The adventure novels of Jack Du Brul

Vulcan's Forge

"Du Brul's well-calculated debts to Fleming, Cussler,
Easterman, and Lustbader, his technological,
political, and ecological research, and his natural gift
for storytelling bode well.'

'--Publishers Weekly "Wonderfully outrageous [cliffhangers]."

--Kirkus Reviews

"An exciting, well-honed thriller that will have Clive
Cussler fans taking note of the new kid on the
block."

--William Heffernan, author of The Dinosaur Club

"Action-packed. . . . The reader is constantly
intrigued."

--The Mystery Review "An intricate tale filled with action and intrigue. Influenced by Clancy, Fleming and Cussler, Du Brul's is a fresh voice . . . an upcoming new talent in the spy thriller genre."

--The Cape Coral Daily Breeze "The writing here is good, the pace is very fast, the characters believable. . . . A welcome addition to the ranks of thriller writers."

--The Sullivan County Democrat

Charon's Landing

"A pleasure. . . . Densely detailed and wellpaced."

--Kirkus Reviews "Du Brul creates a fast-moving odyssey that is second to none."

--Clive Cussler "Bond-like, bloody, and action-packed."

--Publishers Weekly

ONYX
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Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenu5TZsize="5">Cape Kennedy, Florida October 1989

Seated on his back for the last three hours and strapped to four and a half million pounds of explosives, Air Force Captain Len Cullins listened impatiently to the monotonous drone of the launch director. He assumed the lack of emotion was meant to reassure the flight crew, but he found the voice irritating beyond reason. With his first launch only two minutes away, Cullins still had time to fantasize about reaching through the radio link and strangling the director in his air-conditioned control center several miles away. The thought made him smile behind the dome of his helmet's face shield.

"Atlantis, this is Control. H-two tank pressurization okay. You are go for launch. Over."

"Roger, ground. We are go for launch. Out," Cullins intoned by rote.

The seconds dripped by, ground control and Cullins speaking in a prescripted speech devoid of any of the drama for what was about to take place. Outside the orbiter's heat-resistant windows, the deep black of the night shrouded eastern Florida. The stars beckoned and Cullins knew in a few minutes he would reach them. "Light this candle, for Christ's sake," he muttered.

"Atlantis, you are on your onboard computers. Over."

"Roger."

When Ground finally reached the critical final seconds of the countdown, Cullins could no longer hear the throb of the auxiliary power units or the fans and motors that hummed in the cabin. To him, all was silent in those last moments.

"Five . . . four . . . we have main engine start . . ." Within a third of a second, the orbiter's main engines were pouring out a million pounds of thrust, white-hot exhaust searing the metal launch platform of pad 39A. However, all of this power did nothing except sway the Atlantis slightly forward on its mounts, what astronauts called "twang." From the pilot's seat, Cullins could not yet see the light from the controlled detonation of the liquid oxygen and hydrogen fuel, but take placeeep G-forces below three times normal, Len Cullins felt as if his body was being smeared into the contoured seat. Training had prepared him for this, but he still couldn't believe the feeling. So simple a matter as lifting a gloved hand from the armrest took nearly all of his strength.

"Atlantis, we have SRB separation."

"Roger. What a sight!" Cullins exclaimed.

The twin boosters attached to the bulbous external tank blew away from the orbiter like Catherine wheels, the last of their fuel spinning them in blazing arcs of fire and hot gas. And still the orbiter climbed, accelerating the entire time, past Mach ten like a mile marker on an empty interstate.

At an altitude of sixty-two miles, the crew was treated to the sun rising over the diminishing horizon. Even as they gasped like primitives at the reassuring sight, the Atlantis powered out of the atmosphere, to the realm where the Earth was little more than a painted backdrop, stripped of its warmth and beauty by the frigid vacuum of space.

"Atlantis, Ground. You are negative return. Do you copy?" Negative return meant that the orbiter was too high and too far downrange to land at their emergency fields in North Africa or Europe. Either Atlantis made it into space or died trying.

"Roger, Ground," Cullins replied to Houston Control, which had taken over the flight from Cape Kennedy as soon as the craft had cleared the launch tower. Ground Control for America's space program was located in Texas because of Lyndon Johnson's machinations during the program's infancy, a legacy that had since cost the agency millions in redundancies.

Eight minutes after the first rumble of the orbiter's main engines, they sucked the last of the fuel from the external tank, and suddenly a profound silence rushed in on the crew. It was at that exact moment, when the thrust of the engines died, and his arms lifted off his chair to float like swaying kelp in a tidal pool, that Cullins realized he had slipped Earth's bounds. He'd also done something every person in the world envied. He'd obtained a childhood dream.

"Atlantis, Ground. Go for ET separation."

"Roger. External tank separation . . . now."

Explosive bolts shoved the huge tank from the orbiter, and it began its long tumble back into the atmosphere, where it would harmlessly burn up.

"Gravity may be a law," Dale Markham, the payload specialist seated behind Cullins, joked. "But Newtonian mechanics is one hell of a 'get out of jail free' card."

Two hours after reaching orbit, with the payload bay doors open to vent excess heat, the crew got down to their primary mission task. They were already feeling the debilitating effects of zero gravity, and by tomorrow the crew would be about worthless. Therefore, NASA had scheduled a payload launch as soon as the shuttle had reached a stable orbit 250 miles above the planet.

Len Cullins and the other three men were still running on the adrenaline from the launch, yet nausea was becoming more than a nuisance and would soon impair them all. Videos and practice aboard NASA's converted Boeing 707 Vomit Comet could not prepare them for what it truly felt like to be in perpetual free fall. Sitting grim-faced in the pilot's chair, Cullins promised himself that he would not be the first to throw up the steak and egg breakfast rg Airforce Base in California was in charge of the satellite in the shuttle's cargo bay, and its safe deployment was the principal mission for the shuttle's launch despite NASA's official press release about a communications satellite.

"Roger," Cullins said, and swallowed quickly, his stomach roiling just a few inches below his throat, his salivary glands on overdrive. "Vandenberg, go ahead, this is Atlantis."

"Atlantis, this is Vandenberg. We show green across the board for payload deployment."

"Roger, Vandenberg, we are go for payload deployment. Deployment is eighteen minutes." Cullins knew the window for launching the satellite from the cargo bay was very narrow due to the bird's particular mission. He switched to the internal radio net. "Dale, you've got eighteen minutes. How you doing back there?"

"Breakfast wasn't nearly as good coming up as it was going down, but I'm about ready," Markham replied.

Markham and the other payload specialist, Nick Fielding, were standing at the aft crew station, and until the satellite was safely away from the orbiter, total control of the shuttle had been turned over to them. Fielding would work the orbiter rotational controller that affected Atlantis' pitch, yaw, and roll, while Markham's specialty was the Canadian-built manipulator arm. Theirs was an exacting task due to the delicacy of the orbiter and payload and the effects of microgravity. Both men had heard the rumor that the Defense Department satellite, code-named Medusa, had cost two and a quarter billion dollars, and now its safety was their responsibility.

"Screw up this one, Dale, and we'll never see a tax refund check again," Fielding quipped as he used the joystick controller to lift the manipulator arm out of its storage rack.

"Atlantis, this is Vandenberg. Ground track has you nearing position, payload release in eleven minutes."

"Roger that ground, eleven minutes," Markham replied. He felt as though he was about to be sick again.

"You okay, Dale?"

"Never better." Markham belched wetly. "What's our attitude?"

"We're on the marks, nose down at 90 degrees," Fielding said.

"I still don't like this. The original mission planned for a full day of systems checks and practice with the manipulator arm before deploying the payload."

"We would have had it if the launch had gone off as planned yesterday. Blame Mother Nature for a windstorm, not the Air Force for bending their rules," Markham replied. "Besides, I don't mind saying I'll be relieved when this thing is out of the cargo bay. Have you heard what it can do?"

"Stow it, gentlemen, and get on with the task at hand." A gruff voice came from behind them. Colonel Mike "Duke" Wayne was the shuttle commander and had the ultimate responsibility for this flight. Unlike the rest of the crew, the bristle-haired colonel had been in space before, on an early mission aboard Challenger also run by the Air Force in coordination with the National Security Agency.

Watching a video monitor and occasionally peering through the window, Markham twisted the manipulator arm until it had grasped the Medusa satellite's grapple, all the while aware of Wayne's steady gaze. Looking out over the cargo bay, the shuttle's vertical stabilizer was just a thin white line against the blackness of dee/div>

"Roger," Markham replied without taking his eyes off the video feed from the manipulator's elbow camera, showing the satellite's orientation within the sixty-foot cargo bay. Until the Medusa was deployed and its solar panels and transceiver dish extended, it resembled a large, dark ice cream cone. Even with the cargo bay floodlights at full power, the satellite's skin appeared to be a darker shade of black than the space beyond, its radar-absorbing material seeming to consume light like a man-made black hole. The tip of the one visible sensor looked like the barrel of a large-caliber cannon, but was composed of intricately woven wires of what appeared to be gold.

Working the joystick like a surgeon, Markham lifted the Medusa out of its cradle. On land, the manipulator arm had less strength than an average man, but in the void, it could easily handle the eleven-ton satellite. Like the appendage of some monstrous insect, the fifty-foot arm eased the satellite upward so it hung suspended over the floor of the cargo bay.

Markham sucked in a breath in an effort to calm his churning stomach. A slight twitch on the controller could slam the Medusa against the side of the shuttle or launch it on an unstable orbit, and he was about to be sick. He safed the arm by locking it into position, reached for a motion sickness bag, and vomited.

"I've got the Medusa launch," Nick Fielding said, quickly taking over.

Markham smiled a weak thanks, his deep Florida tan faded to a sickly shade of green. As soon as he floated away from the aft crew station, Colonel Wayne stepped onto the variable-height work platform situated before the manipulator arm controls. "Vandenberg Control, this is Atlantis . We are prepared for payload separation on your mark. Attitude match confirmed." Wayne's brusque competence was like a steadying hand to Fielding, who didn't particularly want the responsibility of the launch.

"Atlantis, this is General Kolwicki. "Is that you, Duke?"

"Affirmative, sir. Atlantis standing by for countdown. We're all ready for our vacation."

Normally, NASA's tight budget called for orbiter crews to carry out scientific experiments after completing their primary mission objectives in order to maximize time in space and justify the staggering cost of launching a shuttle into orbit. However, the launching of the Medusa was deemed so critical that for the four days the shuttle was to remain in orbit, the crewmen were nothing more than sightseers, free to use their time as they saw fit. NASA had insisted that the crew remain in orbit for the extra days in order to perpetuate the deception about this military flight.

"Atlantis, this is Vandenberg Control. One minute from my mark for payload release . . . Mark."

Markham, Fielding, and Cullins might have heard rumors about the Medusa but only Wayne knew its true capabilities. Medusa wasn't just the single satellite in the cargo bay; it was an entire system, five platforms in total, four of them already in orbit and bearing down on the Atlantis. The final component, the satellite they were about to launch, was the crux of the system and had cost almost half of the $2.25 billion budget.

Designed to be the eyes of President Reagan's Strategic Defense Initiative, the Medusa was unlike any spy satellite ever built. Military planners knew that Soviet doctrine called for several silos and hardened bunkers for each of their nuclear-tipped intercontinental ballistic missiles. They could use these sites at randohavng. Thus, a Russian launch could come from any number of places, many of them unknown or untargeted. It was a horrifying version of a card shuffle. Even with an unlimited budget, the Pentagon could not build enough laser defenses to cover all possible Soviet and Eastern European targets. In order for Star Wars to be successful, the U.S. needed to pinpoint the actual silos and bunkers where the rockets were housed at the time of launch. This way, if a launch ever occurred, the space-based lasers would already be locked on at the moment of liftoff and not waste precious seconds trying to acquire their target. To accomplish this, the Pentagon needed a new type of spy satellite that could look down from space and see through the rock and concrete and steel shelters and reveal Russia's most closely guarded secrets.

Medusa worked like a ground-penetrating sonar but employed charged subatomic particles rather than sound waves. The four receiver satellites that were currently orbiting in a diamond formation were poised to receive bounce-back information from the principle positron gun mounted on the about-to-be-released Medusa. Much of the science behind Medusa was beyond Wayne's understanding. He did know the Medusa mounted a plutonium reactor to create and fire the positrons and utilized the theorem of electromagnetic repulsion to receive the rebounded particles for collection by the other satellites. In computer modeling, Medusa could accurately detect a hardened missile silo, tell if it was currently storing an ICBM, pinpoint its command bunker and support tunnels, and even discover the underground piping conduits for power cables and dedicated communications lines. Medusa could see through the oceans as if they were glass and find nuclear submarines no matter how deeply or silently they were running. It was so precise that a detailed map of a mine field could be produced after just a few sweeps, beamed to a command post in real time, and give the exact position of every buried enemy explosive.

"Atlantis, this is Vandenberg. Targets now four miles distant, closing at eight miles per minute. They are two thousand feet above your orbit."

"Roger, Ground. Fifteen seconds." Colonel Wayne's eyes locked on the digital counter, his finger poised on the release trigger.

Because of the shuttle's attitude, the four receiver satellites were approaching Atlantis' belly, sliding by at a slightly quicker relative speed. The crew would not be able to see them until they had passed, appearing above the shuttle's tail on their silent journey.

"Atlantis, stand by for payload separation in . . . three . . . two . . . one. Mark."

Wayne jerked the trigger on the control stick at the same time Nick Fielding activated the maneuvering thrusters to ease the shuttle lower in orbit to avoid colliding with the satellite.

Even as Wayne was stowing the manipulator arm, the computers on board the Medusa woke to the commands of Ground Control. Like an umbrella, the satellite began to open, solar-collection panels extending that would charge the craft's internal systems and help in its attitude and orbital changes. The energy output of the plutonium reactor only powered the positron wave gun. Moving the satellite around the planet was accomplished with a solar/chemical rocket that would need fuel replenishment every one to three years.

Watching through a video screen, Wayne and Fielding stared in awe as the Medusa grew in size, panels built to exacting tolerances telescoping and unfolding like Japanese origami. In moments, the ice cream cone shape had transformed into a cruel phantom that was stooped over the earth like vengeful gargoyle. Medusa looked like Death, if Armageddon's mullins began counting backward in his mind. At eight seconds he could see the five satellites glimmering just above earth's hazy blue horizon. They looked like golden fireflies at this distance, their details lost in the planet's reflective glow. At four seconds, he could see them more clearly; the central bodies of the receiver platforms with their spiderweb collection dishes spread wide. At two seconds, he saw a dull silver flash behind one of the receiver satellites, so brief that had he not anticipated it, he would have thought it a chimera.

Ground control called out "Now," and a magnetic torque wrench lost during a Gemini space walk twenty-five years earlier, one of a hundred thousand pieces of space junk, passed through the collection dish of one of the satellites, latched on to a steel casing panel, and unbalanced the entire unit. The violence of the impact was lost in the void because there was no sound, but it hit with the force of a bullet and the receiver satellite began to tumble. As a horrified Cullins watched, it flipped three times before slamming into the main satellite.

"Oh shit, we're going to lose it." Cullins heard the unperterbable General Kolwicki shout.

"That's affirmative, General," Cullins said as he watched Medusa start falling toward earth.

Two hundred and sixty miles below the Atlantis, General Reginald Kolwicki watched America's most expensive military accident unfold. In just three and a half minutes, Medusa went from crowning achievement to unrecoverable debacle. Telemetry from the positron gun platform confirmed that the satellite was in a degrading orbit and that it would not respond to ground commands to fire its maneuvering rockets. It was falling, and there was nothing the forty assembled men and women in the control room could do to prevent it.

"Try the autonomous flight program," Kolwicki said to a computer technician who'd been typing furiously, trying to regain control of Medusa.

"No response, sir. The central processor is off-line."

"Are you getting anything from the damned thing?"

"Positron gun is on stand-by, and all encryption routines are nominal."

"Great. Medusa is about to burn up in the atmosphere, but it wants to still take pictures and keep the data a secret." Kolwicki growled at the irony. "How much longer?"

"Medusa will enter the atmosphere in twenty-five seconds. Total loss in thirty seconds at the most."

"Shit." A career military man who saw his career burning up in outer space, Kolwicki had no options. "What's the bird's position?"

"Over North Africa, tracking southeast. It'll burn up above the Indian Ocean."

"Might as well turn on the positron gun as she goes down. Maybe we'll gain something from this snafu." Kolwicki felt like a ship's captain knowing his command was going under and still ordering full steam ahead.

"Sir?"

"Just do it," he snapped.

Fingers flying in a blur, the tech snapped off several commands. The plutonium reactor keyed up, beaming supercharged positrons back to earth in a swath that cut across northern Africa from Chad, across Sudan and Ethiopia and finally to Djibouti and Somalia. In all, it took "pictures" of two thousand square miles, but its data was incomplete. Several passes over the same area would be necessary teep but still radiated the heat like mirrors. Blisters of sweat appeared on the men's faces and exposed arms for the first time. They shuffled their feet in the flaky stones at the bottom of the wash, waiting for their leader to give them the order to dispatch the interloper.

Jakob's chest rose and fell in a rapid cadence. His heart felt like it was breaking his ribs with each beat. Somewhere beyond his pelvis, in the sea of pain that had once been his legs, his shattered knee throbbed with an unholy pounding. Already the joint had swollen to twice its normal size. Each time his heart beat, the sharp bone fragments ground against each other, further mincing the tendons and ligaments. Through cracked and bleeding lips, he muttered long forgotten pieces of scripture, freely quoting the Talmud and the Old and New Testaments, mangling faiths in an attempt to supplicate a god, any god.

"Lo, I walk through the valley of the shadow of death." It sounded more like poetry than prayer.

"Thou shall not kill," he screamed, but the sound was little more than a dry croak.

"You are a spy for America," the young terrorist leader accused again, sliding closer to Jakob. "Only your death has worth to us."

"It's not true," Jakob Steiner cried.

"You were sent here to steal from us, and we were sent to stop you."

"Oh, God, please, I only study the past. I don't care about--"

The cadre leader, a man who called himself Mahdi, crashed the butt of his rifle against Steiner's head just at the hair line. The blow was not enough to kill, and Jakob screamed loudly, curling into a ball in a purely reflexive gesture.

Mahdi stood and swung his weapon down again, missing Steiner's head but breaking his collarbone with the blow. Like jackals, the others sprang on him, raining blows on the defenseless scientist. Steiner screamed for only a few seconds before being beaten into unconsciousness. Soon Steiner was dead, but Mahdi allowed his men to continue for another minute before calling an end to the assault.

"Enough," he said, and his men backed away from the bloody corpse. "Strip the body and then we'll return to his camp to erase all evidence of his presence."

Mahdi tossed aside his old and worn boots and replaced them with Steiner's before joining his troops for the run back to the base camp. There were a number of items that would fetch good money on the black market in Sudan, and he wanted to make sure his undisciplined men did not ruin them in their frenzy of destruction.

Arlington, Virginia Four Months Later

Philip Mercer was in the habit of waking just before dawn so he could watch the pearly light seep through the skylight above his bed. These early-morning minutes were an important time for him. It was when he did his best thinking, oftentimes coalescing thoughts that had come to him in his sleep.

The night before, he'd helped his friend, Harry White, celebrate his eightieth birthday. The octogenarian was sleeping off the night's excesses on a downstairs couch. Mercer hadn't indulged nearly as much as Harry, so his head felt reasonably clear, but this morning his mind was troubled. He wanted to stay relaxed, but the muscles in his legs and back began to tning blois profession. Within the hard-rock mining industry, his capabilities were almost legendary. A recent article in a trade publication credited him with saving more than four hundred lives following mining disasters and in the next paragraph detailed the more than three billion dollars in mineral finds he'd made for various mining concerns all over the globe. His fees had made him a wealthy man, and maybe that was part of his problem. He'd become too comfortable.

The thrill of making a new find or the adrenaline rush of delving into the earth to pull out trapped men had begun to pale. Since his struggle against Ivan Kerikov and his ecoterrorist allies in Alaska last October, Mercer was having a hard time returning to his normal life. He felt a hollowness that just wouldn't go away. He wanted to believe he hadn't become addicted to that kind of mortal danger, but it was difficult to convince himself. Pitting his reputation against the normal hazards of his career didn't seem to be enough anymore.

His street was lined with identical three-story town-houses, close enough to the city center to be convenient but far enough away to remain quiet. Unlike the others, Mercer lived in his alone and had done extensive remodeling to turn it into his home. The lion's share of his income went into its mortgage. The front quarter of the building was open from floor to roof with his bedroom overlooking the atrium. An antique spiral staircase connected the levels. He dressed quickly and spun down to retrieve the morning paper from the front step.

The second floor had two small guest rooms and a balconied library with a view of the tiled mezzanine. It also contained what had become Mercer's living room, a reproduction of an English gentleman's club that he and his friends affectionately called The Bar. It had two sectional leather couches, several matching chairs, a television, and a large ornate mahogany bar fronted by six dark cane stools. The lump under a blanket on one of the couches was Harry. Behind the bar was a circa 1950s lock-lever refrigerator and shelving for enough liquor to shame most commercial drinking establishments. The automatic coffee maker on the back bar had already brewed a barely potable sludge.

Seated with his coffee and paper, Mercer tried to read through the day's fare. The Post led with another story about the fatal bombing at Jerusalem's Western Wall six weeks ago. Defense Minister Chaim Levine, a hard-line candidate for the upcoming elections, said that if he were leading the country, such attacks would never happen, and if they did, the investigation would take days, not weeks. He was calling for a draconian crackdown on all Palestinians and a suspension of the latest peace talks. Mercer read that another victim had died in the hospital, bringing the death toll to one hundred and sixty-seven. The destabilized Middle East held his attention for only a couple of paragraphs, and he slid the rest of the paper out of reach.

Harry still snored from the couch. His rattling breathing sounded like the explosive grunts of some large animal. He gave a startled snort, and then he was awake, yawning broadly.

Mercer smiled. "Good morning. How do you feel on the first day of the rest of your life?"

"Jesus Christ," Harry rasped "What time is it?"

Mercer looked at his watch. "Six-thirty."

"I liked it better when you and Aggie were together. You never came downstairs until after nine." Harry immediately recognized his gaffe. "Oh, shit, I'm sorry. That was a rotten thing to say."

Aggie Johnston had been ged b but Aggie reminded you of the actual price you've been paying. You haven't been yourself since you two split."

Mercer considered Harry's words. "I've been thinking it has to do with the danger we went through. It was the excitement I was missing."

"I'm sure that's part of it. I never felt more alive than during the waar. Nothing was out of the ordinary, but there was a tingle at the base of his neck and he didn't know why. He swung back and followed the retreating maitre d' into the dining room.

The watcher was not certain if she had been seen; but her orders were clear. While Mercer's glance had passed right by her as she sat unassumingly in a corner thumbing a Washington guide book, she felt it wasn't worth the chance.

She reached into the pocket of her skirt, making sure her motions were masked by the folds of her sweater and double-clicked the micro-burst transmitter all of the team carried. Seconds later, another member of their detail walked in, alerted by a similar transmission from their cell leader. The woman did not acknowledge her teammate. She simply finished what little remained of her diet soda and signaled the waitress for her bill.

