by Jack Du Brul
Jessica had read the report of what Harry had been through in the past couple of weeks, and even in its sanitized version his experiences were harrowing. But after a week with him, she felt her pity wearing thin and was hoping the terrorists would come and take him away again.
From a portion of the report that Jessica Michaelson had read, Harry’s own words from a stenographer’s transcript described what had happened to bring him to the care of the CIA:
I’d just escaped the gun fight and was real tired. I smelled like hell and my whiskers were itchin’ something fierce. I think I picked up some critters in that cell too. Anyway,
I was walking along, looking for something, anything that I could recognize, but all the signs were written in squiggly letters that looked like they were done by a blind two-year-old. Then I saw one sign I could read, and damned if fate isn’t one cruel bitch. It was on a church bulletin board, and it was for an Alcohol Anonymous meeting that was going to start a half hour after curfew had been lifted. I hid out for the night in an alley a couple blocks away. The next morning, I went to the church at the appropriate time, but it was hard to step inside. This being the Holy City and all, I expected lightning to strike me dead at any moment.
Well, I went in and the group looked at me like they’d been expecting me. I sat quiet for a while and listened to the men and women, most of ’em were Americans or British. After twenty minutes of waiting for God’s wrath for desecrating the meeting. I stood up and told the group that my name was Harry and with my fingers crossed behind my back told them that I was an alcoholic. I said I’d been sober for a couple of hours now, having come down from a thirty-seven-day binge that started in De Moines, Iowa, and ended in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. I told them that most of the details in between were still a bit fuzzy.
I know what I was doing was wrong, you understand. I think AA is one hell of a fine program, and it does some amazing things for folks who want to get their lives back together but I needed help pretty badly and I figured these people, seeing me in the state I was, would have a little pity. They all listened, actually they were hanging on my every word. They seemed to know each other’s stories pretty well, and I was laying something entirely new on them. They fell all over themselves offering support and advice. Well anyway, after the meeting, a guy came up, told me his name was Walt Hayes from Missouri, and that he was a reporter for Newsweek.
Walt said he’d help me figure out how to get home. Said he had some friends at the American embassy. Later that day he took me to the embassy, introduced me to some attaché or other, and after I told her the true story, she sicced all you CIA flunkies on me. Hey, how about that drink now?
Interviewer: In just a little while, Mr. White. Tell us again about the woman holding you who you thought was a nurse.
For the rest of the details of Harry’s adventure, Jessica had broken a few security protocols and listened to the old man’s ramblings when she spent dinners with him at the embassy cafeteria, including his dim recollections about the shoot-out at Dulles Airport and the names of a few of his captors.
Her superiors had acquiesced only partially to Harry’s continuous entreaties for alcohol and allowed him a drink after each day’s debriefing, saying they wanted him fresh for the next session. But now that Harry was finally being returned to the United States, he had bolted from the car transporting him from the embassy to a hotel in Tel Aviv prior to his flight. Because Harry wasn’t in any sort of custody, and those that had taken him had gone deep underground, the CIA had agreed to give him a few hours of free time provided that he was under constant surveillance. This also gave the operatives a convenient place away from prying eyes to hand Harry over to agents of the FBI, who would actually be accompanying him on his flight home.
Hot on Jessica’s heels into the bar were two additional CIA minders, both men wearing lightweight jackets to conceal their weapons. They too were breathing heavily and looked at Harry with mild shock, for he had managed to outrun them all.
“Mr. White, you weren’t supposed to do that,” Jessica chided. She moved close so only he could hear when she continued. “We’re here for your protection.”
Harry turned and pinned her with his stare. “It’s not my fault you guys can’t keep up. If there had been something to drink in that car of yours, I wouldn’t have needed to get in here so quickly. I told you to get me one with a mini-bar.” He shot a smile toward Danny. “How about a little ginger ale?”
“Harry, you are still in danger,” Jessica Michaelson whispered. “You should stick by us until we have you safely in the FBI’s care.”
“Or what? I’ll be in trouble?”
“No, Mr. White. You might be dead.”
“Ehh!” Harry dismissed the comment with a wave, a lit cigarette magically appearing in his claw-like hand.
One of the male agents tapped Jessica on the shoulder and pointed toward the ceiling. “Harry, let’s go up to the room we have waiting,” she said. “The FBI should be here in a few minutes, and it would be best if we all met upstairs.”
“Okay,” Harry agreed, pouring more bourbon into his nearly finished drink. “Let me just freshen this last one and we’ll go and see what room service can do for us.”
“Mr. White. Harry. Do you really think it’s wise to get drunk before your flight?” Jessica Michaelson had no children, yet she had the “mother voice” down perfectly.
Harry had been playing up his situation a bit, he admitted. But he’d done what everyone had asked of him and wanted very little in return, and now his patience was about gone. “Listen, sweetheart,” he deliberately taunted. “I’ve been through hell in the past few weeks and I managed to get myself out of it without your assistance. Indeed, I’ve managed to survive eighty years without your help, for what that’s worth, and I’ve been in worse scrapes than this. You may recall World War Two from your history books—the chapter usually ends with a picture of a mushroom cloud. I appreciate your concern, it’s touching really, but you’re a few weeks too late.
