by Jack Du Brul
The monks sat at a wide plank table built five hundred years earlier by another, nameless brother, the chairs added over the centuries by different hands, both skilled and unskilled. It was a point of pride among those assembled to sit at the most uncomfortable and poorly constructed chair as possible--that bit of added discomfort testified, in a small way, to their fealty.
Their meal was simple, a spongy unleavened bread which they tore into small pieces to dip into the gray/green stew of peas, lentils, and peppers. They all drank black coffee, brewed from beans from their own bushes.
Breakfast was the only time the monks allowed themselves full discourse. All other conversation was restricted to prayers and singing. While not exactly informal, the breakfast meetings contained an air of relaxation not normally associated with men who made their devotion by the selfless sacrifice of monastic life. The ages of the men ran from the mid-teens of the three novice boys to nearly a hundred. The abbot, however, was not the eldest of the group, as was normal practice.
When the monastery was abandoned in 1983, the head abbot at the time had vowed he would never return, feeling shame in breaking the chain of occupation stretching far into the past. He died while they were still in exile, and many of the elder monks refused to return home in honor of their friend. Those that did come back made it clear that they would not take the reins of leadership in order to show deference to their fallen leader. Thus it fell to a younger man, an Ethiopian by birth, who had been part of the monastery since he was a novice.
Not knowing his own age but guessing it to be around sixty, Brother Ephraim (he had used the name for so long he scarcely remembered the one given to him by his parents) sat at the head of the table in the oldest, most dilapidated chair, the pewter plate before him mopped clean with the last of the bread. Small bits of food clung to his mostly silver beard. He spoke Latin, conversationally.
"Did our little friend return last night to harass the chickens? I heard a disturbance about an hour after midnight services. I thought maybe our jackal was back."
"Alas no, brother. He has not returned, and I fear he may not," one of the monks responded sadly, for in this dead land the return of even a single scavenger was seen as a renewing of life. "I saw his body across the valley yesterday. He had been shot."
"God works to return what man has plundered from the earth by the war, and yet we continue to defy Him. I fear the day when He no longer replenishes that which we use up." Brother Ephraim shook his large head with disappointment.
"That day is closer than you think," the eldest of the monastic family muttered, a monk who had lived here for almost nine decades. "Judgment is coming."
"Yes, Brother Dawit. His Day of Atonement is never far away," Ephraim agreed patiently, for the elder monk had lost much of his mind as well as his eyesight. Dawit's body was paper thin, his skin so parched that even candlelight could silhouette the delicate bones in his hands. In recent weeks his health had deteriorated alarmingly, and his thoughts had become scattered and disjointhem most grievously. They will take up arms against us and all others who defy themen to him as the monastery was to those who lived beyond its cloistered walls.
There were two things he needed to do, two deeds that that would help him put into context what Dawit had said. He had little doubt that the old brother knew something he was unwilling to divulge, so Ephraim felt he had to prepare. The first deed, a guilty pleasuspected Selome Nagast could not provide, he would land in Africa poorly equipped, underfunded, and lacking vital information.
Mercer had committed himself, unsure whether his vague hunches were right and with little equipment and even less data to back him up. It was daunting even for him, but every time he felt his commitment wane, he thought about his responsibility to Harry and he could temporarily slough off the exhaustion. Already, Harry had been gone for more than twenty-four hours. Mercer's frustration was mounting. He worked as fast as he could, but still felt he wasn't doing enough.
Since early morning, his fax machine had been buzzing continuously as had the ink jet printer attached to his computer. Both machines were producing reams of text about the geology of Africa's Horn, gathered for him from both local and international contacts. Between phone calls, he'd managed to skim just a tiny portion of the accumulated material. Though his knowledge of Africa's geologic composition was voluminous, he didn't know enough of Eritrea's specific makeup, its formations and history, for what he was about to attempt. He had yet to find even a vague hint as to the whereabouts of the kimberlite pipe.
