first time today. Terry Knight had been his personal physician ever since he moved to Washington. "I'm going to Africa again. I need a gamma globulin, a cholera booster, and I think I'm ready for another tetanus. And I'll also need anti-malarial pills for a couple of months."
"God, I love patients who know what they want. I'm going to give you an oral polio booster as well. The CDC in Atlanta posted warning for most of the continent. Since you're headed to Africa, I'll throw in a box of condoms while I'm at it. I doubt you'll get lucky, so give them to a doctor before you come back. Anything else?"
Mercer laughed again. "Yeah, put together a med kit for me, nothing more elaborate than a couple of aspirin and a suture set. Write me a prescription for morphine and antibiotics."
"You sure you don't want a defibrillater and a portable CAT scanner?" Terry joked.
"No, not this time, but maybe later. I'll be in sometime tomorrow for mible in the cramped office, rubbing his eyes. There were a million details to be considered, yet his thoughts kept returning to Harry White. He was a tough old bird, a war veteran, but he was eighty now. Mercer focused on what his friend must be going through and used that anger to shove aside the exhaustion and refocus.
Tiny ducked his head into the room. "How you doing?"
"I've been better."
"I know what you mean. Do you realize today is the first day in twelve years that Harry hasn't come in. God, I never realized how much I loved the bastard until he'd gone."
Mercer straightened quickly. "He's not gone, Paul. I'll get him back. No matter what it takes, I'll get him back." His bravado sounded empty even in his own ears.
After Mercer had hung up on them, Prescott Hyde and Selome Nagast looked at each other, both having similar thoughts. Hyde's office in Foggy Bottom was well appointed, more New York executive than government official, with oil paintings gracing the walls and an antique desk that had been in his family for generations. The carpet was a thicker pile than standard issue, and the matching wing-back chairs had been given to Hyde's father by President Kennedy. Selome was sitting in one of the chairs, dressed in a simple business suit.
"Well, what do you think?" she asked, breaking the silence.
"I just don't think we can afford it. He's talking about millions of dollars, and the best we've been able to come up with is three hundred thousand and a lot of that is for Mercer's consulting fee. I never thought about all the equipment we would need." Hyde's voice was dull with defeat. "We should call the whole thing off. It was a long shot at best anyway."
"You call it off, and I'll have a congressional committee knocking down your door within twelve hours. They would love to hear how you really obtained the Medusa pictures from the National Reconnaissance Office," Selome hissed. "We can come up with the money somehow."
"Buying those pictures from Donald Rosen cost me nearly everything I have. If my wife finds out I took a second mortgage on our house, she'll kill me."
"I don't care about your domestic problems. We are going to need more money very soon if this is going to work. I've had expenses on my end, too. Do you hear me complaining about them? Mercer is the best shot we've got. We need to support him, and that means cash. We both have our sources. If need be, we can cut in a few more people. We're talking about a billion-dollar payoff when this is done. That's worth a little more risk."
"This is getting out of control," Hyde complained.
"No, it isn't. We're still in control. We just can't allow ourselves to forget it, that's all."
"I don't know . . ." Hyde's voice trailed off.
"You don't know what?" she accused. "We're about to make a major discovery, one that will lift my country into the twenty-first century and provide jobs for thousands. Both of us will get what we want if we don't lose perspective. We'll get the money, Bill. We have to."
"You're right," Hyde nodded slowly. "I just don't like the fact that Philip Mercer has suddenly decided that he is in charge."
"Good." She had Hyde caught between his greed and his fear of exposure. To her, he was inconsequential, a means to an end, but it was reassuring to know how easily he could be dominated. She knew it wouldn't be possible, but she wanted to see what happened when Hyde's wife discovered how her husband had lost their house. The greedy pig would get what he deserved.
Paul Gordon drove, the headlights of his aging Plymouth lancing into the night. Mercer sat next to him, sweating heavily in two bulky sweaters and a leather jacket, a pair of skateboarder's knee pads over his jeans. He fingered the motorcycle helmet on his lap. Both the helmet and the pads had been borrowed from his neighbor's son.
"About another mile." Paul glanced at Mercer in the intimate confines of the car. "You sure you want to do this?"
On this deserted stretch of road deep in the heart of Virginia horse country, it was easy to spot the headlights of the car that had been following them since Arlington. "Yeah, Tiny, I'm sure. It's the only way."
"I'll say some good words at your funeral," the little man said, his eyes barely above the arc of the steering wheel. "We're coming up on it now."
Mercer put on the helmet, cinching it tight beneath his chin. Ahead, the road curved sharply, the turn traced on its outside by a white picket fence belonging to one of the numerous Farquar County farms. Just out of view, Mercer knew there was a thick copse of pines within feet of the uncoiling road.
Easing into the corner, Tiny used the emergency brake to avoid telltale brake lights. Mercer didn't even take the time for a breath. He threw open the car's door and allowed himself to be sucked out by the vehicle's centrifugal force, landing hard on the macadam and tucking into a tight ball as his body began to roll. The darkness swallowed him as Tiny accelerated away, his car vanishing even before Mercer came to a stop. New scuffs marked his battered bomber jacket, and his shoulder ached from the first contact with the road. He scrambled into the woods, ducking into the underbrush as another car passed by. He caught a glimpse of two dark-complected men as the car continued in pursuit of Tiny's Plymouth.
