Jack Du Brul - The Medusa Stone

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 swiveling 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.”