The top of his desk was buried under two inches of paper, some organized in piles, others spread haphazardly. Somewhere under the clutter lay the plates he'd used for both breakfast and lunch. He hadn't slept since returning from his late-night meeting with Dick Henna, and while the pots of coffee he had consumed kept him awake, a raging headache had formed behind his eyes and spread so that his entire skull throbbed. There was a break in the incoming faxes, so he reached for the phone. Prescott Hyde's number was permanently imprinted on his brain.
"Yes, Dr. Mercer, what is it now?" Hyde was as tired of receiving the calls as Mercer was of making them.
"Bill, I'm probably going to need a blasting license once I'm in Eritrea. I'm faxing over copies of my master's licenses from the U.S., Canada, South Africa, Namibia, and Australia. Whatever functionary issues them in Asmara should be suitably impressed, so I won't need to be tested once I'm there."
"Shouldn't Selome be handling stuff like that? You have her cell phone number."
"She hasn't answered the damn thing all day, so the job is falling on your lap," Mercer explained. Because Selome didn't have a connection to the Eritrean embassy and Mercer didn't know if she was involved with the kidnappers, he didn't want to reveal his misgivings about her. He felt that Selome and Hyde's collusion ran deep. "While we're at it, the explosives I've ordered need an End User's certificate before they can be shipped. You'll need to arrange that. I also want to get some collapsible fuel bladders for filling the equipment at the site. I can order them from a civilian supplier, but the military versions are stronger."
"Why not just use tanker trucks to refuel the equipment?"
"Once we get geared up, I can't afford to have tank trailers laying idle. They'll be making round-the-clock runs to bring in more diesel. You can't imagine how many gallons per hour some of those trucks drink."
"Okay, anything else?"
"Yes, I've got a bill on my desk for two million seven hundred thousand dollars, payment due in thirty days for the heavy equipment leases. My word was enough to get the equipment in transit, but my reputation is on the line here and I need to know that this is going to get paid."
"Don't worry juice for the search engine, but that's neither here nor there."
"Come on, Chuck, get on with it!" Mercer's frustration was finding an outlet.
"The search turned up bupkis, but then I got thinking. What about a charter jet service? I started that search just a few minutes ago and got a hit first try. A Gulfstream IV out of Dulles was chartered yesterday morning for a departure in . . ." Lowry paused. ". . . eighteen minutes, according to the flight plan."
"Why suspect this particular charter?" Even as he asked, Mercer felt his excitement swell.
"Ticketing code had a WCHC flag, which is a request for wheelchair assistance to the plane. If they drugged an eighty-year-old man, chances are Harry won't be tap dancing up the boarding stairs. General Aviation at Dulles told me the five passengers are there right now waiting to board, and the old man in the wheelchair hasn't made a peep since they arrived."
Bingo!
Mercer floored the Jag, the speedometer needle arcing past a hundred just as smoothly as the engine builder could make it. The feline-sleek car knifed through the steady afternoon traffic with elegant ease, Mercer deftly passing cars on both the left and the right, dodging dangerously into the breakdown lane when necessary.
There it was. The shot of adrenaline, his drug of choice. Harry ha
d said that the hollow in Mercer's life was loneliness, and he agreed that there was a lot of truth in that statement. But Mercer also missed the danger. He'd become addicted to it in Alaska and craved the feeling of life it gave. The narrow gaps between cars seemed like open chasms as he bulled the Jag toward Dulles. He scarcely noticed a fender bender in his wake, caused by an overagressive move. The honks of protest as he accelerated past commuters sounded like a chorus.
"Thanks, I owe you a big one. I'll call you later."
I've been in New York for the past couple of days and I'm leaving for Los Angeles tomorrow. Mercer could only pray that Henna hadn't left yet. He dialed the director's cell phone number.
"Hello."
"Dick, it's Mercer. I've found Harry White. He's at the General Aviation building at Dulles."
"Holy shit!" Henna shouted. "I'm already on the road, heading to Dulles right now."
"Where exactly are you?" Mercer prayed that he wasn't just leaving his downtown office.
"We passed the first toll booth on the airport's access road about ten seconds ago."
