The Medusa stone

by Jack Du Brul

  "I've supported your cause for years. Still, I believe I am entitled to a simple favor for my efforts, a goodwill token to prove that my money hasn't been wasted on a lost cause headed by a group of fools."

  Mahdi wasn't a diplomat or a politician, which was exactly why Gianelli chose him as his liaison with the rebel movement. Mahdi was a soldier experienced in the field of warfare, not words. It was this fact that made him easy to manipulate. Giancarlo suspected Mahdi's superiors knew this too but allowed it to continue as long as the money poured in. If they had any opposition to Giancarlo Gianelli using some of their people as a mercenary army for his own personal reasons, they never voiced it.

  Mahdi stood slowly and Giancarlo tensed, his finger tightening around the Beretta's trig Gianelli ative. Her clothes, however, were Fifth Avenue elegant and she wore them with the comfortable neglect of a fashion model. Again, there was the enigmatic confidence about her that Mercer found interesting and more than a little dangerous. He'd thought that her going to Israel would have extinguished that delicate spark he'd felt on the flight from Washington, but looking at her, he knew it hadn't. Whether it was Mercer's earlier warning or some sexist cultural attitude, Habte Makkonen greeted her coolly. Mercer noticed the slight, but if Selome had too, she didn't show it. She gave Mercer a dry kiss on his cheek and sat.

  "I see you're heeding my warning about the coffee here." She nodded to the half-empty cups of cappuccino on the table.

  "I tried their regular stuff," Mercer grinned. "Crude oil."

  She gave him an I-told-you-so smile. "The meals here are safe enough, if a little uninspired. Like most hotels in town, they only serve Italian food, a holdover from the occupation. If we have time, I'll take you to a traditional Eritrean restaurant. If you think our coffee curls your toes, wait until you try our stew called zigini. The peppers in it are tiny but pack the fire of a volcano."

  "Thank you for your offer but it'll have to wait until after we return here," Mercer said gravely. "Habte's cousin is getting our Land Cruiser right now. This morning I want to load it up, get some fresh provisions here in Asmara, and be on the road north by this afternoon. We'll sleep in Keren tonight and continue on to Nacfa and the open country at sunup tomorrow."

  "Why the rush?"

  "Because we're not safe here." Mercer wondered how much to tell her about what had happened since seeing her off in Rome. Discretion was still his best ally, he thought. Harry's kidnapper said she was the only person he could trust, but what kind of assurance was that? He wanted to trust her, but until he knew more, he would keep her at arm's length. Sad, he mused, the first woman to attract him in a long time turned out to be a secretive liar with an agenda of her own.

  Like his optimism about the pipe having been discovered before, he kept what happened in Rome to himself. He did tell her about the incident at Asmara's airport when Habte was awaiting his arrival. "It was my good luck that I missed the afternoon flight," he lied, "and had to take one the next morning. Otherwise, I would've been captured by the Sudanese."

  He watched her reaction carefully. Her surprise and concern were genuine. "Nothing's happened to you since? My God, I can't believe it. It's only a matter of time before Sudan's war destroys us as well."

  "Selome, you're missing the point. They were waiting for me, specifically. That means someone else knows about our mission." Her eyes went wide with the realization. Mercer continued. "We're vulnerable in the city. That's why I want to be as far from Asmara as soon as possible. That means all of us. You included."

  "I wanted to come with you anyway," Selome admitted. "But this is certainly a good motivation. Our police forces and military leave a lot to be desired. After the war, it seemed few of our people wanted to remain under arms. We'd seen enough fighting. The authorities will be powerless against guerrillas."

  "She's right," Habte added. "Our best chance is to get into the northern lowlands quickly."

  "Then it's settled." Mercer finished the last of his cappuccino. "Habte, when your cousin gets back with the L high brick walls. Usually, the crowds moved with purpose, leading cows, sheep, and goats to and from the pen, but everyone was standing still, watching the flames already rising above the market.