While no surveillance is immune from detection, usually no more than ten people are needed to maintain a twenty-four-hour watch on even the most paranoid target. Such was their interest in Mercer that all twelve operatives stationed in Maryland were assigned to shadow him and report on his every movement. As the woman walked out of the hotel to catch a taxi, she realized she hadn't been told who Philip Mercer was or what the interest in him could be.

"Dr. Mercer, I presume?" Prescott Hyde laughed at his tired joke as he proffered a hand.

Hyde was in his early fifties, almost completely bald, with a fleshiness that showed self-indulgence. His face was dominated by a large chiseled nose that on someone else would have been distinctive but on him simply looked big. His chin was soft and his cheeks were rounded, giving him an open, comforting quality. But as Mercer shook his hand, he noticed that Hyde's eyes were hard behind gold-rimmed glasses.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Undersecretary."

"I thought we dispensed with that yesterday. Please, it's Bill. My middle name is William, thank God. I can't imagine going through life being called Prescott." Hyde flashed another smile. His teeth were perfect. Capped.

Until they ordered, the conversation was dominated by Hyde, who turned out to be a gracious host, talking about the latest scandals within the halls of power with an insider's knowledge and a gossip's love of speculation. Mercer ordered another gimlet while they waited for their food. Hyde drank sparkling water.

"I wanted to make this a leisurely get-together," Hyde said as their drinks were brought. "A sort of familiarization session because I have a feeling we will be working with each other for a while. However, I have a pressing appointment a little later on, so I am afraid our time is short."

Hyde seemed to talk as if his words were thought out in advance, written down and practiced.

"I understand. I'm afraid my afternoon is rather full too." Paul Gordon, the former jockey who owned Tiny's, ran a horseracing book in Arlington. With the Kentucky Derby only two weeks away, he and Mercer had some serious strategizing to do.

"All the better, then." Hyde leaned back in his chair. "Tell me what you know about Africa."

Mercer chuckled. "To begin with, I was born there, in the Congo. My father was a mine manager and my mother was a Belgian national. I've been back probably twenty-five times, and while I don't speak any native languages other than a bit of Swahili, my French is good enough to getconomic outlook, we're going to be here for a while."

"I wasn't aware that you were born there, but Sam Becker told me that you're somewhat of an expert."

"Not really. I'm a miner, and Africa happens to be where most of the action is." Mercer didn't tell Hyde that he loved the continent. Despite all the cruelty, pain, and suffering he'd witnessed there and had experienced himself, he truly loved the land and its people. His parents had been killed by Africans in one of the many rampages, but he never once blamed the people for what happened. He smiled remembering the Tutsi woman who had hidden him in her village for nearly six months after her parents' murder. When he recalled how she'd died during the ethnic cleansings in Rwanda in the mid-nineties, his smile faded.

"What do you know about Eritrea?" Hyde asked.

The question surprised him. Eritrea was a backwater even by African standards, and Mercer couldn't guess Hyde's interest.

"Located just north of the Horn of Africa on the Red Sea coast, bordered by Sudan, Ethiopia, and Djibouti. They've been independent from Ethiopia since 1993. Their struggle was a Cold War battleground between the U.S. and the Soviets in terms of arms and aid. Currently, Eritrea has nothing in terms of raw materials, industries, or hope. I've heard the people live on little more than the pride of being independent for the first time in modern history."

"Very true, very true." Hyde nodded at Mercer's assessment. "There's a chance you can change all of that if you're interested."

A waiter took their lunch orders before Hyde continued. "While most Eritreans are agrarian, cattle mostly, there is one major urban center, Asmara, the capital. It was the only city left standing after the war. The country's in shambles. Per capita income hovers around one hundred and forty dollars a year. Still, the land can support the three million people living there, so starvation has yet to become a problem. But there are a quarter of a million Eritreans living in the Sudan, refugees deliberately not allowed to return because the influx of that many people would shatter the struggling economy. It's a sore spot for the government because they want to bring the displaced home. However, they refuse aid, not wanting to become a debtor nation, and unless some miracle economic boom takes place, those people are going to rot in some of the worst refugee camps on the continent."

From his briefcase, Hyde withdrew a thick manila file folder bound with rubber bands. "You have to understand that what I am about to tell you is strictly confidential. In fact, some of this information has only recently been declassified from 'Top Secret' down to 'Eyes Only.' " Hyde slid some photographs from the folder across the table, pulling his hand back quickly as if the images could somehow contaminate him.

Mercer had been to Africa, knew the people, and was not immune to their suffering. He had seen some of the worst hellholes on earth while in Rwanda during their civil war. He could still feel the bony limbs of children he'd carried to aide stations where the struggle for food and medicine was a losing battle. He had seen the ravages of disease--cholera, malaria, and AIDS. He had watched human skeletons shuffle in miles-long lines escaping one war and walking into the teeth of another.

While these images haunted the darkest nightmares his sleep could generate, they could not prepare him for the six photographs before him. One showed an old man lying against a rusted drum, his legs looking like gnarled twigs. A fefferent from the other Medusa pictures.

"One of the scientists who built the satellite was a geology buff. A rock hound is what he called himself. Anyway, while modeling for the system, he was tasked with developing computer simulations of what Medusa's potential would be. Because so much of South Africa's underground makeup, its geology, has been studied by mining companies, it's one of the best-catalogued regions for what lies under the earth's surface. What you are seeing there is what they believed the area around Kimberley, South Africa, would look like if Medusa were to use its positron camera on it."

Mercer understood and then he saw it.

First known as Colesberg Kopje because of the small hillock on the African veldt that was nothing more than a blister on the open savanna, Kimberley had grown into a boom town before the turn of the twentieth century when diamonds were discovered there. Within a few years, a city had grown up on the plain and germinated the fortunes of such notables as Cecil Rhodes and the DeBeers Corporation. The diamonds had long since run out at Kimberley, but in their wake, the miners had left a mile-wide, mile-deep hole in the earth. It was the mouth of what was known as a kimberlite pipe.

Kimberlite was the name given to a diamond mine's lodestone. In fact, Mercer had a large chunk of it in his home office that acted as his good luck piece. The two minerals went hand in hand, much like gold and quartz. The kimberlite pipes are channels to the earth's heart, openings where molten material, including diamonds, are thrust up toward the surface under tremendous pressure. Born in the planet's liquid interior, diamonds are nothing more than elemental carbon, no different from coal or the graphite found in pencils, except that nature spent a little more time cooking the atoms and compressing them into perfect crystals. From their first discovery on the Indian subcontinent, Mercer knew, diamonds have had the power to captivate men and drive nations to war. Their dazzling beauty is the mirror reflection of our own greed, and their purity is the foil to humanity's ugliness.

Placing the Kimberley computer projection next to one of the actual Medusa pictures, Mercer quickly traced nearly a dozen similar features between the two. Rather than let his imagination run wild, he studied them more closely. But the truth was right there. His heart raced, and his fingers and palms began to sweat as excitement tore into him. Such a discovery was made once in a lifetime, and Hyde was setting it right in front of him. Buried in the wasteland of northern Eritrea was a kimberlite pipe very much like the one discovered accidentally a century and a half ago in South Africa. He looked up at Hyde, his amazed expression verifying Hyde's suspicion.

"Some of our people think so too. If there is a diamond-bearing pipe in Eritrea, it could mean economic prosperity for a nation that has absolutely no other prospects."

Mercer reined in his excitement, forcing neutrality into his voice. "Intriguing, but from what I know of the region, there has never been any indication of diamonds or their marker minerals in the area. I can't say for certain that Eritrea has been gone over with a fine-toothed comb, but it's pretty unlikely that a find like this has gone unnoticed for the past hundred years. Especially since Eritrea fell under British protection after World War Two. The Brits rarely miss things like this."

"But they didn't have Medusa," Hyde said. "Because Medusa was destroyed before it was calibrated, we have no way of knowing the depth of the pipe or exes,ough omission. He hadn't liked the Undersecretary on the phone yesterday, and he liked him even less now.

The man from State continued, playing his final hand. "If you're concerned about security, I can tell you that, while not really sanctioned, I did bring in someone from Eritrea's embassy here in Washington. I didn't go into many details, merely hinting at the possibility of a tremendous mineral find, testing the waters for possible opposition if we took the initiative ourselves. As you can guess, our plan was literally jumped on. While not getting full sanction from their government, I've managed to get you the next best thing." Hyde paused and smiled. "If you're willing to go, that is."

"Finding the pipe, if it's even possible, would take months. That's a big chunk of time, and my time doesn't come cheap. I'm going to need to think about this awhile. How about I give you an answer in a week or two?" Something was up here. Hyde still wasn't telling him everything, and no matter how interesting the project, Mercer was getting a bad feeling. He saw his tablemate's stricken expression. "Is that a problem?"

"No, no," Hyde covered. "It's just that I led my Eritrean associate to believe that this could be done quickly. Already plans are in motion, you see."

Suddenly the restaurant became very uncomfortable. That prickly feeling was back with a vengeance. Mercer knew when he was about to be railroaded, and rather than wait to blow Hyde off later, he made his decision. He stood abruptly. "Then I guess I'm the wrong person for the job. Sorry. I'm familiar with how to handle national secrets, I know a few myself, so rest assured what was discussed here will go no further. Please don't try to contact me again."

He wasn't particularly angry about being lied to. From a government employee, he almost expected it, but that didn't mean he was going to waste any more time listening either. There was another agenda in place here, some shadowy plan that either Hyde wouldn't discuss or couldn't. Not that the reason really mattered to Mercer. He might be in a professional rut, but he knew Hyde's proposal wasn't the way out of it.

He didn't pay any attention to the businessman at a table in the bar working from an open briefcase. The case hid a sophisticated unidirectional microphone. The entire conversation had been recorded.

College Park, Maryland

The tape deck had been placed in the center of the small, faux-wood dining table, the four chairs clustered around it occupied by the station chief and the three senior members of his team. All of them had listened to the recording just forty-five minutes after Mercer's exit from the Willard Hotel.

"Comments?" the team leader, Ibriham, invited at last.

"Sounds like a bust," the only woman present stated. "He's not going to jump at the bait."

"I agree," said another.

"I was surprised by the level of detail Hyde went into with this one," the team's most experienced operative noted. "The last two he approached got far less from him than this Philip Mercer."

"True," the leader said. "However, neither of those engineers had Mercer's reputation. I read through his dossier from Archive. His academic and field qualifications are impeccable, and he has a substantial resume with American covert activities, first during the Gulf War and later during the Hawaii crisis and last year when the Acer all along, but had to try the other two first because he was unavailable."

"What should we do?" the woman asked. "It's obvious Dr. Mercer isn't interested. Do we wait and see who is next on Hyde's list?"

"I don't think so," Ibriham replied. "We need to take the initiative now. We've burned nearly a quarter of our budget already, and the operation hasn't really started yet. We need to get more actively involved. Without results, we may soon be recalled. And this mission's too important to let that happen."

Already he had a plan in his mind.

"I believe Philip Mercer's the man we want. Hyde failed to recruit him through normal means, so it's up to us to get him with other, harsher tactics. We need to get leverage on this man, something to force him to Eritrea. Not only as Hyde's agent, but ours as well. From the dossier, I know he has no living family, but we have to find a weakness we can exploit, some vulnerability. There is nothing, and I mean nothing, that is off-limits. This takes our highest priority. Mercer must be in Eritrea within two weeks."

"So you're saying our operational perimeters are wide open?"

"Yes. Use any means necessary to compel him into accepting Hyde's offer. We know that bribery won't work--he is too wealthy--but there's something out there that will coerce him. I need you to find it. And use it. Any more questions?" Ibriham received nothing but accepting looks. "Good. Get to work. I'll stay on Archive, but I doubt I'll turn up anything more."

Ibriham dismissed the others and headed into their command room, closing the door behind him. He booted up the main computer terminal and logged on to the Internet, using the World Wide Web as a conduit to the secure Archive database. While his eyes were on the monitor, his mind was elsewhere.

Born into a family who had resided just outside the walls of Jerusalem for the past nine hundred years, he was no stranger to either tradition or sacrifice. In his youth, many of Ibriham's friends had been Christians and Muslims, but his family was part of a small handful of Palestinian Jews who'd lived for generations in the Holy Land. For centuries that distinction made little difference. But then strife came. Since Israel's creation, first Ibriham's neighborhood and later his family had been shattered by divided loyalties, torn between clan and God. He, too, faced the personal dilemma. On one side was the fiery Palestinian in him, raging to see his people free from outsiders for the first time since Saladin's conquest five hundred years earlier. On the other was the desire for a homeland for his displaced fellow Jews, a place where once and for all they would no longer fear pogroms and anti-Semitism.

Much like Americans during their Civil War, his family was ripped asunder. One of Ibriham's uncles had been shot and killed by another during the Infitata, the Palestinian uprising that swept the West Bank and Gaza during the 1980s.

Ibriham had tried to stay out of it, but he, too, was swept into the violence. It happened after the murder of a favorite cousin, a young woman of promise who was slain by Israeli security forces for being at the wrong place at the wrong time following a PLO demonstration in 1989. Ibriham changed that day. He took up arms and began a new life of violence. Putting aside the morals that had shaped his youth, Ibriham deliberately became that which all abhorred. He became a terrorist, one druitwill make believers out of everyone. Even if he is friends with Henna, do you really think Mercer will stand in our way?"

Yosef was pleased to see the passion in his nephew's eyes. This would be his last mission. He'd only agreed to come in order to help Ibriham on his first command. None of the others even knew they were related. "No, he won't."

Arlington, Virginia

Despite what he'd said to Hyde, Mercer couldn't leave this one alone. No sooner had he gotten home than he found himself at his desk poring through reference books and the volumes of information available on the Internet. Darkness settled heavily, leaving the city washed by the pink glow of streetlamps, but the passage of day to night had gone unnoticed. While many would find such research work tedious, Mercer enjoyed it. Searching for one fact invariably led to countless other avenues of research, and a tug at any of these steered him to even more. It was easy to become lost in such a deluge of information, but Mercer was able to distill what he wanted, his mind sifting through mountains of useless data for the few elements he found important. It was a gift that he exploited to its fullest.

His final report to Yukon Coal lay forgotten on his word processor as he tore through the material searching for a trace of validity in what Prescott Hyde described existed in northern Eritrea.

He turned up nothing. The geology of the region was all wrong for a kimberlite pipe. Eritrea stood at an edge of the Great Rift Valley, and while there had been active volcanism in the region millions of years ago, there was no indication that diamonds were present. None of a diamond's tracer elements had been found, nor had there been any recorded discoveries of alluvial stones, those washed away from a vent by rivers or streams. Nothing he could find pointed to even a hint that Eritrea was the home of a potential strike.

But those satellite pictures suggested otherwise. Mercer could not deny that the Medusa pictures of Eritrea looked remarkably like the computer projections of the environs around Kimberley. There might be hundreds of reasons for this similarity, most notably an error in the modeling, but he could not let go the possibility that Hyde was right, that an unknown kimberlite pipe lay out there waiting to be discovered.

He was shocked by how much he wanted it to be true. He'd never been to Eritrea, knew no Eritreans, but he wanted this for them badly. He wanted it for himself too. There hadn't been a kimberlite pipe discovered in more than a decade, and he wanted to be the one who found the next. He admitted that his reasons might be more selfish than charitable, but if he could find diamonds, everyone would win.

Mercer spent the rest of the day running down possible leads, but all the evidence pointed to a mistake on Hyde's part. Yet, against all of his scientific training, he found himself searching for evidence to fit Hyde's theory rather than allowing a hypothesis to develop out of the accumulated facts. He couldn't shake the feeling that Hyde was somehow right.

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 furnment 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 entree 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 largtty with fd 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 s 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 the 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 f Eritrea, how may I direct your call?" The receptionist's accent was thick.

"Selome Nagast, please."

Mercer waited fifteen seconds as the woman checked her directory. "I am sorry, sir, but there is no one here with that name."

"Are you sure?" Mercer realized it was a stupid question.

"Yes, sir."

"Is it possible she works at the embassy but doesn't have a phone listing?" Mercer asked hopefully but a niggling doubt was forming in the back of his head.

"We have a new voice-mail system," the receptionist explained. "Even temporary employees can receive messages."

"Thank you." Mercer kept the suspicion out of his voice and dialed Prescott Hyde. He wondered if his dismissal of Selome Nagast as Harry's kidnapper had been premature.

"I'm surprised to hear back from you, Dr. Mercer. You made it clear yesterday that you aren't interested in our venture."

"Let's just say I've had a change of heart. I'm on board now one hundred percent and wanted you to be the first to know." Mercer said nothing about Selome. At this point, any information he had was a weapon, and now wasn't the time to use it. "I've already started working on the project. I've got heavy equipment en route from South Africa, three D-11 dozers, a couple of big front loaders, six Terex dump trucks, and a Caterpillar 5130 hydraulic shovel. All of the iron is leased for six months except the 5130, which Eritrea is going to have to buy."

"Hold on there. I'm with Selome right now and you're on a speaker phone. She's shaking her head something fierce."

"Dr. Mercer, I can't authorize any of that. It's just too much money." Selome's voice sounded distant over the speaker connection.

Somehow he'd expected her there. It only deepened his suspicions.

"Listen, you two wanted this project in the first place. If I'm going to get results, it's got to be done my way or not at all," Mercer said sharply. "I didn't set this six-week rule, you did. If I'm expected to find anything, I'm going to need to move a lot of dirt. I've got a pretty good lease package for us, and if need be, I can get a sales contract on the excavator for when we're finished with it. That'll save you a couple million bucks. You're lucky--my first idea was to bring in a walking dragline with a forty-million-dollar price tag, but we'd lose too much time with its on-site assembly. As it is, the 5130 will take two weeks to put together once it's shipped in."

"You don't understand. We just can't do it this way," Selome protested. "I can't guarantee your safety if you present that kind of target."

"By the time the equipment rolls in, I'll have pinpointed the best site, and you'll only have to protect a single camp. From what I understand, nearly every Eritrean over the age of thirty has a military background, so surely you can muster a protective force? When I'm doing the actual prospecting, I'll basically be on my own, so you won't have to worry about me."

"We wanted something much more low-key," Selome said.

"You know what she means," Hyde broke in. "A small team, minimal equipment and maximum secrecy. You're talking about bringing in an army."

"That's what it's going to take," Mercer snapped just wanted oversight, right? Well, consider this a trial run, but this is going to be my show. I'll bring in the equipment I need and any people I want. If you don't like it, if it isn't what you expected, well, tough shit. This is what you got."

Hyde finally broke the silence. "I guess we caught a tiger by the tail here. You've taken us both a little by surprise. We need some time to digest all of this."

"You've got until Friday. That's when I catch my flight to Eritrea. I plan to be in Asmara on Saturday morning and in the area of the search no later than Monday. I have a lot to go over with both of you before I leave, but that can wait until tomorrow. For now, you need to start working on getting me local support once I'm in country."

"And if we take your earlier advice and abandon the project?"

There was no malice in Mercer's voice when he responded. "Then I call a few friends, and within a month Eritrea will be dug up from one end to the other. I've got the contacts to guarantee your nation will be stripped clean with total impunity, and there is nothing either of you can do about it. I'll talk to you again tomorrow."

Mercer was panting when he hung up. He was gambling with Harry White's life when he just bluffed Hyde and Selome, and it made him tremble. His nerves were fraying. He dialed the phone again.

"The Knight Medical Group," a receptionist chirped.

"Is Terry there?"

"Dr. Knight is with a patient. May I have him call you back?"

"He's playing video games in his office," Mercer said. "Why don't you give him a buzz and see if he'll talk to me. This is Philip Mercer."

A minute later Terrance Knight came on the line. "Great timing, Mercer. I was on the final level of Doom and I still have two men left."

"I'm getting better. The last time I called it was coitus interuptus with one of your nurses."

"Yeah. She sued me for sexual harassment a week after she discovered my sperm count is too low to knock her up."

"That's what I love about you, Terry. Your lurid attention to detail." Mercer chuckled for the first time today. Terry Knight had been his personal physician ever since he moved to Washington. "I'm going to Africa again. I need a gamma globulin, a cholera booster, and I think I'm ready for another tetanus. And I'll also need anti-malarial pills for a couple of months."

"God, I love patients who know what they want. I'm going to give you an oral polio booster as well. The CDC in Atlanta posted warning for most of the continent. Since you're headed to Africa, I'll throw in a box of condoms while I'm at it. I doubt you'll get lucky, so give them to a doctor before you come back. Anything else?"

Mercer laughed again. "Yeah, put together a med kit for me, nothing more elaborate than a couple of aspirin and a suture set. Write me a prescription for morphine and antibiotics."

"You sure you don't want a defibrillater and a portable CAT scanner?" Terry joked.

"No, not this time, but maybe later. I'll be in sometime tomorrow for mible in the cramped office, rubbing his eyes. There were a million details to be considered, yet his thoughts kept returning to Harry White. He was a tough old bird, a war veteran, but he was eighty now. Mercer focused on what his friend must be going through and used that anger to shove aside the exhaustion and refocus.

Tiny ducked his head into the room. "How you doing?"

"I've been better."

"I know what you mean. Do you realize today is the first day in twelve years that Harry hasn't come in. God, I never realized how much I loved the bastard until he'd gone."

Mercer straightened quickly. "He's not gone, Paul. I'll get him back. No matter what it takes, I'll get him back." His bravado sounded empty even in his own ears.

After Mercer had hung up on them, Prescott Hyde and Selome Nagast looked at each other, both having similar thoughts. Hyde's office in Foggy Bottom was well appointed, more New York executive than government official, with oil paintings gracing the walls and an antique desk that had been in his family for generations. The carpet was a thicker pile than standard issue, and the matching wing-back chairs had been given to Hyde's father by President Kennedy. Selome was sitting in one of the chairs, dressed in a simple business suit.

"Well, what do you think?" she asked, breaking the silence.

"I just don't think we can afford it. He's talking about millions of dollars, and the best we've been able to come up with is three hundred thousand and a lot of that is for Mercer's consulting fee. I never thought about all the equipment we would need." Hyde's voice was dull with defeat. "We should call the whole thing off. It was a long shot at best anyway."

"You call it off, and I'll have a congressional committee knocking down your door within twelve hours. They would love to hear how you really obtained the Medusa pictures from the National Reconnaissance Office," Selome hissed. "We can come up with the money somehow."

"Buying those pictures from Donald Rosen cost me nearly everything I have. If my wife finds out I took a second mortgage on our house, she'll kill me."

"I don't care about your domestic problems. We are going to need more money very soon if this is going to work. I've had expenses on my end, too. Do you hear me complaining about them? Mercer is the best shot we've got. We need to support him, and that means cash. We both have our sources. If need be, we can cut in a few more people. We're talking about a billion-dollar payoff when this is done. That's worth a little more risk."

"This is getting out of control," Hyde complained.

"No, it isn't. We're still in control. We just can't allow ourselves to forget it, that's all."

"I don't know . . ." Hyde's voice trailed off.

