Jack Du Brul - The Medusa Stone

Henna’s reply had the same mocking tone. “Coincidences are compounding as we speak. I called Lloyd Easton at the State Department while I was waiting for you. Right now he’s convincing the president of Eritrea that an American training exercise in his country would be in his best interests.”

“What about authorization from the president?”

“As soon as we’re done here, I’ll contact him. In light of our conversation with Israel’s prime minister, he’s been expecting that something like this might happen. He’ll be astounded when he hears Gianelli is involved. Marge pulled his file for me when I was in my limo and it must be a foot thick. Interpol has never been able to directly link him to anything illegal, but if we’re quick here, we’ll nail the bastard to the wall. It’ll be a feather in the president’s cap during the next G-7 summit if we can haul him into a courtroom.”

“As long as the political end’s covered, I’ll handle the military side. It’ll take some time to get this ball rolling.” Morrison snatched up a phone and ordered a call put through to the National Security Agency and the National Reconnaissance Office. He offered Henna a zeppelin-sized Cohiba when he finished. “We’re going to need some photo intelligence of the area, and the Marines are going to need some prep time.”

“I’ve got to call Habte Makkonen back and give him a time line. What do you think?”

“Six hours minimum and even that’s pushing it too hard.”

“Not from where Mercer’s sitting,” Henna said through a cloud of fragrant cigar smoke.

The phone rang, and Morrison spoke with the duty officer at the NRO. “There’s a civilian on the ground reporting a heavy cloud cover in the area, but there’s a lot of machinery working at the site. If you can’t get clear pictures, switch to IR and we’ll find the bastards by their heat signature.” He clamped his hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to Henna. “This is going to take a while. If you want, use the phone on my secretary’s desk to brief the Old Man and reach Makkonen. Tell him what to expect and to get his butt under cover when the Marines hit the mine.”

Henna left Morrison coordinating satellite coverage and planted himself at a desk in the outer office. He figured he could afford a little time, so he placed a call he felt was equally important. He’d personally met the plane carrying Harry White from Israel at Dulles, driving into the city with the octogenarian and seeing him ensconced at an FBI safe house until the situation settled. True to his word, Harry was stone sober and didn’t complain through the subsequent hours of questioning. It wasn’t until after Henna’s agents had finished that Harry demanded to know what had happened to Mercer. His glare had spoken volumes when Henna admitted that they had no idea where he was or what had happened to him.

“Hello.”

“Harry, it’s Dick Henna. We’ve found Mercer.”

Harry heard Henna’s declaration, but it took a few seconds for him to absorb it. “You really found him?” he asked at last.

“He’s at an abandoned mine in Eritrea. He’s okay.”

“No, he’s not,” Harry snapped. “He’s in deep shit or you wouldn’t be calling me, he would.”

“Harry, really, he’s all right.”

“I’ve been more than cooperative with you. The least you can do is be honest with me. What the hell is really going on?”

Henna couldn’t fathom how Harry knew he was lying. It was just one of those things, part of that bond that Mercer and Harry shared. He blew out a breath. “Okay, you’re right. I’m sorry. He is in Eritrea, but he’s the prisoner of a group of Sudanese rebels who’re working for an Italian industrialist who’s a known criminal. From what we know so far, he’s buried himself in the mine with some Eritrean refugees as a way to buy us some time to get Marines into the area.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Do you have Marines going in?”

“I’m at the Pentagon right now with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Harry, we’re moving heaven and earth to get him back.”

“He’s pulled your asses from the fire a couple of times now. You had goddamned better move a lot more than that or so help me, Christ, by the end of the week I’ll be on every talk show in the country.”

“Harry-”

“I’m not fooling around. You get Mercer back or you can kiss your job and this Administration good-bye. I know enough to bury all of you.”

“Jesus, Harry, it doesn’t need to come to that.”

“I know it doesn’t because you’ll rescue him. End of discussion.”

Seven and a half hours later, a swarm of UH-60 Blackhawk helicopters thundered into Eritrean airspace, the Marines on board eager for a good fight.

At first it wasn’t a noise-merely the absence of the all-consuming silence. Mercer strained to listen, his ears ringing with the effort and his eyes watering as he stared into the sable blackness. There! A tiny sound existing only in the deepest level of his consciousness, a hissing like a gentle whisper. He tried to shout, but his mouth was cemented closed by his thirst and he could manage only a hoarse croak.

Time might have passed, he had no way to tell, but he was sure that the mysterious hiss was growing louder. He wouldn’t let himself hope. He couldn’t do that if he was wrong. Then he saw a light, just a muted flicker. To him, it was like a blinding star burst. He drank it in, his eyes streaming with the joyous pain of it.

“Hello?” he rasped.

“Hello yourself,” Selome called cheerily from a short distance away. “I’ll be with you in just a few minutes.”

“What are you doing?” Mercer’s question was too quiet for her to hear, so there was no response.

It took ten more minutes, but he didn’t care. Selome was coming for him. The tears behind his eyes were no longer caused by the light. As he waited in his stone cocoon, he had a thought that tempered his joy. He’d given up on himself. He’d actually believed that he was going to die. He’d never, ever been one to quit until the very end, but this time he’d really thought he was finished. Even as he was about to be rescued, he was furious with himself, and even worse, disappointed.

Mercer suddenly felt the dirt beneath him begin to shift.

The constricting pressure against his chest slackened. He could hear Selome more clearly now. She was digging furiously, using some sort of heavy spade, and with every slash into the dirt ahead of him, Mercer felt the tunnel floor sink a fraction of an inch. When he tried to wriggle, he gained ground, his shoulders scraping against the walls, his back no longer squashed to the ceiling.

Then in a rush like childbirth, he was free, sliding forward dangerously fast, gaining speed as the slope steepened and the ceiling vanished above him. He started to tumble, caught in a cascade of loose soil and rocks that scored his eyes and nose and jammed solidly into his ears. He banged against the walls as he fell, wanting to cry out at the agony of a smashed shin, but there was so much dirt boiling around him that if he opened his mouth, he would suffocate. Then his headlong plunge stopped, and he lay still as more rubble poured over him, the weight of it increasing with every second.

He was about to black out when the dirt blanketing his body was thrust aside. He felt a hand grasp his belt and shake him. Dirt flew like water from a spaniel and he could breathe again. He cleared the filth from his eyes and peered around. His first sight was of Selome standing over him.

“I should dig for buried treasure more often. It’s amazing what a girl can find.” She looked radiant even in the glimmer from the flashlight.