The Medusa Stone pm-3 Page 32

  “He doesn’t know that the mine was dug by Solomon’s son?”

  “He wouldn’t care. It’s the Ark he’s after.”

  “Does the Shame of Kings say that the Ark’s in the mine?”

  “Not in so many words. The rumor of the golden chest Levine is following probably came from it, from someone who read it ages ago. The Shame of Kings does talk about a curse that killed the children, a mysterious illness caused by Satan that made it impossible to continue work in the tunnels. To combat it, a powerful talisman was brought to the mine and placed in a special chamber that was dug to the exact specifications of the Ark’s original tabernacle in Jerusalem. It says nothing about it ever being removed.”

  “Did it work? Did the talisman prevent the disease?”

  Selome asked Ephraim. “The children died in greater numbers, and soon afterward the priests realized that God was punishing them for what they’d done. They sealed the mine and never revealed its location.”

  For a moment Mercer allowed himself to speculate. Since the mine they discovered was undoubtedly the same one written about in the Shame of Kings, was it possible that the rest of the story was also true? The mine had lain undisturbed for two thousand years, and if the talisman it mentioned was indeed the Ark of the Covenant, then it could still be there, buried under countless tons of rock, waiting to be discovered. He took his silent musings one step further and considered the consequences if Levine managed to find it and return it to Israel. The Mideast would explode in a religious war that would make the past fifty years of conflict seem like petty squabbling. Selome was right when she said that Levine would use its symbolism to raze the Dome of the Rock, the third most sacred site in Islam. If that happened, Mercer imagined the ensuing war would go nuclear as Muslims from all over the globe used their numerical superiority to overpower the Israelis and recapture the Temple Mount. It was a doomsday scenario that Mercer knew could happen, would happen, if he didn’t stop it.

  This was all too much. Just days ago he found he might have discovered King Solomon’s mine, and now Mercer found that he was in a race to find the Ark of the Covenant. If he wasn’t so weak and tired, he would have been terrified. The desert trek had left him in a worse condition than Selome, and his mind was beginning to fade again. He couldn’t absorb any more information. “I bet the Sudanese don’t know anything about this. Their backers are after the diamonds while Harry’s kidnappers, Levine ultimately, want an archaeological artifact lost thousands of years ago.”

  “Yes, and they’re both located in the Valley of Dead Children.”

  Suddenly the meaning behind the valley’s name became shudderingly obvious.

  “We should be thankful we still have time. Judging by the excavating we did before coming to the monastery, it’ll take weeks to reopen the mine.” And then Mercer remembered. “Oh shit! There are about two hundred refugees there right now. The Sudanese who attacked us are probably using them as forced labor as we speak. They might already have it opened!”

  Mercer hadn’t told her about the displaced Eritreans he had coming from the camps in Sudan, and her expression registered her shock. “Where’d they come from?”

  “When we were with the nomads in Badn getting fuel, I hired one of the headman’s sons to get them and bring them to the valley.” Guilt cracked Mercer’s voice, but beneath it was a grim determination to see them freed.

  Selome spoke with Brother Ephraim for a few minutes, then turned back. “He says it’s impossible to reach any town until after the Adobha has subsided. The river is impassable for at least three weeks.”

  “We have no choice. We have to cross it.”

  Ephraim seemed to understand Mercer’s foul expression and his defiant outburst. Selome performed an almost simultaneous translation. “The river moves with the speed and force of a truck, and it’s littered with debris washed down from the highlands. The flood would destroy any raft we could build. Every year, dozens of people die trying to cross it. Be sensible.”

  “I don’t have that luxury. People’s lives depend on us, not only those refugees but also Habte, the two drivers, and my friend Harry White. And if, somehow, the Ark really is in the mine, then maybe the rest of the world, too. I’ll be sensible when the Eritrean military arrives at the mine and arrests anyone holding a gun.”