"You don't know what?" she accused. "We're about to make a major discovery, one that will lift my country into the twenty-first century and provide jobs for thousands. Both of us will get what we want if we don't lose perspective. We'll get the money, Bill. We have to."

"You're right," Hyde nodded slowly. "I just don't like the fact that Philip Mercer has suddenly decided that he is in charge."

"Good." She had Hyde caught between his greed and his fear of exposure. To her, he was inconsequential, a means to an end, but it was reassuring to know how easily he could be dominated. She knew it wouldn't be possible, but she wanted to see what happened when Hyde's wife discovered how her husband had lost their house. The greedy pig would get what he deserved.

Paul Gordon drove, the headlights of his aging Plymouth lancing into the night. Mercer sat next to him, sweating heavily in two bulky sweaters and a leather jacket, a pair of skateboarder's knee pads over his jeans. He fingered the motorcycle helmet on his lap. Both the helmet and the pads had been borrowed from his neighbor's son.

"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 cloath="1em">"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 feelEthiopia. Contrary to the "scorched earth" policy practiced by the Ethiopians at the close of the conflict, when they returned, they discovered that their abbey had not been molested save for a few stray bullet holes that marred its stone facade.

The monks sat at a wide plank table built five hundred years earlier by another, nameless brother, the chairs added over the centuries by different hands, both skilled and unskilled. It was a point of pride among those assembled to sit at the most uncomfortable and poorly constructed chair as possible--that bit of added discomfort testified, in a small way, to their fealty.

Their meal was simple, a spongy unleavened bread which they tore into small pieces to dip into the gray/green stew of peas, lentils, and peppers. They all drank black coffee, brewed from beans from their own bushes.

Breakfast was the only time the monks allowed themselves full discourse. All other conversation was restricted to prayers and singing. While not exactly informal, the breakfast meetings contained an air of relaxation not normally associated with men who made their devotion by the selfless sacrifice of monastic life. The ages of the men ran from the mid-teens of the three novice boys to nearly a hundred. The abbot, however, was not the eldest of the group, as was normal practice.

When the monastery was abandoned in 1983, the head abbot at the time had vowed he would never return, feeling shame in breaking the chain of occupation stretching far into the past. He died while they were still in exile, and many of the elder monks refused to return home in honor of their friend. Those that did come back made it clear that they would not take the reins of leadership in order to show deference to their fallen leader. Thus it fell to a younger man, an Ethiopian by birth, who had been part of the monastery since he was a novice.

Not knowing his own age but guessing it to be around sixty, Brother Ephraim (he had used the name for so long he scarcely remembered the one given to him by his parents) sat at the head of the table in the oldest, most dilapidated chair, the pewter plate before him mopped clean with the last of the bread. Small bits of food clung to his mostly silver beard. He spoke Latin, conversationally.

"Did our little friend return last night to harass the chickens? I heard a disturbance about an hour after midnight services. I thought maybe our jackal was back."

"Alas no, brother. He has not returned, and I fear he may not," one of the monks responded sadly, for in this dead land the return of even a single scavenger was seen as a renewing of life. "I saw his body across the valley yesterday. He had been shot."

"God works to return what man has plundered from the earth by the war, and yet we continue to defy Him. I fear the day when He no longer replenishes that which we use up." Brother Ephraim shook his large head with disappointment.

"That day is closer than you think," the eldest of the monastic family muttered, a monk who had lived here for almost nine decades. "Judgment is coming."

"Yes, Brother Dawit. His Day of Atonement is never far away," Ephraim agreed patiently, for the elder monk had lost much of his mind as well as his eyesight. Dawit's body was paper thin, his skin so parched that even candlelight could silhouette the delicate bones in his hands. In recent weeks his health had deteriorated alarmingly, and his thoughts had become scattered and disjointhem most grievously. They will take up arms against us and all others who defy themen to him as the monastery was to those who lived beyond its cloistered walls.

There were two things he needed to do, two deeds that that would help him put into context what Dawit had said. He had little doubt that the old brother knew something he was unwilling to divulge, so Ephraim felt he had to prepare. The first deed, a guilty pleasuspected 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 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 dancing 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 miled 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.

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.

Mercer shuffled forward until his body was between the pilots' seats and both men could see the gun in his hand. He used it to point at the Gulfstream, now a quarter mile away. "Follow that plane," he said, unable to ignore the absurdity of his order.

The pilots realized Mercer's seriousness and the damage the 9mm could do at such a close range. The copilot sat back in his seat, distancing himself from the controls as the pilot applied power to the turbojets.

"Just stay cool," the pilot pleaded, his voice tight.

"Don't worry about me." Mercer sounded distant even in his own head. "Just don't lose that Gulfstream."

The Lear closed quickly, its tires strained by the aircraft's excess speed. The Gulfstream's hatch was still open, and when one of the gunmen went to close it, he caught sight of the small jet stalking them. Mercer could see the surprised expression on his dusky face and his eyes go wide before the terrorist ducked out of view.

"Brace yourselves," Mercer shouted just as the gunman reappeared, holding the AK out the hatch and firing one-handed, the weapon jerking in his fist.

Lead streaked from the weapon like water from a hose, chunks of concrete exploding from the taxiway. Several rounds pierced the Lear's thin skin, though the engines continued to pour out thrust.

"That's it, pal," the pilot screamed. "Chase is off."

"Keep after them."

"We're hit, man. There's no way I'm flying without assessing the damage."

"You can ram them," Mercer said more coolly than he felt. "Not hard enough to destroy their plane, but enough to prevent them leaving."

"You're out of your fucking mind."

"They just killed four people in the airport and they're kidnapping a fifth. We're the only ones who can stop them."

The pilots exchanged glances and came to a mutual agreement. The Lear increased speed, careening onto the runway, dipping so hard into the turn that the wing-mounted fuel tank scraped the ground in a shower of sparks. The kidnapper's Gulfstream came to an abrupt halt fifty yards ahead of the Lear to allow a United 747 to loop in for its landing, its shadow racing along the ground to catch the hurtling jumbo jet.

The Lear's pilot saw his opportunity and further increased power. The plane ate the distance to the Gulfstream with the grace of a cheetah on the hunt. From the Gulfstream, a face appeared in the hatch again. Realizing what was about to happen, the terrorist leaped to the tarmac just as his aircraft started rolling again, building up to rotation speed.

"Oh, shit!" the Lear pilot shouted.

The gunman raised his AK as he charged, but either the magazine had been emptied earlier or the weapon had jammed. It did not fire. He tried for a frantic half second to clear the chamber, then realized the gun wouldn't work in the moments before the Lear reached him. He tossed it aside.

"What the hell is he doing?" the copilot asked.

" Mercer srunning at the low-slung aircraft, judging distances, and at the critical second he leaped. One foot landed on the Lear's left wing, momentum making him tumble, but he had enough coordination to twist as he rebounded, aligning himself with his intended target. His arm went in first, the titanium blades of the Garrett TFE 731 turbofan having little trouble liquefying both muscle and bone, but when his shoulder and head hit the whirling turbine, the engine came apart, blades exploding off the roller-bearing shaft and blowing through the aluminum nacelle.

The Lear's pilot shut down both engines when he realized the gunman's suicide mission and prevented a spontaneous detonation. The Gulfstream lifted off the macadam a mile down the runaway, trails of exhaust marring the air like angry brush strokes. Mercer gave little thought to the pilots or the man who'd allowed himself to be sucked into the jet engine and watched as Harry's kidnappers flew off into the distance.

Because he hadn't done enough, his friend was gone. He'd been so close, but then again, he'd been only forty yards away when Tory was murdered. His hands began to tremble with rage and frustration. And guilt. He could have done more. He could have driven faster or run harder or shot out a tire rather than allow himself the grim satisfaction of using his last bullet to kill one of them. He wanted to believe he'd given it his best effort, but with these high stakes, it was obvious that his best wasn't good enough.

He was sitting on a grassy verge bordering the runway when an airport security car whooped its way to the stationary Lear. There were knotted muscles at the base of his jaw as he tried to keep his mouth firm. Dick Henna jumped from the car and approached slowly. Mercer was as close to breaking down as he had ever seen him, and the sight sent a chill through Henna's guts.

"Are you okay?"

Mercer took a long time to answer, his face blank, but beneath his eyes, rage boiled. "Yeah, I'm fine," he whispered. "You?"

"I lost a man in there and another is already on his way to the hospital. Listen, Mercer, I've got to get you the hell out of here. Marge has already called for an FBI forensics unit, and they'll be here shortly. I can explain away this thing as an arrest gone bad, but as a civilian, you can't be involved." He held out a hand. Mercer used it to hoist himself to his feet.

"What about the Gulfstream?"

"I don't know. I guess someone has it on radar, but I'm not sure."

"What a fuck-up, Dick," Mercer said. "I am so sorry."

They got into the car. "It's not your fault. Neither of us had any idea the men who took Harry are terrorists lugging machine guns. We had no way of knowing." Henna's voice was calm and soothing. "Chances are, that plane's heading outside the country, and that makes this an international incident. I'm going to call Paul Barnes at the CIA, and if we can figure out where they're headed, I'll have him get some agents there to meet it."

"Do you think the CIA can get him back?"

"Frankly, I doubt we'll have the time to learn where they're going to land. A jet with extended tanks can be in Europe, Africa, or South America in just a few hours. But, hey, there's a ton of evidence lying around here and a paper trail for the jet lease, so there is hope of finding them."

Mercer didn't speak until the sedan's driver circled around the te Henna forestalled any questions with a sharp look, so Marge gave Mercer's shoulder a pat and went into the building.

Her commiseration shook Mercer back to the present. Harry was beyond his reach, and for the time being, there wasn't a thing he could do about it. "You're right," he said. "Maybe you can find these bastards through the abandoned weapons or the guy I capped on the runway. I have to get to Eritrea and help Harry that way. Have you found anything on that front? Anything on Selome Nagast?"

"You're not going to believe this one. When I was following your lead about her not working at the Eritrean embassy, I got a call from the ambassador himself. He said that she was in the country under his authority and that she was working without the support of his staff. They know nothing of her or her mission here."

"Which is?"

"According to the ambassador, securing private funding for humanitarian programs within Eritrea. He didn't get more specific than that, and before I could press, he'd hung up on me." Henna paused. "I dug a little deeper and things got real interesting. I cross-referenced her name through the CIA database, and within minutes I got an angry call."

"Eritrea's ambassador again?"

"No. Are you ready for this? Paul Barnes."

"What?"

"You heard me. The director of the CIA. Typing her name into the computer sent up all sorts of red flags. Part of our system is indexed with the Mossad's, and when her name came up, alarms must have screamed all over Tel Aviv. Barnes's opposite number in Israel called and read him the riot act about interagency cooperation and a bunch of other shit. The upshot is, Israel did not like me poking into the background of Miss Nagast."

"Why in the hell would the Israelis care if you're researching an Eritrean national?" This was one turn Mercer hadn't expected.

"Because she's not," Henna said. "Selome Nagast holds duel citizenship, Eritrea and Israel, and she has an officer's commission in the Israeli Defense Force as well as a position in their government."

"I don't get it." If Selome was Israeli, that could mean Harry was being held by one of the Jewish state's legions of enemies.

"Neither do I. But ten minutes after getting off the phone with Barnes, Lloyd Easton called."

"The Secretary of State?" This was going far outside Mercer's realm, and the implications were beginning to scare him.

"No other. He told me that he'd just received a call too, this one from Israel's foreign minister. We are to back off Selome Nagast or face serious consequences. She's one of theirs, operating in the United States on a mission--get this--'not detrimental to America and therefore none of our concern.' The guy told us to piss off in our own back-yard. He said by investigating her mission, we are jeopardizing our close alliance with his nation."

"What the hell is going on here, Dick?"

"You tell me," Henna shot back. "I thought this would be a routine inquiry, and the next thing I know, I've got shit coming down on me faster than I can shovel. What do you think?"

Mercer thought for a moment, paying little attention to the ambulances and police vehicles around them. "I didn't trust her from the beginning. I thought there was something dirty about her--Prescott Hyde, too, for that matter--but this is unbelievable.""Why can't you be like the rest of my friends?" Henna wasn't upset, but he was serious. "When they call up for a favor, it's usually to help paint their garage or put together a gas grill. With you, it always has to be something else, doesn't it? And it gets worse every time. Harry's kidnapping has turned into a bloodbath. What is it about you?"

"Lucky, I guess. What'd you find at Harry's?"

"Too early to tell. The team went to his place just as I was heading for the airport. What can you tell me about the night Harry was grabbed? It'll help sift through the evidence the forensic team picks up."

"There's nothing I can tell you that would help. It was a night like any other. We were drinking at Tiny's until Selome arrived. We had a couple more after she left, then Harry took off and I headed home too."

"I guess there's nothing we can do unless we can track that plane." Henna rested an arm on the Jag's open door as Mercer finally swung into his car. "Except wait for the forensics reports."

"When do you think you'll have something from Harry's apartment?"

"A couple hours for a preliminary, I'd think," Henna replied, watching his friend critically. "After this mess, I won't be going to California, so why don't you come over to my place tonight and we'll go over it? We'll have a couple of drinks."

"I know what you're trying to do and I appreciate the gesture, but don't bother. I've got too much work. I know my limitations better than anyone." Mercer fired up the Jag's throaty V-12. "When I reach the end of my rope, I'll stop."

"I just hope the end of your rope isn't a noose, you crazy son of a bitch," Henna muttered at the receding car.

Venice, Italy

Giancarlo Gianelli brooded with his back to the windows in the spacious drawing room of his ancestral home located on the Grand Canal. The windows--huge floor-to-ceiling affairs of leaded glass and wrought iron--were over three hundred years old, made at a time when the glassmaker's art was still being perfected. There was a blister in each of the eight hundred individual panes where the blower's pipe had once been inserted into the molten glass. The sunlight streaming through them cast a grid shadow on the floor that matched its checker pattern of beige and rose carrera marble.

The room's furniture were all antiques, each piece exceptional in its own right but coming alive when blended with the rest of the surroundings. It was a room of extraordinary wealth and was only one of forty-three in the home. Gianelli, too, looked as if he were a furnishing for the house, an elegant addition placed just so. His sports coat had been custom made in Milan, his shirt of Egyptian cotton, and his tie had been given to him personally by the late Gianni Versace. He was the epitome of an Italian merchant prince, comparable with the Renaissance Medicis.

Today, the planet was a small place. Anyone had global accessibility in just a few hours with jet aircraft or instantly with the telephone and the Internet. Thus the days when men with vision could generate wealth in direct accordance to the risk were all but gone. Only a few still retained the kind of independence to function without the constraints of obfuscating lawyers and miserly bankers. Giancarlo Gianelli was just such a person.

width="1em">"And then?"

"Well, Eritrea may be a small country when you look at it on a world map, but when you're exploring it on foot or from a vehicle, it's a big, rugged place."

"Are you any closer to getting a copy of the Medusa photographs?" Gianelli asked. "Those pictures are a sure way of narrowing our own search."

"No," the caller replied. "I explained to you before. Hyde never lets them out of his sight. I've already checked the National Reconnaissance Office's archives, and there was only that one set created, something to do with the material they are made from being impossible to photocopy or scan." He paused. "I'm sorry."

"Will Hyde give them to Mercer?"

"I believe so, yes. But he doesn't have them now. Hyde won't turn them over until Mercer is ready to leave."

"Hyde's reason being security?"

"Or paranoia."

"We should be able to get those photos from Mercer once he's in Eritrea." Gianelli was speaking more for his benefit than his listener's and realized that this discussion went beyond the caller's need to know. He changed tack. "When is Selome Nagast going back to Asmara? Will she be with Mercer?"

"I don't know yet. I'd guess she'll be flying with Mercer. When I find out her travel plans, I'll let you know."

"Anything on your suspicions about her?"

"Nothing. But my intuition tells me that there is more to her than she's saying."

"Your intuition also made you sell those pictures to Hyde for a fraction of what I would have paid," Giancarlo said acidly. "She'll be out of Washington in a few days. If there's anything to discover about her, I will handle it from this end. More than likely your instincts are picking up the fact she's sleeping with Hyde."

"It's possible, but I doubt it. He's a pig and she's a living goddess," Major Donald Rosen of the National Reconnaissance Office said.

"It doesn't matter. Just keep me informed. You may be able to atone for your earlier mistake." Gianelli hung up the phone.

So, he mused, Hyde has found his expert to dig in the desert for him. While it was a complication that Gianelli didn't particularly relish, it wasn't totally unexpected and he might be able to make it work for his own needs. He would have preferred getting the Medusa pictures from Major Rosen, but Hyde had beat him to them. Now he had to try and steal them from Mercer in Asmara. He thought about taking both Mercer and the pictures and using the American as his own prospector. Giancarlo currently had people scouring the Eritrean wastelands, but his teams certainly didn't have Mercer's expertise. Taking Mercer alive, however, wasn't the priority, the pictures were. He reached for the phone again to put into motion just such a plan, recalling how it had all started.

Eritrea had been an Italian colony starting at the end of the nineteenth century and had been the major staging point for their conquest of Ethiopia in 1935. That war had been particularly brutal, fought between a modern mechanized army on one side and horse soldiers on the other. The outcome was almost inevitable, especially after the League of Nations imposed an arms embargo on the region that Italy, with her own weapons manufacturers, including the Gianellis, totally ignored.

Soon after taking power and long before the war that preluded World War Two, Mussolin. Just keet about creating a modern nation in the hardscrabble desert. For decades there were fortunes made in Eritrea, and it happened that Gianelli's family made most of them. Such was their interest in Eritrea that Giancarlo's great-uncle, Enrico, had lived in a villa outside Asmara and ran much of the country as a virtual slave state.

Enrico was not as shrewd as his older brother, who ran the entire corporation, but he was a Gianelli and knew how to wring profits from every venture: plantations of fruit trees and coffee, timber, salt production, and the importation of amenities for Eritrea's growing Italian population. However, Enrico did have one interest outside the family's traditional spheres that he pursued vigorously. He was an amateur geologist and spent countless months casting about the countryside in search of raw minerals.

He'd convinced himself, and to a much lesser extent, his older brother, that there was gold in the mountains near the border with Sudan. Enrico spent a fortune digging into nearly every mountain that looked interesting. He kept poor records of his work, and most mines were abandoned and forgotten the day they proved barren. Frustrated, his elder brother finally ordered Enrico to stop wasting money and resources on his foolish hobby, but this j Frustrated the unclean work. "On the sanctity of your confession in the eyes of God, I will never again look at this book."

It now lay just inches from his hands, bathed in eerie moonlight. Ephraim knew he had to read it. A cold wind rattled the fragile windowpane and flickered the nearly spent candle sitting in a pool of its own wax. The weak flame cast bizarre shadows on the raw stone walls, familiar shapes in the room taking on ominous dimensions. He felt a chill run the length of his spine.

Why do you test me so, Lord? Am I to be like Job, forced to endure hardships so you can prove to Lucifer that man's love for you can not be corrupted? I fear that I am not strong enough. Is my test not to read this book? Is it Your will that these words are never again seen by the eyes of man? Or is your mission for me to read it and bring its truths to light?

The night wore on, Ephraim lighting another candle from the embers of the last, filling his room with fresh light. The moon tracked across the sky so that it no longer beamed onto the table but instead rested on the simple crucifix hanging over Ephraim's bed. He stared at the image intently, feeling His suffering on the cross, and for the first time in days, Ephraim felt a lightness in his chest. The answer to his dilemma was before him. Christ had died for our failures and to knowingly fail Him was sinful, but it was still to be forgiven, the deed condemned, not the man.

At almost the same instant he turned back to his desk and undid the book's clasp, Brother Dawit cried out in his sleep and died in his own room. But by the time Ephraim learned of this the following morning, he had read the book, and the death of the aged monk was no longer such a tremendous concern.

Somewhere over the Atlantic

Mercer sprawled across two first-class seats, his mouth agape and his jaw covered by a thin shadow of beard. His flight to Rome, Europe's only major hub with connecting flights to Asmara, had left early, so he'd shaved and showered the night before. He desperately needed to review his work and correlate his findings with the Medusa photographs Prescott Hyde had finally sent him, but his eyes had refused to stay open. He had purchased two adjoining seats, planning on using the extra space to spread the material, but best intentions are just that: intentions. He fell asleep even before the jetliner took off.

Mercer's sleep was troubled, and every once in a while a flight attendant would check on him as he muttered aloud in his dark dreams. There was a sheen of clammy sweat on his forehead. When he woke, his eyes were red-rimmed and gummy, and his mouth tasted awful. He looked around the quietly humming cabin, momentarily dazed, trying to clear the cobwebs of sleep from his brain. He was thankful to be released from his nightmares, but a thought had come to him in his sleep, something buried deep in his mind that vanished when he came awake. Once again he thought there was an inconsistency somewhere, something either Hyde or Selome or the kidnappers had said that didn't make sense. Something, but he didn't know what. Damn.

He caught the attention of a stewardess and ordered two black coffees and a glass of orange juice. They were waiting for him when he returned from the rest room, where he'd cleaned himself up. Selome Nagast was waiting for him as well, an enigmatic smile on her face.

"I hope you don't mind?" She batted her eyes playfully. "I don't have your expense account to enjoy myself with. I'm sitting in the back with the rest of the sardines, and I knew from Bill that you have two first-ting to pull us apart. Religion will be the curse of Eritrea, not the tribalism that has torn apart a lot of other African nations. But the outcome will be the same. Devastation.

"Muslims and Christians are already rattling their sabers from church and mosque alike, calling for the elimination of the other. Sudan's Muslim government isn't helping, exporting their version of fanaticism. Bandits raid us constantly, killing those who don't believe in Allah. Have you ever been to the Sudan?"

"No."

"Pray you never go. I've been to the refugee camps a number of times. In fact, I was on the trip where those photographs Bill Hyde showed you were taken."

Mercer winced, remembering.

"When we finally ousted the Ethiopians, they practiced a scorched-earth policy during their retreat," Selome explained. "They burned villages, destroyed roads and bridges and irrigation dams. They even cut down nearly every tree in the country in an effort to demoralize us. The trees lining the streets in Asmara are the tallest in Eritrea because all others were hauled back to Ethiopia. No matter how bad off we were when the Ethiopians withdrew, it is nothing compared to the ruin found in the Sudan. There are roving bands of guerrillas, terrorizing everyone, some allied to the government, others to the Sudan People's Liberation Army, and still others that are just mercenaries looking to capitalize on the bloodshed. Slavery is rampant and some say government sanctioned."

"What's the reason for their war?"

"Religion. The government in Khartoum is Islamic and has made life unbearable for those in the south who are mostly Christian and animists. If this war is allowed to spread, we will see the same thing in Eritrea. And you are the key for preventing this from happening. It's an old axiom that hatred is the fuel of the hopeless and peace the progeny of the satisfied."

Watching her face, Mercer felt confident that Selome Nagast's loyalties lay in her native Eritrea. He didn't doubt that she also worked for the Israeli secret police, but for this mission her only goal was the welfare of her people in Africa. Knowing this peeled away only one layer of complication, however. He felt there were still depths here that he didn't know.