  Trucks and buses clogged the side streets, making it impossible for Mercer to lead Selome out of the area. Knowing the fire would slow the Sudanese for just a few moments, and with only one avenue of escape opened to them, they raced into the cattle stockade. It was only after they were a quarter way across the circular plaza that Selome stopped, bending double to catch her breath. Cows and men had cleared a path for their mad charge, both equally upset by the intrusion.

  "Mercer," she panted and pointed over her shoulder. "That's the only way out of here."

  "Oh shit," he wheezed, realizing they were trapped. If they turned back now, they would run straight into the assassins.

  The cows weren't like those Mercer had seen in the United States. These were Bovus indicus, called Brahmans in America, a heartier breed better suited to hotter climates. Because of Eritrea's sour grazing, they were not prime specimens but all weighed over a ton, with heavily humped backs, sweeping dewlaps, and wickedly curved horns that could pull a man apart with one toss of the head. To Mercer's left, a female had just dropped a calf. The young heifer was still wet and stood on shaky legs as it tried to get under its dam to suckle. The mother was more interested in protecting the calf than feeding it. She had formed a clearing around them both, jealously charging man and animal alike when she felt they got too close.

  Mercer grabbed a wooden staff from a farmer standing close by and dodged through the lowing herd toward the new mother. She watched his movement with tired, angry eyes, keeping her body between her baby and this new threat. He ignored her first halfhearted charges, angling the brahman with the finesse of a matador, forcing her around so her calf was behind her.

  She came forward again, her horns like scythes as she lowered them to Mercer's waist. He timed his lunge perfectly and rushed to meet her charge. Dropping to the ground, he rolled as one great horn slit the air just above him, regaining his feet as the brahman turned to follow. The calf was in front of him--unprotected for a fraction of a second. He gave the tottering animal a sharp crack on its rump with the staff.

  It squealed more out of fright than pain and began running in a weaving gait that took it in the direction of the exit. Mercer could feel its mother right behind him and dove to the side, missing a fatal goring by inches. He landed on a small flock of sheep, cushioning his fall in the woolly, bleating mass. The new mother ignored him and chased after its child, but the young cow was too panicked to be calmed. Quickly, the alarm spread to the other nervous members of the herd, and suddenly they were stampeding. The peasants were powerless to stop it and wisely concentrated on staying out of the way of the maddened rush.

  The two Sudanese had just passed through the entrance when the leading edge of the charge reached them. Their reactions were lightning fast, and cows went down under scathing fire from their weapons. Yet the herd paid no attention to their fallen brethren. When a huge bull was felled by a double tap from one of the silenced pistols, two more filled the gap in the solid wall of fleeing animals.

  The gates to the stockade were roughly ten feet wide and three hundred and fifty tons of terrified cattle ract of the city and traffic was light, only a few lumbering trucks loaded with cotton grinding across the arid landscape. There were signs of the war along the road's verges, the rusted hulks of military equipment slowly disintegrating back into the soil. Soviet trucks and T-55 tanks, badly damaged by mines or missiles, littered the highway like the decomposing bodies of mechanical dinosaurs.

  Mercer had read that the highlands were Eritrea's most fertile region, yet the land was rocky and nearly barren, wiped clean by scouring winds and left to bake in the unrelenting sun. The little vegetation was predominantly low scrubs, sage, and cactus. He spotted a farmer working behind two draft oxen, his plow not much more advanced than those
developed in Egypt at the time of the Pharaohs. The plow dug deep runnels in his field, turning back the soil that was as parched as the surface. It seemed futile, but with a peasant's patience, he continued on.

  They passed through small villages, rough clutches of adobe and brick roofed with thatch or metal. Many of the buildings were round, cone-topped structures called agdos. The few people on the dusty streets were thin and drawn, dressed in long plain shifts similar to Egyptian galabia.

  Two hours later, they reached Keren, a city smaller than Asmara but possessing the same colonial charm with low bungalows and palm-lined streets. The majority of the population was Muslim, so many of the women were draped in long black chadors that absorbed the heat brutally. Habte parked the Toyota behind the Keren Hotel, a rambling building with a covered verandah screened by bougainvillea. "We need to get food and fuel here before continuing north."

  "Okay, but I don't want to be here long." Mercer unlimbered himself from the truck.