  Selome asked the monk a couple more questions, the priest’s response seeming to calm her anxiety. “He says the talisman spoken of in the Shame of Kings was placed in the deepest part of the mine, buried so deeply that it would take an army of workers many months to find it.” She looked into Mercer’s eyes. “Think about it. The Sundanese don’t know about the Ark. Once they reach the diamonds, they’ll stop exploring the tunnels and begin mining. They’ll never know what’s buried in some deeper chamber. Remember how many Sudanese troops that headman said were waiting on the border?”

  “Fifty,” Mercer said, beginning to understand what Selome was saying.

  “Levine doesn’t have enough people to attack a force that size. They’ll have to wait until after the rebels leave before starting their own search. We have weeks or even months to warn the authorities.”

  “More time to save the world?” Mercer sounded almost flippant, then his mood darkened. “That still leaves two hundred refugees. I’m leaving in the morning.”

  “You can’t even stand right now,” she shot back. “Mercer, I’ve been to those refugee camps, and I can tell you that in the short term those people are going to be better off at the mine.”

  “How can you say that?” He was surprised she’d put to words that he was just beginning to consider.

  “They may be worked as slaves, but they’re going to be fed and provided with clean water. Whoever’s running the operation has to take care of the refugees if he expects them to work.”

  In his condition, Mercer knew there was a good chance he wouldn’t make it to civilization. His effort would be a wasted, empty gesture that would help no one. It took just a second to come to the only logical option. “All right, we’ll rest up for a couple of days, but no more. Ask Ephraim if he can provide us with a guide to Ila Babu. Maybe someone there owns a two-way radio.”

  “He says that Tedla will guide us. It’s about forty miles, but he says he knows of no one in town who has a radio.”

  “We’ll worry about that when the time comes.”

  Ephraim and Selome took him back to his room and saw him to bed. After the monk left, she sat with him, wiping his brow with a wet cloth. There was such tenderness in her motions that Mercer took her hand and kissed each of her fingertips.

  “What’s that for?”

  “Because I’ve wanted to do it since we met and couldn’t until I trusted you.”

  She kissed his lips lightly, but there was a greater passion in her eyes. “So you trust me now?”

  “No more secrets.” He tried to smile and then he was asleep.

  Selome watched him a few minutes, her hand spread on his chest, fingers splayed as if to possess more of him. She kissed him again. “No more secrets.”

  For the next two days Mercer rested and drank water more than he thought possible. His strength returned slowly but steadily. By the end of the afternoon on the second day, he felt strong enough to walk the grounds surrounding the monastery, careful to remain on the inside of the stakes that delineated land that had been cleared of mines. He saw little of Selome; she showed enough respect to the monks and their traditions to keep herself out of sight. He spent some of his waking hours thinking about the inhumanity described in the Shame of Kings, but mostly he considered how to rescue the Eritrean refugees and how to stop Levine from using the Ark. If it had survived the ages, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was buried in the ancient mine. Jesus!

  It was well past sunset. Mercer was lying on his bed when he heard someone walking outside his window, which opened onto the monastery’s small cloister. It was too dark to see more than a shadowy form, so he threw on his pants and boots and slid from his r
oom. The cloister’s entrance was off the refectory, and he was aware of the wooden floors creaking as he walked. He feared that he would wake the monks.

  Selome stood at the center of the pillared cloister, her body barely illuminated by the moon and stars. She kept her eyes locked with his as he crossed to her slowly.

  “I was hoping it would be you,” she whispered. “Despite his status as an acolyte, I’m afraid Tedla has taken a fancy to me.”

  “I was hoping that it was you, too,” Mercer replied softly. “I want to say thanks. You were right. I’d never have made it to Ila Babu.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better, but I’m still as weak as a kitten.”

  “How weak?” she asked with a huskiness that Mercer recognized immediately. She moved a few paces closer to him, the heat of her body soaking into his skin.

  “As weak as a cat.” Mercer tried to keep the catch out of his voice. It had been a couple days since he’d seen her, and the sexual tension that they had sparked before their trip to the monastery returned with a fury.