Before leaving home, Mercer had spoken extensively with Dick Henna about the preliminary findings of Harry's abduction. The private jet that had spirited him out of Washington had been chartered by a corporation in Delaware, but the company was just a post office box, a front. They had been unable to track the fleeing Gulfstream except for a report that it was seen flying over Maryland's eastern shore low enough to burn leaves off trees. They also had a sighting in Liberia, where it landed to refuel before continuing east. The plane's final destination was Lebanon. A CIA agent arrived at the airport in Beruit just in time to see an older man bundled into a van and taken away. He'd lost the vehicle in traffic near the city's Christian Quarter.

A Mideastern connection was further confirmed by Harry's few neighbors who had heard the abduction. The language they described spoken by the kidnappers sounded like Arabic. The only neighbor to see anything reported that the four men all wore black coats and jeans and had dark complexions and dark hair.

All this matched with what Mercer and Henna had seen at the airport. Henna still didn't have any identification of the one kidnapper's body, but he assured it was only a matter of timev width="1em">His need for a drink was an overpowering craving that was driving his mind beyond the realm of sanity.

He used the blanket not only to ward off the chills, but also to protect him from the flying monkeys that circled the room with the maddening persistence of hornets. He knew they were a DT-created hallucination, but they were terrifying nevertheless.

He'd seen the first one only an hour after waking and had called out in horror. The rational part of his mind told him it wasn't real, but he was too weak to prevent its wheeling attack. A guard had come to check on him, a red and white kefflaya headdress covering his features. As Harry cowered, the man determined that nothing was wrong and left. The monkey clung to the wall near where it joined the ceiling and winked.

Two more appeared to terrorize him. They flew at him without mercy, breaking off their aerial charges just inches from his face. He could feel the air move from their swift passage, and their unearthly screeches were like nails drawn across a chalkboard. They would swoop by briefly and then land on the walls, their sharp little claws digging into the stone.

None of the monkeys had touched him yet, but it was only a matter of time.

"There's no place like Tiny's," he moaned aloud, praying the invocation would transport him away from here.

After three long hours his hallucinations ended, and Harry fell into a nightmarish sleep more haunting than his periods of wakefulness. Demons more cunning than the monkeys were after him, chasing him down an endless hallway. They carried bottles of Jack Daniel's, which they tried to pass to him like relay runners, but the bottles slipped out of Harry's hands.

When he woke, his mind had cleared some. A breakfast tray lay on the floor near the bed, the coffee still steaming. His stomach was too knotted to eat the fruit or the jam-smeared bread, but he drank the coffee quickly. And then his lungs reminded him that he'd smoked a couple packs a day for the past six decades and he wanted a cigarette. Needed one.

"For the love of God, you sadistic sons of bitches, give me a smoke," he yelled.

The guard appeared again, and Harry repeated his request with a little more civility, shouting just a few decibels quieter. The guard didn't seem to understand the words, so the octogenarian pantomimed smoking a cigarette. With a sympathy known by smokers the world over, the guard pulled a half-empty pack from his pocket and tossed them on the floor with a book of matches.

"How about some booze, you bastard," Harry said halfheartedly as he scooped up the rumpled pack. The splint made it difficult to light one of the cigarettes, and it took him several tries.

As the nicotine coursed through his system, he looked at the monkey that had appeared on the wall again, its teeth bared in an aggressive display.

"Screw you, too," Harry said to the apparition, a filterless cigarette hanging from his lips. He knew from experience that the DTs would pass quickly and the monkeys wouldn't bother him much longer.

He sat back on the bed, keeping one eye on the monkey just in case, and massaged his injured hand. He didn't know where he was or who had grabbed him, or even why. He hadn't seen the guard's face, but the colorful headdress made him pretty sure they were Arabs and that his abduction involved Mercer and his search for the diamond vent.

"No, not really," Morrison admitted. "The bird hadn't been calibrated when we lost her. The pics looked like a bunch of junk to our people."

"Well, they're not junk to the group who perpetrated that attack at Dulles."

"We need to get that material back. Not only is it highly classified, but it's also evidence," Baines said.

"No. What we need to do is haul in Prescott Hyde, I mean today, right now and then let Mercer figure out just what the hell is going on."

"Dick, we can help Eritrea later. Dig up the diamonds in a few months or something. We have to get those pictures back." Morrison's voice was backed with every ounce of command in his body but Henna didn't even blink.

"Tom, if you want to pick up Hyde on your own authority and have this make the six o'clock news tonight, be my guest. But if you want the help of this office, then we do it my way."

A tense minute passed, the gleaming pendulum of the wall clock knifing through the time, carving the seconds away.

"All right," Morrison relented. "If we do it your way, what happens now?"

"I get an arrest warrant from Justice and we all go over to pay Hyde the worst visit of his life."

Morrison looked over at the still quiet Baines. "What do you think, counselor?"

"Once we have Hyde, we can send someone to Africa to get the photographs from the man Mercer."

"Ass covering, Tom?"

"Mine's on the line. Goddamn right I'm going to cover it. Let's get it over with."

Henna rode with Morrison in the back of a Bureau car, Baines sitting in the front with the driver. Three other dark sedans followed them in convoy as they headed toward Fairfax, Virginia. Before leaving FBI headquarters, Henna phoned Hyde's office and determined the undersecretary wasn't at work and hadn't shown up all morning. He then called Hyde's home but the line was disconnected. Fearing that Hyde had already fled, Henna fast-tracked a warrant through the Justice Department and put together a small team to make the arrest.

As they drove, he sorted details in his head, mentally writing items on note cards and shuffling them randomly, searching for patterns. It was an old trick that served him well. On the first card was Rosen with the stolen Medusa photographs followed by their purchase by Hyde. After that, everything could fit together any number of ways. He wondered if, after Rosen sold them, he was approached by a group in Europe who also wanted them, someone from the Balkans, for example. It was possible that Harry's neighbors heard one of those languages and not Arabic. When Mercer refused Hyde's offer, the terrorists had kidnapped Harry to force him to go to Africa to find the diamonds for them. From security briefings, Henna knew that Iran supported Muslim groups in Albania and Serbia and also had ties to the factions in Beruit. The tie-in was circumstantial at best, but it was a good lead.

That still left Hyde and his motivation. Money was the most obvious answer. He was using his position at the State Department to deal himself in on any potential wealth, Henna thought. He bought the pictures himself, then hired Mercer for the expedition. But where, Henna eftalized Israel, through Selome Nagast, was footing the bill. Hyde paid for the photographs and they were paying for everything else. The reasons were obvious when he considered the Iranian connection. Israel was trying to prevent some terrorist group from securing a new font of untraceable wealth, an unknown diamond mine.

He was thinking about his upcoming interview with Hyde and knew he could use any information he got from the undersecretary to get the Mossad to open up about their operation. He'd always felt that America's security arrangement with the Jewish state was too one-sided. This was a perfect opportunity to level the playing field.

Henna's first inkling of a disaster in the making came in the form of a police siren's rising Doppler screaming behind the convoy. An instant later, a cruiser rocketed passed the FBI vehicles in a bejeweled blur, its bubble lights flashing sapphire and ruby. They were on the Little River Turn-pike, just beyond the Beltway, and the police car raced through traffic lights with little more than a tap on its brakes. Another siren was approaching fast.

Because of traffic, it took them a further twenty minutes to get to the residential neighborhood where Hyde had his home. It was an affluent subdivision, each four- and five-bedroom house built on more than an acre of land with plenty of old trees to shield neighbor from neighbor. The newly macadamed streets were spotlessly clean, and the telephone poles had yet to darken with the patina of age.

The closer they got to Hyde's street, the darker the sky became and the thicker became the awful stench of burned wood and melted plastic.

Beginning ten houses from Hyde's, the street looked like a riot scene. The police had established a cordon behind which the curious gathered anxiously. Henna's credentials got him through with only a moment's delay and they drove on, the car weaving around police cruisers, fire engines, and idling ambulances in a slow slalom. When the breeze tugged at the clouds of smoke, they could see the bright inferno that had been Prescott Hyde's slice of the good life.

Henna's self-satisfaction disappeared. He was no arson specialist, but he knew enough to realize that an accelerant, no doubt gasoline, had been used to start the fire and was still burning. Hyde's house would have been soaked through to create a conflagration of this size. Given the number of emergency vehicles on the scene, the fire must have been called in half an hour ago or earlier.

The driver eased the sedan to a stop two hundred feet from the fire, close enough for them to feel the heat from the blaze as they stepped from the vehicle. Even as Henna watched, a section of roof collapsed into the churning guts of the building, sending up a fireworks display of popping sparks and burning bits of paper and fabric. The air was laced with the petrochemical stench of melting roof shingles, making Henna close his eyes when the wind shifted into his face. Two pumper trucks siphoned water from separate hydrants and showered the house with ballooning arcs, but still the place burned. Heat washed off the building in visible waves.

The structure was a total loss. The siding had burned through in places to reveal the skeletal fingers of the house's framing. On the far side of the house had stood a chimney, but all that remained was a seven-foot stump. The rest of it lay across the charred lawn in an elongated pile of debris.

Henna saw his theories burning in the fire. Without Hyde, there was no case and all the theorizing in the world wouldn't change that fact. He had no doubt that when the house cooled, they would ht inf said as she and Mercer took seats. "They had you as a standby passenger for coach. You might have been bumped from the flight if I hadn't checked you in. I doubt that witch at the counter"-- she tossed her head--"was going to tell you until you tried to board the plane."

"You sound like you're not coming with me."

Selome nodded, her hair cascading over her face. She tamed it with a flick of her wrist. "I've got a meeting in London tomorrow. I'll meet up with you in Asmara the day after. I never asked--where are you staying?"

Mercer took this news in stride. "The Hotel Ambassoira."

"Good choice, one of our country's finest. But don't expect too much," she cautioned. "The Ambasoira was built during the occupation."

"Ethiopia's?"

"No, Italy's. The hotel dates back to the twenties," she grinned. "And unless you're a masochist, avoid their coffee, and never take the plumbing for granted. I believe that Habte Makkonen is going to meet you at the airport. I don't know him, but I'm sure you'll be fine."

She slung her bag over her shoulder and stood, extending her hand to Mercer. He felt he was being dismissed. The rapport they had built during the transatlantic flight was gone, replaced by a brusque professionalism he hadn't seen from her before.

"Well then," Mercer stood formally. "I guess I'll see you in a couple of days."

Unexpectedly, Selome stepped close to him and kissed him on the cheek. "Don't think this was my idea. I'll see you at the Ambasoira the day after next." She was gone in a flash.

"Not if I don't see you first," Mercer said under his breath, his gray eyes hardening as he watched her cut a swath through the terminal. He returned to the same agent at the ticket counter.

"I'm terribly sorry about all that." His smile was disarming as he laid his ticket on the counter. "I'm afraid there was a slight language problem. I called the airline this morning to say that I wanted to take a later flight and I'm afraid my traveling partner didn't understand. I want to be on tonight's flight which, I believe arrives at 9:00 P.M. local time."

In fact, Mercer had been booked on this flight, but had changed his reservations with a call from the Air Italia plane when Selome had gone to the rest room. He'd had a lingering suspicion that she might ditch him once they got to Rome and he needed the time to track her movements. He had an idea where she was really going. Just because he believed her motivation didn't necessarily mean he believed her.

"I understand." The agent pouted, enjoying a singular female delight in the discredit of another. "These sorts of things happen all the time." Her nails clicked on the computer keys for a moment before handing Mercer a new ticket. "There you are, tonight's flight, departing at 7:20 and arriving at 9:15 P.M. I even managed to get you a first-class upgrade at no additional cost. Our night flight isn't nearly as booked as this afternoon's."

"Thank you so much," Mercer said. "One more question. Where does El Al have their waiting area?"

"At the end of this concourse, to your right, I believe."

Mercer thanked her again and took off down the hallis destination, he slowed, blending in with the crowd so that he walked past the El Al waiting room shielded by a half-dozen people. He scanned the room once and then looked again. Selome wasn't there! A flight was boarding and Mercer cursed himself for being too late, but then saw the flight's destination was Lisbon. He was sure she wasn't going to Portugal.

He continued down the corridor until he came to a cluster of television monitors. Directing his attention at the ones displaying departures, he saw that El Al had a flight to Tel Aviv's Ben Gurion Airport in ninety minutes. He spent the time in a crowded, smoky bar at the other end of the terminal, as far from the El Al departure lounge as possible, in case Selome was waiting in a similar fashion. The two gimlets he drank cost twelve dollars each and he was thankful that European bartenders didn't expect tips because he wasn't in the mood to show his gratitude.

He wasn't really in the mood for the drinks either, but he needed something to dilute the bitterness that scalded the back of his throat. He'd been lied to by some of the best, but Selome Nagast was world-class. He had fallen for her story from the moment she sat next to him on the plane, and all along he should have known it was a setup.

"Bitch," he muttered, more angry at himself than at her. He grabbed his two cases and started back down the concourse.

If he couldn't trust Selome or Prescott "Call me Bill" Hyde, he was totally alone. For all he knew, the man sent to meet him in Africa, Habte Makkonen, was being paid to put a knife between his ribs at the arrival gate.

Nearing the departure area again, Mercer studied the crowd. Selome sat with her back to him, her face in a one-quarter profile, looking out the windows at the white and blue jetliner waiting to take her to Israel and her shadowy masters. Knowing that his earliest suspicions were correct deepened his black mood. He took up a position where he could watch her while shielded from her view.

He considered the connection between Harry's abduction by Beruit-linked terrorists with an Israeli agent trying to gain his trust. Mercer knew the Israelis were interested in all aspects of terrorism that might affect their country, but how did Harry--and for that matter, himself--fit into the mix? Whatever the relation, he knew the consequences were potentially deadly. In the Middle East, being caught between Arab and Israeli could be a death sentence. When threatened, both sides tended to shoot first and apologize for the innocents caught in the cross fire later. If ever.

How did a generations-long war between Muslim and Jew affect what he was trying to accomplish in Eritrea? he wondered. There was the possibility of billions of dollars if he could find a diamond-bearing pipe, but how could Israel or a Muslim extremist group benefit from such wealth when it was located a thousand miles away from the Mideast? His answer slipped away with Selome as she walked down the embarkation tunnel.

Mercer jerked his head upward at a ceiling-mounted speaker when he thought he heard his name. The message was repeated, translated from Italian to English in the same female monotone. "Passenger Dr. Philip Mercer, please pick up a white phone for a message."

There was a bank of phones a few paces away.

"This is Philip Mercer."

"Uno momento, per favore." A male voice came on the line, one that Mercer didn't recognize. "We have some things to discuss, Dr. Mercer. Some items that if not addressed now will mean an increased level of discomfort for a friend of yours."

Oh, Jesus! His stomach tightened, and an adrenal surge made his limbs tingle. "Is Harry okay?"

"What happened at Dulles will not go unpunished, but you will not suffer the consequences. Harry White will pay. Consider that I'm not going to kill him outright as your final warning. If you make any attempt to find him or assault us, he will die more horribly than you can imagine."

Th call had come just seconds after Selome had left the waiting area, Mercer realized, and that couldn't be a coincidence. Two ideas sprang to his mind. Harry's kidnappers didn't want Selome to know that j4roken or severely dislocated. Several women screamed. Habte took advantage of the confusion, twisting so he was in range of another of the shifta, still keeping himself away from the armed leader. He let his wristwatch slide down to his hand so its face stretched across his knuckles, then pounded it into the Sudanese's face. Three rapid blows dropped the man, his mouth and cheeks bloodied and deeply scarred by the watch's sharp bezel.

The two Eritrean soldiers guarding the arrivals lounge came alive, shouting over the din and racing across the room, weapons held low to better push aside the people who were in their way. Mercer came through the gate oblivious to the tumult. Before the shifta leader could react, Habte grabbed Mercer by the wrist. A shot rang out, a concussive explosion that echoed painfully. Towing his charge, Habte ducked and dashed out the doors of the terminal. He owned a Fiat sedan and Mercer was just barely in the rear passenger seat when Habte gunned the engine, kicking up twin spirals of dust from the unpaved road.

"Welcome to Eritrea, Dr. Mercer. My name is Habte Makkonen," Habte said, relieved and amazed to be away from the airport. It would take hours for the authorities to sort out what had just happened if they even bothered to try.

"Je ne comprend pas. Je m'appelle Claude Quesnel." Habte's passenger was near hysterics as he spoke in rapid-fire French. "Qu'est-ce que se passe maintenant? Et qui est Docteur Mercier?"

Rome, Italy

The dark rain came in wind-driven sheets that shrouded a set of warehouses near the airport. It pelted the metal roofs and sides of the huge buildings like hail, so loudly that even the shriek of distant jets was reduced to a background whine. The air was cold, too cold for April. The storm had come in from the north, an unusual phenomenon, ripping the icy layer of air off the Alps like a katabatic wind so that sleet mixed with the rain. The weather made the hour around midnight particularly black and ominous.

The warehouses were owned by one of Giancarlo Gianelli's many companies, as was the limousine that glided to one of them. They were bonded buildings, meaning the warehouses' contents had already passed customs and were thus to be kept secure. Customs officials guarded the warehouses, as they did similar trans-shipment points all over Europe and abroad, but the right amount of lire in the right pockets ensured laxity in tonight's vigil.

Diesel trucks were lined up outside the building, many with trailers ready for loading. In the darkness, they looked like prehistoric beasts slumbering through the night. The multiple warehouse doors were designed to admit the behemoths, gaping holes that could be opened with a signal from a transmitter. The guard riding in the Mercedes' front seat held such a device and one door clattered upward.

Only when the door was closed again did the driver step from the vehicle and open the rear door for his important charge. As if choreographed, the instant Gianelli's feet touched the floor, a hundred lights snapped on. They buzzed for a moment before coming to full illumination, bathing the warehouse in harsh white light.

Gianelli straightened the drape of his floor-length overcoat, making certain that the four-thousand-dollar garment did not touch the oily stains on the concrete. His suit underneath cost an equal amount. Despite his rough surroundings, Gianelli looked as ng the walls of the warehouse and creating parallel aisles just wide enough to maneuver one of the yellow forklifts parked near the loading doors. The packing crates ran all the way to the back of the warehouse. In one section, special containers designed to maximize cargo space aboard commercial air freighters waited to be loaded or unloaded. The building smelled of the storm raging outside, of machinery, and of the hundreds of men who usually worked here.

Gianelli idly scanned the pallet of boxes nearest him, reading the listed manifest in its protective plastic sheath. Within one crate were twenty million doses of anti-malaria medication destined for the Congo. Gianelli smiled tightly as he looked at the stack of identical boxes. He'd not known this particular pallet would be nearest him and took its presence as a good omen. There actually were pills within the cases, hermetically sealed in white plastic containers ready for distribution by the medical authorities of one of Africa's most populous nations. He recalled that there were even some active ingredients in the tablets but just enough to pass an inspection if the Africans ever bothered to check. However, most of the medication was composed of inert material. The pills were worthless.

Gianelli was selling twenty thousand dollars' worth of placebos for an even million, and he knew there were twenty identical loads ready for shipment. Twenty million dollars of profit and the only victims of his swindle were a bunch of ignorant blacks who, if given the real medicine, would die of something else anyway. Gianelli was new to the counterfeit medication trade, but he was quickly working his way to its forefront.

An area beyond the first rows of shipping containers had been specifically cleared of crates for the night. In the open space, two of the powerful forklifts were parked so closely their steel tines overlapped like meshed fingers. Several men were standing near them, obviously waiting for Gianelli's arrival. Between the forklifts was the Sundanese terrorist who had fired the murderous volley in the terminal earlier in the day. He had been stripped naked, his bare chest glistening with sweat despite the frigid air. It was the sweat of mortal fear. Heavy cables secured his feet to one set of forks while more wire under his arms tied him to the other.

Gianelli moved into the circle of men with a bored expression, loath to be bothered with such a trivial task. Without preamble, he gestured to one of his henchmen, and the man hoisted a camcorder to his eye and began videoing first the Sudanese guerrilla and then Giancarlo.

With the camera on him, Gianelli began speaking, his tone as uninterested as his demeanor. "Over the past years we have had a very successful business association, and you have been well paid for your services, enough so that your revolutionary movement is beginning to enjoy success in overthrowing the government of Sudan." He was speaking to the man standing before him, but the words were meant for whoever listened to the tape. "Until today you have done well by me. This afternoon's disaster though, forces me to remind you who is in charge of this operation. This fool in front of me was supposed to keep Philip Mercer under observation and determine if he was being followed or contacted. Firing an automatic weapon in a crowded airport was not part of my instructions. We'll never know who contacted Mercer because of you, not to mention that your actions could have cost Mercer his life."

Gianelli's voice suddenly exploded. "You stupid fucking monkey. We may miss Mercer in Asmara because he was delayed here by your action. Security has been tightened in Eritrea, making a snatch when he lands impossible. I won'ome reached Yosef a full day after the machine-gun attack because the team had been on the move during the night, traveling with their prisoner from their previous location in Lebanon to a more secure site. They were now ensconced in an urban safe house near the bustling city center, but cut off from it by the house's ancient stone walls. The house was attached to its neighbors in the time-honored way of Middle Eastern cities, yet it had been vacant for several years.

The neighborhood was full of those sympathetic to their cause and would not report that the previously unoccupied house suddenly had ten people inhabiting it, eleven if one knew about Harry White held captive in the windowless cellar. This location did afford more amenities, but it was still much too dangerous to use for the remainder of their mission. Discovery by the police or special investigative services would mean either a shoot-out or execution after a quick, one-sided military trial. Apart from everything else, Yosef also had to consider the team's next relocation, no more than a week away if he wanted to maintain the hard-and-fast rule about safe houses.

Yosef betrayed no reaction when he'd learned of the death of his nephew. But the few team members who'd worked with him before knew he was taking the killing very badly. He had a new hardness, a new layer of armor that shielded him from the loss and continuing pain of his life's work.

Several of the team sat at the dining room table with pitchers of water and carafes of rich coffee. It was morning, the first minutes they had been able to relax. The remainder of the group were either on sleep rotation or out purchasing supplies. The dining room was heavy with both quiet grief and the coolness of the morning that soaked through the plastered walls.

Yosef had never used this particular safe house, but it was like so many others he had slept in, worked in, and killed in before. He had willingly given up his life to live like this, and while he felt no regrets for that decision, its toll was becoming too heavy. Losing Ibriham could very well be the last blow he would take.

No one at the table had spoken. Each was waiting for Yosef, the team's new leader, to take up his mantle of command. He remained silent, inhaling cigarettes until the small astray before his chair brimmed. This morning had aged him a further ten years.

"What is the state of our prisoner?" Yosef finally asked, avoiding the real issue by addressing other details first.

"Settled as well as can be expected," one of the team replied. "He's much quieter and more cooperative since we started giving him cigarettes."

"His injuries?"

"For an old man, he heals remarkably well. His hand's doing fine." This from a nurse who had been with the organization for a year.

