The Medusa Stone pm-3 Read online

  “What are you looking for?” Selome asked when he emerged after the sixth time. Habte, Gibby, and the truck driver were busy unbundling the pallets of equipment secured to the tractor trailer.

  “Overburden, the mine’s waste rock.” Mercer wiped the sweat from his forehead with a saturated bandanna. “When it was first excavated, they would have piled the worthless material at the entrance. It should be easy to detect it from the accumulated surface material.”

  “But if the mine’s at the point of the two walls, why don’t we dig into the mountain there?”

  “Because I want to know what’s in there before we reopen the shaft. It’s a question of safety,” Mercer explained. “And I’m hoping to discover the mine tailings, the kimberlite that has already been broken down and picked through.”

  “Why? We know the diamonds are here.”

  Mercer just grunted and watched her walk off. She knew there was something here, he was sure, but he wasn’t banking on her interest being diamonds. He decided that when they found the mine’s entrance, he would have his talk with her.

  By noon there was a fifty-foot scar in the hillside. The side of the mountain had tumbled in small avalanches as its support was torn away, and the laborious process of digging had to be repeated. Mercer was at the controls of the excavator, and the Eritrean operator, named Abebe, was standing in the pit when the teeth of the machine bit into the first of the kimberlite tailings.

  Mercer shut down the engine, bounding from his perch. Abebe was already on his hands and knees examining the pulverized bluish stones in the bucket. The kimberlite had been crushed into a fine aggregate, the biggest piece no larger than the first joint of Mercer’s thumb. The men who had originally worked the mine had been very thorough in the processing of the ore, nearly powdering it to find even the smallest diamonds. To warrant this kind of extra work, Mercer knew, meant the mine’s assay value was high. It also told him that this had been a massive operation, with hundreds or perhaps thousands of workers. Kimberlite was notoriously tough, and it would take days to hand-crush even a small amount to this consistency.

  He took the shovel from Abebe and dug into the exposed vein of kimberlite waste. The digging was slow, for the rock had been cemented together by the weight of the mountain above it and the countless rains that had percolated through it. The shovel hit a particularly tough spot and Mercer tossed it aside, dropping to his belly to peer into the hole he’d created. He thrust both arms into the earth, wrestling something out of the ground. It was another type of stone, white and badly chipped, roughly the size of his fist. Mercer held it to the light with reverence.

  “I’ll be a son of a bitch.” As he studied it, his estimate of the mine’s age was pushed back several thousand years.

  Abebe didn’t understand Mercer’s fascination with the lump of worked stone and ignored him when Mercer retrieved his leather kit bag from the excavator and placed the rock inside.

  Selome and the others joined them a short while later. Gibby had made lunch, and Habte had found beer in the village of Ila Babu. They ate and drank in companionable silence. Selome sat close to Mercer, her knee almost touching his.

  Habte translated a question from the truck driver. “Do you want us to work through the day? It is going to get hotter.”

  “ ’Fraid so,” Mercer replied. “I don’t know how long our presence here will remain a secret. The mountains contain most of the noise from the excavator’s engine, but people on the other side will be able to hear us.”

  The driver nodded at the response, but it was apparent he wasn’t too happy about it.

  “We’re just about ready to open the mine entrance,” Mercer said to lighten their mood. “We hit the kimberlite tailings just before lunch, and I’m satisfied that we can open the mine without any danger.”

  “What do you think we’ll find?”

  “I have a theory,” Mercer said, then looked at the youngest member of their party. “Gibby, Habte mentioned there’s an old monastery near here. Do you know where it is?”

  “I can show you,” Habte replied. “It’s about sixty miles away.”

  “No, I need you here to start opening the mine, but I want to go up there and talk to the priests. Gibby, do you know it?”

  “Yes. I think I can find it from here, but it is far.” The teenager didn’t sound sure.

  “Talk to Habte about it. We won’t be leaving for a day or two anyway.”

  “Why do you want to talk to the priests?”

  “That monastery has been here for a thousand years. And I’m willing to bet they already know about this mine and the people who opened it.”

  “But what do you wish to learn?” Selome pressed.

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t need to talk to them, now would I?” Mercer stood and brushed off the back of his pants. He was sure that Selome had detected a change in his attitude toward her. She’d been playing him for a fool, and it pissed him off. She knew what this was all about, had known since the beginning, but still was asking questions she knew the answers to. Mercer had some questions of his own, and it was getting time for the answers.

  They worked for three straight days, each of them settling into a routine that left them wasted when the sun finally set. Habte and the truck driver rigged a plow on the front of the ten-wheeled rig to use it as a bulldozer. They worked in unison with the excavator, pushing aside the piles of debris that the big Caterpillar stripped from the side of the mountain. Mercer and Abebe took turns running the excavator while Gibby stood in the excavated sections, guiding the bucket to maximize the bite it took with every scoop. Only Selome, who didn’t have a specific task related to the digging, balked at the traditional female role of housekeeper and chef.

