by Jack Du Brul
“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 Land Cruiser, load up the gear I’ve got in storage and pack anything you’ll need. Selome, how much time do you need to get ready?”
“I can be back here in an hour with my luggage. My apartment’s close by.”
“I don’t need to warn you to pack light,” Mercer reminded gently. “This won’t be a luxury tour.”
Less than an hour later, Selome met Mercer back at the hotel, and they walked to the market square to buy water and fresh food for their trek. Habte’s cousin, whose name Mercer learned was Gebre but who preferred to be called Gibby, would come with the Toyota to carry their purchases to the hotel when he finished loading the four-wheel drive.
Mercer had Selome lead them first to the post office, where he spent twenty frustrating minutes trying to contact Dick Henna so he could tell the FBI director what had happened in Rome and at Asmara’s airport. However, Eritrea’s notorious communications problems made any overseas call impossible. He didn’t want to use a sat-phone, having discovered last night that both of them had been left on receive mode and had only a finite amount of battery time remaining. His spares were all uncharged. And the charger, he recalled, was sitting on his kitchen counter next to the anti-malaria pills Terry Knight had given him.
There was no discernible pattern to Asmara’s paved streets. They followed the terrain haphazardly, once being footpaths when the city was four separate villages. The city’s name comes from the word united and stems from the time when the small towns were joined into one to protect the people from the hyenas that once populated the highlands. Beyond palm-lined Liberty Street, Asmara’s main boulevard, lay a jumble of meandering lanes, some paved but most just narrow sandy tracks flanked by one-story buildings. The streets were bustling. While Saturday was the traditional market day in Asmara, the proximity to the Easter holiday meant everyone was doing a brisk business on Sunday as well.
The city’s principal market was a long, open-sided warehouse roofed with sheets of corrugated steel. The aroma of the spices was palpable more than a block away. Old American and Russian trucks sat quietly on the streets nearby as their owners hawked their goods. The roads were mined with the dung of countless donkeys. From behind the market came the strong smell of an open-air cattle stockade. The lowing of the herds punctuated the sounds of the busy shopping district. Despite Eritrea’s poverty, there was a vitality that surprised Mercer.
Selome had changed into more traditional clothing, a flowing cotton wrap over a gaily colored dress. Unlike the sandaled feet of the other women in the market, hers sported Western-style boots, and beneath the dress he could see a pair of jeans. Her hair was pulled back, accentuating her broad forehead and her dark liquid eyes. She blended well with the crowd, and while Mercer’s clothes weren’t incongruent, his white skin certainly was. In the minutes it took to walk to the market, he didn’t see one other Caucasian. Yet he knew Africa well enough to be comfortable with the racial differences.
“How often do you get back here?” Mercer asked as Selome finished the negotiations for a five-kilo bag of tomatoes.
“To Eritrea?”
“Yes.”
“Not very often, I’m sorry to say.” Selome linked her arm into his as they continued shopping. “During the war, I was in Europe. When I came back, I felt some animosity from the people who put their lives in danger for our independence. Perhaps you noticed it from your friend Habte.” She gestured to a man guiding a camel. He had only one arm, and part of his face had been shot away. “These people suffered cruelly while I was abroad, and they can tell I didn’t fight. Only a few know that we in Europe were doing an important job making our plight known to the rest of the world.”
Mercer scanned the street as Selome continued. He was stunned by the number of cripples.
“More than half the people you see are freedom fighters, men and women alike. They are bonded by that shared experience. It is the cult of the warrior, and no matter what I did for them, I will never really be part of them.”
“Is that why finding the diamonds is so important to you? Are you trying to make up to them?”
“Yes,” Selome replied without hesitation. She stopped and turned to him. Their faces were only inches apart. “Your country has been independent for so long you’ve forgotten the sacrifice. You take your freedom for granted while we are just discovering ours. I don’t feel I did enough, Mercer. I don’t feel that I’ve given anything near what the rest of my people have. I want to give something back so badly. I want to be accepted by them again. Can you understand that?”
As on the first night he’d met her, Mercer was mesmerized by her mouth, the way it moved, its sensuality. She was an accomplished woman, and he cursed himself for the weakness of noticing her physical charms more than her intellectual strengths. It was chauvinistic, he admitted, but he couldn’t help it. He knew, too, she was the type of woman who attracted him, someone who was willing to risk herself for what she believed. It was a trait more rare than it should be.
“I think I can understand,” he said finally. “I just hope I don’t disappoint you.”
“You haven’t yet.” Selome gave his arm a squeeze.
Behind the fresh-food market was a ramshackle collection of shacks with feeble metal walls that leaned against their neighbors so they all wouldn’t topple. They were stalls erected to sell merchandise in an African version of a permanent flea market. In the meandering warren, everything conceivable was on sale, from antique furniture left over from the Italian occupation, to brass piping made from reconditioned artillery shell casings. As in much of the third world, items in Eritrea were used and reused until they were all used up. Mercer and Selome quickly became lost in the maze. Selome chatted with the stall owners and answered questions about Mercer’s presence. A flock of chi
ldren followed in their wake, shouting out words in English when Selome told them Mercer was an American.
“They should never know war,” Selome said fondly, watching the children watching them. “We fought so they won’t have to, and now we must fight again to provide for them. Fully one sixth of our population are refugees in Sudan because we can’t afford to bring them home.”
Caught in the infectious curiosity of the Eritrean children surrounding them, Mercer hunched down to shake hands with a little boy no more than four who regarded him through solemn eyes and a mouth full of his own thumb.