“Now, I promised your superiors that I would keep this affair quiet when I get home. But so help me God, if you say one more word, I’m going to sell my story to the nearest magazine and let the chips fall where they may. Everyone says that the Middle East is a powder keg. Well, I just spent a few weeks with the bastards who made the fuse and are currently standing over it with a lit match.”
Jessica looked chastened. She wasn’t expecting an eloquent outburst from her charge.
Harry continued. “I’m going up to the room with you and I’m going to allow myself to be passed off to the FBI and I’m going back to Washington to let Dick Henna’s boys debrief me again. But if you think for one second that I’m going to spend the few hours I have between you and them in any kind of sober state, then you have a lot to learn about me, Ms. Michaelson. I’ll do my patriotic duty, honey, but right now I’m on my time.”
He lifted himself from his bar stool and glanced at Danny. “She’ll be paying my tab and make sure she gives you a good tip.”
Monastery of Debre Amlak
Mercer identified the sound of a machine gun a fraction of a second quicker than Selome. He’d heard that noise many times before. He dropped the bundle of bedding and ducked his head out of the cave. The sound had originated above them on the cliff, near the monastery, but he kept his gaze at ground level, searching for a rear picket or a scout party. The open desert was still.
“Who is it?” Selome whispered.
Mercer didn’t answer. It wasn’t possible that Levine’s agents could have found them here, so the gunmen were undoubtedly connected to the Sudanese who’d chased them from the Valley of Dead Children. Mercer hated to think what they’d done to Habte to get this location from him. However, identifying the terrorists didn’t help. Another burst of gunfire echoed down from the monastery.
Mercer quickly ran through his options and found he had only one. He couldn’t let the monks pay for his blundering into their sanctuary. His
presence had attracted the Sudanese, and it was up to him to force them out. If he couldn’t, he would surrender and trade himself for the lives of the priests. Once captured, he was certain the rebels would take him to the mine. He’d just have to hope he’d find a way to escape again so he could derail the Israelis.
“Stay here,” he ordered, his voice calm but forceful. He turned left once outside the cave.
“Mercer, the path to the monastery is the other direction.”
“I know, but we approached from the south, and that’s where I dumped the pack. I’ll be right back.”
He kept to the irregular cliff wall, moving slowly and deliberately, his khaki clothes blending with the sandstone. He expected to search for at least half a mile but he came upon the pack after only three hundred yards. He thought of that last push before he had stumbled into the cave with Selome on his back. He’d made it on will alone, his strength totally depleted, his mind all but gone. But three hundred yards? He was positive he’d carried Selome farther than that. That short distance represented an hour of agonizing labor, perhaps the most difficult hour of his life, and he realized that had the cave been even a few yards farther, they would have died huddled against the cliff.
There was enough moonlight for Mercer to familiarize himself with everything in the satchel. Much of it was worthless, but there was Selome’s pistol charged with a full clip of ammunition. He grabbed up the pack and tramped back to the cave, keeping alert for a flash of light reflecting off a weapon or an upturned face on the open plain. Selome was waiting for him at the cave’s entrance.
“How’d you find it so quickly?”
“I’m not the superman I thought I was. The pack was only a couple hundred yards away.” He secreted items from the bag into his pockets. “I’m going up to the monastery. If I can’t draw the terrorists away from the priests, I’m going to give myself over to them.”
“And what about me?”
“I don’t think they want you. Just me. Remember, I’m the geologist.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Selome said sharply. “What am I supposed to do while you’re off playing hero?”
“I’m not doing this to prove how tough I am.” That’s an understatement. Mercer’s fear made it difficult for him to swallow. “I have to go, and you have to warn the authorities about what’s been happening. I want you to head south again. Stay along the cliff and drag our blanket behind you to sweep away your tracks. Find somewhere to hide for the day. If I don’t come down looking for you in a couple of hours, it means I probably won’t. Wait until sunset before returning to the monastery. I’m willing to bet the Sudanese will be gone by then.”
Her eyes glared. “Don’t even consider leaving me out of this, Mercer. I’m even more responsible than you. If you have a plan, count me in.”
“Selome, I—”
She cut him off, her voice raised dangerously loud. “I said don’t think about it and I mean it. I am coming with you. Like you said, you’re the geologist—well, I’m the trained agent. You did pretty well in Asmara, but I have more experience in situations like this.”
He was about to list a few of the gunfights he’d been in, but before he could, an unholy scream pierced the night, a sharp keening wail that dropped down the cliff, growing louder and louder until it was suddenly cut off. The silence that followed was more terrible than the scream.
There was no more time to argue.
Mercer led Selome back toward the trail leading up to the monastery. About thirty feet from where the path rose into the rock, a dark shape revealed itself on the ground. They both knew that it was a body. A spray radiated from the corpse like a diffused shadow. The sheer volume of the bloody splashes made it unnecessary to check if the victim had survived the fall.
