by Jack Du Brul
Earlier in the afternoon, he found he was correct to turn down Hyde’s offer. He had telephoned Dick Henna at the FBI, but the director was in New York, so he’d spoken with Marge Doyle, the deputy director and the real hands-on head of the organization. Mercer didn’t know her well, but she knew of him and went out of her way to provide Mercer with an outline of Hyde, his past and his future, which did not look that bright.
Prescott Hyde came from a family whose service to the American government stretched back to the drafting of the Constitution. The Hydes had played significant roles during every major watershed in our history, from the Revolution through the Civil War and Reconstruction to the development of the United States as a superpower during the forties and fifties. Hyde’s father had served with Eisenhower when he was Supreme Allied Commander during World War Two and later as President, working closely with Allen Dulles during the early years of the CIA and with Adelai Stevenson at the United Nations.
Prescott Hyde had turned out to be the only disappointment the family had ever produced. He was barely holding on to his current position as an Undersecretary of State, a job given to him more out of nepotism than individual achievement. He’d already shown a great deal of ineptitude during his brief tenure heading the State Department’s Africa section, missing the clues of a coup in Zambia last year and so insulting South Africa’s ambassador that the man returned to his homeland for two weeks in protest.
Mercer suspected that if Prescott had not been one of the Hydes, he would have been fired months ago. As it stood, Mercer wondered just how much time the man had left. The current President was more interested in foreign relations than domestic issues, and he liked to have the best people leading the charge for him. Mercer guessed that one more screw-up on Hyde’s part and he would be out on his ass.
Hence, Eritrea. If Hyde could pull it off, not only would he save his floundering career but could also add himself to the anointed pantheon of his ancestors. Thus Hyde’s motivation was more personal than professional, and Mercer was glad he had flatly refused the contract offer. To get involved with someone gambling to save a sinking career would be foolish at best.
At eight, Mercer logged off his system, his eyes gritty with fatigue and his stomach making not so subtle noises. Maybe when he had the time to delve into it again he would, but for now he put Eritrea out of his mind. Tomorrow he would work on his report to Yukon Coal.
He went into the kitchen and pulled a frozen entrée from the packed freezer, set his oven to the prescribed temperature, and slid the stiff meal onto the center rack, confidently ignoring the directions about peeling the film from certain portions. While his meal was transformed from a frozen mass to a gelatinous one, he spiraled up the circular stairs to the master suite and took a long shower.
Precise to the minute, he was back in the ground-floor kitchen when the oven timer beeped. He ate standing just a few steps from a polished birch table long enough to seat eight, using a plastic fork while one of the countless drawers contained matched silverware for a dozen. Finally he tossed the press-form tray into the garbage, and left his house for the short walk to Tiny’s.
Paul “Tiny” Gordon was behind the bar as usual, and the diminutive former jockey had a vodka gimlet poured by the time Mercer crossed the barroom to sit next to a slouched Harry White. Already, Mercer felt the tension in his shoulders ease. There were only a handful of other people in the bar.
“I read somewhere that people who drink on a Tuesday are either drunks or alcoholics,” Harry said, looking at Mercer.
“What’s the difference?”
“Alcoholics have to go to meetings,” Harry deadpanned.
“And this from the guy who thinks booze is the missing link on the food chain,” Mercer smiled. “Old joke, Harry.”
“What do you want? I’m an old man.” In his large hand, Harry’s highball glass looked like a thimble.
“Are you still on that?”
“No, not really.” Harry sparked a match for a cigarette that had materialized between his lips. “I did a little soul searching and realized that if I’m still alive, despite myself, I should just accept it. Most of the people I’ve known who made it to eighty never took what time they had left to enjoy themselves. They just sat around nursing homes and griped about how much better they used to feel. Well, I still feel pretty good, and goddamn it, I’m going to make the best of it.” He rapped on the bar top. “Tiny, fetch my friend another drink and put it on my tab.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Paul Gordon threw up his hands theatrically. “You are really dying, aren’t you? The only reason you’d ever buy Mercer a drink is if you planned on checking out before you paid your bill.”