Yosef lit another cigarette, watching the blue-gray smoke coil to the wood beams that trussed the high ceiling. He didn't bother to blink away the smoke that scalded his eyes. The inquiring stares of his people galled to the point where he wanted to escape the room, the house, the entire organization. But not before Philip Mercer paid for his nephew's death.

He forced himself from his reverie. "There is no point in going over what has happened. We all know that Ibriham is dead and this places me in command. It's a job I don't want, but that doesn't matter." If they wanted a morale-boosting speech, they could get it elsewhere, he thought. "We will continue as before. The only so, when this operation's done, I want our prisoner executed and I personally will deal with the American."

The most junior member of the group spoke. "I am not questioning you, Yosef, but aggravating the situation with two more deaths won't help our cause. According to our information, Mercer had nothing to do with Ibriham's murder. Killing him will only draw more attention to our presence."

Again nothing showed on Yosef's face, but his voice was deadly. "Killing Mercer has nothing to do with our cause. It's a personal matter. And no one will be aware of it. Eritrea's a big country, full of danger. One more corpse buried in the desert will make no difference."

He looked around the table to see if anyone else would question his decision, but none would meet his gaze. He had to keep the team focused for just a few more weeks, until the election. After that, he no longer cared what happened to them or himself, or God forbid, Israel.

Yosef thought back to the murder of his niece, Ibriham's cousin, so many years ago. She'd been shot by an Israeli soldier who was so shaken by the accident that he'd been unable to return to active service. Ibriham had taken her death particularly hard, and Yosef had feared that he would join a Palestinian splinter group to reap his revenge. But days later, a bomb at a bus stop in Tel Aviv had killed eleven Israelis. Television reports showed cheering crowds of students in Gaza celebrating the martyrdom of the suicide bomber. That evening, Ibriham approached his uncle and asked to join him in the Mossad. Ibriham had been so impressed by the compassion the soldier had shown following the fatal shooting and so sickened by the crowds that the internal conflict that had torn him since childhood had cleared. He had said he was a Jew first and foremost and wanted to be like his uncle, dedicated to the preservation of the Jewish homeland.

From that time, Ibriham's uncertainty gave way to a zeal that forced him to work tirelessly within the ranks of the Mossad. In just a couple of years, he'd topped the list of field operatives. This brought him to the attention of Israel's current defense minister Chaim Levine, who was forming a secret team from within the ranks of Israel's military and intelligence community for a shadowy program of his own. Ibriham quickly accepted Levine's offer to join and eventually lead his cadre in pursuit of the minister's dream. It had been Levine who drew Ibriham in, but now the responsibility fell on Yosef's shoulders. The team watched him quietly.

"I know what you're thinking: the old man has gone mad. You think I might jeopardize the mission with a vendetta against a man who's actually helping us. I assure you, nothing will happen to Mercer until after he discovers the mine and we retrieve what we lost so long ago." Yosef paused to fill a glass with water. "Ibriham's death has been a devastating blow, not only to me personally, but also to you. But it doesn't mean that we're going to stop. In just a few weeks, if we are successful, we'll rejuvenate our nation and will lay the foundation to ensure that never again will Jews feel that we do not have a rightful place on this planet.

"It's true we have our land, bought with blood and defended with yet more. But since the founding of our state, we have lacked a soul. We've existed, lived, and died but never have we truly felt our place. Many thought taking Jerusalem in 1967 would give us that soul--the Western Wall, for generations known as the Wailing Wall because it stood inside Jordan's borders. It was the wall built by King David himself when he erected the Temple. It's a tangible piece of whstone blocks that sits in the shadow of a mosque. I have been to the wall just once, back in '67, as a soldier. I had killed to take those slabs of rock, killed joyfully. Since then, I find the area an abomination. There are more tourists there gawking than Jews praying. It sickens me.

"I fought and killed and nearly got killed for a symbol. The Western Wall was a first step but it was never meant to be the end of what we wanted to achieve in our promised land. It wasn't until the Scud missiles slammed into Jerusalem and Tel Aviv during the Gulf War that a select group remembered that there was more work before Israel was complete.

"In a few weeks Defense Minister Chaim Levine will be Prime Minister. He's going to nullify the peace accords and outlaw the PLO again. He'll close our borders to the West Bank and Gaza, keeping the hordes in the slums they themselves have created. There will be no more suicide bombers because when he's finished with the Palestinians, any of them willing to die for their cause will already be dead. In a short time, the Third Temple will rise on the foundation of its predecessors, and it will be the sacred heart of Jewry. It's our mission to see that when the Temple is complete, God's words will reside within its walls. That is our covenant with Him.

"Ibrihaency.

Harry looked at the teenager with the gun in his hand, and if he felt intimidated by the weapon, his attitude didn't show it. He recognized him from the earlier cell and took the fact that the guard's face was now uncovered as a very bad sign. "How about some food, you bastard. I haven't eaten in days."

In fact, it had been less than twelve hours but without natural light, Harry White's circadian clock was fouled. Moshe looked at Harry blankly.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Harry nearly shouted. "You know, food. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, I don't give a shit." He pantomimed eating.

"You want to eat?" Having been born in Israel, English for Moshe was a second language and a particularly difficult one at that.

"Fucking camel jockey. Yes, I want to eat." Harry sat up. He had taken off his prosthetic leg and Moshe stared morbidly at the empty trouser cuff that dangled off the bed. "And how about some hooch while you're at it? My hand is killing me."

Again Moshe stared without comprehension.

"You know, booze, swill, liquor, alcohol. Nectar of the gods, man! Bourbon, gin, vodka, scotch. Hell, I'd give anything for a Pink Lady right now." Harry was getting nowhere and knew it. He lay back onto the bed, cradling his head in the cup of his hands for there was no pillow. "Ah, forget it. I may not know much, but I know Allah forbids you bastards from enjoying life's last pleasure so just piss off."

Moshe turned to go, but Harry stopped him with a shout. "But don't forget some food, you stupid son of a bitch."

Once again Harry was alone. There was a finality to the bolt slamming home that echoed. He heaved himself back up again, recovering his fake leg from under the bed and strapping it back into place under his pants.

They had drugged him late that night--that he did remember. Three men held him down while a woman slid a hypodermic needle into his arm. Of the trip to this new place, he recalled nothing. The room wasn't any better or worse than his last cell except for the blessed relief that the DTs had not followed him. He had wakened, slowly, fearfully, but after twenty minutes realized that the flying monkeys weren't going to bother him again. What a nightmare that had been.

As far as Harry was concerned, they could take detox and shove it up their collective camel-riding asses. He had spent the best part of forty years avoiding sobriety, and he wasn't appreciative when it was forced down his throat. Apart from getting over the DTs, he was thankful they had left him his clothes.

Even to him, the sight of a naked, eighty-year-old man with one leg was pretty depressing, especially trying to piss into the little pot they had given him. His hands shook more than he ever realized, throwing off an already notoriously bad aim. God, will Tiny get a kick out of this story when I tell him.

For ten minutes he lay still, thinking. He had an advantage, two really, that his kidnapers didn't know. One was that he didn't fear death. He was too old for that. If they expected him to remain submissive, they'd made a big mistake. Thirty years ago, he knew, he'd be blubbering like a baby, but not now. That, he thought, was the one great thing about age. No one could hold death over you any longer. The fear just wasn't there. His second e else on earth.

The last minutes of the flight seemed to be a battle between gravity and the pilot's desire to see his plane land where he intended. Even as the Boeing recovered from a last whimsical twist of wind, the aircraft lined up for its approach. The plane landed right-side heavy, stripping rubber from the starboard tires in a rancid puff of smoke before it settled onto an even keel, slamming the remaining tires to the earth with enough force to ensure they stayed.

Knowing he wouldn't be able to enjoy ice until leaving Africa because it carried the same microbes as the water tourists were invariably told to avoid, Mercer swallowed the last cubes from his drink. He tucked the empty glass in the expandable magazine pouch on the seat in front of him and stood with the rest of the passengers to await his turn to deplane.

Because of the gunfire in Rome the day before, da Vinci Airport had been temporarily closed, canceling last night's flight. Good to her word, the ticket agent had secured him a first-class seat on this morning's, which was the next available. He carried only the two matching briefcases. The remainder of his clothes and nearly four hundred pounds of essential equipment had been express-shipped to Asmara and was waiting for him at his hotel. He was through customs in a few minutes.

Mercer noticed security in the terminal was high. No less than ten soldiers watched those stepping through customs and the people waiting to greet them. He hadn't expected Habte Makkonen to meet him because of the delay, but a dusky youth leaning against one of the few cars outside the building approached as soon as Mercer exited.

"Dr. Mercer?"

"Yes." There was a wary edge to his voice. "Are you Habte?"

The boy grinned. "Habte's cousin. Habte wait for you at hotel. Much trouble yesterday. He tell you."

On guard but with little option, Mercer shrugged. "Let's go, then, Habte's cousin."

Three miles separated the airport from downtown, and the road was lined with a sprawling, ill-kept housing project built by the Chinese during the Ethiopian occupation. The air blowing into the car's open windows was dry and pleasantly cool, spiced with the desert scent and the cleanliness of a city without industry. Asmara itself, a city of half a million, was not what Mercer had expected.

It was spotless. Old women meandered the hilly streets with brooms and rickety wheelbarrows, cleaning any rubbish from the gutters. The architecture was mostly Italianesque and because the capital had been spared during the war, the buildings were in excellent repair. Few were over four stories. The tallest structure was the brick bell tower of the Catholic church. If he could ignore the distinctive dome of a mosque nearby and the darker skin of the people, Mercer felt as if he had been transported to a Tuscan village rather than the capital of one of Africa's poorest nations. Because there was little vehicular traffic, the roads had been turned over to a great many donkey carts.

Mercer kept one eye out for possible tails, but they made it to his hotel without incident. Mercer had images of a classical colonial structure with columns and gardens, much like the British had left dotted all over the globe. The Ambasoira, however, was only four stories tall and located in a residential neighborhood. The "best" hotel in Asmara was boxy and uninspiringd arrived. Then the young man led Mercer to the small bar in a back of the lobby, tucked behind the curving stairs leading up to the rooms. The alcove could seat no more than a dozen people, and Mercer counted only eight different types of liquor behind the bartender. A couple of European businessmen conferred at one table, and a lone Eritrean was seated at another. The local watched Mercer critically, as if weighing a decision, before he stood.

"Dr. Mercer, I am Habte Makkonen." Habte's handshake was brief but firm. "Welcome to Eritrea. I am sorry I could not meet you at the airport, but there was trouble yesterday and I could not risk being recognized."

"Your cousin mentioned something." Mercer noticed the young man had vanished. "Do you mind telling me what happened?"

Mercer had already decided to trust Habte. If the Eritrean wanted him dead, he could have easily been killed on his way to town and left for the wild dogs. The fact that they were having a conversation lent credibility to Habte's intentions. And on a deeper level, Mercer recognized a world-weary competence in the slim African that seemed to elevate him above the political machinations and dangers that Mercer had faced in Washington and Rome.

Habte Makkonen smoked through several cigarettes while recounting the fight at the airport. He had already learned that Claude Quesnel, a medical supply salesman from Paris, had left Asmara, taking the first flight out of the country early this morning. When Habte had finished, Mercer told him about the gunman in Rome and the kidnapping of Harry White.

"I think if they wanted you dead in Rome, you would not be here today," Habte deduced. "You did not see who shot the man in Italy, but I am sure that he was part of the same group responsible for the attempted kidnapping here in Asmara. They apparently are opposed to the people who captured your friend."

"I agree." Mercer rubbed the rough beard he hadn't had the chance to shave. "Who are they and what do they want?"

"They were no ordinary Sudanese rebels. They were too well dressed, too far out of their element, even for Asmara. And to operate like they did in Rome, they must have outside contacts and help. Perhaps they have been bought to act as mercenaries."

"Then, who's paying them?"

"That is something we will have to find out for ourselves."

"We don't have the time to play detective." There was an urgency to Mercer's voice. "If I'm to get Harry back, I need to be in the bush no later than Monday. That gives us only five weeks to find the kimberlite pipe."

"There is nothing I can add to what you know of the region in terms of its geology. I know of no diamonds ever found there. But I do know the area. I have buried many friends in those desert mountains during the war." A dark shadow passed behind Habte's eyes.

"We'll get to that in a minute." Mercer changed the subject. "Do you know Selome Nagast?"

"I know of her family. But I do not know her," Habte admitted. "They are wealthy by Eritrean standards, an old and honored family from here in Asmara. I only spoke with her on the phone when she hired me to be your guide."

"She's not who she appears to be. You should watch her carefully."

"Why is that?"

Mercer told the former freedom fighter about Selome's connection to Israel and Prescott Hyde and how she'd lied to him from the beginning."I'm still concerned about Ibriham's true assassin," Yosef said with hatred. White hadn't been harmed, but he liked to hear the pain in Mercer's voice thinking that he had.

"We'll find him," the other man replied, filled with the confidence of youth.

"That's not my concern. The gunman wasn't acting alone, and we don't know who was behind the murder. We also don't know their connection to Mercer and our own plans." Yosef sat back on his bed, his eyes focusing into middle distance. "It's inconceivable that anyone knows about us, our security is too tight. Yet Ibriham is dead, and we have a threat we've yet to identify."

"Is it possible we've been betrayed by our own people?" Yosef knew what the younger man was intimating, but he shook his head quickly. "No, it's too soon for Shin Bet or Mossad to learn that much of our operation. Informants have reported on Selome Nagast's meeting with her control in Israel. She hasn't made any move that leads me to believe she knows who we are."

His companion said nothing.

"She'll be here tomorrow anyway, totally cut off from her superiors. On her own, she can't pose a serious threat to us."

"She'll be with Mercer."

"As long as we hold Harry White, he's not a threat either." Yosef accepted one of the Desert Eagles from his partner, slipping it under his pillow for the night.

It was well past midnight when Mercer awoke. The room was cool and dark, but his body was bathed in sweat, his blankets and sheets twisted around him as if he'd been in the throes of a nightmare. In fact, for the first time since Harry had been taken, his sleep had been dream-free. And in the depths of unconsciousness an inconsistency that had been nagging him for days came clear. The realization jerked his mind so sharply he swung himself out of bed, his chest heaving.

Since the time he had been first approached by Prescott Hyde, Mercer had felt there were diamonds in Eritrea. Hyde had spoken of, and indeed the Medusa photographs showed, a kimberlite pipe in the northern wastelands, naturally formed millions of yeas ago. Selome, too, had talked about what the pipe's discovery would mean to her people. But not the kidnappers. The men who'd taken Harry talked about Mercer's search for a mine, something built by human hands, not the earth's fiery heart. On three separate occasions--the original tape of Harry left in his house, the call in Rome's airport, and tonight's call--they spoke as if they knew the pipe had once been discovered, opened, and actively worked. They weren't after an unknown kimberlite pipe; they wanted a long-forgotten mine. They knew the diamonds were there, and now so did Mercer.

The game had changed once again, he thought. He was still at a severe disadvantage, but knowing he was looking for an old excavation gave him his first spark of something he'd lost the moment he saw Harry's image on his VCR. Hope. He pushed aside his self-doubt, buried his self-recriminations. He was ready to face whatever might come.

Khartoum, Sudan

In Arabic, the name Sudan means "black," but those in control of the country were not black Africans but people of more Arabian descent. Millions had been slaughtered through warfare, disease, and famine to maintain the subjugation of Sudan's more ethnically African citizens in the south by their northern govern looking f/font>

Sudan was thus a perfect arena for Giancarlo Gianelli to add to his wealth by preying on the misfortunes of others.

People with the kind of money Gianelli had existed in a supra-national elite class who travelled on private jets, stayed in opulent villas or exclusive hotels, and rarely bothered with the formality of customs when abroad. Only moments after landing in Khartoum, he was whisked to a house he owned in the hills overlooking the city, an enclave reserved for Sudan's few wealthy citizens and the rulers of the military government. Though it was his least favorite city in the world, Gianelli did enough business in Khartoum to warrant the expense of a twenty-room house and a full-time staff of eighteen.

Gianelli's majordomo in Venice had alerted his African counterpart to prepare for the visit. The staff was lined up when the limo eased through the gate and up the long drive. The headlights flashed into their faces as the car swept under the covered portico, stopping so that the head butler could simply bend at the waist to open Gianelli's door.

"Grazie, Ali," Gianelli said to the majordomo. "How have you been?"

"Very well, sir," the elderly Sudanese replied gravely in Italian. "I was not told how long you would be here, sir. Should we prepare for an extended stay?"

"No, Ali, I won't be here long at all." Gianelli eyed his staff. Not recognizing two girls dressed neatly as maids, he asked Ali about them.

"I bought them about a month ago from a slaver selling off the last of his stock. They were expensive, but they have already been well trained," Ali said proudly.

Sudan was one of a handful of countries that maintained a slave trade. The practice was illegal but more than tolerated by the government. Slaves, usually young girls, were routinely captured during raids in the south by either the army or regular slavers and brought to Khartoum for the pleasures of the city's elite or sold off to Arab countries across the Red Sea. Ever open to possible business opportunities, Gianelli had considered entering the trade, but the big markets had already been exploited and he found it wouldn't be worth his time or effort to open up a new conduit to move girls from Sudan to the Middle East.

He turned his gaze away from the girls and addressed Ali again. "Has he arrived yet?"

"Your guest arrived an hour ago." Ali couldn't keep the contempt out of his voice. "He is in your study. There is a guard waiting with him to make sure he does not move."

Giancarlo chuckled at his man's foresight. He himself wouldn't leave Mahdi alone for a second. Gianelli entered the house, enjoying the sweet coolness provided by the air conditioners. The house was stucco on the outside, but much of the interior was marble, built in the Mediterranean style with a large open foyer. He hadn't dared to bring any of his European artwork to Khartoum, so the decorations were all native pieces bought for him from all over the continent by a professional collector. Ashante masks and Ndebele shields mixed with woven Dinka wall hangings and displays of ancient gold jewelry from every corner of Africa.

The study was at the end of one wing of the great house. Gianelli strode in, ignoring the shelves of books and the tall elephant tusks that flanked the native stone fireplace, their butter patina glowing in the room's subdued lighting. Instead, he kept his eyes on the young Sudanese lying on one of the leather couches, his feet indolently resting on the glass topys of a to attention. "Leave us," Gianelli barked at the guard, then stared at his guest.

"Make yourself at home," he sneered, switching to fluent Arabic.

Mahdi wore Western clothes, black jeans and a baggy T-shirt under a loose-fitting leather jacket. His head was covered with a brightly colored keffleye like a Palestinian freedom fighter, though he was a Christian and a member of Sudan's rebel movement. "Have I offended you in some way, effendi?"

"Yes." Gianelli lowered himself into his chair and slid the video cassette from the outside pocket of his suit coat. "That fool you sent to Rome nearly got Philip Mercer killed. He was ordered to tell me if anyone approached Mercer, not open fire with an automatic weapon in the international departure area. You'd better pray the carabinieri never learn of my involvement with this."

"Why did he start shooting?"

"How should I know?" Gianelli's face darkened with anger. "He killed four people."

"He must have had a good reason. Abdula's my cousin, I trust him completely," Mahdi said. "He was with me when we tracked and killed that European scientist a few months ago. Remember, he was exploring near where you thought your mine might be. You questioned Abdula afterward, yes?"

Giancarlo laughed. "I wouldn't call it questioning exactly." He slid the tape into the VCR sitting on a credenza behind him and turned on the attached television.

He watched Mahdi's expression change when he recognized his cousin pinioned between the forklifts. The Sudanese couldn't tear his eyes from the gruesome scene as it played out.

Gianelli shut off the machine when the recording ended. "That is the price of disobeying me," he said mildly. "Your cousin made a mistake that you can learn from, Mahdi, and I think now you see how serious I am."

He stood and went to the small bar near the fireplace, filling two crystal goblets with a fortified wine. He had no way of knowing how Mahdi would react, so one hand didn't stray from the small Beretta automatic in his coat pocket. Mahdi took the offered glass and knocked it back with a quick swallow. Gianelli took a seat opposite the killer, his drink dangling from his long fingers. He filled Mahdi's shocked silence with words.

"Our association has been very profitable in the past. There is no need for this unfortunate incident"--he waved his free hand at the darkened television--"to interfere with that. I've given your cause billions of lire over the years, and I've asked for very little in return. I simply want your continued friendship when you eventually succeed in splitting the Sudan into two separate countries.

"I've supported your cause for years. Still, I believe I am entitled to a simple favor for my efforts, a goodwill token to prove that my money hasn't been wasted on a lost cause headed by a group of fools."

Mahdi wasn't a diplomat or a politician, which was exactly why Gianelli chose him as his liaison with the rebel movement. Mahdi was a soldier experienced in the field of warfare, not words. It was this fact that made him easy to manipulate. Giancarlo suspected Mahdi's superiors knew this too but allowed it to continue as long as the money poured in. If they had any opposition to Giancarlo Gianelli using some of their people as a mercenary army for his own personal reasons, they never voiced it.

Mahdi stood slowly and Giancarlo tensed, his finger tightening around the Beretta's trig Gianelli ative. Her clothes, however, were Fifth Avenue elegant and she wore them with the comfortable neglect of a fashion model. Again, there was the enigmatic confidence about her that Mercer found interesting and more than a little dangerous. He'd thought that her going to Israel would have extinguished that delicate spark he'd felt on the flight from Washington, but looking at her, he knew it hadn't. Whether it was Mercer's earlier warning or some sexist cultural attitude, Habte Makkonen greeted her coolly. Mercer noticed the slight, but if Selome had too, she didn't show it. She gave Mercer a dry kiss on his cheek and sat.

"I see you're heeding my warning about the coffee here." She nodded to the half-empty cups of cappuccino on the table.

"I tried their regular stuff," Mercer grinned. "Crude oil."

She gave him an I-told-you-so smile. "The meals here are safe enough, if a little uninspired. Like most hotels in town, they only serve Italian food, a holdover from the occupation. If we have time, I'll take you to a traditional Eritrean restaurant. If you think our coffee curls your toes, wait until you try our stew called zigini. The peppers in it are tiny but pack the fire of a volcano."

"Thank you for your offer but it'll have to wait until after we return here," Mercer said gravely. "Habte's cousin is getting our Land Cruiser right now. This morning I want to load it up, get some fresh provisions here in Asmara, and be on the road north by this afternoon. We'll sleep in Keren tonight and continue on to Nacfa and the open country at sunup tomorrow."

"Why the rush?"

"Because we're not safe here." Mercer wondered how much to tell her about what had happened since seeing her off in Rome. Discretion was still his best ally, he thought. Harry's kidnapper said she was the only person he could trust, but what kind of assurance was that? He wanted to trust her, but until he knew more, he would keep her at arm's length. Sad, he mused, the first woman to attract him in a long time turned out to be a secretive liar with an agenda of her own.

Like his optimism about the pipe having been discovered before, he kept what happened in Rome to himself. He did tell her about the incident at Asmara's airport when Habte was awaiting his arrival. "It was my good luck that I missed the afternoon flight," he lied, "and had to take one the next morning. Otherwise, I would've been captured by the Sudanese."

