The Medusa Stone pm-3 Page 14

  She slung her bag over her shoulder and stood, extending her hand to Mercer. He felt he was being dismissed. The rapport they had built during the transatlantic flight was gone, replaced by a brusque professionalism he hadn’t seen from her before.

  “Well then,” Mercer stood formally. “I guess I’ll see you in a couple of days.”

  Unexpectedly, Selome stepped close to him and kissed him on the cheek. “Don’t think this was my idea. I’ll see you at the Ambasoira the day after next.” She was gone in a flash.

  “Not if I don’t see you first,” Mercer said under his breath, his gray eyes hardening as he watched her cut a swath through the terminal. He returned to the same agent at the ticket counter.

  “I’m terribly sorry about all that.” His smile was disarming as he laid his ticket on the counter. “I’m afraid there was a slight language problem. I called the airline this morning to say that I wanted to take a later flight and I’m afraid my traveling partner didn’t understand. I want to be on tonight’s flight which, I believe arrives at 9:00 P.M. local time.”

  In fact, Mercer had been booked on this flight, but had changed his reservations with a call from the Air Italia plane when Selome had gone to the rest room. He’d had a lingering suspicion that she might ditch him once they got to Rome and he needed the time to track her movements. He had an idea where she was really going. Just because he believed her motivation didn’t necessarily mean he believed her.

  “I understand.” The agent pouted, enjoying a singular female delight in the discredit of another. “These sorts of things happen all the time.” Her nails clicked on the computer keys for a moment before handing Mercer a new ticket. “There you are, tonight’s flight, departing at 7:20 and arriving at 9:15 P.M. I even managed to get you a first-class upgrade at no additional cost. Our night flight isn’t nearly as booked as this afternoon’s.”

  “Thank you so much,” Mercer said. “One more question. Where does El Al have their waiting area?”

  “At the end of this concourse, to your right, I believe.”

  Mercer thanked her again and took off down the hallway, his stride purposeful. There was no need for him to hurry. He was certain Selome would be in the Israeli national airline’s waiting room, but he felt an anger building that needed an outlet.

  Nearing his destination, he slowed, blending in with the crowd so that he walked past the El Al waiting room shielded by a half-dozen people. He scanned the room once and then looked again. Selome wasn’t there! A flight was boarding and Mercer cursed himself for being too late, but then saw the flight’s destination was Lisbon. He was sure she wasn’t going to Portugal.

  He continued down the corridor until he came to a cluster of television monitors. Directing his attention at the ones displaying departures, he saw that El Al had a flight to Tel Aviv’s Ben Gurion Airport in ninety minutes. He spent the time in a crowded, smoky bar at the other end of the terminal, as far from the El Al departure lounge as possible, in case Selome was waiting in a similar fashion. The two gimlets he drank cost twelve dollars each and he was thankful that European bartenders didn’t expect tips because he wasn’t in the mood to show his gratitude.

  He wasn’t really in the mood for the drinks either, but he needed something to dilute the bitterness that scalded the back of his throat. He’d been lied to by some of the best, but Selome Nagast was world-class. He had fallen for her story from the moment she sat next to him on the plane, and all along he should have known it was a setup.

  “Bitch,” he muttered, more angry at himself than at her. He grabbed his two cases and started back down the concourse.

  If he couldn’t trust Selome or Prescott “Call me Bill” Hyde, he was totally alone. For all he knew, the man sent to meet him in Africa, Habte Makkonen, was being paid to put a knife between his ribs at the arrival gate.

  Nearing the departure area again, Mercer studied the crowd. Selome sat with her back to him, her face in a one-quarter profile, looking out the windows at the white and blue jetliner waiting to take her to Israel and her shadowy masters. Knowing that his earliest suspicions were correct deepened his black mood. He took up a position where he could watch her while shielded from her view.