By the third round, Tiny was drinking with them, and Mercer related the story of his meeting with Prescott Hyde and his own subsequent findings. He summed up by saying the facts indicated that there was no kimberlite pipe buried in northern Eritrea.
“Didn’t all the facts once point toward Divine creation until Darwin came up with the theory of evolution?” Tiny asked.
“Yes,” Mercer replied cautiously, knowing not to underestimate Paul’s intellect.
“Now, creationists are left with faith, which is strong enough, if you believe. You have to ask yourself if your faith in the facts on this pipe thing are strong enough to discount evidence you haven’t found yet.”
“It’s not the same thing, Paul, and you know it.”
“You’re right, of course, But isn’t the word atom Greek for ‘indivisible’? And haven’t we proved that the atom can be split into protons and neutrons and electrons and each of these particles split into countless more ‘indivisible’ pieces.”
“So you’re saying I don’t know everything yet?”
“What he’s saying,” Harry interjected, “is that you wouldn’t have brought this up if you didn’t believe there are diamonds where this guy said there are and you want us to talk you out of looking for them.”
“I don’t want to look for them, at least not for Prescott Hyde, but something — call it faith, Paul — is telling me that Eritrea sits on a major find.”
“Then what are you going to do about it?” Harry asked.
“Drink until I can get a very stupid idea out of my head.”
“Well said,” Harry agreed, and knocked back the rest of his bourbon.
About a half hour later, a spellbound look suddenly glowed on Paul Gordon’s face as he looked toward the bar’s front door. Mercer snapped around to see who had come in. A woman stood poised in the doorway. She was nearly six feet tall, reed thin, in loose white slacks and a light gray blouse. A white sweater was knotted around her slender throat to ward off the slight chill in the air. She was neither black nor white, but combined the best features of both races. Her skin was like milky coffee, creamy smooth, and her thick hair flowed freely. Mercer saw it was tinted reddish purple with henna. Her features were thin and sharp, and very dramatic with Nilotic cheekbones and a high forehead. Soft brown eyes dominated her face.
“Oh…” Tiny’s mouth had gone slack.
“My…” Mercer, too, was enraptured.
“God, that was good.” Harry finished his drink and settled the empty glass on the bar, paying no heed to the direction of his friends’ stares. “Tiny, pour me another and put it on Mercer’s tab.” It was only then that Harry noticed Tiny was looking past his shoulder. He turned. “Holy shit.”
The woman smiled at the attention, though Mercer was sure she was self-conscious.
Maybe it was because Harry had mentioned Aggie yesterday or maybe because Hyde had Mercer thinking about Africa, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from her. She was beautiful, with an African’s poise and allure. Studying her, Mercer didn’t experience the usual gut clench he’d had for the past months. Rather, in its place was a new feeling, something a bit lower than his stomach and eminently more enjoyable.
She strode to the bar, gliding over the scuffed linoleum with a dancer’s grace, her narrow hips swiveli
ng to the delight of the three men. “Good evening.” Her accent was untraceable, but her voice matched her face, melodious and provocative. “I’m looking for Dr. Philip Mercer. He wasn’t at his home and I was told that he sometimes comes here. Have any of you gentlemen seen him?”
Harry was the first to find his voice. “Yes, I’m Philip Mercer. What can I do for you, beautiful lady?”
She thrust out one slim hand to shake Harry’s. “Dr. Mercer, I’m Selome Nagast from the Eritrean embassy. I was supposed to be at your meeting today with Prescott Hyde.”
“Your presence would have graced a rather fruitless luncheon, I’m sure.” Harry leered, coming to his feet and pouring on the charm.
Mercer debated with himself about how long to allow the charade to continue.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. Bill told me what happened, and if you don’t mind, I’d like this opportunity to state our case once more, this time from the side of the people you can help.”