He watched her reaction carefully. Her surprise and concern were genuine. "Nothing's happened to you since? My God, I can't believe it. It's only a matter of time before Sudan's war destroys us as well."

"Selome, you're missing the point. They were waiting for me, specifically. That means someone else knows about our mission." Her eyes went wide with the realization. Mercer continued. "We're vulnerable in the city. That's why I want to be as far from Asmara as soon as possible. That means all of us. You included."

"I wanted to come with you anyway," Selome admitted. "But this is certainly a good motivation. Our police forces and military leave a lot to be desired. After the war, it seemed few of our people wanted to remain under arms. We'd seen enough fighting. The authorities will be powerless against guerrillas."

"She's right," Habte added. "Our best chance is to get into the northern lowlands quickly."

"Then it's settled." Mercer finished the last of his cappuccino. "Habte, when your cousin gets back with the L high brick walls. Usually, the crowds moved with purpose, leading cows, sheep, and goats to and from the pen, but everyone was standing still, watching the flames already rising above the market.

Trucks and buses clogged the side streets, making it impossible for Mercer to lead Selome out of the area. Knowing the fire would slow the Sudanese for just a few moments, and with only one avenue of escape opened to them, they raced into the cattle stockade. It was only after they were a quarter way across the circular plaza that Selome stopped, bending double to catch her breath. Cows and men had cleared a path for their mad charge, both equally upset by the intrusion.

"Mercer," she panted and pointed over her shoulder. "That's the only way out of here."

"Oh shit," he wheezed, realizing they were trapped. If they turned back now, they would run straight into the assassins.

The cows weren't like those Mercer had seen in the United States. These were Bovus indicus, called Brahmans in America, a heartier breed better suited to hotter climates. Because of Eritrea's sour grazing, they were not prime specimens but all weighed over a ton, with heavily humped backs, sweeping dewlaps, and wickedly curved horns that could pull a man apart with one toss of the head. To Mercer's left, a female had just dropped a calf. The young heifer was still wet and stood on shaky legs as it tried to get under its dam to suckle. The mother was more interested in protecting the calf than feeding it. She had formed a clearing around them both, jealously charging man and animal alike when she felt they got too close.

Mercer grabbed a wooden staff from a farmer standing close by and dodged through the lowing herd toward the new mother. She watched his movement with tired, angry eyes, keeping her body between her baby and this new threat. He ignored her first halfhearted charges, angling the brahman with the finesse of a matador, forcing her around so her calf was behind her.

She came forward again, her horns like scythes as she lowered them to Mercer's waist. He timed his lunge perfectly and rushed to meet her charge. Dropping to the ground, he rolled as one great horn slit the air just above him, regaining his feet as the brahman turned to follow. The calf was in front of him--unprotected for a fraction of a second. He gave the tottering animal a sharp crack on its rump with the staff.

It squealed more out of fright than pain and began running in a weaving gait that took it in the direction of the exit. Mercer could feel its mother right behind him and dove to the side, missing a fatal goring by inches. He landed on a small flock of sheep, cushioning his fall in the woolly, bleating mass. The new mother ignored him and chased after its child, but the young cow was too panicked to be calmed. Quickly, the alarm spread to the other nervous members of the herd, and suddenly they were stampeding. The peasants were powerless to stop it and wisely concentrated on staying out of the way of the maddened rush.

The two Sudanese had just passed through the entrance when the leading edge of the charge reached them. Their reactions were lightning fast, and cows went down under scathing fire from their weapons. Yet the herd paid no attention to their fallen brethren. When a huge bull was felled by a double tap from one of the silenced pistols, two more filled the gap in the solid wall of fleeing animals.

The gates to the stockade were roughly ten feet wide and three hundred and fifty tons of terrified cattle ract of the city and traffic was light, only a few lumbering trucks loaded with cotton grinding across the arid landscape. There were signs of the war along the road's verges, the rusted hulks of military equipment slowly disintegrating back into the soil. Soviet trucks and T-55 tanks, badly damaged by mines or missiles, littered the highway like the decomposing bodies of mechanical dinosaurs.

Mercer had read that the highlands were Eritrea's most fertile region, yet the land was rocky and nearly barren, wiped clean by scouring winds and left to bake in the unrelenting sun. The little vegetation was predominantly low scrubs, sage, and cactus. He spotted a farmer working behind two draft oxen, his plow not much more advanced than those developed in Egypt at the time of the Pharaohs. The plow dug deep runnels in his field, turning back the soil that was as parched as the surface. It seemed futile, but with a peasant's patience, he continued on.

They passed through small villages, rough clutches of adobe and brick roofed with thatch or metal. Many of the buildings were round, cone-topped structures called agdos. The few people on the dusty streets were thin and drawn, dressed in long plain shifts similar to Egyptian galabia.

Two hours later, they reached Keren, a city smaller than Asmara but possessing the same colonial charm with low bungalows and palm-lined streets. The majority of the population was Muslim, so many of the women were draped in long black chadors that absorbed the heat brutally. Habte parked the Toyota behind the Keren Hotel, a rambling building with a covered verandah screened by bougainvillea. "We need to get food and fuel here before continuing north."

"Okay, but I don't want to be here long." Mercer unlimbered himself from the truck.

"Agreed," Habte nodded. "Gibby and I will get what we need in the market. I have a lot of friends here. It shouldn't take too long."

Selome turned to Mercer. "No offense, but we'd better keep you out of sight. Whites don't make it to Keren very often, and it's best if no one sees you."

The cargo rack atop the Land Cruiser was loaded with boxes and jerry cans by the time Selome led Mercer back to the steps of the hotel. They'd waited in a nearby alley. Gibby was sitting in the backseat, but there was no sign of Habte. Mercer leapt into the vehicle and asked Gibby to duck into the Keren Hotel's bar to make a few purchases. Habte was in the driver's seat when the lad returned.

"I spoke to some people." Habte cranked the engine. "If any Sudanese come through here from Asmara in the next few days, they're going to find it difficult to continue." There was a smirk on his face.

Mercer pulled a map from the glove compartment. "That takes care of one interested party and now it's time to throw off the other. According to this, there's an airport in Nacfa and I bet the Europeans may try to leapfrog us and meet us there. Why don't we swing west?" Mercer pointed to the map for Habte to see. "This road here bypasses Nacfa and meets up with the main tract again at Itaro."

"The rains haven't come yet, so it should be passable," Habte agreed. "But what about the excavator waiting in Nacfa?"

"We won't need it for a while. Once we're in open country, no one will be able to find us. If I can pinpoint the pipe's location in the next few weeks, Selome can use her contacts in the government to get us some proper protection and then we'll call for the excavator."

Habte's military experience mo show for their efforts except a dangerously low fuel gauge. The attitude of the team was going sour with frustration and tedium. They were feeling the effects of the Land Cruiser's bone-jarring suspension, the molten air that beat down with the intensity of a blast furnace, and the swarms of stinging insects that found them the moment they stopped. Habte and Selome rarely spoke to each other, and since Gibby idolized his older cousin, he too had gone quiet around her. The silences in the stifling truck were draining.

Only Mercer seemed not to notice any of this. He was in his element and had managed to put everything out of his mind except the geology and geography of the area. Using the Medusa photographs, Habte's recollections, and his own sense of the earth, he guided them almost randomly, never losing his good spirits.

Even after ten days of fruitless searching, his dedication hadn't faltered. In fact, he seemed to move with ever greater assurance as the days passed. But the task was still daunting. He felt like a grizzled Forty-niner who had opened California's gold rush with little more than a pick and high hopes. Used to being part of a well-financed expedition, he had only his years of experience and his innate intuition to rely on.

At least twenty times a day since reaching the Barka Province, Mercer ordered Habte to stop the truck so he could race across the hardpan, a pointed geologist's hammer in his fist. He would scramble up some nameless hill, chip away at the stone, examine it for up to half an hour, using his tongue to moisten some samples to change their reflective properties. Sometimes he asked Gibby to join him with two shovels, and for an hour or more, they dug trenches in the scaly soil. Wordlessly, they returned to the Land-Cruiser. Mercer would point in a new direction, and off they would go again.

They established primitive camps at night. Habte had managed to pack only two tents before their flight from Asmara. He and Gibby shared one, Mercer had the other to himself, and Selome slept on the Toyota's rear bench seat. Their meals were equally crude: millet cakes, turnips or potatoes, and canned meat. The highlight of every day was the seemingly endless bottles of brandy Mercer produced from his luggage, some brought from the United States and a couple purchased for him by Gibby at the Keren Hotel. The three Eritreans usually fell into a death-like sleep soon after their meal, but Mercer worked deep into the night. A hurricane lantern hissed in his tent as he scribbled in a thick notebook, the satellite pictures spread on his knees.

Mercer had intended to use the truck for about a week of exploratory sorties and then return to Asmara to charter a plane and study the terrain from the air, cross-referencing the aerial view with his ground observations and the Medusa pictures. That was now, of course, impossible. It would be suicide for any of them to return to the capital. He was limited to what he could see from the ground and forced to match it to the surface topography from the photos.

At dawn on the eleventh day, the sun was diffused by banks of clouds. Far to the east, the rains had come. The sunrise cast a rose hue on the desert, rouging the sand and casting bizarre shadows on the western mountains. Mercer emerged from his tent before the others awoke, enjoying the solitude of the early morning. They were camped on the bank of one of the rare streams. For the first time in days, water was readily available. Mercer took a few minutes to strip and wash the sweat and grit from his body, dressing again in the same clothes but changing into a fresh pair of socks and boxer shorts. His skin cooled quickly in the dawn chill, and goose flesh rose along his armm b size="3">Habte emerged from his shared tent with a cigarette already smoldering between his thin lips. He kicked life back into the embers of their fire and heated a pot of water for coffee.

Mercer accepted a mug gratefully, cupping his hands around the warm container. They drank in contented silence. Gibby and Selome awoke a short time later, she going off to perform her morning ablutions and Gibby and Habte falling into a conversation in Tigrinyan, leaving Mercer to watch the grotesque shapes of distant outcrops materialize from the gloom.

"We must return to Badn today," Habte said when Gibby went off into the desert to relieve himself.

They had negotiated with a group of nomads staying around the village of Badn to travel to Nacfa and purchase gasoline. Their camel caravan would have returned by now, and even with extended tanks, the Toyota would just make it to town.

"I know," Mercer replied absently, watching Selome's sinuous return to the camp. Despite the harsh conditions, each morning she managed to look fresh and beautiful. She wore ballooning jodhpurs and a man's large overshirt. Her hair formed a dense halo from under the wide brim of a straw hat, its fuchsia band adding a touch of feminine color to the ensemble. Her lightweight clothes were better suited to the desert than the jeans she had started out wearing.

She curled into a cross-legged position on the ground across the fire from Mercer. There was a trace of blush on her cheeks. She'd been aware of his gaze.

"We're heading back to Badn this morning," Mercer announced, and he could see relief in her eyes. The pace he had set for the past days had been brutal, and they all anticipated at least a small break in the tiny hamlet. "I want to hire those nomads again to return to Nacfa and have them guide the excavator here."

Both Habte and Selome gaped at him. It was Selome who found her voice first. "You found the mine?"

Mercer looked at her sharply, then dashed her hopes with a quick shake of his head. "No, not yet, but the rains are coming soon, and if we don't get the excavator across the Adohba River now, we may never be able to. There aren't any bridges across it strong enough to take the weight of the tractor trailer and crawler." Disappointment made her face collapse. "However, I do have good news."

He went to his tent and returned with his notebook and the now dog-eared photographs. He spread the material on the ground, anchoring the corners of a rolled-up map with fist-size rocks. Habte and Selome clustered over his shoulder while Gibby made himself busy breaking down their camp. "Since my Global Positioning Satellite receiver was left in Asmara, all the reference marks on the map are just estimates. They could be off as much as a mile or two, and a margin of error that big doesn't help our cause."

He pointed at a spot twenty miles north of Badn. "We're roughly here now. The asterisks on the map represent sites where I've taken samples." There were dozens of such notations. Despite the seemingly random route Mercer had taken, the marks were laid out in perfect symmetry, each about half a mile from its neighbor in every direction. Habte and Selome were impressed by his orienteering skills. "The marks in red show where I discovered traces of garnet and ilmenites that may or may not mean the presence of diamonds. The problem is their quantity. There doesn't seem to be enough for me to believe the kimberlite pipe ever reached the surface to be eroded down and its contents spread by these ancient water courses." He pointed at several twisting lines he'd drawn on the map, certain the others was SelThe Eritrean thrust a brass cup into Mercer's hand and toasted him with a drink of his own. Mercer recognized the smell of tej, a delightful honey wine made only in Ethiopia and Eritrea, and he drank down the tumbler in one quick toss. Unlike the polished, sweet wine he'd enjoyed in Washington's Ethiopian restaurants, this fiery brew was as smooth as sandpaper, with the subtlety of a stick of dynamite and twice the kick. It took all of his will not to cry out as the liquor exploded in his stomach. He finally caught his breath. "Oh, fuck."

It took four more shots of tej for Mercer to get into the spirit of the party. He took the bottle of brandy Gibby had been holding for him and handed it ceremoniously to the chieftain. The nomad prince opened it gleefully and tossed the cap over his shoulder, where it landed unerringly in one of the cooking pots. Disdaining his cup in his desire to drink such a delicacy, he tilted the bottle to his lips, his throat pumping. He handed the bottle to Mercer. Hoping the brandy would kill whatever swam in the Eritrean's mouth, he, too, took a long gulp. "Oh, fuck," he muttered again. It was going to be a long night.

The women finished preparing the meal and tipped the cooking pots directly into the three brass bowls around the giant platter. The assembled tribesmen went at the food like a pack of wild dogs. They tore off slabs of injera, dunking them into the bowls so their hands came away smeared to the wrist with stew, clots of meat, and vegetables dripping onto the huge plate as they bent forward to cram the mass down their throats. Habte and Gibby ate with equal gusto, though Selome showed a bit more decorum with the size of the bites she took. The wat in the bowl closest to Mercer was made of lentils, chickpeas, and oily mutton. The bread helped absorb some of the grease, but he could feel his arteries hardening with every bite. The only thing that cut through the food's spicy edge was the tej that the women encouragingly refilled every time his cup was only half emptied.

Unbelievably, the huge amount of food was eaten in just a few minutes, and no sooner had the last of the three bowls been emptied than the women approached and poured fresh wat for the men and replenished their stacks of injera.

"How are you doing?" Selome asked, wiping her hands on her pant leg. Her eyes were bright and glassy with wine, and the food had brought a flush to her perfect skin.

Mercer could see she was enjoying herself as much as he. He wondered what this was like for her, to sit with her people after so many years of isolation and enjoy the simple pleasure of a communal meal. "A few more cups of tej and I'll forget that my stomach lining has been burned away."

Selome suddenly leaned across and kissed him full on the mouth, catching Mercer by surprise. He could feel the spicy heat from the wat on her lips and felt a deeper warmth that had nothing to do with the food. The uncharacteristic intimacy shocked her as much as it did him, and she turned away, flustered.

Again the three huge bowls were emptied and again they were refilled, fresh steam rising up in dangerous tendrils that burned like acid. The headman dipped a piece of injera into the fresh stew and palmed a chunk of meat the size of his fist. He handed it to Mercer with another grin. "Fuck?"

"Oh, no problem." Mercer emptied his tej and jammed the fatty hunk into his mouth with the relish of a native.

Four more times the poped. The few die-hards still eating were making a significant dent in these leavings. The Eritreans were doused with grease from their mouths to the tips of their ubiquitous beards and from their fingernails to their forearms. The meal was finally winding down, and Mercer thought it a good time to ask his host a favor. He had kept his notebook with him, sitting on it during the banquet to keep it from either being ruined by grease or accidentally eaten by one of the clansmen. He opened the book to his sketch of the valley and mountain around the kimberlite pipe and asked Selome to translate.

"Do you recognize this place?"

"Yes, of course." The headman tried to draw himself straight, but the prodigious amount of alcohol made his spine rebel and he slumped against his neighbor. "My father's mother was born near that place. It is on the western flank of Hajer. We call it the Valley of Dead Children."

"Why is that?"

"Because that is its name," the old man pointed out logically.

"But why that name?" Mercer persisted.

"Who knows? That's what it's been called since long before time was recorded." He was starting to fade away from the conversation, his eyes rolling back into his skull and his lips going rubbery around the last few words. "Even before the war, no one went to this place. Evil spirits live in the hills. My father told me that even animals refuse to enter the valley. They could feel the ghosts. Now the area around the Valley of Dead Children is full of mines. A cousin lost his eldest son there two rains ago when the boy went looking for a young goat that wandered away from his herd."

"Have you been to this valley?"

"No." And the headman started to snore.

Years of friendship with Harry White should have prepared Mercer for the next morning's hangover, but his previous experiences couldn't have possibly readied him for the pounding in his skull or the maelstrom that churned his gut. Everyone was still in the tent, most snoring loudly where they'd passed out the night before. One clansmen lying in the platter was dangerously close to drowning in the grease pooled at its bottom. Mercer came awake in slow, painful stages, dimly aware that it was still dark outside and the tent was lit with only a single guttering oil lamp.

Selome was curled up in the crook of his arm, her head resting lightly on the pads of muscle. Her face was toward him, her mouth parted and her lips shining in the murky light. Mercer recalled the surprising kiss she had given him the night before and passed it off as alcohol-induced affection. He kissed her forehead and carefully disentangled her limbs from his.

By the luminous dial of his watch, dawn was half an hour away. The moon hung near the horizon in its own bright corona. Mercer shuffled unsteadily to the Toyota. He retrieved a bundle from under the truck and returned to the low stools placed just outside the tent's entrance. Mercer recalled that the headman's name was Negga, and he was already sitting, his head hanging limply between his hands. Mercer tapped him on the shoulder and offered one of the Milotti beers he had left overnight in a sodden towel. The beer was refreshingly cold.

"Little hair of the hyena for you." If Mercer was going to make it through the day, he'd need a beer to push back the effects of the tej. Harry called it the "deferred hangover plan. Party now and pay later."

Habte and Gibby"Habte, ask our host if he would give us a man to guide us to the Valley of Dead Children."

"I am taking my family farther east to catch the rains," Habte translated for the nomad leader. "My herds and flocks have been months without good pasturage. I want to help you, but I can't delay. But heed my words. You don't want to go up there. Not only do you have to worry about the mines, but I've heard there's an army stationed on the Sudan side of the border. They arrived about six days ago."

"Who are they?"

"I don't know. They're not regular soldiers, and it was said that there are at least fifty of them, all well armed. A force that size is too big for one of the shifta gangs." The chieftain shrugged his shoulders. "Their presence is a mystery."

Mercer retrieved his topographical map of Eritrea and spread it on the ground in front of Negga. "Can you at least show me where on the Hajer Plateau the valley lies?"

Negga stared at the map with incomprehension. Like most nomads, he relied on the accumulated knowledge of generations of wanderers to know his territory. Even after Mercer pointed to the Adobha River as a reference, Negga still couldn't understand how the compressed lines on the flat projection represented the rugged northern mountains. "I don't know what this paper means. The valley is on the west flank of the plateau, a long day's ride on a swift camel from Ila Babu. That is all I can tell you."

"Would you at least guide my people to Nacfa so they can get another truck I have waiting and then take them to Ila Babu?" There were no roads connecting the two towns.

"We have drunk from the same bottle. Of course, I will do this thing for you. But I will not permit my people to go beyond Ila Babu. I won't lose any of my family for your search."

"Fair enough."

Negga's expression brightened. "It will cost you only two hundred American dollars."

In their debilitated state, it took Habte and Gibby a half hour to transfer the fuel from the jerry cans into the Toyota, lashing the spares onto the cargo rack under the stores already there. Mercer went to talk to Negga's son, who spoke passable English, shook hands when they came to an agreement, and passed over some money.

"It sounds like we are not going with you," Habte said when Mercer returned to the truck.

"You're not. I don't want Selome with us if I run into any trouble, and I can't trust her alone with Negga's guides." Mercer paused. "There's something else. Yesterday when we were talking about returning here, Selome asked if I thought I had discovered the mine's location. Do you remember?"

Habte nodded slowly.

"As far as I know, she thinks we're only looking for a kimberlite pipe, not a mine. It's the same thing the kidnappers said. Unless she has outside knowledge, she shouldn't know anything about the mine. I haven't told her."

Habte accepted this without a change of expression. "I'll keep my eye on her, see if she tries to contact anyone in Nacfa."

"Good. Thank you."

"What about Gibby?"

"He stays with me." Mercer secured the last corner of a cargo net. "I can use the help, and I'll ut?" Habte asked.

"Contingency plan B," Mercer said and handed over his spare sat-phone with instructions on how and when to use it.

At last they were ready. Negga assured Mercer that two of his sons would take Selome and Habte to Nacfa the following morning. Selome was still asleep, and while Mercer felt a twinge of guilt leaving her without an explanation, he didn't let it show. He swallowed three ibuprofin tablets, drank a full liter of purified water, then mounted the truck. Gibby was already strapped into the passenger seat, his head lolling as if its weight was too great a burden for his neck.

"Selome won't be happy that you are leaving her behind," Habte teased.

Mercer ignored the jibe. "I'll call you after my next contact from the kidnappers. If I haven't located the mine by then, plan on coming to meet us anyway and we can continue the search together." When he saw Selome again, Mercer promised himself that they would have a long talk about what she already knew. The men holding Harry White were playing for keeps, and it was time for Mercer to do likewise.

Fairfax, Virginia

The first break in solving the murders of Prescott Hyde and his wife came about through sheer persistence.

On the day of the fire, the Fairfax police had canvassed Hyde's neighborhood for anyone who may have seen the arsonist, but they came up empty. The only glimmer of hope remaining for the investigation were a certain Dr. and Mrs. Grady, who lived adjacent to the Hydes. They had left town only an hour before the fire was first noticed. Dr. Grady was an oral surgeon who donated two weeks of his time and skills every year to a charity clinic in Peru. Despite repeated attempts to contact them at the remote clinic, they had not responded.

Dick Henna himself was waiting in a government car when the Gradys finally returned to the country, arriving from the airport in a boxy Mercury Mountaineer. Normally, the director of the FBI wouldn't have been involved with an individual case, but there were two factors that demanded his personal attention. One was the president's interest in the murder of one of his appointed sub-Cabinet level officials and the implications for the missing Medusa photographs. Henna had briefed the chief executive soon after Admiral Morrison dumped the entire mess on his lap. While much of the evidence was destroyed by the fire, the twin bullet holes in the charred skulls of both Prescott Hyde and his wife, Jacqueline, had galvanized the Administration. Henna's other reason was his friendship with Mercer.

Soon after the story of the fire and execution-style murders reached the press, the Washington Post had reported the details of the Justice Department's investigation into Hyde's life, including rumors of a sale of highly classified documents to unknown parties. The Post didn't have anything concrete on this last piece of information, but they were leaning heavily on their sources and it was only a matter of time before someone disclosed the existence of the Medusa satellite and the missing pictures.