"Thank Christ. How many agents with you?" Mercer decelerated slightly for the Dulles exit.
"Me and Marge Doyle and two agents." Henna understood what Mercer really wanted to know. "The two agents are armed. Wait, so's Marge."
Fortunately for Mercer, traffic heading to Dulles International was light, and he was able to steer his car into an open slot at the first booth. There was a mechanical arm blocking the lane. While every commuter had dreamed of a moment like this, it gave Mercer no pleasure. He shot into the lane, hitting the barrier with the center of the hood, snapping it off cleanly. It flew away like a crippled bird.
Mercer paid no attention to the chaos behind him, knowing it would take time for a patrol car, if one was stationed there, to take up the pursuit. By then he would be two miled of him with government plates.
"Dick, are you in a white Crown Victoria?"
"How'd you know?"
"Look out the left side window." Mercer's black Jaguar streaked by the Crown Victoria as thought it were parked. Henna's driver was doing seventy.
"Christ on the cross. Are you out of your mind?" Henna screamed over the cellular phone.
Mercer's hard gray eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, noting with satisfaction that the FBI driver was gamely trying to keep pace. Another toll booth was coming up fast, the Jag eating the distance so quickly that Mercer's vision felt like a camera lens on fast zoom.
Warned by the workers at the first booth, all the mechanical barriers were down and men stood in the lanes trying to block the speeding Jag. Mercer had only seconds to commit himself, but he couldn't chance hitting one of the men. He cursed bitterly and was about to slow.
"Far left!" Henna shouted, seeing an opening at the same instant Mercer did.
Mercer spun the wheel, the rear end of the car twitching dangerously as he eased the brakes with his left foot and applied more power with his right, his feet dancing nimbly. He executed a perfect controlled slide across the tarmac, the Jag lining up with the narrow lane just as its rear tires regained firm traction. He had a clear route all the way to the airport.
Dulles's main terminal, with its arcing columns of brick and concrete and its long slabs of glass, reminded Mercer of some giant animal's rib cage left out in a field to bleach. He fish-tailed the Jag through the grounds, past the terminal, and followed the overhead signs to the newly built General Aviation building. Mercer took his Jag through the maze of parked luxury vehicles before throwing it into a four-wheel drift, rubber smearing from the tires with a protesting scream. The car stopped just a few feet from the automatic glass entry doors. The Crown Victoria was only a few seconds behind.
Mercer dodged into the terminal just as Henna leapt from his car with the two agents, Marge Doyle's .38 snub-nosed revolver in his hand. The agents carried matte-finished automatics that matched their deadly expressions. Though his size and ample stomach made Henna look out of shape, he was almost as quick as Mercer and was on his heels in an instant.
The terminal was well appointed, more like a comfortable hotel lobby than an airport waiting room. It catered to the ultra-rich who could afford their own aircraft or had the money to charter one. Its far side was dominated by plate-glass windows that looked over ranks of Lears, Gulfstreams, Citations, and other corporate aircraft. At the tarmac exit, a group of men were just leaving to board their plane. Mercer immediately recognized the back of Harry White's head as he lolled in a stainless steel wheelchair. A woman waiting for her plane screamed when she saw Henna and the others burst into the terminal with their guns drawn. The four men hovering over Harry whirled at the sound, and when they saw the weapons, they drew guns of their own.
Mercer shoved Henna aside, then dove to the carpet as if he were sliding into home to win the World Series. The kidnappers all carried the AKMS, an updated version of the Soviets' venerable AK-47, built with folding stocks for easier concealment. The guns had been under long coats.
The AKs chattered, and Henna's driver caught half a clip in the chest, his torso nearly ripped apart by the onslaught. The other agent took two slugs in the shoulder and thigh. Three civilians fell in the opening fusillade, their corpses landing close enough to Mercer for him to see the horror frozen on their faces. The terrorists lost track of Henna and Mercer in the exploding panic and turned to bundle Harry out of the building to where their jet waited.
