The Medusa Stone - v5

by Jack Du Brul

  “Is she coming with us when we head north?”

  “I’m not going to let her out of my sight until this is over.”

  Mercer and Habte spent the rest of the day at the bar discussing the upcoming expedition. Habte had secured a newer Toyota Land Cruiser for their transportation and had hired two locals as laborers. From Mercer’s earlier request to Selome, he had also rented an old Caterpillar tracked excavator and transporter that were waiting in Nacfa, the closest town to their target area. The other heavy equipment Mercer had leased was still en route and wouldn’t arrive in Eritrea for weeks.

  After a meal of overcooked pasta with a watery sauce and an unidentifiable slab of meat, Mercer retrieved some of his luggage from storage, made arrangements to meet Habte the next morning, and retired to his room. The shower produced only a thin trickle of cool water and Mercer had wisely brought his own soap. He was on the small balcony admiring the dark city below when the satellite phone still in his luggage chirped quietly. Mercer cursed himself. He’d accidentally left the phone on receive mode, and when he snapped it open, the LOW BATTERY light glared back at him. Shit. Expecting Dick Henna, he didn’t recognize the voice on the other end, though the accent matched that of the man killed in Rome.

  “Harry White has suffered terribly because of what happened to our comrade in Italy,” the voice said. “That is the second time you have tried to foil us. If you attempt a third, White will be executed and his body buried forever.”

  Mercer absorbed the news like a body blow. Harry was tough, but he didn’t know how much his friend could take. His sense of failure deepened.

  “I had nothing to do with that,” he protested quickly. “I never saw who shot him, but it wasn’t me.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” the caller said with menace. “Your friend has paid for the murder. We will be calling you on this phone every three days at midnight for an update on your search for the mine.”

  “Save yourself the trouble.” Mercer couldn’t contain his anger. “It’ll take at least a week just to get started, and I don’t need you sons-of-bitches breathing down my neck every couple of days.” He didn’t want to consider how they had gotten the number to the satellite phone. “Contact me two weeks from Monday at midnight and every Monday after that. I may have something for you by then.”

  It was a small point of negotiation, Mercer knew, but he hoped it would open the way for more when the time came. “That sounds reasonable,” the kidnapper conceded. “Remember that you will be under observation at all times.”

  Mercer knew there was no way they could watch him once he was in the mountains. “I understand. I don’t want anything to happen to Harry. I guarantee that I will uphold my end of the bargain.” He nearly choked on the last words.

  “Two weeks, Dr. Mercer.” The phone went dead.

  Three rooms down the hallway from Mercer’s, Yosef snapped off his own sat-phone and turned to the other “European businessman” who’d been with him in the bar recording Mercer’s conversation with Habte Makkonen. The other Israeli, younger than Yosef by thirty years, was cleaning a pair of Desert Eagle .50-caliber Action Express automatic pistols. The heavy weapons were perhaps the most powerful handguns in the world. A bullet anywhere in the body would take a man down permanently. A head shot would decapitate. Their other weapons and the remainder of their equipment was with the rest of the team at another hotel.

  “I’m still concerned about Ibriham’s true assassin,” Yosef said with hatred. White hadn’t been harmed, but he liked to hear the pain in Mercer’s voice thinking that he had.

  “We’ll find him,” the other man replied, filled with the confidence of youth.

  “That’s not my concern. The gunman wasn’t acting alone, and we don’t know who was behind the murder. We also don’t know their connection to Mercer and our own plans.” Yosef sat back on his bed, his eyes focusing into middle distance. “It’s inconceivable that anyone knows about us, our security is too tight. Yet Ibriham is dead, and we have a threat we’ve yet to identify.”

  “Is it possible we’ve been betrayed by our own people?” Yosef knew what the younger man was intimating, but he shook his head quickly. “No, it’s too soon for Shin Bet or Mossad to learn that much of our operation. Informants have reported on Selome Nagast’s meeting with her control in Israel. She hasn’t made any move that leads me to believe she knows who we are.”

  His companion said nothing.

  “She’ll be here tomorrow anyway, totally cut off from her superiors. On her own, she can’t pose a serious threat to us.”

  “She’ll be with Mercer.”

  “As long as we hold Harry White, he’s not a threat either.” Yosef accepted one of the Desert Eagles from his partner, slipping it under his pillow for the night.

  It was well past midnight when Mercer awoke. The room was cool and dark, but his body was bathed in sweat, his blankets and sheets twisted around him as if he’d been in the throes of a nightmare. In fact, for the first time since Harry had been taken, his sleep had been dream-free. And in the depths of unconsciousness an inconsistency that had been nagging him for days came clear. The realization jerked his mind so sharply he swung himself out of bed, his chest heaving.