  He considered the connection between Harry’s abduction by Beruit-linked terrorists with an Israeli agent trying to gain his trust. Mercer knew the Israelis were interested in all aspects of terrorism that might affect their country, but how did Harry — and for that matter, himself — fit into the mix? Whatever the relation, he knew the consequences were potentially deadly. In the Middle East, being caught between Arab and Israeli could be a death sentence. When threatened, both sides tended to shoot first and apologize for the innocents caught in the cross fire later. If ever.

  How did a generations-long war between Muslim and Jew affect what he was trying to accomplish in Eritrea? he wondered. There was the possibility of billions of dollars if he could find a diamond-bearing pipe, but how could Israel or a Muslim extremist group benefit from such wealth when it was located a thousand miles away from the Mideast? His answer slipped away with Selome as she walked down the embarkation tunnel.

  Mercer jerked his head upward at a ceiling-mounted speaker when he thought he heard his name. The message was repeated, translated from Italian to English in the same female monotone. “Passenger Dr. Philip Mercer, please pick up a white phone for a message.”

  There was a bank of phones a few paces away.

  “This is Philip Mercer.”

  “Uno momento, per favore.” A male voice came on the line, one that Mercer didn’t recognize. “We have some things to discuss, Dr. Mercer. Some items that if not addressed now will mean an increased level of discomfort for a friend of yours.”

  Oh, Jesus! His stomach tightened, and an adrenal surge made his limbs tingle. “Is Harry okay?”

  “What happened at Dulles will not go unpunished, but you will not suffer the consequences. Harry White will pay. Consider that I’m not going to kill him outright as your final warning. If you make any attempt to find him or assault us, he will die more horribly than you can imagine.”

  Th call had come just seconds after Selome had left the waiting area, Mercer realized, and that couldn’t be a coincidence. Two ideas sprang to his mind. Harry’s kidnappers didn’t want Selome to know that Mercer was still in the airport following her and…

  Mercer started looking around the concourse, searching for someone on one of the countless pay phones or speaking into a cellular model.

  “Well done, Dr. Mercer. You are being watched. I am nearby and if you continue to look for me, I promise that Harry White won’t live to see the sun set tonight.”

  Mercer froze. The kidnapper was only a few paces away. He could almost feel eyes on the back of his neck, and unconsciously he slouched, trying to present as small a target as possible. He knew they weren’t after his life — it was an instinctive gesture.

  “Since I didn’t want her around when I contacted you, you’ve probably guessed that I also have a warning about the nubile Miss Nagast. All I have to say is that if she is harmed in any way, if you confront her with your discovery about her Israeli connection, or if you try to back out on your deal with her and Prescott Hyde, Harry White will die.

  “You may not believe this, but she is the only person you can trust right now. You and she share the same goal, Dr. Mercer. And that is my goal as well. We can all work together to find that diamond mine or I can work alone and you and Selome Nagast and Harry White will be cast aside like so much garbage. The choice is yours. Nod your head if you understand.”

  Mercer did as ordered, though he really didn’t understand at all.

  “You will be contacted again at the Ambasoira Hotel in two days. A protocol will be established at that time for us to receive updates on your progress. And remember, Miss Nagast is your strongest ally.

  “After I hang up, you are to remain where you are. Do not turn around. Another member of my team is watching you as well. If he sees
you twitch, you will not leave this airport alive.”

  The phone went dead and Mercer stood unmoving for a few moments, waiting for the caller to get out of visual range. He didn’t believe that there was another watcher, but he wasn’t about to test it.

  * * *

  Ibriham was fifty yards away, watching Mercer through a camera’s zoom lens, the cellular phone already in his jacket pocket. Mercer waited as ordered. The leader of the College Park operation grunted with satisfaction and casually turned away, merging with the ebb and flow of the crowds.

  He had remained in America following the disastrous extraction of Harry White to sever any possible connections between his team and the airport shoot-out. Still, it was only a matter of time before their presence and their identifications were made by the FBI. The men who lost their lives and the weapons they’d left behind would certainly betray them. Ibriham could only hope the carefully laid false clues, the guns and the languages they’d intentionally used when taking White, would lead the Federal Bureau down a long tangent.

