Jack Du Brul - The Medusa Stone

“About another mile.” Paul glanced at Mercer in the intimate confines of the car. “You sure you want to do this?”

On this deserted stretch of road deep in the heart of Virginia horse country, it was easy to spot the headlights of the car that had been following them since Arlington. “Yeah, Tiny, I’m sure. It’s the only way.”

“I’ll say some good words at your funeral,” the little man said, his eyes barely above the arc of the steering wheel. “We’re coming up on it now.”

Mercer put on the helmet, cinching it tight beneath his chin. Ahead, the road curved sharply, the turn traced on its outside by a white picket fence belonging to one of the numerous Farquar County farms. Just out of view, Mercer knew there was a thick copse of pines within feet of the uncoiling road.

Easing into the corner, Tiny used the emergency brake to avoid telltale brake lights. Mercer didn’t even take the time for a breath. He threw open the car’s door and allowed himself to be sucked out by the vehicle’s centrifugal force, landing hard on the macadam and tucking into a tight ball as his body began to roll. The darkness swallowed him as Tiny accelerated away, his car vanishing even before Mercer came to a stop. New scuffs marked his battered bomber jacket, and his shoulder ached from the first contact with the road. He scrambled into the woods, ducking into the underbrush as another car passed by. He caught a glimpse of two dark-complected men as the car continued in pursuit of Tiny’s Plymouth.

Mercer checked the luminous dial of his stainless watch and found that he only had a few minutes to wait. Standing at the side of the road, he massaged his sore shoulder with his free hand, the helmet dangling negligently from his other. There was a low moon, a pale glow hidden behind tumbling clouds, and the night insects made a steady, soothing rhythm.

Five minutes later, Mercer saw the approach of another set of headlights. He eased back into the woods, watching. The car stopped no more than twenty paces from where he was crouched.

“Come on, I haven’t got all night. Fay is pissed enough that I’m out here at all.” Dick Henna was behind the wheel of his wife’s car, a light blue Ford Taurus that had been brutalized by too many Washington rush hours. “I’ve been in New York for the past few days, and I’m leaving tomorrow for Los Angeles. I promised her that I’d be home for tonight, at least.”

Mercer broke away from the shadows and hopped into the passenger seat. Henna backed the car around and started toward the nation’s capital. “You’re lucky she likes you or I wouldn’t be out in the middle of nowhere playing cloak and dagger. She wanted to talk about buying another dog, a corgi of all things, and she’s not too pleased you called. This is worth it, right?”

“Harry’s been kidnapped,” Mercer said flatly.

“Jesus, Mercer, why didn’t you tell me on the phone.” Henna had swerved the car dangerously. “What happened?”

Dick Henna wasn’t an imposing man, just below average height, with a rounded stomach and a heavily jowled face. While Henna had achieved the highest position in the FBI, he hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be a field agent. He’d been on the streets for thirty years before being tapped to head the Bureau. His mind was sharp and he had instincts better than nearly anyone Mercer had ever met. It had been Henna’s recommendation during the Hawaii crisis that allowed Mercer to stop a secret operation code-named Vulcan’s Forge. The two had been friends ever since.

Mercer related the whole story, his narrative coming in a rush, for it was the first time he was able to speak about the horror he felt. He’d told Tiny the dry facts, but with Dick, he talked about his own feelings of responsibility.

“Marge Doyle mentioned you’d been in touch about Prescott Hyde,” Henna remarked when Mercer was done. “I can tell you right now, his days are numbered. Justice has a file on him about four inches thick. Nothing to indict him on, but certainly enough to get him out of State.”

“Pursue that, but I don’t think Hyde is behind Harry’s kidnapping.”

“Christ, Mercer! Of course he’s not.” Henna was startled that Mercer would so nonchalantly suspect an undersecretary of state. “The guy may be shady, but he’s not a violent criminal.”

Mercer’s voice was hard-edged, his emotions barely contained. “I’m talking about the abduction of my best friend, a total innocent, and right now I suspect everything and everyone. For now, I’ve got to believe it has a connection to a woman named Selome Nagast. She’s lied to me at least once, claiming to be affiliated with the Eritrean embassy when she’s not, yet she and Hyde are working together.”

“Is she Eritrean?”

“Either Eritrean or Ethiopian. Almost six feet tall, great body and a face that should be on the cover of fashion magazines. I’d like you to check her out. If she isn’t with the Eritreans, then who does she belong to?”

“And if that’s a blind alley?”

“I don’t know,” Mercer admitted. “I don’t have a Suspect B.”

“I’ll get a team into Harry’s place first thing in the morning, in case whoever grabbed him left physical evidence.”

“Don’t. The video made it clear that if I went to the authorities, they’d kill Harry immediately. I’m sure his place is being watched for just that reason.” There was something else on the tape that bothered Mercer, something either Harry or the kidnappers had said that didn’t make sense, but the answer wouldn’t come.

“I think we know what we’re doing.”

Mercer handed the videotape to Henna. He’d made a copy for himself but felt the FBI could do more with the original. “This is the tape. I’m sure I destroyed crucial evidence by handling it.”

“Don’t sweat it. Today’s technology can do wonders.”

“Listen, Dick, I’m responsible for what happened to Harry. He’s just a tool to get to me, and I’m afraid I’m using you to get him back. I’ve never tried to presume on our friendship until now. But every day Harry’s being held is a day I feel like I’ve failed. Can you understand that?”

“Yeah, I can. As a field agent, a lot of my cases became more personal than was healthy, and I know Harry too, don’t forget. I’ll get our A-Team into action for his sake.” Henna clasped a hand on Mercer’s forearm. “What are you going to do?”

“I called Chuck Lowry. Do you remember him? He used to be the computer archivist at the U.S. Geological Survey.” Henna nodded. “I’ve got him hacking airline reservations. If the group that took Harry are foreign, they’ll want out of the country but won’t have had the time to make an earlier booking. Chuck’s checking on reservations made since yesterday for a flight out of Washington in the next day or two. Long shot at best, but it’s something.” Mercer had seen Dick bend the laws a few times and didn’t worry about his disapproving frown. “And I’m going to Eritrea to find the pipe.”

“In these situations, we tell people not to give in to demands,” Henna said quietly, expecting an explosion from Mercer.

“These situations,” Mercer emphasized the words, “don’t usually include eighty-year-old victims and they never include me.”

Henna pulled into a gas station just moments before Tiny’s Plymouth arrived from the opposite direction. The FBI director promised Mercer that he would call the next evening at Tiny’s with any information. Mercer dodged unobserved from Henna’s car to Paul Gordon’s before the sedan trailing Tiny came into view. Tiny put a couple of gallons into his tank, paid at the pump with a debit card, and the two were on their way quickly.

“Any problems?” Mercer asked as they sped back to Arlington.