“Miss Nagast,” Mercer broke in, sensing that she was becoming uncomfortable with Harry’s lustful looks. “I’m Mercer. This is a friend of mine, Harry. He suffers terribly from a multiple personality disorder. Just before you came in, he thought he was Rita Hayworth.”
Selome Nagast barely missed a beat. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Hayworth. I’ve been a fan ever since seeing Gilda on television.”
Harry looked as if he could have killed Mercer as he shook the woman’s hand once more. “Just a little joke,” he chuckled, “one that Mercer ended too quickly and will surely pay for. Can he buy you a drink, miss?”
“A white wine, I think.”
“In a place like this?” Tiny said from behind the bar. “You must be adventurous.”
A moment later, he set an eight-year-old French chardonnay from his private stock in front of her.
Mercer gathered her drink and a fresh one for himself. “Why don’t we take a booth?”
She followed him to a leatherette bench seat just below a smoke-grimed plate-glass window. Rather than analyze Selome Nagast’s presence at Tiny’s and how Hyde’s dossier mentioned he frequented the establishment, Mercer started speaking as soon as they were comfortable.
“I spent most of the afternoon going over Hyde’s proposal, and what I said earlier at the Willard still stands. I’m sorry, Miss Nagast, but I must decline your offer. I can neither refute nor prove what those photographs show, but I don’t believe there’s a diamond-bearing kimberlite pipe in northern Eritrea.”
“How can you be so certain?” She arched one narrow eyebrow.
“I can’t be certain, but you and Hyde wouldn’t have come to me if you didn’t value my opinion. I’ve been in this business for a lot of years, and the little bit of research I did today says there are no diamonds in your country. I’m intrigued by the prospect, but the kind of search Hyde was talking about at lunch just isn’t worth it, either to me or to you.”
“Is it the money?” Selome accused sharply. “I know that your expertise is expensive, but we are able to pay for at least six weeks of your field time.”
Mercer shrugged. “If you’re planning on a six-week search, I’ll save you the money and disappointment now and tell you that even if there was a pipe with a great big ‘X’ to mark it and a sign saying ‘Dig here,’ you’re not giving yourselves nearly enough time to find it. The search area is a couple hundred square miles, and it must be gone over inch by inch. No matter who you get to lead the expedition, even with all the luck in the world, don’t expect results for months.”
“Our timeline may be a bit short, I grant you, but it is our money to spend. And we feel this project is worth the expense.”
While he was listening to her words, Mercer found his attention drawn to the movement of her mouth, the way her lips formed each syllable perfectly. She was truly captivating. And he also sensed she may be a lure, what the Russians used to call the “honey trap.” He then discounted the idea. A woman as beautiful as Selome Nagast made such a ploy too obvious. “Why six weeks?”
“The photographs show the pipe to be close to our border with Sudan. Even with the best security, six weeks is all we feel we can keep a team safe from marauders. The search area is one of the most dangerous in Africa. You must have heard about the archaeologist and his guide who were killed there several months back.”
“Hyde mentioned it,” Mercer replied. “Listen, you and he have enough information, without revealing the Medusa pictures, to contact one of the big mining outfits in Canada or Europe. Why not give them a shot at finding your pipe?”
“It was considered. But at this stage, any deal we struck would be disastrous. Mining companies are notorious for making contracts that benefit only themselves and leave little to the countries in which they work. To get one involved at this stage would mean giving away too much. Look at what happened in South Africa and Namibia. For decades, the money from their mines lined the pockets of Europeans rather than the locals. We will be in a better bargaining position if we can find the pipe ourselves.”
“I can’t agree with you more. If there are diamonds there, you’re in a unique position to learn from the mistakes of other African nations, countries that all but gave away their wealth or saw it plundered by corrupt officials. I have to say again, though, if you are serious about searching for the pipe, give it at least a year and triple whatever budget you’ve set yourself. That way you can be assured one way or another.”