  Since the time he had been first approached by Prescott Hyde, Mercer had felt there were diamonds in Eritrea. Hyde had spoken of, and indeed the Medusa photographs showed, a kimberlite pipe in the northern wastelands, naturally formed millions of yeas ago. Selome, too, had talked about what the pipe’s discovery would mean to her people. But not the kidnappers. The men who’d taken Harry talked about Mercer’s search for a mine, something built by human hands, not the earth’s fiery heart. On three separate occasions—the original tape of Harry left in his house, the call in Rome’s airport, and tonight’s call—they spoke as if they knew the pipe had once been discovered, opened, and actively worked. They weren’t after an unknown kimberlite pipe; they wanted a long-forgotten mine. They knew the diamonds were there, and now so did Mercer.

  The game had changed once again, he thought. He was still at a severe disadvantage, but knowing he was looking for an old excavation gave him his first spark of something he’d lost the moment he saw Harry’s image on his VCR. Hope. He pushed aside his self-doubt, buried his self-recriminations. He was ready to face whatever might come.

  Khartoum, Sudan

  In Arabic, the name Sudan means “black,” but those in control of the country were not black Africans but people of more Arabian descent. Millions had been slaughtered through warfare, disease, and famine to maintain the subjugation of Sudan’s more ethnically African citizens in the south by their northern government. All in all, Africa’s largest nation was a hate-filled sewer that claimed a thousand more victims every day.

  Sudan was thus a perfect arena for Giancarlo Gianelli to add to his wealth by preying on the misfortunes of others.

  People with the kind of money Gianelli had existed in a supra-national elite class who travelled on private jets, stayed in opulent villas or exclusive hotels, and rarely bothered with the formality of customs when abroad. Only moments after landing in Khartoum, he was whisked to a house he owned in the hills overlooking the city, an enclave reserved for Sudan’s few wealthy citizens and the rulers of the military government. Though it was his least favorite city in the world, Gianelli did enough business in Khartoum to warrant the expense of a twenty-room house and a full-time staff of eighteen.

  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?”

  “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 a
n 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 top of a coffee table. The guard standing next to a stinkwood desk came 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?”

  “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.”

  “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 trigger, but the young rebel went to fix himself another, heavier drink. “Before you tell me what you require of me, I must admit that the team sent to meet Mercer in Asmara lost him after a disturbance at the terminal.”

  Giancarlo hid his satisfaction at being able to read the other man so well. Mahdi was sociopathic enough to see his cousin’s death as another casualty in their long-standing revolt and harbored little in the way of anger at who had actually killed him.

  “Mercer missed yesterday’s flight from Rome,” Gianelli said without rancor. “He didn’t arrive until this morning. We’ll take him in Asmara. It’s a small city, and there’s only so many places he can hide. I want a team of your best men dispatched at once. We’ll get those satellite pictures and leave him in an unmarked grave. He’s meddled in my affairs enough and I won’t tolerate it.”

  “I will lead the team myself.”

  “No,” Gianelli said sharply. “We are going to the Eritrean border, near where I think the mine must be. We’ll be in position to use the photographs as soon as your men have them.”

  “Isn’t that a risk?” Mahdi’s tone was respectful.

  “It is, but we don’t have the luxury of time.” He noted the confusion on the killer’s face. “There’s something you must know about one of the men your cousin killed in Rome. I learned through my contacts in the carabinieri early this morning that one of them was carrying a forged passport. His being near Philip Mercer was hardly a coincidence. There is someone else out there shadowing him, someone else who wants my diamonds.”

  “Who?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Gianelli dismissed this threat. “We’ll get the photos and whoever it was will give up the chase. How many men can you assemble on the Eritrean border within the next week or two?”

  “That will depend on the Revolutionary Council, but I estimate at least fifty.”

  “That should be enough. We’ll need to round up at least another hundred men as laborers. I have South African mining specialists ready to go, but they need workers.”

  “How long do you think we will be able to hold the mine once we find it?”

  “It’s remained hidden for seventy years, which means it’s in an extremely remote location. The country in the far north of Eritrea is deserted once you get off the refugee routes. Your men will take care of any nomads or shepherds who might stumble on our camp. I suspect we won’t be detected for a couple of months. Which is all the time I need.”

  Gianelli had
heard last night from an agent in London that the diamond syndicate was already hearing rumors about a previously unknown mine in Africa. The rumors had been planted by Gianelli himself to subvert the powerful group and it was working perfectly. His agent told him the syndicate was nervous about a possible source of diamonds not in their control. Gianelli knew they would pay him billions if he could prove he had the mine, either for its location or for his assurance that he would never work it. Five thousand carats, Gianelli estimated, was all the proof he would need to get them to pay him off.

  “You can count on me, effendi,” Mahdi boasted.

  Gianelli looked pointedly at the mute television. “I know I can.”

  Asmara, Eritrea

  Selome arrived at the hotel while Mercer and Habte were having breakfast. Her dark skin and thick hair marked her as a native. 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.”