The Medusa Stone pm-3 Read online

  The stone thrower was a moment too late. Mercer landed on the narrow ledge just as the other rock sailed behind him. He hustled Selome along the ledge, only his toes and the balls of his feet finding purchase on the lip. The next vertical fissure was wide and angled into the cliff. Once they had climbed high enough into it, it was possible to move up it like a ramp. There was no way they could reach the top before the gunman saw them again, but Mercer hoped to get high enough to give him a nasty surprise.

  Fifteen feet from the top, Mercer grabbed Selome’s leg. “Duck.”

  He climbed over her so he could take the lead. He saw the gunman waiting at the head of the eroded fissure, his gun now cradled in his hands. Had the man wanted to, he could have shot them both, but Mercer suspected his orders were to capture, not kill. The stone throws had been intentional misses. Mercer had prepared for this contingency by making sure their climb was far enough from the monastery to prevent a guard from shouting for reinforcements. If the Sudanese rebel wanted backup, he would be forced to run back to the church, giving Mercer and Selome a chance to escape.

  “Stay flat and hold on tight,” Mercer whispered.

  He was climbing up the steep defile like a machine, his legs pistoning, propelling him forward deceptively fast. Mercer wished he could use Selome’s pistol, but a shot would alert everyone within a mile. He was ready to implement a plan born in desperation. The lighting was poor enough for him to get closer to the Sudanese than the rebel suspected. The soldier didn’t recognize the danger until it was too late.

  Before leaving the cave, Mercer had secured a geologist’s rock hammer to a fifteen-foot length of nylon rope and kept it coiled under his arm, its handle sticking from his unbuttoned shirt. The angle was nearly impossible, but he yanked the tool from its hiding place, twisted to allow for a side-armed throw, and let loose, holding on to the rope’s free end. The hammer sailed cleanly, the tether trailing it like the exhaust of a rocket. At full stretch, the nylon line wrapped around the terrorist’s neck and arced back again, the tool neatly returning to Mercer’s waiting left hand. He heaved with all of his strength, yanking the man off his feet. Torquing his body, Mercer jerked the man up and over himself, releasing his grip on the rope and sending the soldier crashing into the defile a few paces from Selome. The African bounced once and then flew right over her, tumbling down the crevasse until he fell into empty space. His scream lasted less than two seconds.

  His AK-47 had become wedged behind a rock just a few feet from where Mercer lay.

  Mercer waited for several minutes, but no alarm was raised, and when he peeked over the top of the cliff, he could see nothing but more desert. Selome joined him a few seconds later. “Now what?”

  “I’m afraid this is as far as I’ve taken the plan,” Mercer admitted, and handed Selome her pistol, keeping the assault rifle for himself. He tucked the hammer into his belt.

  In the far distance, the fortress-like walls of the monastery were washed by the headlights of several vehicles. Occasionally, a figure would bisect the shafts of light and cast shadows against the building. There were at least three trucks that he could see, and Mercer estimated at least a dozen terrorists. The AK held thirty rounds in its banana magazine. He would have to make every one count.

  “I guess the best thing to do is sneak up to them and take the rebels as opportunities present themselves.”

  “Mercer, the first time we fire, they’ll be on us in seconds,” Selome reminded him grimly.

  “Well, whatever we do, we need to get closer.”

  He led Selome along the edge of the cliff, using the sheer drop to ensure that they couldn’t be outflanked. The craggy lip also provided a scant amount of cover for their approach. Thirty yards from the complex of buildings, they could see at least ten armed Sudanese milling around the trucks. Several monks were lined up against the monastery wall, their dark faces shining with sweat and their eyes bright and frightened in the headlights’ glow. Mercer watched for several minutes, waiting to see what would happen next and fearful that he already knew. Suddenly the rebels stiffened to attention. Another party entered the circle of light, four men, three of them cradling weapons. The fourth was unarmed and walked with the relaxed arm-swinging gait of a natural leader. The fourth man was white! One of Levine’s?