The whine of the ricochet and the tumbling crash of a body falling against a pile of metal pots came at the same instant. Still on his haunches, Mercer twisted. Had he been standing, the shot would have taken his head off. He rolled to the ground, kicking out one leg to sweep Selome so she crashed against him. One of the children began screaming. Another shot passed over Mercer’s head, hitting the bottom of a large cooking pot and blowing through it like a cannon shot.
The market area erupted, men and women running for cover, sweeping up children and clogging the main alley-ways between the stalls in an attempt to flee. Mercer shook off his shock, grabbed Selome, and tossed her under a trestle table groaning with the weight of disassembled machine parts. He took a second to calculate the angle of fire before heaving against the table. It crashed to the ground, forming a barrier between them and the unseen gunman just as half a dozen shots pounded into it, several exploding through the wood in a shower of shards, the rest harmlessly absorbed by the metal scrap. Mercer kicked in the back of the flimsy stall, forcing an opening that he dragged Selome through.
The adjoining alley was filled with the panicked crowd. A woman went down and was nearly trampled before Mercer bulled his way to her side, and hoisted her to her feet. Forcing Selome ahead of him so his body shielded hers, they knifed through the throng. Though they couldn’t hear the silenced shots, both could feel their supersonic passage as they ducked into the gap between two stalls.
The next lane had already emptied of people, making it too exposed to risk a dash to freedom. Mercer needed to create a diversion. He told Selome to remain tucked in the crawl space and dashed across the narrow tract, entering a low-ceilinged stall that was as dark and forbidding as all the others and as equally loaded with merchandise. The vendor had disappeared but left a small brazier burning next to his overturned chair, a traditional coffeepot set to boil on its grill. The shop sold all types of lighting fixtures, mostly electric and mostly in various stages of disrepair. There was also a selection of oil lamps and on a shelf were several metal cans of what Mercer fervently hoped was lamp oil. He punctured two cans with a screwdriver lying on the cluttered work bench.
“Mercer!” Selome screamed from across the alley.
He spun as a figure turned the corner into the shop preceded by the barrel of a silenced pistol. Even before the assassin had fully revealed himself, Mercer threw one of the cans at him. Clear streams of volatile fuel sprinkled out as it flew into the man’s chest. In the same motion Mercer hooked his left foot under the smoldering brazier and lofted it into the air. Sparks and cinders cascaded from it like a fireworks bomb. Mercer dropped to the ground and rolled to the back corner of the stall just as the flaming grill hit the gunman.
Drenched in fuel, the Sudanese erupted in flame. His immolation sucked the air from the stall while fire twisted into the air above him. As he burned alive, his screams were the worst sounds Mercer could imagine. The air filled with the smell of his roasting flesh.
Mercer hefted the other can of fuel. “Selome, come on.”
She leaped from her hiding place to join him as he tipped fuel from the one gallon jerry can onto the fire. An errant tongue of flame ignited the lamp oil, and it began burning like a fuse toward the can still in his hand. A bullet passed close to Mercer’s head, and he saw two men boldly running down the alley toward them. He screamed for Selome to duck and spun in place, burning fuel spraying behind him, just inches from reaching the container. Like an Olympic hammer thrower, he released the can at the gunmen. It sailed at them like a comet, its tail blooming in a billow of flame.
He and Selome were running in the opposite direction when the container hit the ground just in front of the two assassins. It split open an instant before the flame reached it, and the narrow street caught fire, blocking the Sudanese from their intended targets.
Fighting for breath, Mercer and Selome reached the end of the alley and burst into the snarl of streets that fronted the cattle enclosure. The dirt roads were sprinkled with fallen hay from piles mounded against the stockade’s 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 raced through, their hooves kicking up gouts of dust. The two gun
men never stood a chance. Their screams were lost in the thunderous din. Even their guns were so damaged by the herd they would never fire again. Of the men themselves, two purple/red stains in the churned dirt marked their graves.
Mercer used the flank of a sheep to wipe the worst of the filth from his clothes and hands and went to Selome’s side. “We’ve got to get out of here. After these farmers retrieve their cattle, they’re coming back for a little retribution.”
Selome peeled off her wrap, placing it over Mercer’s head and tucking it around his shoulders so it formed a cowl around his face. Apart from his superior height, the cloak made it difficult to discern him from the angry men milling about the pen. They made their way to the exit and gained the street a moment later.
No sooner had they begun back to the hotel than a white truck turned the corner behind them, its wheels kicking up a spray of gravel and its driver leaning heavily on the horn.
“Trouble at hotel. We leave now,” Habte shouted out the open window. His cousin was in the backseat, throwing open the door even before Habte slid the Toyota SUV to a stop.
Selome reacted even quicker than Mercer and jumped into the truck ahead of him. Mercer had just got the door closed when Habte stomped on the accelerator, using the horn again to scatter a group of men trying to calm a dappled bull. A donkey was almost caught by the fender, forcing Habte to crank the wheel to avoid it. Despite the danger surrounding them, his cousin laughed delightedly “Habte hit a donkey. Habte hit a donkey.”
“I did not,” Habte replied sharply, taking a second to glare at the young man. Because of their plodding predictability, it was an insult to say an Eritrean driver hit a donkey. Habte wasn’t going to allow his cousin to get away with even a suggestion of such a gaff.
Mercer extracted himself from the tangle of limbs in the backseat and crawled over to the front of the Toyota, cinching his seat belt as they accelerated over the rough roads. His heart was just now slowing. “What happened?”