  Ibriham had stayed at a Washington area hotel, keeping a rough watch on Mercer following the Dulles fiasco. It took a little work to catch the same flight to Rome on such short notice, but he had a crack staff backing him at home.

  Like any experienced field operative, he knew that even the best plans fell apart soon after the opening gambit. One can anticipate the initial moves of an opponent, plan contingencies a dozen moves in advance, but when the counter finally comes, and from an unexpected quarter, the game must be rethought immediately, an entirely new strategy developed and executed without delay.

  When he had started, he was an entire game ahead of Philip Mercer but the American was catching up fast. Ibriham still had the advantage, but he no longer knew how long he could keep it. Extending his protection to Selome Nagast was a calculated risk, one that could backfire all too easily. Ibriham and his team were walking a fine line — he’d known that since accepting this mission — and every day and with every new development it got more perilous.

  Yet if Mercer found the mine, Ibriham couldn’t calculate how much it would mean to his people. Certainly it would redouble their commitment to their God, not just in the Middle East, but all over the world — to actually possess a relic from the past, lost for thousands of years, a piece of history that had been fabled for eons. The Prophet of the one true God had heard His words and took them to his people and it was just possible that Ibriham could get the exact text handed to man through divine locution.

  He heard a disturbance behind him and turned to see the source. As he did, a scream tore across the general hum of conversation on the concourse. Behind him, a man had pulled a short-nosed machine pistol from under his jacket. Ibriham had no time to react before the man pulled the trigger, firing indiscriminately.

  Unknown to him, the watcher of Philip Mercer had himself been watched.

  The ferocity and surprise of the attack startled him for less than a second. His training took over as his brain went on automatic. The first few rounds went wild, tearing into the floor and the wall to Ibriham’s right, a television monitor exploding in a shower of glass and sparks. Ibriham dove to his left, hitting the carpet and rolling away from the spray of bullets, but he was too exposed to make it to cover alive. And without a weapon of his own, he had no defense. He saw the gunman adjust his aim, zeroing in. One woman took two slugs in the chest that punched her backward as though she’d been a puppet on a string.

  Two more people went down, slick blood splashing the floor in obscene stains. Ibriham rolled again, catching a moment’s respite behind the fallen body of an overweight man in a tan trench coat. Four quick rounds pounded the corpse. Another shot caught him in the calf, and despite his years of combat experience, Ibriham shifted himself slightly to take pressure off the wounded leg. His movement forced his torso off the floor for a just an instant, and the next burst from the automatic caught him high in the chest, lead penetrating deep into his body, searing what little tissue remained intact. It was a race between shock and blood loss to see what would kill him first.

  His heart stopped when there was no fluid left in his body to pump.

  * * *

  The gunman, a tall African dressed as a worker for an airline catering service, twisted toward the window facing the apron and fired the last of his clip, the machine pistol buzzing like a chain saw until the bolt crashed against an empty chamber. The huge slab of double-plated glass exploded, blasted onto the taxiway below in an avalanche. Four and a half seconds had elapsed from the moment the gunman revealed his weapon until the glass wall disintegrated.

  Amid the pandemonium, the gunman leapt through the shattered window, dropping twenty feet to the asphalt below. No one had the courage to look out and see him running before he dodged out of sight under the low belly of a Boeing 737. Moments after the attack, he stripped out of the food service uniform. Underneath he wore the cover-alls of a janitor. He became anonymous and melted away, another immigrant performing the menial labor that few Europeans were willing to do.

  * * *

  Mercer reached the bloody scene only a few seconds after the gunman had made his escape. His heart was pumping. At first he’d thought the gunfire had been directed at him. He hardened himself to the death around him and examined each of the victims closely. Of the five dead, his gaze concentrated on one in particular — the body of the only man who fit the description of those who had kidnapped Harry. He found a cell phone in the dead man’s jacket.

  He looked at the phone and then at the man’s blood-smeared face, committing it to memory. “We’ll meet in hell,” Mercer said under his breath. “and then you’ll really wish you’d never died.” He was gone before airport security and the carabinieri arrived.

