by Jack Du Brul
Just hearing the word sent a jolt through Mercer. “What sort of challenge?”
“Let’s just say that you alone are qualified to possibly help millions of people. If that doesn’t whet your appetite, nothing I say will. I’d like to get together with you. Is tomorrow okay? Shall we say one o’clock at my office?”
“I think not.” Mercer was going to meet with Hyde, but in any opening negotiations with someone who wanted something, it was best to quickly establish control. “Shall we say noon at the Willard Hotel? You can buy me lunch while we talk.”
Hyde chuckled. “Very good, sir. I knew your price would be high. However, it’ll be worth it. For both of us. Tomorrow at noon.”
“Tomorrow at noon,” Mercer agreed and hung up.
Now, what in the hell was that all about? He finished dressing and left to meet Harry, realizing that the tension he’d felt this morning was gone.
Across town, the listener waited a few seconds for both parties to clear the line, then began tapping at the computer in front of him. Behind him, his superior waited, watching the screen as the listener attempted to track the signal from their bug.
While the living room of the College Park apartment had traditional furniture, the two bedrooms were unlike any other in the high-rise complex a few blocks from the University of Maryland. The first contained desks, computers, and all manner of communications gear with one wall dominated by a large map of the city. The other was furnished with three sets of bunk beds, jammed together so closely that only a narrow walkway separated them. The permanent staff who used the suite slept in shifts to minimize their conspicuousness.
“It’s an unlisted number in the Washington area. Give me a second to track it down,” the eavesdropper said. The computer whirled frantically, narrowing down through the unlisted numbers until it found the one it wanted. The algorithms used for the search were the most sophisticated in the communications encryption/decryption arena and halved the time normally needed to trace calls.
“Philip Mercer,” the listener said to his boss. “I’ve got an address in Arlington. The computer’s about to print out a hard copy of their conversation.”
“Do you have anything on him in Archive?”
The listener cleared his screen and brought up their massive database. A moment later, a slim dossier of Philip Mercer appeared. The overseer, a medium-built man in his late thirties with black curling hair and strong dark eyes, read the file as his aide scrolled through it, memorizing nearly everything with just a glimpse. It was a skill he had been taught, not born with.
“I have no doubt why Hyde’s calling in this geologist,” the leader said, then called to a man in the front room of the apartment. “Come in here, please.”
The man wore a plain gray suit, and his skin and features were so ordinary that he almost blended with the walls of the bedroom. If one wasn’t actually looking at him, he seemed to have the ability to hide in plain sight, a talent necessary for a field operative.
“Sir, Hyde is making another call,” the listener said, pressing the earphones tighter to his skull.
The group leader led the other agent to the kitchen to give the communications officer privacy to do his job. “I want round-the-clock surveillance on a man named Philip Mercer. Hyde may be bringing him in, and we need to know everything about him. I’m going to get a full background check as soon as possible, but I want teams in place immediately.”
The man nodded.
“I have a feeling that this may be the one we’ve been waiting for,” the team leader continued. “Use as many men as necessary and for now assume Mercer knows counter-surveillance techniques. Understood?”
“Anything else, sir?”
“No. As soon as I get anything from the background check, I’ll let you know.”
Washington, D.C.
The Willard Hotel has been around for generations and has gone through numerous transformations since the time it was the home away from home for senators and representatives, a time when politics wasn’t a full-time profession, merely a yearly calling. Renowned as one of the finest establishments in the city, the hotel’s Round Robin Bar exuded an aura of wealth and power and privilege with subdued lighting, heavy woodwork, and a skilled but unobtrusive staff.
Sipping his first vodka gimlet of the day, Mercer debated with himself whether he should have done a Nexis background check on Prescott Hyde. Certainly, the powerful news search system would contain general information on the Undersecretary; however, he hadn’t bothered. He had a sneaking suspicion that this meeting was a fool’s errand.
The Round Robin was surprisingly busy for a Tuesday. He overheard two men arguing a pending House bill a few stools down on the bar, and clusters of men and women were conferencing around the numerous low tables. Black-tied waitresses laden with trays of drinks and snacks danced around the furniture, their movements appearing choreographed. Mercer liked to see anyone, no matter who, do a job well. He suspected that these women were better waitresses than the people they served were public officials.
“Dr. Mercer?” The maître d’ was at Mercer’s shoulder. “Your party is here.”
“Thank you.” Mercer glanced at his aged Tag Heuer watch. To his surprise, Hyde was right on time.
Walking behind the maître d’, Mercer felt his stomach suddenly knot up. It was an old feeling, the sixth sense that had kept him alive countless times. It had saved him while working underground when millions of tons of earth were about to collapse and aboveground as well, when the danger was from men, not nature. It was telling him that something wasn’t right. He spun quickly, scanning the patrons in the bar. Nothing was out of the ordinary, but there was a tingle at the base of his neck and he didn’t know why. He swung back and followed the retreating maître d’ into the dining room.
The watcher was not certain if she had been seen; but her orders were clear. While Mercer’s glance had passed right by her as she sat unassumingly in a corner thumbing a Washington guide book, she felt it wasn’t worth the chance.
