by Jack Du Brul
Only after a few hours with the Bard would he tackle his second task, one that would make the monk realize that life today had become much more complex than even Shakespeare could have imagined.
Arlington, Virginia
In the best of circumstances, Mercer needed a minimum of two months to mount the type of expedition he was planning, but he’d given himself only another three days. Even with full cooperation from Eritrea, which he suspected 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 about the money,” Hyde said. “Selome and I have that all taken care of. Fax the bill to my office and don’t give it another thought.”
Mercer didn’t like Hyde’s snake-oil-salesman’s tone, but he let it pass. “All right. How are you two coming with the rest of my requests?”
“Excellent. I spoke with Selome earlier this morning, and she said that the small equipment you wanted is waiting for you in Asmara. It’s being loaded onto trucks for shipment closer to the target area. She’s found a local who has experience in mining — well, quarry work actually, named Habte Makkonen. He’ll be your guide once you’re in Eritrea.”
“Do you have a number where I can reach him?”
Hyde chuckled. “If you had any idea how horrible the phone service is over there, you wouldn’t have asked that question.”
“Fine. We’ll talk later.” Mercer cut the connection, adding two Iridium satellite phones to his long list of necessary equipment.
He had to get to Tiny’s office for Henna’s call, and he gathered a bundle of papers for the wait. He hated to use the time this way, but he couldn’t chanced his phone being tapped or his office bugged, nor could he afford to miss the call. He was almost out the front door when his phone rang again. He raced back into the kitchen and grabbed the extension hanging from the wall, its coiled cord nearly brushing the floor.
“Where are you?” Chuck Lowry asked. He knew more about computers than any of Mercer’s other friends.
Much of Lowry’s business was legitimate, erecting data protection systems and investigating electronic fraud, but he kept his hand in the illegal side of the Internet and computer networks. Mercer suspected the Vietnam veteran still loved the underworld of the electronic age that he had helped create. He was a bit of a flake who purposely cultivated a computer geek’s eccentricity and had made a fortune debugging computers for Y2K compliance.
“At home. Where the hell do you think I am?” Mercer snapped, too tired to care that Lowry was responding to an appeal for help.
“Hey, I didn’t know if I dialed your home number or your cell. Doesn’t matter. Head to Dulles Airport. I’ll call you on your car phone in two minutes.” There was an urgency in Lowry’s twangy voice. “I found Harry for you.”
Mercer slammed the phone in its cradle, dropped the papers to the floor, and sprinted out of his house. His Jag was parked on the street, as he usually left it, the keyless entry system chirping even as he swung open the long door. The Perelli tires left two long greasy marks on the asphalt as he smoked them away from the curb.
He was on the beltway doing eighty, weaving though traffic like a stock car driver when the car phone rang. Needing both hands on the wheel, he activated the speaker mode. “What have you got, Chuck?”
“It may already be too late.” Lowry’s strident voice filled the Jaguar.
“Tell me.” Mercer jinxed his car around a minivan occupied by a startled mother and four equally wide-eyed children. He was pushing ninety miles per hour now, the tension in Lowry’s voice transferring to the gas pedal.
“I went through all the major airline reservation databases last night and this morning looking for new bookings out of Reagan National, Dulles, and BWI. The kidnappers more than likely would have drugged him to keep him quiet. Can’t have some old man screaming and yelling on an international flight, can they? So I figured they might have requested special assistance. Had to crack into a government computer system to use their 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 dan
cing 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 had 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 miles down the road and pulling away by the second. He saw a white sedan ahead 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.
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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.