Mercer checked the luminous dial of his stainless watch and found that he only had a few minutes to wait. Standing at the side of the road, he massaged his sore shoulder with his free hand, the helmet dangling negligently from his other. There was a low moon, a pale glow hidden behind tumbling clouds, and the night insects made a steady, soothing rhythm.
Five minutes later, Mercer saw the approach of another set of headlights. He eased back into the woods, watching. The car stopped no more than twenty paces from where he was crouched.
"Come on, I haven't got all night. Fay is pissed enough that I'm out here at all." Dick Henna was behind the wheel of his wife's car, a light blue Ford Taurus that had been brutalized by too many Washington rush hours. "I've been in New York for the past few days, and I'm leaving tomorrow for Los Angeles. I promised her that I'd be home for tonight, at least."
Mercer broke away from the shadows and hopped into the passenger seat. Henna backed the car around and started toward the nation's capital. "You're lucky she likes you or I wouldn't be out in the middle of nowhere playing cloath="1em">
"Harry's been kidnapped," Mercer said flatly.
"Harry's been kidnapped," Mercer said flatly.
"Jesus, Mercer, why didn't you tell me on the phone." Henna had swerved the car dangerously. "What happened?"
Dick Henna wasn't an imposing man, just below average height, with a rounded stomach and a heavily jowled face. While Henna had achieved the highest position in the FBI, he hadn't forgotten what it was like to be a field agent. He'd been on the streets for thirty years before being tapped to head the Bureau. His mind was sharp and he had instincts better than nearly anyone Mercer had ever met. It had been Henna's recommendation during the Hawaii crisis that allowed Mercer to stop a secret operation code-named Vulcan's Forge. The two had been friends ever since.
Mercer related the whole story, his narrative coming in a rush, for it was the first time he was able to speak about the horror he felt. He'd told Tiny the dry facts, but with Dick, he talked about his own feelings of responsibility.
"Marge Doyle mentioned you'd been in touch about Prescott Hyde," Henna remarked when Mercer was done. "I can tell you right now, his days are numbered. Justice has a file on him about four inches thick. Nothing to indict him on, but certainly enough to get him out of State."
"Pursue that, but I don't think Hyde is behind Harry's kidnapping."
"Christ, Mercer! Of course he's not." Henna was startled that Mercer would so nonchalantly suspect an undersecretary of state. "The guy may be shady, but he's not a violent criminal."
Mercer's voice was hard-edged, his emotions barely contained. "I'm talking about the abduction of my best friend, a total innocent, and right now I suspect everything and everyone. For now, I've got to believe it has a connection to a woman named Selome Nagast. She's lied to me at least once, claiming to be affiliated with the Eritrean embassy when she's not, yet she and Hyde are working together."
"Is she Eritrean?"
"Either Eritrean or Ethiopian. Almost six feet tall, great body and a face that should be on the cover of fashion magazines. I'd like you to check her out. If she isn't with the Eritreans, then who does she belong to?"
"And if that's a blind alley?"
"I don't know," Mercer admitted. "I don't have a Suspect B."
"I'll get a team into Harry's place first thing in the morning, in case whoever grabbed him left physical evidence."
"Don't. The video made it clear that if I went to the authorities, they'd kill Harry immediately. I'm sure his place is being watched for just that reason." There was something else on the tape that bothered Mercer, something either Harry or the kidnappers had said that didn't make sense, but the answer wouldn't come.
"I think we know what we're doing."
Mercer handed the videotape to Henna. He'd made a copy for himself but felt the FBI could do more with the original. "This is the tape. I'm sure I destroyed crucial evidence by handling it."
"Don't sweat it. Today's technology can do wonders."
"Listen, Dick, I'm responsible for what happened to Harry. He's just a tool to get to me, and I'm afraid I'm using you to get him back. I've never tried to presume on our friendship until now. But every day Harry's being held is a day I feelEthiopia. Contrary to the "scorched earth" policy practiced by the Ethiopians at the close of the conflict, when they returned, they discovered that their abbey had not been molested save for a few stray bullet holes that marred its stone facade.
The monks sat at a wide plank table built five hundred years earlier by another, nameless brother, the chairs added over the centuries by different hands, both skilled and unskilled. It was a point of pride among those assembled to sit at the most uncomfortable and poorly constructed chair as possible--that bit of added discomfort testified, in a small way, to their fealty.
Their meal was simple, a spongy unleavened bread which they tore into small pieces to dip into the gray/green stew of peas, lentils, and peppers. They all drank black coffee, brewed from beans from their own bushes.
Breakfast was the only time the monks allowed themselves full discourse. All other conversation was restricted to prayers and singing. While not exactly informal, the breakfast meetings contained an air of relaxation not normally associated with men who made their devotion by the selfless sacrifice of monastic life. The ages of the men ran from the mid-teens of the three novice boys to nearly a hundred. The abbot, however, was not the eldest of the group, as was normal practice.