  Asmara, Eritrea

  If asked, Habte Makkonen said he was a carpenter by trade. If pressed, he acknowledged that he had done some work in the open-pit copper mine the Japanese had run in southern Eritrea during the Ethiopian occupation. It wasn’t in his nature to conceal the truth from people, but it was his practice to maintain his privacy.

  It was a survivor’s mentality and Habte was a survivor. It was a skill learned in his youth, and a trait that continued to shape him into adulthood. There was a quiet reserve about him that kept him permanently and intentionally separated from everyone he met.

  Few people knew his record during the war of liberation, and they were all on the Eritrean side. Of the Ethiopian, Cuban, and Russian soldiers he’d faced during his fifteen years under arms, few were alive to talk about him, one of the greatest soldiers to come out of the war. That he had survived the war unscathed, physically, was a miracle.

  Habte had devoted himself to securing a life of freedom for his people, but it seemed he himself had no place in the world he had helped create. He kept himself aloof purposely, believing that one day the fragile peace would come crashing back down around him. He would not allow himself to share in the postwar calm, for he knew too well its price and also its frailty.

  At five foot eight inches, thin under his black leather coat, he did not look like one of the most dangerous men in Africa, though he had a confirmed record of seventy-five kills. He smoked nervously, his fingers in constant motion bringing cigarette after cigarette to his thin lips. His hands were too long for his body, alien appendages probing outward from the sleeves of his coat. Under his sharp nose was a thin wisp of mustache, little more than a carefully groomed five o’clock shadow.

  Habte was not handsome in the traditional Western sense, but there was something compelling about him, which caught the attention of those waiting for the flight from Rome with him. He held himself apart from the crowd even while he was in the thick of it. He’d been told once by a comrade that his eyes possessed a gaze that made a thousand-yard stare seem shortsighted. He’d scoffed at the notion, but anyone paying him attention would have agreed. The crowd perceived that he was someone of importance and left him alone, an island amid the press of humani
ty waiting for the Ethiopian Airlines flight.

  Asmara’s airport was an ambitious building, constructed several years before with an optimism for Eritrea’s future that had yet to come to pass. It could handle four times the volume of traffic that currently used the facility. The one-story terminal was built with cement, yet still it shook as the Rome flight powered over the runway. A cheer went up among the waiting crowd because the flight had been delayed in Europe. Some instinct made Habte tense as people surged toward the windows in anticipation of rejoining loved ones.

  A group of Sudanese refugees waited at the back of the crowd. It wasn’t unusual that they were all men. In their society, women were rarely allowed in public. What caught Habte’s attention was their grim expressions and the fact they were all well dressed; slacks and open-collared shirts. Their appearance was incongruous enough to alert him, and as he looked carefully, he realized they were shifta, Sudanese bandits. Habte had spent enough time as a soldier to recognize them as combatants.

  He casually drifted back into the crowd until he stood behind and just to the left of the four Sudanese. At this range, he could see that one of them held a piece of paper in his hand, a fax sheet imprinted with a photograph of a Caucasian male. He recognized the face from Selome Nagast’s description of Philip Mercer. He could also see the bulge of a weapon under the untucked tail of the man’s shirt.

  As passengers began streaming into the terminal, the Sudanese guerrilla scanned each face, eyes darting from the travelers to the picture. A single white man entered from the tarmac, the last passenger to deplane. The Sudanese and Habte recognized the face at the same instant. Of the two hundred and fifty people packed into the crowed room, only he felt the tension that fouled the air.

  Habte felt powerless. He was not armed, for guns were outlawed in Eritrea, and he did not have enough faith in the two bored soldiers watching the debarkation to help him when Mercer came within the reach of the shifta. The war had been over for too long; Habte had become soft. Just a few years ago, he could have come up with a tactical plan instantly. Now, he found himself standing idly as Mercer came closer to the head of the customs line, briefcases hanging from both hands. The leader of the Sudanese terrorists bunched the picture in one fist. His other hand rested on the pistol tucked into his belt.