The president wanted this solved quickly, faces put on the unknown killers and names to go with the faces. If the scandal broke, the president had already primed his pointing finger and wanted a direction in which to aim it. His Administration was still reeling over last year's Alaska debacle, and was not yet strong enough to handle another embarrassment. The president told Henna to sew the murders up tight, deflect any inquirieers reacheldn't return to bite them all on the ass.

The candy-apple red sport utility vehicle eased up the Gradys' driveway. Both appeared to be in their late forties or early fifties. His gray hair was thinning while hers was dyed blonde. They were tanned and appeared worn by their work in South America. Henna gave them a minute to gape at the blackened pit that had been the Hydes' house before approaching the couple.

"It was arson," Henna said bluntly. Both Gradys turned in unison and looked at him blankly. "And I'm sorry to tell you this, but Prescott and Jacqueline were shot in the head before the arsonist torched their house." Now that he had their full attention, he introduced himself. "I'm Dick Henna, the director of the FBI, and I have a couple of questions for you."

Five minutes later, they were seated in the Gradys' living room. There were dozens of mementos on the walls from their children's lives, culminating in framed diplomas from Georgetown set on a baby grand piano. Meredeth Grady was still weeping, for she and Jacqueline Hyde had been friends and golfing partners. John Grady had taken the news much more calmly, certainly not immune from the horrors of death, but as a doctor better able to hide it.

"As you can understand," Henna said when he gauged Meredith ready to handle his questions, "the president is very interested in solving this case. He and Prescott had been close, as I'm sure Undersecretary Hyde had told you."

"Oh, yes, Jackie was so excited when they were invited to the Inaugural Ball. I remember she talked of nothing else for months before and after."

Henna had gone to one of the Inaugural Balls himself. He and Fay had decided after only an hour that they couldn't tolerate the pretension and had gone to Tiny's Bar on a lark, still in their evening wear. He remembered Harry White dancing gallantly with Fay to the tuneless music squawking from the jukebox's blown speakers.

"The FBI and the Fairfax police have talked to everyone in the neighborhood except the two of you. We're hoping you can shed some light on what happened." Ballistics had come up empty on the slugs recovered with the bodies. "Did either of you see or hear anything the morning you left for your trip?"

Meredith leaned forward. "I saw a woman go into the Hydes' house shortly before I left. I had never seen her before, but Jackie and Bill knew so many people I couldn't keep track."

"Could you describe her?"

"It was very early, still dark, but I remember she was young, early thirties I would say, and very pretty, dressed casually. I don't remember what kind of car she was driving. She drove right up to the house, knocked at the door, and went in immediately. She left after just a few minutes. You don't think she was the one? She didn't look like a killer."

Thank God for curious neighbors. "Would you recognize her again if I showed you some pictures?"

Meredith hesitated, and Henna knew why. In the age of political correctness, people felt obligated not to mention one thing when they described another person. "Was she black?"

"Yes, she was," Meredith Grady breathed. "It's not all that unusual. African-Americans showed up at the Hydes' house all the time, you know, with his job and all."

"Not all blacks are Americans. She could have been a real African," Henna said. Meredith looked as if she'd never even considered a difference. "Would you recognize her?"

"I don't know, maybe." Meredarlyith Grady didn't have to say that most blacks looked the same to her. It was evident in her uncomfortable expression.

"Dr. Grady, did you see this woman?"

"No, I was at the airport already, clearing medical supplies through customs. Meredith met me just before our flight."

Henna turned back to Mrs. Grady, "Well?"

"Maybe. I'd have to see a good picture of her. The only thing I remember distinctly was her hair. I saw it under the porch light before she entered the house. It wasn't like most African-American women's. It was longer and not extensions either; I can tell the difference. And it was tinted with henna to give it red highlights. Hey, your name and the dye, it's the same word."

Dick smiled. "Fortunately, the kids I knew growing up weren't smart enough to make the connection." From his briefcase he withdrew a file crammed with pictures. "I want you to take a look through these and tell me if you recognize anrepresentation of the region. No time had been taken to accurately depict every geographical landmark. For all practical purposes, the map was worthless. Instead, he taped the drawing he had done of the valley entrance to the dashboard and used it to guide him.

The territory had been carved by wind and water over the past few million years, the mountains worn down to stubs of harder rock. Having no idea into which mountain the valley was cut, Mercer and Gibby drove around each of them completely, checking the terrain against the drawing and coming up blank every time. They spent three days doing this before Mercer decided to attempt a desperate shortcut.

"This isn't going to work," Mercer told Gibby around noon on the third day.

In frustration, he powered the Land Cruiser up the slope of one of the taller hills, a seven-hundred-foot ascent in low range that loaded down the engine so badly that they reached the summit at a walking pace and the motor was on the verge of an explosive overheat. He twisted the key angrily, and in the sudden silence he could hear engine fluids boiling like a cauldron.

He snatched a pair of binoculars from the backseat and jumped onto the precarious load strapped to the Toyota's roof. He turned slowly in place, the powerful Zeiss lenses pressed to his eyes.

"There's a valley about two miles to the east that looks like it was once the major waterway through this area. If the kimberlite pipe broke through the surface, erosion would have spilled some stones or at least trace elements into the streambed." Gibby didn't have Habte's command of English, so he looked at Mercer blankly. "Don't worry, my friend. We may be on to something."

It was just possible he could jump-start their search, he thought as he leapt back to the ground. He felt that same stirring of hope he'd experienced when the kidnappers mistakenly told him he was searching for a mine.

Surface topography had changed so much over the eons that the ancient river now appeared as if it had flowed uphill, but Mercer had no trouble telling in which direction the waters had once poured. He drove northward for nearly a mile and kept the Toyota canted at an angle as he guided it on one of the banks, suspecting that the streambed might be mined. They reached a sharp bend in the stream in the shadow of yet another mountain, a beige sandstone monument that offered little shade from the murderous sun. Gibby threw open his door as soon as Mercer braked.

"Don't!" Mercer shouted just seconds before the boy stepped onto the dusty soil.

Jesus, he thought and opened his own door, his heart hammering from Gibby's near fatal mistake. He studied the ground intently, looking for a telltale depression that might indicate the presence of a landmine. Seeing nothing, he told Gibby to break off the Toyota's radio antenna and pass it over. He used it as a probe, pushing it firmly but gently into the friable dirt, twisting and working until it sank down about eight inches. Nothing.

The temperature in the vehicle skyrocketed past a hundred degrees. Sweat flowed freely from Mercer's pores, stinging his eyes and making his vision swim. Yet his concentration was total as he continued with the antenna probe. It took twenty minutes before he felt confident enough to step out of the truck and a further two long hours to ensure that the immediate area around the Land Cruiser was unspoiled.

"G his eyes fever bright as he looked at the stone.

Mercer didn't respond. He strode to the Toyota, pressed a sharp corner of the octahedral crystal to the front windshield, and drew the stone across the glass. The screech set his teeth on edge. There was a deep white scar on the safety glass.

He was grinning when he spun back to Gibby, tossing the stone to the startled young man.

"It's too rough to ever sit in an engagement ring, but you're holding about twelve carats of industrial diamond, my friend." Mercer whooped. Gibby looked at the stone, understanding at last, and added his own cries.

Mercer wanted to start backtracking down the old streambed to its source right away, but they had to wait until morning. He lay down in the Toyota, knowing sleep wouldn't come. This was it. He'd done it. The men holding Harry would be calling again tomorrow at midnight, and he thought about what he would tell them. He didn't want to disclose this find, but he had to give them something, just enough so they believed he was close. Finding diamonds this quickly was a huge advantage. He had four weeks left on his deadline and wanted that time to figure some way to end-run the kidnappers. If he had to, he would just give them the location, but he'd regained enough confidence to try and stop them first. They were going to pay for what they'd done.

He finally did sleep, and when he woke the next morning, his body had stiffened. Even the most minor movement brought a groan to his lips. "I'm getting too old for this shit."

He roused Gibby, and soon they were driving again. The streambed meandered in long, lazy bends, forming a huge oxbow once and rising up a cliff that had been a waterfall at some point in history. They needed the tow winch to clear the former falls. Mercer took the time to scout the area with his antenna probe, losing several hours in the process.

The river led more or less in a direct north-south course. It appeared they were heading toward the main bulk of the Hajer Plateau, a huge up-thrust that overshadowed everything in the region. Mercer thought about abandoning the serpentine streambed and driving straight for the mountain, but he knew caution was his only ally here and stayed with the winding path.

"Effendi!" Gibby tore the pencil drawing from the dashboard, waving it like a talisman, and pointed to their immediate left.

Mercer's drawing was nearly perfect. The Valley of Dead Children was there, cut into the side of a three-hundred-foot mountain, looking exactly as he had envisioned it, right down to a tumbling rock slide that had torn away one side of the steep valley wall near its entrance, partially filling the near vertical chasm. The mountain, with its inviting cleft, was about half a mile away.

The land between it and the riverbed was an open expanse pocked severely by impact craters, most likely from Ethiopian artillery. The churned-up ground near some of the scars was still blackened by explosives.

"Jesus," Mercer breathed. The devastated area looked like the pictures he had seen of No-Man's-Land during World War I.

He didn't want to think about the men who had probably been caught in the open when the big guns began to rain death on them. He looked around for a makeshift cemetery but recognized the gesture was pointless. There wouldn't be enough left of the men caught in the barrage to bury. Gibby was also affected by ter why it had been asked. "She's going to be put in the Virginia gas chamber if we get our hands on her. She murdered a top State Department official and his wife, burning their house to cover her tracks. Do you know anything about this?"

"Damn," Litvinoff muttered. The president could hear him swing himself out of bed, mumbling something to his wife. "Mr. President, I am going to my study. I will call you back in just a few minutes. I can clear this up for you, but it'll open a whole new set of problems."

"Well?" Henna asked when the president put down the phone.

"He's calling me back, but it sounds as though he'd been expecting me to call."

"He knows Selome Nagast?"

"Apparently. He said he would explain everything, but it's going to cause us trouble."

"Any idea what he means?"

The phone rang before Henna received his answer. The President put the phone on speaker mode. "David, Dick Henna of the FBI is with me, and we both want an explanation why one of your Mossad agents is going around killing members of my administration."

"It is fitting that he is there," Litvinoff replied. "Selome Nagast does not work for Mossad. She's a member of Shin Bet, our version of your Federal Bureau of Investigation, and she did not kill Prescott Hyde."

"How do you know I was talking about Hyde? I doubt his death made the Jerusalem newspapers."

"Mr. President, if you'll permit, I will explain," Litvinoff said. "This is going to take a few minutes, so please bear with me.

"You know that I am facing a vote of no-confidence in the Knesset that will dissolve my government and call for general elections. If this happens, Chaim Levine, my current defense minister, will probably become our new P.M. I don't need to remind you of his facist views and his plans to tear up the peace accords with our Arab neighbors. He also has this ridiculous idea about destroying the Dome of the Rock and rebuilding Solomon's Temple in its place. He has tremendous support since the Wailing Wall massacre two months ago. Even our moderate majority is leaning toward his camp."

"I don't need the political lesson, David. I have my own sources. Our prediction is that he'll defeat you by a five-to-three margin. We don't want to see it happen any more than you; the guy is a lunatic."

There was a new gravity to Litvinoff's voice. "What I'm about to tell you will damage relations between our two countries for many years to come. I would have rather not admit this, but I see no other way. The greater good must be considered." Henna and the president exchanged glances. "The Mossad has cultivated an asset in your National Reconnaissance Office, a highly placed photo interpreter. I would rather not reveal his name at this point. To do so would put his life in danger. However, he has been feeding us information gathered from your spy satellites, including the latest-generation Medusas."

Henna hated the idea of allies spying in the United States. Enemies he could understand, but Israelis using the U.S. in this way infuriated him. His hands clenched. He wondered if Admiral Morrison or Colonel Baines knew about this conduit and doubted they did.

"He started with the NRO two years after the first of those spy craft was launched and discovered a forgotten set of pictures taken during the ill-fated 1989 flight of the first Medusa. Beca can take care of himself."

"Yeah, but not when he's facing an ambush from two different fronts by people who have a very old score to settle." The phone was pressed tightly to his head, his knuckles whitening with the pressure.

Valley of Dead Children Northern Eritrea

Mercer fell asleep a few times during his vigil, jerking himself awake only seconds after nodding off. His eyes were red-rimmed and scratchy from the fine particles of dust that invaded the dilapidated camp building. At eleven, knowing that if he drifted off again he wouldn't wake until dawn, he walked out onto the lonely plain, taking the sat-phone with him. The temperature dipped only slightly as night smothered Africa. The Milky Way was like a great smear across the sky. Wind moved silently across the landscape. The loudest noise he heard was the sound of his own footfalls on the cracked desert floor.

With about ten minutes before his appointed contact time, he activated the satellite phone and it rang almost immediately. Startled and wondering why the contact had come early, he pressed the button for the receive mode. "Mercer."

"Dr. Mercer, it's good to hear your voice again." It was the man who'd spoken to him in Asmara. Mercer hoped he'd been killed in the Sudanese attack on the Ambasoira Hotel.

"Can't say the same," he replied bitterly.

The caller ignored Mercer's quip. "I've tried calling several times, but your phone was deactivated. We have a great deal to discuss. Much has happened since our last conversation."

Maybe it was that he was standing near the mine's entrance and had already done what was demanded of him or maybe it was because he'd been pushed too far, but Mercer couldn't hold back his anger, couching it only slightly in sarcasm when he spoke. "Yeah, like you getting your ass kicked by a couple of amateurs trying to steal my underwear. They'd tried the night before. Fortunately, the maid scared them off with her mop. Looks like kidnapping defenseless old men is about the limit of your abilities. Maybe you ought to practice a bit more. Try taking candy from babies for a while--I hear it's tougher than it sounds."

"Your humor is strained," the voice said. "Perhaps this will dry it up entirely. Listen very carefully."

There was a short pause and Mercer heard a new voice. Harry! He sounded distant, as though he had been recoize="3">"Understood," Mercer said, still thinking about Harry White. Boodles was a brand name of gin. What was he doing with gin if his captors were Muslim and thus forbidden alcohol? Obviously, Harry was trying to tell him something, but Mercer was too tired to put it together.

Mercer woke Gibby as soon as it was light enough to see. He'd gotten just enough sleep to satisfy his body's immediate needs, but he felt slow and lethargic in the mounting heat of the dawn. Gibby agreed that he could stay in the valley assisting Mercer until the following morning and still make the rendezvous with Habte, Selome, and the bulk of their equipment.

After a quick breakfast, Mercer inspected the head gear's framework while Gibby unpacked all the rope they had brought with them. The rust on the steel struts was only surface accumulation; the metal underneath still appeared strong. There were only three fifty-foot lengths of rope in the Toyota, but if they attached them to the tow cable on the Land Cruiser, they would have enough to get Mercer to the bottom of the shaft.

He rigged a series of pulleys using the metal frame, wrapping the struts with wads of tape and smearing them with oil drained from the Toyota's sump to prevent the sharp metal from fraying the rope. He showed Gibby how to belay the harness Mercer had fashioned and devised a quick series of verbal and tugging signals for communication.

"Remember, Gibby, you're all that's keeping me from a quick drop to hell," Mercer warned, standing at the threshold of the old mine opening. Gibby had proved to be an able assistant, but Mercer still didn't like the idea of trusting his life to the teenager. The black pit seemed to want to suck him into its depths.

Mercer took several breaths and stepped off the crumbling edge, hanging above the hundred-and-sixty-foot void. Gibby struggled for a moment, shifting his grip, so Mercer dropped a few quick inches. "You okay?" Mercer gasped, a sickly smile on his face.

"Yes, effendi," Gibby grinned. "Your rope tangle makes you weigh just a little bit."

The pulley system made it so Gibby was supporting only about fifty pounds of actual weight, but Mercer made sure the rope was still secured to the Land Cruiser's winch. When the time came to haul him out, Gibby would need the power of the Toyota to pull him to safety.

"All right, lower away."

Mercer dropped into a black world, the square of light over his head receding almost too fast. He switched on a six-cell flashlight and made certain his mining helmet was planted securely on his head. Bits of debris rained around him, pinging against the helmet and plunging down the vertical shaft. "Slower," he yelled, bracing his feet against the irregular wall to give him just a little slack in the line. He gave two quick tugs to reinforce his verbal command, and his progress slowed dramatically.

Down he went, the makeshift bosun's chair digging painfully into the back of his legs, the flashlight casting a white spot before his eyes. He trained it below his swaying perch, but the light could penetrate only a few feet. There should have been a steel guide rail bolted into the rock face to stabilize the skips and cages but there wasn't, and Mercer could see no evidence that one had ever been installed. It made him wonder just how far the earlier attempt at digging out the diamonds had progressed.

There had been no evidence of a crushing mill or separation facilities at the surface camp. Since they hadn't even installed a proper hoist Yet a shaft this deep would have taken a year or more to dig, considering its age and the quality of equipment available a half century ago.

He came to the first drift roughly eighty feet down. This was a horizontal working passageway the miners had dug off the central shaft in order to tunnel into the mineral-laden ore. From this depth, the shaft's surface opening appeared to be no larger than a storm drain. Mercer twisted himself across the open shaft until his boots landed firmly on the shelf that led off into the living rock. Whoever had opened the mine knew enough not to bore the main shaft straight into the volcanic vent, but rather sink a hole next to it and from there tunnel into the kimberlite ore. Mercer gave the signal for Gibby to hold the line where it was and unhooked himself from his sling, tying it to a wooden support beam so it wouldn't dangle back over the void.

The flashlight cut into the gloom, revealing a long tunnel that was roughly twelve feet wide, six high, and God alone knew how long. Mercer played the light along the ceiling, surprised not to see any bats. In fact, he hadn't noticed the guano smell so typical to abandoned mines. Like the Valley of Dead Children, the mine too was devoid of life. A chill ran up his spine that had nothing to do with the coolness of the subterranean passage.

He walked fifty yards down the drift bemputer to concentrate on his conversation with the South African. If they were going to reopen the mine, they were going to need labor. Mahdi had suggested, and Gianelli agreed, that recruiting able-bodied men from the camps was their best option. These men were desperate for work. They would do anything asked of them, grateful for the first job many of them had ever had. Most of them were second- or third-generation refugees. "How many have you gotten so far?"

"Forty." Hofmyer didn't catch the edge of anxiety in his superior's voice. "Once we get to work, I bet half of them will either take off when they get a taste of real work or die in the mine. The northern, fuzzier, kaffir is a delicate creature and can die on you without any warning."

"You've worked with Sudanese and Eritreans before?"

"Ja, in the Zambia copper mines when the country was still Northern Rhodesia. A few hundred of 'em came down to work the pits, but in five months they were gone again, half of 'em dead and the others willing to starve to death in the big famines up here."

"I hadn't realized," Gianelli remarked, sensing a serious problem.

"Don't worry about it. When it's time to go into Eritrea, we'll have enough of the bastards to take up the slack of those that drop or take off. Any word on when we're heading in?"

"Nothing yet." No sooner had he said this than Mahdi appeared at the tent. He was layered with sweat, and his chest heaved in the hot air. "Yes, what is it?"

"Sir," Mahdi panted, "I was just at the refugee camp. About fifty men and their families crossed the border last night with a nomad who came here to recruit them. The rumor is that a great mine has been opened in Eritrea and men are needed to work it. Many other families are packing now to join them. I've learned that the nomad was sent here by a white man."

"That's it!" Gianelli bolted to his feet. "Mercer has found it!"

"Yes, sir, they are talking about a white overseer who knows how to talk to rock."

Emotion filled Gianelli in waves. The Medusa pictures had shown that Enrico had been right all along, and Mercer had used them to find the mine. There was a kimberlite pipe in northern Eritrea, one of the rarest geological features on the planet, and Enrico had found it decades ago without any modern aids. Enrico's Folly was now within Giancarlo's grasp.

Of course, Giancarlo had never known his great-uncle, but a large part of him admired the elder Gianelli for the independent streak that had driven him. Giancarlo had it too, that ceaseless desire to prove the impossible, to follow a belief to its only conclusion. He thought about his plan that followed the diamonds' recovery and smiled wickedly. While restoring Enrico's name was a noble goal, Gianelli had also made provisions to profit handsomely from this adventure. He debated making the call to London now, then decided it was better to wait and see just how many diamonds they could find before the Central Selling System's next meeting. His target was five thousand carats and, getting a sense of Joppi Hofmyer's brutality, he had little doubt they'd reach that goal.

"Mahdi, alert your men. We must move out quickly."

Gianelli's emotions raised his voice to a shout. "The refugees have a head start on us that we'll make up in the trucks, but I don't want them getting too far ahead. Joppi, I think oung packed on the trucks?"

"Ja." The Africaaner grinned. He was plainly relieved to escape the boredom of the camp. "We repacked them after checking each load."

"Mahdi, how fast can that refugee caravan walk through the desert?"

"If they left their women and children behind, twenty or more miles a day, but they are bringing their families. That would cut their progress in half."

"Good." The refugees moving so slowly tempered Gianelli's haste and changed his plans slightly. "Send out scouts to track them. It shouldn't be too difficult. We'll remain in camp until they get a few days ahead of us. That way we won't trip over them when we leave. That also gives us more time to get another fuel truck from Khartoum."

"Mr. Gianelli, if there are that many people at the mine, we're going to need more water too," Joppi remarked.

Giancarlo opened his laptop again and began a list. "Water, fuel, what else?"

The three of them worked for an hour, refining the list. By the time they had finished, they had the provisions to sustain the camp for several weeks without resupply. After that, they would start to bring stores from Sudan, which wasn't a problem given Gianelli's influence. In addition to his support to the rebels, he also maintained contacts with the government in Khartoum, working both sides of the civil war.

Gianelli concluded their meeting. "Mahdi, send out those scouts now, have them take a hand radio to report their progress. I'm going to order the rest of the equipment and supplies from Khartoum and make the necessary security arrangements. Joppi, you just make damned sure your men are ready to go."

"Yes, sir," both men said in unison. In the bizarre twist of Joppi Hofmyer's racism that made him hate the group but not the individuals, he held the tent fly open for Mahdi as they left the screened enclosure.

Valley of Dead Children

It was just before dusk when Habte, Selome, and Gibby arrived in the Valley of Dead Children on the half-loaded tractor trailer. Five minutes after the rig had crossed the secret bowl of land and trundled to the head gear, a bright yellow excavator tracked onto the plain, its hydraulic arm coiled to the boxy, rotatable cab. The operator had been forced to clear away part of the ancient landslide at the valley's entrance to allow the truck access to the mine site. Rather than reload the cumbersome machine, he'd driven it to the former Italian installation.

Wind whipped the dust of their progress across the landscape, eddies and gyres forming and collapsing in their wake. At the camp, both vehicles were shut down, and silence rushed in on them. Habte quickly followed Selome out of the truck, and he dodged into the main bunkhouse. Returning outdoors, he shielded his eyes against the red sun nestled on the western rim of the bowl and scanned for Mercer. The Toyota Land Cruiser was gone and there was no sign of him.

"Gibby," he called, and the boy scrambled off the trailer. "This is the right place. Where's Mercer?"