  Late afternoon on the third day, there was still no sign of the mine entrance. The team was gathered at the excavation. The ground had been compressed by the movement of the excavator until it felt like concrete. They had opened up a chasm nearly sixty feet wide and over twice that deep. The mountain towered above them. It hung precariously. From the bottom of the chasm, the sky was just a narrow blue band between the two sides. Habte and Abebe were smoking cigarettes while Mercer pulled from a bottle of beer. They were all frustrated by the amount of work and the lack of results.

  Mercer broke the tired silence. “I’m going to have to blast the mountain. We’ve dug so deep, I’m afraid that lot over our heads is going to come down pretty soon. We have to cause our own avalanche, and that’ll mean at least another full day to clear the debris before we can continue to dig for the mine entrance.”

  “No other way,” Habte agreed. “We did the same thing when I worked in the quarries.”

  “Did you get the fertilizer I requested?” Mercer asked as he finished the last of the beer.

  “Ammonium nitrite, two hundred pounds’ worth. And I got five thousand feet of detonator cord.” The explosives Mercer had requested when still in Washington had been abandoned in Asmara so he was forced to improvise.

  “Good. We’ll use the diesel from the truck’s auxiliary tank. We won’t need that much punch — the mountain will collapse with just a good swift kick.” He looked at the hill, gauging where he would place the amfo. “After I make the shot, Selome, Gibby, and I are going to the monastery and have a chat with the good fathers.”

  “Why do you need me?” Selome didn’t sound like she minded the trip, but she was curious.

  “No offense to Gibby, but his English isn’t much better than my Tigrinyan. Congratulations, you’ve been promoted from scullery wench to interpreter.”

  Selome smiled. “Give me another week and I’ll be running this operation.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Mercer matched her smile for the first time in days. They’d have a chance to talk on the ride to the monastery.

  Asmara, Eritrea

  Night was his element. Yosef had the ability to blend with the shadows so he was like a wraith on the nearly deserted streets, easing around the puddles of light cast
by an occasional street lamp. His motions were deliberate, his pace deceptively quick though he did not hurry himself.

  After eleven in the evening, Asmara virtually shut down. Even the busiest streets were devoid of cars, and there was little chance of running into pedestrians. In all his previous nocturnal meetings, the rogue Mossad agent had yet to see a police patrol.

  Since their return from Nacfa, he and his team had holed up in a rundown hotel near the old Soviet-style parade ground. The hotel’s owner, though harboring suspicions, had been paid enough not to ask questions about his guests. Asmara’s police were on the alert for a European in connection with the shootings at the Ambasoira Hotel, and while they did not have a good description of Yosef, he maintained constant vigilance. According to Profile, the authorities were more interested in the two Sudanese terrorists and the others responsible for a disturbance at the old market and cattle stockade. The newspaper’s editorial was calling for a crackdown on all Sudanese in the city, many of whom were there illegally, and barely mentioned the white man who had killed the two rebels.

  This apparent lack of interest gave Yosef the time he needed to cultivate a contact in the city. Because of his nationality, he already had an established support network nearly everywhere in the world. After returning to Asmara, he had needed only a few hours to find it.

  Asmara boasted a very small Jewish community, just a few families, and only a couple of them had the resources he could use. Of course, there was Selome Nagast’s family, who would certainly be able to get the information he needed, but it would be impossible to go to them for obvious reasons.

  Though there were no formal synagogues in the city, there was a rabbi who taught and held services in his home, a man in his late thirties with a pretty wife and two children. His father had been a rabbinical student in the United States during the fifties who had trained his son so he too could shepherd Eritrea’s Jews. Hoping for a better life for his own children, the ersatz rabbi wanted his children to go to university in Israel when they were old enough, and Yosef used the leverage to make him an accomplice.

  Aharon Yadid had welcomed Yosef that first night with something akin to worship. Not only was the secret agent from the fabled Holy Land, but he was also a member of the Mossad, the agency most responsible for protecting the Jewish state. The young rabbi had never been to Israel himself and felt disconnected by his isolation from the rest of world Jewry, especially since Operation Moses had air-lifted thousands of Ethiopian Jews to the homeland.

  Aharon met Yosef at the door of his one-story bungalow, having observed the Israeli agent through the curtained front window. “Shalom, shalom,” he greeted eagerly, showing off his only word of Hebrew.

  “Hello, Rabbi. I hope this night finds you and your family well?” Yosef spoke in English, the only language both men could use.

  “Yes, we are well, come in, please. The children are already asleep and my wife has gone to a friend’s. She won’t be back for a while, so we can be alone.”

  “Good.”

  Aharon turned on a single lamp. The interior of the house was Spartan. The Yadids were not wealthy, although the furniture was well cared for and the feminine touches of flowers and colorful prints on the scrubbed walls made it cheerful. Yosef demurred an offer for refreshment and both men sat quickly.

  “I know I have said this at all of our meetings,” Aharon gushed, “but I want to tell you again how much it means to me to help you and to help our beloved Israel.”

  Yosef regarded Aharon’s open face, saw the innocence in his eyes. He wondered how many years had passed since he too had believed so strongly in what he did. “It’s the duty of every Jew to help our homeland, and it’s refreshing to find a man who knows this and embraces it. Jews in America just give money as long as it isn’t too much of a sacrifice.”