  Confused, Mercer watched as the white man spoke to one of the blacks and waited for his orders to be translated to the others. Several men hopped into one of the idling trucks and drove off. Mercer assumed they were heading for the base of the cliff to try tracking where he and Selome had gone. The white and several rebels went into the monastery, herding the monks ahead of them. Another soldier walked to the cliff, casting along the escarpment with a powerful flashlight in hopes of spotting their quarry. He turned and started straight for where Mercer and Selome lay hidden. They had only moments before the rebel found them huddled in the darkness.

  Mercer pressed his mouth to Selome’s ear so his whisper was almost unaudible. “Stay behind me.”

  He moved forward on his stomach to get closer to the approaching Sudanese, then eased into a shallow depression, the sharp hammer in his right hand, the AK clamped under his body. His mouth had gone dry as the soldier came nearer.

  The flashlight beam shone along the ground with an untutored randomness. Mercer knew that if the soldier turned it on him, he would have to surrender, but the African seemed more interested in what lay below the cliff edge. The soldier studying the drop was ten paces away when Mercer made his move, hoisting himself into a crouch and rushing forward faster than the startled soldier could react. One swift blow from the hammer was enough to kill, and Mercer dragged the African back into the dust. The entire maneuver had been silent.

  He went back to Selome and led her away from the cliff, circling wide around the monastery so they could approach from a less likely direction. If the white man was an Israeli agent, that meant they’d put aside their differences with the Sudanese and pooled their resources. It was an option that he didn’t want to consider.

  But what if he’s the rebels’ original backer, the moneyman behind their operation? And then the answer came to him. Italian! Someone with a connection to the mine shaft Mercer had explored had returned to carry on that work. An Italian with ties to Eritrea’s colonial past would never be allowed back into the country, but using Sudanese mercenaries would allow him to secretly work the old mine with minimal direct involvement. Shit, I led them right to it and provided the labor.

  He thought about the African who had opened fire in the Rome airport. The gunman must have worked for the Italian. He had seen the Israeli agent shadowing Mercer, perceived him as a threat to Mercer’s life, and murdered him. That would have been the beginning of the struggle between the Sudanese and the Israelis, a battle that had continued outside of Mercer’s hotel room in Asmara.

  Mercer was still left with the question of how the Sudanese and their Italian backer knew about his coming to Eritrea and the purpose behind it, but that would have to wait.

  After walking a wide circle, he led Selome back toward the compound, one hand gripping hers, the other holding the AK. Hunkering down a short distance from the buildings, he watched the back of the monastery, waiting to see any sign that there were Sudanese guarding the flank — there was nothing. He guided Selome to the compound, dashing the final hundred yards in a dead run, the sound of their feet absorbed by the tilled soil of the monks’ garden. It took only a second to find a window with an unlocked shutter. He hefted Selome through the opening and scrambled in after her.

  They were in a monk’s cell, similar to the one in which Mercer first awoke, same plain bed and desk and the ubiquitous crucifix. He cracked open the door and listened. Voices reverberated throughout the monastery, angry shouts and an occasional grunt, as if someone had just been struck. The voices were too distorted to hear clearly, but Mercer recognized the language as Italian. He waved Selome closer so she too could listen.

  “Can you understand what they’r
e saying?”

  Selome concentrated, tucking her hair away from her small ear. “Father Ephraim is being questioned about us. He’s being asked where we are. The man speaking has a Venetian accent, and sounds like he’s used to getting his way. I think that it’s another monk who’s getting hit every time Ephraim says he doesn’t know where we’ve gone. What are we going to do?”

  Mercer’s expression matched the desperate look in Selome’s eyes. They couldn’t allow the interrogation to continue. Already tonight one priest was dead.

  “You’re going to have to cover me. Stay close.” He opened the door before Selome could say anything.

  Mercer’s sudden appearance in the hallway startled a Sudanese who was walking past. Mercer reacted instinctively and struck out with the butt of the AK-47. The wood cracked against the rebel’s jaw, shattering bones and spraying blood and teeth against the wall. Before the unconscious man hit the floor, Mercer was in motion. Easing into the dining room, he could feel Selome at his shoulder.