  "Agreed," Habte nodded. "Gibby and I will get what we need in the market. I have a lot of friends here. It shouldn't take too long."

  Selome turned to Mercer. "No offense, but we'd better keep you out of sight. Whites don't make it to Keren very often, and it's best if no one sees you."

  The cargo rack atop the Land Cruiser was loaded with boxes and jerry cans by the time Selome led Mercer back to the steps of the hotel. They'd waited in a nearby alley. Gibby was sitting in the backseat, but there was no sign of Habte. Mercer leapt into the vehicle and asked Gibby to duck into the Keren Hotel's bar to make a few purchases. Habte was in the driver's seat when the lad returned.

  "I spoke to some people." Habte cranked the engine. "If any Sudanese come through here from Asmara in the next few days, they're going to find it difficult to continue." There was a smirk on his face.

  Mercer pulled a map from the glove compartment. "That takes care of one interested party and now it's time to throw off the other. According to this, there's an airport in Nacfa and I bet the Europeans may try to leapfrog us and meet us there. Why don't we swing west?" Mercer pointed to the map for Habte to see. "This road here bypasses Nacfa and meets up with the main tract again at Itaro."

  "The rains haven't come yet, so it should be passable," Habte agreed. "But what about the excavator waiting in Nacfa?"

  "We won't need it for a while. Once we're in open country, no one will be able to find us. If I can pinpoint the pipe's location in the next few weeks, Selome can use her contacts in the government to get us some proper protection and then we'll call for the excavator."

  Habte's military experience mo show for their efforts except a dangerously low fuel gauge. The attitude of the team was going sour with frustration and tedium. They were feeling the effects of the Land Cruiser's bone-jarring suspension, the molten air that beat down with the intensity of a blast furnace, and the swarms of stinging insects that found them the moment they stopped. Habte and Selome rarely spoke to each other, and since Gibby idolized his older cousin, he too had gone quiet around her. The silences in the stifling truck were draining.

  Only Mercer seemed not to notice any of this. He was in his element and had managed to put everything out of his mind except the geology and geography of the area. Using the Medusa photographs, Habte's recollections, and his own sense of the earth, he guided them almost randomly, never losing his good spirits.

  Even after ten days of fruitless searching, his dedication hadn't faltered. In fact, he seemed to move with ever greater assurance as the days passed. But the task was still daunting. He felt like a grizzled Forty-niner who had opened California's gold rush with little more than a pick and high hopes. Used to being part of a well-financed expedition, he had only his years of experience and his innate intuition to rely on.

  At least twenty times a day since reaching the Barka Province, Mercer ordered Habte to stop the truck so he could race across the hardpan, a pointed geologist's hammer in his fist. He would scramble up some nameless hill, chip away at the stone, examine it for up to half an hour, using his tongue to moisten some samples to change their reflective properties. Sometimes he asked Gibby to join him with two shovels, and for an hour or more, they dug trenches in the scaly soil. Wordlessly, they returned to the Land-Cruiser. Mercer would point in a new direction, and off they would go again.

  They established primitive camps at night. Habte had managed to pack only two tents before their flight from Asmara. He and Gibby shared one, Mercer had the other to himself, and Selome slept on the Toyota's rear bench seat. Their meals were equally crude: millet cakes, turnips or potatoes, and canned meat. The highlight of every day was the seemingly endless bottles of brandy Mercer produced from his luggage, some brought from the United States and a couple purchased for him by Gibby at the Keren Hotel. The three Eritreans usually fell into a death-like sleep soon after their meal, but Mercer worked deep into the night. A hurricane lantern hissed in his tent as he scribbled in a thick notebook, the satellite pictures spread on his knees.

  Mercer had intended to use the truck for about a week of exploratory sorties and then return to Asmara to charter a plane and study the terrain from the air, cross-referencing the aerial view with his ground observations and the Medusa pictures. That was now, of course, impossible. It would be suicide for any of them to return to the capital. He was limited to what he could see from the ground and forced to match it to the surface topography from the photos.