She reached into the pocket of her skirt, making sure her motions were masked by the folds of her sweater and double-clicked the micro-burst transmitter all of the team carried. Seconds later, another member of their detail walked in, alerted by a similar transmission from their cell leader. The woman did not acknowledge her teammate. She simply finished what little remained of her diet soda and signaled the waitress for her bill.
While no surveillance is immune from detection, usually no more than ten people are needed to maintain a twenty-four-hour watch on even the most paranoid target. Such was their interest in Mercer that all twelve operatives stationed in Maryland were assigned to shadow him and report on his every movement. As the woman walked out of the hotel to catch a taxi, she realized she hadn’t been told who Philip Mercer was or what the interest in him could be.
“Dr. Mercer, I presume?” Prescott Hyde laughed at his tired joke as he proffered a hand.
Hyde was in his early fifties, almost completely bald, with a fleshiness that showed self-indulgence. His face was dominated by a large chiseled nose that on someone else would have been distinctive but on him simply looked big. His chin was soft and his cheeks were rounded, giving him an open, comforting quality. But as Mercer shook his hand, he noticed that Hyde’s eyes were hard behind gold-rimmed glasses.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Undersecretary.”
“I thought we dispensed with that yesterday. Please, it’s Bill. My middle name is William, thank God. I can’t imagine going through life being called Prescott.” Hyde flashed another smile. His teeth were perfect. Capped.
Until they ordered, the conversation was dominated by Hyde, who turned out to be a gracious host, talking about the latest scandals within the halls of power with an insider’s knowledge and a gossip’s love of speculation. Mercer ordered another gimlet while they waited for their food. Hyde drank sparkling water.
“I wanted to make this a leisurely get-together,” Hyde said as th
eir drinks were brought. “A sort of familiarization session because I have a feeling we will be working with each other for a while. However, I have a pressing appointment a little later on, so I am afraid our time is short.”
Hyde seemed to talk as if his words were thought out in advance, written down and practiced.
“I understand. I’m afraid my afternoon is rather full too.” Paul Gordon, the former jockey who owned Tiny’s, ran a horseracing book in Arlington. With the Kentucky Derby only two weeks away, he and Mercer had some serious strategizing to do.
“All the better, then.” Hyde leaned back in his chair. “Tell me what you know about Africa.”
Mercer chuckled. “To begin with, I was born there, in the Congo. My father was a mine manager and my mother was a Belgian national. I’ve been back probably twenty-five times, and while I don’t speak any native languages other than a bit of Swahili, my French is good enough to get me by where English fails. If you want me to describe Africa’s history, the current political situation, and economic outlook, we’re going to be here for a while.”
“I wasn’t aware that you were born there, but Sam Becker told me that you’re somewhat of an expert.”
“Not really. I’m a miner, and Africa happens to be where most of the action is.” Mercer didn’t tell Hyde that he loved the continent. Despite all the cruelty, pain, and suffering he’d witnessed there and had experienced himself, he truly loved the land and its people. His parents had been killed by Africans in one of the many rampages, but he never once blamed the people for what happened. He smiled remembering the Tutsi woman who had hidden him in her village for nearly six months after her parents’ murder. When he recalled how she’d died during the ethnic cleansings in Rwanda in the mid-nineties, his smile faded.
“What do you know about Eritrea?” Hyde asked.
The question surprised him. Eritrea was a backwater even by African standards, and Mercer couldn’t guess Hyde’s interest.
“Located just north of the Horn of Africa on the Red Sea coast, bordered by Sudan, Ethiopia, and Djibouti. They’ve been independent from Ethiopia since 1993. Their struggle was a Cold War battleground between the U.S. and the Soviets in terms of arms and aid. Currently, Eritrea has nothing in terms of raw materials, industries, or hope. I’ve heard the people live on little more than the pride of being independent for the first time in modern history.”
“Very true, very true.” Hyde nodded at Mercer’s assessment. “There’s a chance you can change all of that if you’re interested.”
A waiter took their lunch orders before Hyde continued. “While most Eritreans are agrarian, cattle mostly, there is one major urban center, Asmara, the capital. It was the only city left standing after the war. The country’s in shambles. Per capita income hovers around one hundred and forty dollars a year. Still, the land can support the three million people living there, so starvation has yet to become a problem. But there are a quarter of a million Eritreans living in the Sudan, refugees deliberately not allowed to return because the influx of that many people would shatter the struggling economy. It’s a sore spot for the government because they want to bring the displaced home. However, they refuse aid, not wanting to become a debtor nation, and unless some miracle economic boom takes place, those people are going to rot in some of the worst refugee camps on the continent.”
From his briefcase, Hyde withdrew a thick manila file folder bound with rubber bands. “You have to understand that what I am about to tell you is strictly confidential. In fact, some of this information has only recently been declassified from ‘Top Secret’ down to ‘Eyes Only.’ ” Hyde slid some photographs from the folder across the table, pulling his hand back quickly as if the images could somehow contaminate him.