When the monastery was abandoned in 1983, the head abbot at the time had vowed he would never return, feeling shame in breaking the chain of occupation stretching far into the past. He died while they were still in exile, and many of the elder monks refused to return home in honor of their friend. Those that did come back made it clear that they would not take the reins of leadership in order to show deference to their fallen leader. Thus it fell to a younger man, an Ethiopian by birth, who had been part of the monastery since he was a novice.
Not knowing his own age but guessing it to be around sixty, Brother Ephraim (he had used the name for so long he scarcely remembered the one given to him by his parents) sat at the head of the table in the oldest, most dilapidated chair, the pewter plate before him mopped clean with the last of the bread. Small bits of food clung to his mostly silver beard. He spoke Latin, conversationally.
"Did our little friend return last night to harass the chickens? I heard a disturbance about an hour after midnight services. I thought maybe our jackal was back."
"Alas no, brother. He has not returned, and I fear he may not," one of the monks responded sadly, for in this dead land the return of even a single scavenger was seen as a renewing of life. "I saw his body across the valley yesterday. He had been shot."
"God works to return what man has plundered from the earth by the war, and yet we continue to defy Him. I fear the day when He no longer replenishes that which we use up." Brother Ephraim shook his large head with disappointment.
"That day is closer than you think," the eldest of the monastic family muttered, a monk who had lived here for almost nine decades. "Judgment is coming."
"Yes, Brother Dawit. His Day of Atonement is never far away," Ephraim agreed patiently, for the elder monk had lost much of his mind as well as his eyesight. Dawit's body was paper thin, his skin so parched that even candlelight could silhouette the delicate bones in his hands. In recent weeks his health had deteriorated alarmingly, and his thoughts had become scattered and disjointhem most grievously. They will take up arms against us and all others who defy themen to him as the monastery was to those who lived beyond its cloistered walls.
There were two things he needed to do, two deeds that that would help him put into context what Dawit had said. He had little doubt that the old brother knew something he was unwilling to divulge, so Ephraim felt he had to prepare. The first deed, a guilty pleasuspected Selome Nagast could not provide, he would land in Africa poorly equipped, underfunded, and lacking vital information.
Mercer had committed himself, unsure whether his vague hunches were right and with little equipment and even less data to back him up. It was daunting even for him, but every time he felt his commitment wane, he thought about his responsibility to Harry and he could temporarily slough off the exhaustion. Already, Harry had been gone for more than twenty-four hours. Mercer's frustration was mounting. He worked as fast as he could, but still felt he wasn't doing enough.
Since early morning, his fax machine had been buzzing continuously as had the ink jet printer attached to his computer. Both machines were producing reams of text about the geology of Africa's Horn, gathered for him from both local and international contacts. Between phone calls, he'd managed to skim just a tiny portion of the accumulated material. Though his knowledge of Africa's geologic composition was voluminous, he didn't know enough of Eritrea's specific makeup, its formations and history, for what he was about to attempt. He had yet to find even a vague hint as to the whereabouts of the kimberlite pipe.
The top of his desk was buried under two inches of paper, some organized in piles, others spread haphazardly. Somewhere under the clutter lay the plates he'd used for both breakfast and lunch. He hadn't slept since returning from his late-night meeting with Dick Henna, and while the pots of coffee he had consumed kept him awake, a raging headache had formed behind his eyes and spread so that his entire skull throbbed. There was a break in the incoming faxes, so he reached for the phone. Prescott Hyde's number was permanently imprinted on his brain.
"Yes, Dr. Mercer, what is it now?" Hyde was as tired of receiving the calls as Mercer was of making them.
"Bill, I'm probably going to need a blasting license once I'm in Eritrea. I'm faxing over copies of my master's licenses from the U.S., Canada, South Africa, Namibia, and Australia. Whatever functionary issues them in Asmara should be suitably impressed, so I won't need to be tested once I'm there."
"Shouldn't Selome be handling stuff like that? You have her cell phone number."
"She hasn't answered the damn thing all day, so the job is falling on your lap," Mercer explained. Because Selome didn't have a connection to the Eritrean embassy and Mercer didn't know if she was involved with the kidnappers, he didn't want to reveal his misgivings about her. He felt that Selome and Hyde's collusion ran deep. "While we're at it, the explosives I've ordered need an End User's certificate before they can be shipped. You'll need to arrange that. I also want to get some collapsible fuel bladders for filling the equipment at the site. I can order them from a civilian supplier, but the military versions are stronger."
"Why not just use tanker trucks to refuel the equipment?"
"Once we get geared up, I can't afford to have tank trailers laying idle. They'll be making round-the-clock runs to bring in more diesel. You can't imagine how many gallons per hour some of those trucks drink."
"Okay, anything else?"
"Yes, I've got a bill on my desk for two million seven hundred thousand dollars, payment due in thirty days for the heavy equipment leases. My word was enough to get the equipment in transit, but my reputation is on the line here and I need to know that this is going to get paid."
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