  At dawn on the eleventh day, the sun was diffused by banks of clouds. Far to the east, the rains had come. The sunrise cast a rose hue on the desert, rouging the sand and casting bizarre shadows on the western mountains. Mercer emerged from his tent before the others awoke, enjoying the solitude of the early morning. They were camped on the bank of one of the rare streams. For the first time in days, water was readily available. Mercer took a few minutes to strip and wash the sweat and grit from his body, dressing again in the same clothes but changing into a fresh pair of socks and boxer shorts. His skin cooled quickly in the dawn chill, and goose flesh rose along his armm b size="3">Habte emerged from his shared tent with a cigarette already smoldering between his thin lips. He kicked life back into the embers of their fire and heated a pot of water for coffee.

  Mercer accepted a mug gratefully, cupping his hands around the warm container. They drank in contented silence. Gibby and Selome awoke a short time later, she going off to perform her morning ablutions and Gibby and Habte falling into a conversation in Tigrinyan, leaving Mercer to watch the grotesque shapes of distant outcrops materialize from the gloom.

  "We must return to Badn today," Habte said when Gibby went off into the desert to relieve himself.

  They had negotiated with a group of nomads staying around the village of Badn to travel to Nacfa and purchase gasoline. Their camel caravan would have returned by now, and even with extended tanks, the Toyota would just make it to town.

  "I know," Mercer replied absently, watching Selome's sinuous return to the camp. Despite the harsh conditions, each morning she managed to look fresh and beautiful. She wore ballooning jodhpurs and a man's large overshirt. Her hair formed a dense halo from under the wide brim of a straw hat, its fuchsia band adding a touch of feminine color to the ensemble. Her lightweight clothes were better suited to the desert than the jeans she had started out wearing.

  She curled into a cross-legged position on the ground across the fire from Mercer. There was a trace of blush on her cheeks. She'd been aware of his gaze.

  "We're heading back to Badn this morning," Mercer announced, and he could see relief in her eyes. The pace he had set for the past days had been brutal, and they all anticipated at least a small break in the tiny hamlet. "I want to hire those nomads again to return to Nacfa and have them guide the excavator here."

  Both Habte and Selome gaped at him. It was Selome who found her voice first. "You found the mine?"

  Mercer looked at her sharply, then dashed her hopes with a quick shake of his head. "No, not yet, but the rains are comi
ng soon, and if we don't get the excavator across the Adohba River now, we may never be able to. There aren't any bridges across it strong enough to take the weight of the tractor trailer and crawler." Disappointment made her face collapse. "However, I do have good news."

  He went to his tent and returned with his notebook and the now dog-eared photographs. He spread the material on the ground, anchoring the corners of a rolled-up map with fist-size rocks. Habte and Selome clustered over his shoulder while Gibby made himself busy breaking down their camp. "Since my Global Positioning Satellite receiver was left in Asmara, all the reference marks on the map are just estimates. They could be off as much as a mile or two, and a margin of error that big doesn't help our cause."

  He pointed at a spot twenty miles north of Badn. "We're roughly here now. The asterisks on the map represent sites where I've taken samples." There were dozens of such notations. Despite the seemingly random route Mercer had taken, the marks were laid out in perfect symmetry, each about half a mile from its neighbor in every direction. Habte and Selome were impressed by his orienteering skills. "The marks in red show where I discovered traces of garnet and ilmenites that may or may not mean the presence of diamonds. The problem is their quantity. There doesn't seem to be enough for me to believe the kimberlite pipe ever reached the surface to be eroded down and its contents spread by these ancient water courses." He pointed at several twisting lines he'd drawn on the map, certain the others was SelThe Eritrean thrust a brass cup into Mercer's hand and toasted him with a drink of his own. Mercer recognized the smell of tej, a delightful honey wine made only in Ethiopia and Eritrea, and he drank down the tumbler in one quick toss. Unlike the polished, sweet wine he'd enjoyed in Washington's Ethiopian restaurants, this fiery brew was as smooth as sandpaper, with the subtlety of a stick of dynamite and twice the kick. It took all of his will not to cry out as the liquor exploded in his stomach. He finally caught his breath. "Oh, fuck."