  Father Ephraim was stooped over the prone form of one of his brothers, blood pooled around the ruined mouth of the other priest. Three more monks stood against one wall, guarded by several soldiers. The Italian stood close to where Mercer remained partially hidden. He faced away from Mercer, and in the fraction of a second it took a Sudanese to spot him, Mercer raised the AK by its pistol grip, grabbed a handful of the Italian’s bush shirt, and rammed the barrel of the assault rifle into the man’s lower spine, nearly bringing him to his knees with the force.

  The Italian shouted a name. “Mahdi!”

  One of the Sudanese raised his own pistol, locked back the hammer with his thumb, and leveled it at Mercer’s head.

  “Selome!” Mercer shouted, and she came into the room, her weapon covering Mahdi with chilling calm. “One more gun goes up, friend, and your guts are going to decorate the walls,” Mercer said.

  Mercer suspected that his prisoner spoke English, but he twisted the barrel of the AK further into the man’s spine for emphasis.

  “I think you call this a standoff, yes?” Giancarlo Gianelli said casually, not a trace of fear in his voice. “Let me end it for us now, Dr. Mercer.”

  A shot rang out, a sharp crack that split the air, and Brother Ephraim was slammed backward against the wall. A tendril of smoke coiled from the pistol Gianelli had kept in front of him, out of Mercer’s view. “Go ahead and shoot, Doctor. None of us have anything to gain by standing around.”

  Ephraim breathed in shallow gulps, his face drained to an unnatural gray. He held his hands over the massive wound in his belly, blood cascading over his fingers.

  “There are another dozen priests here,” Gianelli continued conversationally. “I give you my word that they will not live five seconds after you kill me.”

  Gianelli had played the end-game so quickly that Mercer had no choice. He could kill the Italian and would end up killing himself and Selome as well, gaining nothing. Or he could lower his weapon and hope for another opportunity. Since the beginning, he’d felt he was one step behind the other players, and true to form, he was behind again now.

  Mahdi sneered when Mercer released Gianelli, a contemptuous twist of his mouth that told Mercer he would have welcomed the suicidal gunfight. Selome lowered her own pistol, letting it drop with a metallic clatter. She moved to Ephraim’s side, settling herself so that the priest’s limp head lay in her lap. Gianelli showed no interest in restraining Mercer as he joined her on the floor. One of the Sudanese retrieved Selome’s gun and the AK.

  “I’m sorry,” Mercer whispered to the dying man, knowing how empty the apology sounded.

  Ephraim was losing his fight as they watched. When he spoke, it was a wet wheeze that brought blood to his lips.

  “The children,” Selome translated softly. “The children who died in the mine. They were killed by…” His last word was not even loud enough to be a whisper.

  “What did he say?”

  “I’m not sure. It sounded like he said the children were killed by sin.”

  “We’ve wasted enough time tonight,” Giancarlo said. Mahdi and another rebel hauled Selome and Mercer to their feet. “Dr. Mercer, we’ve been looking for you for the past couple days. You have some questions to answer for me about that ancient mine.”

  Mercer guessed that the Italian had completed the work he and Habte had started. They had opened King Solomon’s mine but probably didn’t recognize the find. That was his only advantage if he hoped to stop Levine. He knew if he expected to keep himself and Selome alive, he was going to have to make himself indispensable.

  “I’ll tell you what you want to know.” It wasn’t hard to let defeat creep into his voice.

  “I know you will.”

  “Tell me first, who are you?”

  “My name is Giancarlo Gianelli, and it was my uncle who opened the barren shaft you discovered.” Gianelli shook his head. “Poor Enrique knew there were diamonds in the region, but he was apparently off by a couple of miles, sinking his mine in the wrong place. But someone long ago discovered the kimberlite pipe and, judging by the depths we explored before coming to find you, had worked it for many years. And now it’s time for me to take up where my uncle failed and you, good doctor, are going to help.”