  Her arms went around his neck, one knee cocked forward so it slid between his legs. “How weak?”

  “How about a tired lion?”

  “Better,” she smiled. “We’ll be leaving the monastery tomorrow, and Tedla is going to be with us every step of the way. Once we contact the government, it’ll be a long time before we’ll have a moment to ourselves. I’m sorry, but if we are going to make love, it has to be tonight. Now.”

  “Pretty forward of you.”

  She placed a slim finger to his lips. “No jokes.”

  “Selome, I—” His next words were cut off by her hungry kiss. She pressed herself to him, fitting almost perfectly, knees matching knees, hips to hips, chest to chest. He felt her breasts swell and harden against his naked chest, more and more heat pouring against him the longer they kissed.

  “I was going to say,” Mercer muttered, “I think it would be a good idea if we found a more private place. This is a church, after all.”

  That dam he’d felt cracking when Selome told him about her involvement with Shin Bet gave way completely. For the first time in months, since the split with Aggie, Mercer gave himself over to another human completely. It was liberating and frightening at the same time, but also very right.

  He returned to his room for a shirt and his bedding, and they walked down the narrow path hacked into the cliff. With the moon reflecting off the sandy plain, they could clearly see the cave no more than a quarter mile south. Both were surprised at its proximity to the monastery. Mercer lit a candle and spread the sheets and blankets on the cavern floor. She motioned for him to stretch out and watch as she undressed.

  He expected a hint of self-consciousness from Selome, but there was none. She pulled her shirt over her head in one fluid motion, her high breasts bouncing as they came free. Her nipples looked painfully erect, and his body reacted. Her pants fell around her ankles with just the tiniest bit of urging. She kicked out of them and hooked her thumbs in the waist band of her panties. With deliberate slowness, she slid them down her thighs, bending deeply until they lay at her feet in a rippled puddle of silk.

  She stood proudly, a dusky Venus, her body taut and perfect, her skin so flawless and waxy smooth in the candlelight that she looked like marble. Mercer couldn’t help but stare at the shallow cleft that rose from the juncture of her thighs, her body’s most secret place veiled by only a thin down. His heart pounded and his breath matched the shallow heaving of Selome’s chest. Her arousal perfumed the air.

  Mercer began shedding his clothes, but Selome dropped to her knees next to him, brushed away his hands, and began working at the buttons and zippers, her fingers stroking each newly exposed section of his body until he was nude and she held him firmly in her palm. She squeezed him every so slightly, and his hips bucked involuntarily. It was only then that she kissed his mouth again.

  “You are so beautiful,” Mercer said, and Selome smiled.

  “So are you.”

  She would not let him do any of the work that first time, not even sheath himself with one of the condoms Mercer’s doctor made him stash in his wallet. For Mercer, it felt incredibly decadent not to have to worry about his partner’s pleasure, for her expression told him that her arousal came solely from his enjoyment. For the ten minutes they were joined, they freed each other from the world as Selome rocked her body on his, drawing him in deeper and deeper. Mercer’s climax left him dizzy and gasping. Then, in a feat he hadn’t been capable of since college, they made love again almost immediately. Mercer had only seconds to put on another condom before Selome drew him on top of her. Her orgasmic screams echoed far outside their intimate cave.

  They were so lost in their lovemaking, neither heard the convoy of trucks approaching from the east. Half an hour after the vehicles passed, they were packing up the bedding and adjusting their clothes for the walk back to the monastery when distant machine-gun fire shattered the night. The crashing explosion of sound stripped away the euphoria they had just built and brought them back to the ugliness of reality.

  Tel Aviv, Israel

  Danny Silver was twenty-three years old, an American by birth who had moved to the Jewish state with his parents when he was sixteen. He liked Israel well enough so long as he stayed in the country’s largest city. A few years ago, he’d tried kibbutz life for a summer and found the back-to-nature, communal living to be a bore. He liked the action of Tel Aviv with its late-night discos and cosmopolitan aura. Besides, being a bartender at one of the big hotels on the beach ensured he could get laid almost any night he wanted. American girls on break from college or spending time in Israel to discover their “Jewishness” were invariably fascinated by his stories, especially the ones he made up about his compulsory tour in the army.