Without thinking, Mercer leapt from the carpet, snatched the driver's fallen Beretta, and took up the chase. From outside, the kidnappers fired back into the building. Bullets slammed into the plate-glass window, sending shards cascading like a waterfall. Mercer lunged for the floor again, raised the Beretta over the mangled windowsill, and started firing, hoping to scatter the kidnappers. He gave no thought to the jets on the apron that were all fully fueled and cost millions of dollars apiece.
Either one round hit a terrorist or the return fire had made them duck because the AKs fell silent. Mercer chanced looking out the ruined window, his knees grinding into the shattered glass. The fleeing men were at the steps of a Gulfstream, bodily lifting Harry through the open door while one of them kept an eye on the terminal. The gunman spotted Mercer and raised his assault rifle, but Mercer ducked before he could fire.
His chest pounding in the brief respite, Mercer felt the fear giving way to immeasurable fury. He mentally counted the rounds he'd fired and figured he had only one shot remaining before the Beretta locked back empty. The range to the aircraft was too far for an accurate shot, and even if he was closer, Mercer couldn't risk hitting Harry.
On the tarmac, the engine noise of the terrorists' chartered plane increased to an earsplitting shriek. Mercer doubted the pilot was part of the terrorist gang, and he could imagine the gun held to his head, compelling him to take off. He looked out again and saw the plane pulling away, the door still open and one terrorist hanging out with his AK pointed at the terminal.
Mercer vaulted through the destroyed window and raced across the open expanse of concrete, poorly aimed bullets from the fleeing Gulfstream raking the tarmac. He could hear distant sirens approaching the airport and Dick Henna's booming voice calling him back, but he ignored the distractions.
He dodged several planes and a towing truck left abandoned by a frightened ground worker. The Gulfstream was accelerating, but its pace was little more than a slow trot and Mercer raced to the gunman's blind side. When he came even with the tail, reeking fumes from the engines engulfed him in a dark cloud. He veered and got the terrorist in his sights. Mercer triggered off his final round at a range of only eight yards. The gunman tumbled from the doorway, his AK clattering behind him. The shot must have alerted the terrorists because suddenly the Gulfstream leaned back on its rear landing gear as the pilot increased power, leaving Mercer in its wake. The Gulfstream turned on to the main taxiway leading to the center of the airport complex and the runways.
Mercer sprinted back toward the terminal and the
apron of executive jets, rushing to a Gates Learjet with its tail mounted turbofans already whining on idle.
Mercer closed the Beretta's action and used its butt to wrap on the closed hatch. "Police. Open up!"
A second later, the door sprang upward. Mercer recognized the well-dressed African-American as the anchorman for a CNN news program. Mercer grabbed a fistful of his shirt, jacket, and hand-painted tie, and with one graceful move he tossed him effortlessly to the ground. Mercer was aboard with the door closed in an instant.
The Lear's cabin was small, barely four and a half feet tall and just a bit wider. Had there been other passengers on the plane, Mercer wouldn't have continued, but the ten seats were empty. He could hear the pilots talking from the cockpit.
"You okay back there, Mr. Jackson?" the copilot called.
Mercer shuffled forward until his body was between the pilots' seats and both men could see the gun in his hand. He used it to point at the Gulfstream, now a quarter mile away. "Follow that plane," he said, unable to ignore the absurdity of his order.
The pilots realized Mercer's seriousness and the damage the 9mm could do at such a close range. The copilot sat back in his seat, distancing himself from the controls as the pilot applied power to the turbojets.
"Just stay cool," the pilot pleaded, his voice tight.
"Don't worry about me." Mercer sounded distant even in his own head. "Just don't lose that Gulfstream."
The Lear closed quickly, its tires strained by the aircraft's excess speed. The Gulfstream's hatch was still open, and when one of the gunmen went to close it, he caught sight of the small jet stalking them. Mercer could see the surprised expression on his dusky face and his eyes go wide before the terrorist ducked out of view.
"Brace yourselves," Mercer shouted just as the gunman reappeared, holding the AK out the hatch and firing one-handed, the weapon jerking in his fist.