  Mercer knew what Ephraim meant about the children being killed by sin. He saw it in every fiber of Giancarlo Gianelli; it lurked behind his urbane veneer like a monster. The sin that Ephraim spoke of was one of the original deadly seven. Greed.

  Valley of Dead Children

  Answers to the dozens of questions swirling through Mercer’s mind had to wait until the column of Giancarlo Gianelli’s trucks ground back to the mine site. Mercer was in the back of one of the rigs with six heavily armed Sudanese while Selome rode in the back jump seat of another with Gianelli himself. He hoped that her proximity to the Italian was for her protection from the lewd intentions of the troopers and not for the magnate’s own carnal thoughts.

  Mercer knew of Gianelli. The name had been synonymous with European finance for centuries, almost as famous as the house of Rothschild. He couldn’t recall how many of Europe’s wars the Gianelli family had funded, but much of their fortune had been soiled with the blood of countless thousands. He did remember that they were heavily involved with the Facist movement during the 1920s and ’30s and after World War Two had come under the protection of the United States because of their strong anti-Communism. Of the current head of the family dynasty, he knew little except that the ambition that had made them so powerful ran in Giancarlo’s veins.

  It was mid-morning when the caravan entered the Valley of Dead Children. They drove past the open shaft bored by Gianelli’s ancestor and headed to the ancient mine. When they stopped, a guard in Mercer’s truck flipped up the soft canvas flap above the tailgate and jumped to the ground, covering Mercer with his rifle as he too leapt from the vehicle. Mercer had lost track of the number of days he’d been away from the mine, but was staggered by the amount of work that had taken place in his absence.

  It took his ears a moment to adjust from the clamor of the truck to the sharper and significantly louder sounds of the work area. Apart from the large truck-mounted generators pounding away a short distance from the mine, Gianelli had two bulldozers, several Bobcat skiploaders, the Caterpillar excavator that Mercer had brought, and an Ingersoll-Rand rotary drill rig for pulling core samples. The equipment’s din echoed and reechoed off the bowl of mountains into a deafening racket that shook the dusty air. Amid this mechanical maelstrom, Mercer saw perhaps fifty Africans — the Eritrean refugees — toiling by hand with shovels, picks, and reed baskets.

  He couldn’t believe the sheer volume of dirt they had managed to move. The mountain that he and Habte had dynamited had been clawed up by the machines and carted away by the African laborers one basket at a time. The mine that Brother Ephraim had spoken of had been exposed, a dark shaft driven into the side of the mountain. It was wide enough for the skiploader to charge into the earth
and return again with its bucket loaded with overburden. The operator would dump it into a mound, and a stream of men attacked it with their hands, filling baskets which they hoisted to their heads and carried away.

  Mercer thought about the heavy equipment that would be arriving soon, machinery he had either leased or bought on behalf of the Eritrean government. Alone, the 5130 hydraulic shovel could have moved the same amount of dirt in about an hour. Still, the Eritreans’ endeavor was miraculous.

  A guard prodded him with an ungentle thrust of his assault rifle toward where Gianelli waited near the mine entrance. Mercer watched as one of the troopers, bothered by the slow pace of an Eritrean, knocked the worker to the ground, his heavy basket of dirt falling onto his chest as he lay defenseless in the dust. The rebel kicked the refugee several more times before turning to keep his eye on the rest of the laborers. None of the other workers had come to the aid of their countryman. They had all bowed themselves to the task of surviving.

  Slavery was back.

  “What do you think, Doctor? Impressive amount of work, wouldn’t you say?” Gianelli called. Selome was with him, and another white man stood with their little group, a hulking figure, big in the shoulders and gut.

  “Yeah, and I’m sure union reps are having a hard time recruiting new members from your workers.”

  Gianelli gave a genuine laugh. “I want you to meet Joppi Hofmyer, my supervisor. Joppi, this is Philip Mercer, the famous American mining engineer.”

  Neither man made a move to shake hands, but Joppi’s expression betrayed the fact that he had heard of Mercer. There was respect behind his dim eyes.