  “My father spoke of that often,” Aharon agreed.

  “So, my friend, what have you found out for me?”

  “You were wise to come to me, but not for why you think. There is only one Jewish family living in the north, and when I reached them, they knew of nothing unusual taking place near the border. But the brother of my wife’s closest childhood friend owns a small shop in Nacfa, and he said there was a truck there for many days working on the roads.”

  “Yes, I remember seeing it, an excavator of some kind. I assumed it was owned by the government.”

  “It wasn’t. This friend of a friend spoke often with the machine’s owner and learned that he was waiting to take his equipment up near the Hajar Plateau for another job, a secret job.” Aharon was gladdened by the look of interest in Yosef’s eyes. “I learned just today that the excavating machine has left Nacfa and headed for Hajar, or more accurately, a place the nomads call the Valley of Dead Children.”

  “Do you know this valley?”

  “I’ve heard it is a bad place. There was a massacre there during the war, several hundred Eritrean soldiers were killed in a surprise artillery attack, but even before that, it was a place that people avoided. Eritrea is riddled with superstition, and I’ve learned that the Valley of Dead Children is one of the most feared places in the country.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “No. I don’t believe in superstitions. They are the providence of the ignorant and unenlightened. Many of the nomad clans are still animists. They worship their ancestors and hold pagan rituals. Their petty fears are of no interest to a learned man like me.”

  Yosef struggled to keep the smirk off his face. Even this man, with secondhand knowledge of his faith, was a snob. “How can I find this valley?”

  Aharon handed a folded piece of paper to the Israeli. “This is an old military map that shows the location of the valley. It is marked with a red cross denoting a site of a battle in which Eriteans were killed. There are no roads leading to it that I could see, and you must cross the Adobha River, which the friend told me is now in full flood.”

  Yosef glanced at the map. They still had the rented plane they had used earlier to leapfrog ahead of Mercer when the engineer had fled Asmara. They would simply fly over the natural barrier of the river. Judging by what he’d seen of the northern desert from their drive back from Nacfa, there would be no problem finding a level place on which to land the aircraft near the valley. He forced a smile. “You have done very well, and when I return to Israel, I promise that I will make certain your children will be sponsored to study at Tel Aviv University.”

  Before Aharon could show his gratitude, his wife stepped through the front door. Aharon told her of Yosef’s offer, and she rushed across the room to throw her arms around the Israeli, tears of happiness streaming down her cheeks. She spoke to him in excited Tigrinyan, her emotions transcending language.

  Yosef barely acknowledged her joy. His mind was planning out the next and perhaps final phase of the operation. Mercer must have been at the mine when he had been contacted earlier and had lied about his location. The American had bluffed, and Yosef found his anger rising at such an insult. The Israeli agent had told Mercer that Harry White was going to lose a hand, though Yosef hadn’t intended to carry out the threat. But now? Yes, he would order it done. He would record the sounds with the micro-cassette he carried, as he had done for White’s previous message.

  He considered that if Mercer had found the mine and was working to reopen it, there would be no reason for his team to return to Asmara after reaching the valley. And after tonight Yosef could not afford to be seen anywhere in the country.

  “Yosef?” Aharon broke into his silent musings.

  “Yes?”

  “My wife wants to do something for you to show our thanks, perhaps a meal in your honor.”

  Yosef gave him a sad smile, “That won’t be necessary. Tell her another hug is thanks enough.” He stood, his right hand hidden behind his back.

  The woman’s arms came around his neck, her cheek pressed to his chest. “Yekanyelay,” she sobbed. Thank you.

  “I am sorry,” Yosef said quietly
in Hebrew.

  He used his knife. Normal procedure dictated he kill Aharon first. As a man, he posed more of a physical threat. But Yosef decided that watching his wife die would stun the rabbi enough for him to dispatch the Eritrean before he recovered. Further, a woman’s reactions are quicker than a man’s, and her scream would likely have alerted the children asleep in their beds.

  Yosef was across the room, plunging the bloody blade into Aharon’s chest before the body of his wife hit the rug covering the wooden floor. The rabbi stood still as the knife came at him, his eyes fixed on a horror beyond his comprehension. In seconds it was over, and Yosef was back on the street, heading toward his hotel.

  For security reasons, he had no choice but to kill them. Someday, Aharon Yadid would have told a friend about the Israeli agent he had helped, and that was a leak Yosef could not afford.

  There was a great deal to accomplish before he and his team left for the Valley of Dead Children. He had to contact the team members in Jerusalem guarding Harry White and order his mutilation, a task he would enjoy for the pain it would cause Mercer. He also had to reach Defense Minister Levine and order the helicopter for when the mission was over. The Israeli Defense Force had CH-53 Super Stallion helicopters that could make the flight with their upgraded inflight refueling capability and safely return with their precious cargo. It would take some coordination to have flying tankers standing by to support one of these choppers, and only Levine could clandestinely order all the necessary equipment.