Mercer had been to Africa, knew the people, and was not immune to their suffering. He had seen some of the worst hellholes on earth while in Rwanda during their civil war. He could still feel the bony limbs of children he’d carried to aide stations where the struggle for food and medicine was a losing battle. He had seen the ravages of disease—cholera, malaria, and AIDS. He had watched human skeletons shuffle in miles-long lines escaping one war and walking into the teeth of another.
While these images haunted the darkest nightmares his sleep could generate, they could not prepare him for the six photographs before him. One showed an old man lying against a rusted drum, his legs looking like gnarled twigs. A feral dog chewed on one of his feet as the last of the man’s blood soaked into the ground. Another was of a young girl, her face peaceful in death, while in the background uniformed men waited in line to rape her corpse. Another showed a child—Mercer couldn’t tell the sex—waving at the camera with its body covered in suppurating wounds, dark leaking holes in its flesh that were eating away what little starvation had left behind.
He didn’t want to look at the other three. Here were images of the worst humans could do to each other, and he felt the impotency he’d experienced in Rwanda. The tides of misery were endless, and no matter how much he’d thrown himself at the problem, it never went away. He was also enraged that the photographer had stayed behind the anonymity of his camera and not stepped in to help.
“I’m sorry that you had to see those before we ate,” Hyde said, but there was no apology in his voice. The pictures were designed to provoke a deliberate response and Mercer knew it. He steeled himself for what was to come. “I believe we have the ability to help these people, to give Eritrea hope for the first time.
“In 1989,” Hyde continued, “NASA and the U.S. Air Force launched a spy satellite code-named Medusa. It was meant to be the eyes of the Star Wars defense program. But there was an accident, and it crashed before completing a single orbit.
“As it came down, its cameras exposed a series of pictures. Because the area photographed was not deemed strategically important and because the Air Force hadn’t been able to calibrate the satellite, the photos lay forgotten for over a decade. Even after they were declassified, no one paid any attention to them. Much of what they show is gibberish even to those who developed the system.
“The clearest Medusa pictures show what is now northern Eritrea and eastern Sudan.” Hyde pulled more photos out of the file and placed them before Mercer.
Though familiar with satellite photography, Mercer had never seen pictures like these before. These shots, twenty in total, resembled X rays. It was as if he was looking inside the earth, rock strata showing up in various shades of gray, what he assumed to be underground water appearing as bright white rings and whorls cutting across each shot, all beneath a ghost image of the surface topography.
“These shots are of northern Eritrea, each one representing a deeper level below the surface. As Medusa went down, its onboard computer followed preprogrammed instructions, increasing the power to its photographic element between each picture,” Hyde explained as Mercer shuffled through the stack, noting similarities between them. It was like looking at a cutaway model, peeling back successive layers with each photograph.
Mercer was awed by the satellite’s capabilities. “What in the hell was this Medusa?”
“It had abilities that go far beyond what you see here. When I first became aware of these pictures, I asked the same question. The Air Force liaison who showed them to me equated Medusa to a medical CAT scanner or an MRI, which make old-style X rays seem like a throwback to the nineteenth century. We’re talking about one of the most sophisticated machines man has ever built. If it hadn’t crashed, Medusa would have forever put the United States on the forefront of orbital surveillance and intelligence gathering.”
“Fascinating.” Mercer had no idea where Hyde was heading with all of this, but he couldn’t help being intrigued. “But I don’t see what this has to do with me.”
“Let me show you this and see what you think.” Hyde pulled another picture from the file.
Mercer glanced at it quickly; it looked no different from the other Medusa pictures.
“One of the scientis
ts who built the satellite was a geology buff. A rock hound is what he called himself. Anyway, while modeling for the system, he was tasked with developing computer simulations of what Medusa’s potential would be. Because so much of South Africa’s underground makeup, its geology, has been studied by mining companies, it’s one of the best-catalogued regions for what lies under the earth’s surface. What you are seeing there is what they believed the area around Kimberley, South Africa, would look like if Medusa were to use its positron camera on it.”
Mercer understood and then he saw it.
First known as Colesberg Kopje because of the small hillock on the African veldt that was nothing more than a blister on the open savanna, Kimberley had grown into a boom town before the turn of the twentieth century when diamonds were discovered there. Within a few years, a city had grown up on the plain and germinated the fortunes of such notables as Cecil Rhodes and the DeBeers Corporation. The diamonds had long since run out at Kimberley, but in their wake, the miners had left a mile-wide, mile-deep hole in the earth. It was the mouth of what was known as a kimberlite pipe.
Kimberlite was the name given to a diamond mine’s lodestone. In fact, Mercer had a large chunk of it in his home office that acted as his good luck piece. The two minerals went hand in hand, much like gold and quartz. The kimberlite pipes are channels to the earth’s heart, openings where molten material, including diamonds, are thrust up toward the surface under tremendous pressure. Born in the planet’s liquid interior, diamonds are nothing more than elemental carbon, no different from coal or the graphite found in pencils, except that nature spent a little more time cooking the atoms and compressing them into perfect crystals. From their first discovery on the Indian subcontinent, Mercer knew, diamonds have had the power to captivate men and drive nations to war. Their dazzling beauty is the mirror reflection of our own greed, and their purity is the foil to humanity’s ugliness.