They crossed the narrow entrance to the ascending path and continued along the cliff, the monastery now behind and above them. Mercer could feel Selome’s questioning stare at his back, but he didn’t take the time to explain his plan. Keeping a sharp eye for a place they could climb the hundred feet to the plateau above, Mercer considered what he’d do once they were in sight of the monastery. He had no idea how many gunmen had come here, nor how they were positioned. His only advantage was surprise and even that was relatively worthless. By throwing one of the priests off the cliff, the terrorists were telling him they knew he was here. They were expecting him. He could only hope that by coming up behind them rather than climbing the established path, he could gain something.
A quarter mile farther, Mercer found a suitable spot to make their climb. The cliff still soared in a near vertical massif, but its face was scarred with deep fissures and scaly projections that would act as hand and foot holds. And most important, they were out of earshot of the monastery.
“Wait here.” He moved away from the cliff so he could study the whole wall, mapping a route to avoid climbing into a dead end. A more experienced climber would have been able to judge the features of the stone in the moonlight and possibly pick a safe route, but Mercer was, at best, a climber by necessity. He’d never had a burning desire to hang hundreds of feet above his death. He allowed himself only a few minutes, his mind absorbing every possible detail before rejoining Selome.
“Well?”
“Have you ever climbed before?”
“No.”
“All right, you’ll lead. I’m going to be right behind you so I can give you directions.” He couldn’t afford to have her freeze below him. “It looks a lot worse than it is, so just move where I tell you and everything will be fine.”
“I have to tell you that I’m afraid of heights,” she said in a small voice.
“Well, I’m afraid of spiders and that’s the real reason you’re going first. You get them for me and I’ll make sure nothing happens to you. Okay?” His grin seemed to give her that last bit of confidence she needed.
“Okay.”
Their progress was smooth at first. The base of the cliff had a shallower pitch than what lay ahead, and the stone had been cleaved by erosion. They kept three points on the rock at all times, cautious but moving well. After thirty feet the face steepened, and they could no longer climb in a stooped position. Forced to stand upright, they pressed themselves to the cool stone, the void sucking at them from below. Mercer could sense Selome’s panic rising, and he touched her ankle gently, reassuring her that he was still with her.
“Veer to the left more,” he whispered. “There’s a natural chimney that should take us up another twenty feet. It leads to a shelf where we can take our first break.” He didn’t add that after the shelf, the climb would become more difficult.
The chimney was wide enough for Mercer to jam his shoulders against both sides and wriggle his way upward. Selome had a better strength-to-weight ratio, so she could climb even faster. They reached the shelf a half hour after beginning their assault and lay side by side, both panting from the exertion. “Keep moving your fingers or they’ll stiffen,” Mercer warned as he sucked the blood from where he had scraped two of his knuckles.
“How am I doing?”
“You’re wonderful.”
“You aren’t so bad yourself.” Selome kissed him. “Ready?”
“You bet,” he replied, heartened by her positive attitude. “You’ll want to move to the right. There’s a thin lip of stone about six feet above us. It’ll be tricky getting to it, but we’ll be able to walk along it until we reach another vertical fissure.”
She looked above them to see the features Mercer was describing, but a rocky bulge blocked her view.
“You’re going to have to trust me on this one.”
She placed her hands on the wall, toed her boot into a shallow cup in the stone, and lifted herself. The rock brow pushed her out over empty space, and her balance shifted almost too far. Mercer could hear her nails digging into the stone and his heart raced, fearing she would panic. Seconds trickled by. The only sounds were a caressing breeze, Selome’s labored breathing, and the rasp of her clothe
s against the stone.
“I’ve got it,” she finally wheezed.
Mercer followed and in a moment he was beside her, a ten-inch-wide strip of stone under his feet. Immediately, Mercer saw his miscalculation. From the ground, the narrow ledge looked as if it continued for a dozen yards to the next crack, but it narrowed after just a couple of feet until it was nothing more than a band of shadow against the cliff. It vanished completely for about four feet before reappearing again, if anything even narrower than where they now stood.
He saw nothing but glass-smooth stone for twenty feet above them. They couldn’t climb up from here, and backing down was next to impossible. They were trapped.
“What are we going to do?” Selome saw their predicament reflected in Mercer’s eyes.
He stared at the problem before answering. “We’re going to have to jump to the next ledge. Do you see that knob of stone at chest height in the middle of where the ledge disappears? You have to lean out and grab it with your left hand and then swing across. You’re tall enough so your feet will land on the other side.”
“No way!” she cried.
“If you see a better option, I’m open to it.”
She looked around. The stone protrusion Mercer had seen was fist-sized, jutting from the wall no more than four inches, but it could provide an anchor point for them to pendulum across to the remainder of the ledge.
She kept her shoulder pressed tightly to the stone, her eyes fixed on the knob rather than the sixty feet of nothing beneath them, then reached out, her palm encircling the knob completely. Without allowing herself even a second to think, she eased her weight further onto her hand until her body was bowed backward. She kicked off gently, swinging smoothly, her clothes hissing against the rock. Her right foot landed on the ledge first, and she quickly shifted her weight, twisting so her left knee touched down next to her foot, her free hand clutching the wall. She let go of the knob and grinned over at Mercer.