She took his assessment sullenly. “That is just not possible.”
“Then abandon the whole idea, use the money you were going to pay me and help your people directly. Bring some of the refugees home from the camps in Sudan, use it to court some industry to locate in Eritrea, hell, give it to the United Nations as a way of getting favors later on. Whatever you decide, it will be better spent than outfitting a poorly conceived geologic expedition almost certain to fail.”
Mercer didn’t like being so harsh, but he knew he should end this as quickly as possible. He was impressed by Selome and her determination but he also knew she was fooling herself. In fact, he’d fooled himself too. He’d wasted a day looking for the pipe because he too wanted it to be there. He saw a trace of defeat in her eyes and wanted to take her hand as a physical reassurance.
“We are going to pursue this,” Selome said, surprising steel in her voice.
“I wish you luck, I really do. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
She got up to go, but Mercer could not let her leave on such a sour note. He reached out and touched her wrist. “Listen, I could be wrong. You could be sitting on the biggest diamond strike in history, but you must prepare yourself to be disappointed. No matter what, it’s going to take a long time.”
“Dr. Mercer, none of us are as naive as you think. Of course this is going to be difficult, we all expect that, but it does not mean we shouldn’t try.”
Mercer got up from the booth after she had gone and slumped back at the bar next to Harry. “You heard?”
“Yeah,” Harry replied. “Don’t you think you were a little tough? Before she came in, you thought there might still be a chance that the diamonds are in Eritrea.”
“I know, but I was wrong. Talking to Selome, I realized I was merely hoping, just like she and Hyde. Unless they can get one of the big mining concerns to foot the bill, it’s best they forget the whole idea.” Mercer demurred Tiny’s offer of another drink. “They live in one of the poorest places on earth, and they want to blow possibly millions of dollars on a project with a thousand to one odds. It’s wrong and I think even our Miss Nagast recognizes it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“This six weeks she mentioned. I don’t believe her reason for the rush any more than she does. Eritrea’s been an independent country for a couple of years and the diamonds have been there for a couple hundred million, so why the big push now? I don’t think they have the money for anything more extensive. And I think there is something more going on here. Prescott Hyde and th
e lovely Selome Nagast are keeping something from me. I don’t know what it is and I don’t really care. I’m done with this whole thing.”
Mercer had seen it dozens of times, especially in Africa. Money that could really help the people squandered on some glamorous project that usually never gets completed or, if it is, gets abandoned shortly. He hated that type of epidemic waste and wouldn’t let himself become part of it. He considered calling some of his contacts in the mining industry to try to blackball the whole thing. It was the best he could do to save Eritrea its money.
“Are you going to continue your research tomorrow anyway?”
“No. I’ll finish my report to Yukon Coal like I promised and look for another project. If the diamonds are there, they weren’t meant for me to find.”
* * *
The next morning, Mercer had already gotten his newspaper and a cup of tar-thick coffee before he noticed a package resting on the polished bar top. It was a plain buff envelope that hadn’t been there last night! A sudden adrenaline burst shot through his system. His home had been violated before — indeed, he had killed a potential assassin in the bar less than a year ago — but knowing someone had secretly broken in while he slept was even more disturbing. He ruthlessly crushed down a rising sense of panic.
After checking his entire house to make sure he was alone, he returned to the bar. He approached the package with trepidation. He quickly discounted his first thought, that it was a bomb. If someone had wanted to kill him, they could have done it as he lay in his bed. A silenced bullet was much more efficient than an explosive device. He considered calling the police, but if it wasn’t a bomb then it was a message, one meant for him alone. Ignoring the fact he might be destroying crucial evidence, he picked up the packet, recognizing the squishy feel of “bubble wrap.” He tore it open and a standard videocassette slid into his hand. His stomach turned to knotted ice. He had a chilling premonition of its contents.
He walked over to the entertainment center and slipped the cassette into his VCR, turning on the television in the same motion. The image that sprang up drained the blood from his face.