  But it was a Tuesday night, not yet eight, and the cocktail lounge was slow. His only customers were a group of Israeli businessmen in one corner and two old women from a New Jersey tour group near the bar’s entrance. Danny busied himself behind the long bar, polishing glasses that were already spotless and wiping down bottles that didn’t need to be cleaned. Sara, the waitress, stood casually at her station, one eye on her customers and the other on a college textbook. Danny really didn’t like her. She did nothing to hide her disdain for any Jew not born in Israel.

  Screw her, he thought absently, unable to tear his eyes away from the perfect swell of her breasts under her white uniform blouse.

  A crash from the lobby turned Danny away from Sara’s cleavage. An old guy had toppled a sign board in the lobby, sending it to the floor, but the fool didn’t stop to right it again. He charged into the bar like a Merkava battle tank, his hard eyes drilling through Danny to the display wall of liquor behind him.

  The man resembled a scarecrow, thin and wrinkled. He looked almost comical, but there was nothing funny about his expression. Had the guy been Arab, Danny would have run for his life. But he was white, probably American, and certainly nuts. He rushed straight for the bar, heaving himself onto a stool with an explosive grunt. Hunching his shoulders like a vulture, he glared at Danny until the Israeli sauntered over to ask what he wanted.

  “Drink.” American, for sure.

  “What kind of a drink, sir?” What an idiot.

  “Give me anything with alcohol or so help me Christ, I’ll tear you apart and get it myself.”

  Normally, Danny would have laughed at him, but the customer spoke with such force that he believed the crazy old bastard would have tried it. “Sure thing, sir, anything you say.”

  Danny poured a measure of brandy into a snifter, but before he could set the drink on the bar, the American lunged for the bottle. The man snapped off the speed pourer with a practiced twist and upended the bottle to his lips. Three swallows vanished in as many seconds before the geezer set the bottle carefully on the bar top.

  “Sorry about that, son,” Harry White rasped. “But you were taking too damn long. If you knew what I�
��ve been through in the past couple weeks, you would’ve done the same thing.”

  “Yeah, sure. Whatever.” Danny backed away.

  “Tell you what, kid, if you’ve got any bourbon back there, Jack Daniel’s preferably, I promise not to bite. Deal?” The expression of madness was transformed into a smile that was almost grandfatherly.

  Danny poured a shot of bourbon and wisely left the bottle on the bar. Stealing a glance at Sara, he saw her watching the whole bizarre exchange with a smirk. She looked as if she expected such repulsive behavior from Americans. Bitch.

  Harry gulped down the bourbon and helped himself to another, pouring until the glass could not hold one more alcohol molecule. When he brought it to his lips, he didn’t spill a drop. “You’re a lifesaver, my friend. A goddamned lifesaver.” The liquor filed the sharper edges off Harry’s voice. “Eight or ten more of these and I might feel human again.”

  “Mr. White?” a female called from the lobby. She was poised at the entrance to the bar with a startled look. Her chest heaved because she had been forced to run into the hotel, chasing after the octogenarian. Wearing a conservative gray suit with an off-the-rack blouse and a ridiculous bow, to Danny she was the picture of a government employee. She trod across the marble lobby floor, her sensible shoes clacking with a horse-like clomp. “Oh, thank God, Mr. White. I was afraid I’d lost you for a second.”

  Harry nodded at his drink. “A second was all I needed.”

  The harried young woman was Jessica Michaelson. She worked for the CIA under the cover of a cultural attaché and had been assigned the job of minding Harry White until his flight back to the United States. As the lowest-ranking CIA agent at the embassy, she had been saddled with Harry for nearly a week now. While not involved with his debriefing, she had to keep the curmudgeon occupied when he was not in meetings with the more senior officers, including the station chief.

  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.