"I don't know," Gibby admitted. "He said he was going to wait here for us. He was upset that the mine was empty and seemed eager to talk to us. I can't guess where he went."

Habte ignored a creeping sens until I found this spot. The wind whips over the northern wall of the depression, curls back on itself in a vortex that can gust to about twenty miles an hour." Mercer used his finger to draw a crude sketch in the soil. The drawing showed the side of the mountain with a V-shaped symbol pointing at its flank.

"The tricky part comes when you need to channel the air into the shaft, concentrating the flow exactly where you want it. Now, look again on the desert floor right below us."

It was Gibby, with his younger, sharper eyes who saw it first. "There," he pointed. "I see what you drew."

There were two faint lines in the dirt, just a shade darker than the rest of the desert. They were two hundred feet long, angling toward each other so they nearly met below where the party stood. They were too geometrical for nature to be their creator. They were the work of man.

"What are they?"

"All that remains of the foundations of two huge walls. Judging by their width, I'd guess they were at least seventy feet tall, more than enough to catch the wind blowing off the mountains and channel it into a mine entrance. I'm sure there are some vents driven into the mountain to allow an escape outlet for the wind, but I'm not too concerned with those quite yet."

"You mean, we are standing on top of another mine?"

"That's right." Mercer tempered his excitement with difficulty. "A horizontal drift tunneled into the mountain."

"When was this excavated?" asked Habte.

"I don't know. We can check the foundations to get an idea, but it's not really important."

"The question I want answered is, who dug this in the first place?" Selome said.

Mercer glanced at her, feeling she already knew the answer. "We'll find that when we open her up."

An hour later, the excavator was ripping into the side of the hill, clearing away the dirt that had piled against the stone face. Mercer stood next to where the bucket clawed into the ground, using hand gestures to guide the operator. He kept a shovel with him, and every ten minutes or so would descend into the trench dug by the machine. The temperature was again hovering around a hundred degrees, and Mercer worked stripped to the waist. Every trip into the trench was more dangerous than the last. It was already fifteen feet deep and twice as long, its sides loose and crumbling. He used the hand shovel to dig a bit farther into the soil, exposing earth that hadn't seen daylight in who knew how many years. Carrying samples out of the trench, he examined each minutely before motioning for the excavator to continue.

"What are you looking for?" Selome asked when he emerged after the sixth time. Habte, Gibby, and the truck driver were busy unbundling the pallets of equipment secured to the tractor trailer.

"Overburden, the mine's waste rock." Mercer wiped the sweat from his forehead with a saturated bandanna. "When it was first excavated, they would have piled the worthless material at the entrance. It should be easy to detect it from the accumulated surface material."

"But if the mine's at the point of the two walls, why don't we dig into the mountain there?"

"Because I want to know what's in there before we reopen the sning the mine, but I want to go up there and talk to the priests. Gibby, do you know it?"

"Yes. I think I can find it from here, but it is far." The teenager didn't sound sure.

"Talk to Habte about it. We won't be leaving for a day or two anyway."

"Why do you want to talk to the priests?"

"That monastery has been here for a thousand years. And I'm willing to bet they already know about this mine and the people who opened it."

"But what do you wish to learn?" Selome pressed.

"If I knew that, I wouldn't need to talk to them, now would I?" Mercer stood and brushed off the back of his pants. He was sure that Selome had detected a change in his attitude toward her. She'd been playing him for a fool, and it pissed him off. She knew what this was all about, had known since the beginning, but still was asking questions she knew the answers to. Mercer had some questions of his own, and it was getting time for the answers.

They worked for three straight days, each of them settling into a routine that left them wasted when the sun finally set. Habte and the truck driver rigged a plow on the front of the ten-wheeled rig to use it as a bulldozer. They worked in unison with the excavator, pushing aside the piles of debris that the big Caterpillar stripped from the side of the mountain. Mercer and Abebe took turns running the excavator while Gibby stood in the excavated sections, guiding the bucket to maximize the bite it took with every scoop. Only Selome, who didn't have a specific task related to the digging, balked at the traditional female role of housekeeper and chef.

Late afternoon on the third day, there was still no sign of the mine entrance. The team was gathered at the excavation. The ground had been compressed by the movement of the excavator until it felt like concrete. They had opened up a chasm nearly sixty feet wide and over twice that deep. The mountain towered above them. It hung precariously. From the bottom of the chasm, the sky was just a narrow blue band between the two sides. Habte and Abebe were smoking cigarettes while Mercer pulled from a bottle of beer. They were all frustrated by the amount of work and the lack of results.

Mercer broke the tired silence. "I'm going to have to blast the mountain. We've dug so deep, I'm afraid that lot over our heads is going to come down pretty soon. We have to cause our own avalanche, and that'll mean at least another full day to clear the debris before we can continue to dig for the mine entrance."

"No other way," Habte agreed. "We did the same thing when I worked in the quarries."

"Did you get the fertilizer I requested?" Mercer asked as he finished the last of the beer.

"Ammonium nitrite, two hundred pounds' worth. And I got five thousand feet of detonator cord." The explosives Mercer had requested when still in Washington had been abandoned in Asmara so he was forced to improvise.

"Good. We'll use the diesel from the truck's auxiliary tank. We won't need that much punch--the mountain will collapse with just a good swift kick." He looked at the hill, gauging where he would place the amfo. "After I make the shot, Selome, Gibby, and I are going to the monastery and have a chat with the good fathers."

"Why do you need me?" Selome didn't sound like she minded the trip, bunal femalewench to interpreter."

Selome smiled. "Give me another week and I'll be running this operation."

"That's the spirit." Mercer matched her smile for the first time in days. They'd have a chance to talk on the ride to the monastery.

Asmara, Eritrea

Night was his element. Yosef had the ability to blend with the shadows so he was like a wraith on the nearly deserted streets, easing around the puddles of light cast by an occasional street lamp. His motions were deliberate, his pace deceptively quick though he did not hurry himself.

After eleven in the evening, Asmara virtually shut down. Even the busiest streets were devoid of cars, and there was little chance of running into pedestrians. In all his previous nocturnal meetings, the rogue Mossad agent had yet to see a police patrol.

Since their return from Nacfa, he and his team had holed up in a rundown hotel near the old Soviet-style parade ground. The hotel's owner, though harboring suspicions, had been paid enough not to ask questions about his guests. Asmara's police were on the alert for a European in connection with the shootings at the Ambasoira Hotel, and while they did not have a good description of Yosef, he maintained constant vigilance. According to Profile, the authorities were more interested in the two Sudanese terrorists and the others responsible for a disturbance at the old market and cattle stockade. The newspaper's editorial was calling for a crackdown on all Sudanese in the city, many of whom were there illegally, and barely mentioned the white man who had killed the two rebels.

This apparent lack of interest gave Yosef the time he needed to cultivate a contact in the city. Because of his nationality, he already had an established support network nearly everywhere in the world. After returning to Asmara, he had needed only a few hours to find it.

Asmara boasted a very small Jewish community, just a few families, and only a couple of them had the resources he could use. Of course, there was Selome Nagast's family, who would certainly be able to get the information he needed, but it would be impossible to go to them for obvious reasons.

Though there were no formal synagogues in the city, there was a rabbi who taught and held services in his home, a man in his late thirties with a pretty wife and two children. His father had been a rabbinical student in the United States during the fifties who had trained his son so he too could shepherd Eritrea's Jews. Hoping for a better life for his own children, the ersatz rabbi wanted his children to go to university in Israel when they were old enough, and Yosef used the leverage to make him an accomplice.

Aharon Yadid had welcomed Yosef that first night with something akin to worship. Not only was the secret agent from the fabled Holy Land, but he was also a member of the Mossad, the agency most responsible for protecting the Jewish state. The young rabbi had never been to Israel himself and felt disconnected by his isolation from the rest of world Jewry, especially since Operation Moses had air-lifted thousands of Ethiopian Jews to the homeland.

Aharon met Yosef at the door of his one-story bungalow, having observed the Israeli agent through the curtained front window. "Shalom, shalom," he greeted eagerly, showing off his on fi there would be no problem finding a level place on which to land the aircraft near the valley. He forced a smile. "You have done very well, and when I return to Israel, I promise that I will make certain your children will be sponsored to study at Tel Aviv University."

Before Aharon could show his gratitude, his wife stepped through the front door. Aharon told her of Yosef's offer, and she rushed across the room to throw her arms around the Israeli, tears of happiness streaming down her cheeks. She spoke to him in excited Tigrinyan, her emotions transcending language.

Yosef barely acknowledged her joy. His mind was planning out the next and perhaps final phase of the operation. Mercer must have been at the mine when he had been contacted earlier and had lied about his location. The American had bluffed, and Yosef found his anger rising at such an insult. The Israeli agent had told Mercer that Harry White was going to lose a hand, though Yosef hadn't intended to carry out the threat. But now? Yes, he would order it done. He would record the sounds with the micro-cassette he carried, as he had done for White's previous message.

He considered that if Mercer had found the mine and was working to reopen it, there would be no reason for his team to return to Asmara after reaching the valley. And after tonight Yosef could not afford to be seen anywhere in the country.

"Yosef?" Aharon broke into his silent musings.

"Yes?"

"My wife wants to do something for you to show our thanks, perhaps a meal in your honor."

Yosef gave him a sad smile, "That won't be necessary. Tell her another hug is thanks enough." He stood, his right hand hidden behind his back.

The woman's arms came around his neck, her cheek pressed to his chest. "Yekanyelay," she sobbed. Thank you.

"I am sorry," Yosef said quietly in Hebrew.

He used his knife. Normal procedure dictated he kill Aharon first. As a man, he posed more of a physical threat. But Yosef decided that watching his wife die would stun the rabbi enough for him to dispatch the Eritrean before he recovered. Further, a woman's reactions are quicker than a man's, and her scream would likely have alerted the children asleep in their beds.

Yosef was across the room, plunging the bloody blade into Aharon's chest before the body of his wife hit the rug covering the wooden floor. The rabbi stood still as the knife came at him, his eyes fixed on a horror beyond his comprehension. In seconds it was over, and Yosef was back on the street, heading toward his hotel.

For security reasons, he had no choice but to kill them. Someday, Aharon Yadid would have told a friend about the Israeli agent he had helped, and that was a leak Yosef could not afford.

There was a great deal to accomplish before he and his team left for the Valley of Dead Children. He had to contact the team members in Jerusalem guarding Harry White and order his mutilation, a task he would enjoy for the pain it would cause Mercer. He also had to reach Defense Minister Levine and order the helicopter for when the mission was over. The Israeli Defense Force had CH-53 Super Stallion helicopters that could make the flight with their upgraded inflight refueling capability and safely return with their precious cargo. It would take some coordination to have flying tankers standing by to supporteyond flooded his brain, Yosef still found a few seconds to consider what he would find at the mine. The idea was staggering. Not only would it ensure Levine's election, there was something even larger at stake than a political victory. Out in the desert lay hidden a tangible link to the founding of Judaism, a talisman unlike any other religious artifact ever unearthed. If they could bring it to light, it would make the great Dead Sea Scrolls pale in comparison. A piece of living history was within his reach now, something stolen from Israel hundreds of generations ago that had become his destiny to bring home.

He shook himself of these feelings and refocused on his job. Things were coming into place. First was the location of the mine. And now he finally had an idea who was behind the Sudanese attacks in Rome and at Mercer's hotel. Yosef had learned from Archive, their secret tap into the Mossad computer system, that Italian industrialist Giancarlo Gianelli was under investigation by the FBI and Interopol in conjunction with documents stolen from the United States. Yosef harbored the suspicion that they were talking about the Medusa pictures. Taking into consideration Italy's colonial presence in Eritrea, it seemed likely that Gianelli was after the pictures and the mine. He guessed that the Italian was behind the Sudanese, perhaps using them as a mercenary army to thwart Mercer's and indirectly Yosef's own efforts.

What he didn't know was how close the Italian was and if he knew about what really lay hidden out in the northern wastelands.

Jerusalem

Security all over Israel was still on a heightened alert even after two incident-free months had passed since the deadly bombing at the Western Wall. Nowhere was this more apparent than within the towering ramparts surrounding Jerusalem's Old City. Armed patrols walked the narrow, twisting streets in even greater numbers than during the Infitata. While every Israeli citizen had to perform two years of active military service, it appeared that the IDF was using only the toughest veterans to patrol the sacred city. Uniforms and machine pistols were a common sight all over the country, but the grim faces of these shock troops chilled even the most impassive residents.

The streets and meandering alleys were eerily quiet this night except for the low mutterings of the patrols and the occasional rustle of feral cats picking through garbage. The shops were boarded up for the night, and little light escaped from the shuttered windows of the houses. The gibbous moon shone on the cobbled roads, its milky, otherworldly light only adding to the haunted feeling of the city.

Beyond the crusader walls, the new city of Jerusalem, too, was quiet. The presence of so many armed soldiers patrolling the streets and neighborhoods, harassing both Jew and Arab alike in their search for terrorists, had strained the patience of the inhabitants to the point where they no longer ventured out unless absolutely necessary.

In the safe house within the old city, the strain of maintaining vigilance was also telling on the remainder of Yosef's team, those charged with guarding Harry White. These soldiers were the group's lowest ranks, those with minimal combat experience. The best of the organization had gone to Eritrea with Yosef, leaving the younger, less-trained zealots to hold their prisoner. Without Yosef's direct control, discipline had started falling and was now at its lowest ebb. While their belief in their cause and in Defense Minister Levine had not wavered, they'd lost interest in baby-sitting a cantankerous old man.

The younger members chafed at the forced inactivity. A ` the new e preseel took the lead, an automatic pistol held discreetly against her thigh. They had to cover about three-quarters of a mile through the Jewish Quarter to reach the waiting van, and while she didn't like the exposure, she had no choice.

Harry's mind worked furiously. He tried to recognize any landmark that might look familiar as they moved, but nothing came to him. He was in the Middle East, of that he was sure, but had no idea where. The one clue he had--Moshe drinking the gin with him--gave him nothing. And then he realized that a woman was now leading the team. A woman! Not in an Arab country. In a rush everything came clear. His kidnappers were Jewish! Some Israeli extremist group, no doubt.

He should have seen it all along. Moshe was a Jewish name, the name of a former Israeli leader. "Shit," he cursed himself under his breath.

But how to make this work to his advantage? This was his best opportunity to escape, and still he had no ideas. Muslim or Jew, it didn't matter as long as they were armed. He did sense the group's tension and wisely decided not to delay them by intentionally slowing his pace. He could tell they were all in danger.

Rachel stiffened when she heard a group of men running toward them. She hid the pistol behind her leg just as a dozen soldiers rounded a corner a half block away, their equipment slapping against their uniforms. As soon as the security patrol spotted the four people breaking the curfew order, their weapons came up, twelve fingers tightening on the triggers.

"No, please, wait!" Rachel cried in Hebrew. "We are Israeli citizens!"

"What are you doing on the street?" the ranking soldier called back, his weapon centered on Rachel's head.

"There was a shooting close to our apartment, my grandfather was frightened," Rachel improvised, pointing at Harry. "He demanded we leave immediately. He is very ill. The strain is bad for his heart."

"Return to your home at once," the soldier ordered. "You should not be out here."

"I know, but we cannot calm him." She lowered her voice to draw on the soldier's natural compassion. "His wife, my grandmother, was killed in the bombing at the Wall. He has not been himself."

At that revelation, the leader of the patrol lowered his weapon, and his troops followed suit. The soldier looked at the group critically, deciding that a woman, two boys barely out of their teens, and a man who looked as though he would die at any moment did not pose a threat. The radio on his belt squawked, and he shifted his attention from Rachel to it.

"A patrol has made contact," he said to his group. "Two men armed with automatic weapons. They've split up. I think one of the bastards is heading our way." He looked at Rachel again, but already his concentration was on the hunt for the renegades. "Clear the street as quickly as you can. There are two of them out here tonight."

Harry watched the exchange, realized that the patrol was about to leave, and got a sickening inspiration. It was now or never. God forgive me for what I'm about to do. Then as loud as he could, he screamed, "Heil Hitler!"

His shocking outburst had the desired effect. The patrol swung back toward the group of kidnappers, and in the split second of indecision, one of the young Israelis with Rachel was startled and drew his weapon. Harry dropped to the ground as the patrol's Galil assault rifles chattered, the street dancing with the fire of the muzzle flashes. Rachel dove out of the wayossible.

Ten minutes trickled by, the Land Cruiser crawling blindly through the twisting slashes of wind and sand, Mercer's hand slick on the steering wheel, his body attuned to any attitude shifts that would signal a hill or a valley. Then as suddenly as it had started, the storm blew over them and they were in the clear. Even before his eyes could adjust to the sudden burst of sunlight, Mercer floored the accelerator, flinging Gibby and Selome back in their seats. They had a precious few minutes before the sand settled around their pursuers.

"Selome, keep your eye out for that Fiat and tell me the instant you see it."

There was a series of low hills a half mile ahead, and Mercer was hoping that they would be behind them before she saw the other vehicle. If the three of them were spotted first, it would all be over.

"Anything?"

"No, the storm is still hanging on back there. I can't see them. I think--"

The Toyota catapulted in the air, throwing off smoking hunks of body work and bits of its undercarriage. The thunder of the explosion drowned out the screams of the passengers. Crashing on its three remaining tires, the Land Cruiser flipped on its side, its front fender plowing a deep furrow into the soil.

A "perfect soldier" had waited decades to strike its deadly blow. Designed as an antipersonnel weapon, the Soviet-built landmine did not have the power to destroy the Toyota, and because of the vehicle's speed, much of the detonative force was released under the engine rather than below the wheel that had activated its primer. With most of its energy absorbed by the engine block, only a tenth of the charge blasted into the cab. It was more than enough.

The last thing Mercer remembered clearly was the sound of Selome's voice. Then he was assaulted by a jumbled whirl of images, screams, and pain, the earth erupting under the Land Cruiser and the jarring crush as it slammed into the ground again.

His ears ringing, Mercer wiped his face, and his trembling hand came away covered with blood. His whole body ached as his senses slowly returned. He couldn't feel the pain that would indicate a wound capable of producing the amount of blood splattered on his clothes. His first thought was Selome. He tried to turn and check on her, but he couldn't move from where he was wedged under the steering wheel. A heavy weight pressed on him, and he recognized it was Gibby. Or what was left of him.

The explosion had been channeled into the passenger-side foot well, shredding the boy's legs so badly that only a few stringy bits of flesh kept them attached to his body. Massive tissue trauma had killed him immediately, but ropes of blood still drooled from the ragged wounds, pouring onto Mercer, saturating him. Seeing the dead Eritrean sharpened Mercer's mind, and vomit flooded his mouth. He choked it back painfully.

"Selome?" he called.

She was sobbing. Thank God! Slowly, he eased Gibby's body off him. When he stood on the smashed-in door, a wave of nausea nearly dropped him back on top of the corpse. He ignored any injuries he might have and concentrated on Selome. She lay curled on the driver's-side rear door, her face cupped in her hands, her shoulders heaving. Mercer called her name again and finally she looked up. Her face was filthy, her hair bushed around her head, but he saw no blood, and while her eyes were made enormous by fear, she didn't appear to be in shock.

"Give me your hand." He hadn't forgotten the Fiat still behind them. "We have to get ot underhand into the pool of gasoline beneath the Toyota. In a continuous motion, he began shooting into the ground as a whooshing explosion engulfed the four-wheel-drive, masking the sharp cracks of the H&K. A wall of heat overwhelmed them as they stood in the open. Selome tried to move away from the raging flames, but Mercer held her wrist tightly. He fired off the entire magazine, walking his shots toward the boulders a short way off, each bullet plowing a small crater in the dirt roughly five feet beyond the previous one. Had a round hit a mine, it would have carried the power to detonate the charge, but there was no secondary explosion.

Mercer released Selome's hand and jumped into the first pock created by the 9mm bullets.

"Land where I step," he cautioned and jumped again, leaping into the next shallow depression.

It took every bit of his balance to land in the tiny craters, teetering on one foot for breathless seconds, his arms windmilling until he could center himself again. Then he would leap to the next, Selome at his heels. Unencumbered by the two knapsacks Mercer carried, Selome bounded easily, her long legs covering the distance with the grace of a gymnast. If her foot was bothering her, she didn't let it show.

"Give me another clip," Mercer said when he reached the last impact hole.

"That's what I wanted to go back for," Selome answered. "The rest of my ammo was in the Toyota. I don't have any more."

Mercer's eyes went wide as he stared at the seventy-five feet of open space separating them from the safety of the rocks; seventy-five feet of mine-sown no-man's land with only one way across. He couldn't hear the engine noise of the approaching Fiat over the fiery eruption behind them, but he knew only a few seconds remained before the vehicle rumbled into view. Mercer took the deep, final breath of a man bent on suicide.

Fighting an instinct to yell and vent some of the pent-up emotion, he started running. It took his entire will not to stretch his gait to its fullest. He had to leave footprints close enough for Selome to use as stepping stones.

With every step, Mercer expected the detonation that would come like a sledgehammer at full swing; a shearing pain that at best would kill him and at worst would immobilize him for the pursuers to finish the job. He covered the first half of the distance without incident, but took no solace from this. The law of averages was working against him, and with every step, the ratio tipped more and more out of his favor. With just ten more feet to cover, he moaned aloud in frustration for not being able to leap those last few yards. He could have done it in a flying dive, but again he thought of Selome and took a step that cut the distance in half and made it safe for her.

Click.

He felt the dusty ground give just a tiny fraction of an inch. The sound was like a distant finger snap, muted by his own weight on the mine. It was the primer, and in the millimetric sliver of time before main charge blew, he could only hope that Selome would get clear.

Working on instinct, with his weight barely pressing on the can-sized bomb, he shifted his body in mid-stride, heaving himself forward in an awkward lurch. But his desperate leap wasn't necessary. After lying dormant for fifteen years, the mine had been fouled by dirt and corrosion. The primer could not detonate the principal explosive. Mercer smashed into the rock with his shoulder, too stunned at being alive to roll with the impact. In his shock, he almost slid back off the tor and into the dirt. Scrambling, he turned and planted his heelson the stone, arresting his slide.

"Selome, come on," he shouted.

Like a sprinter in the blocks who reacts even as the gun fires, she was in motion, her face scrunched in concentration. She bounded from print to print, her arms pumping in perfect synch, and even in his wasted emotional state, Mercer appreciated the shifting play of her breasts as she moved. In seconds she was at his side.

"Are you okay?" she panted.

"Later." Mercer was on his feet again, leading her over the hill and across a flat table of stone toward the foothills of one of the region's numerous mountains.

A quarter mile and five minutes after clearing the mine field, they heard a muffled explosion behind them. Mercer turned. A Fiat half-ton truck was parked directly behind their four-wheel drive. Two Africans, Sudanese no doubt, stood in its open rear bed, and he could just make out the shadow of two more in the cab. They were all looking at the rumpled figure lying doll-like a few dozen feet from the vehicles. There was a new crater in the desert, wisps of gray smoke blowing from it on the gentle breeze. The body leaked blood from the stump of his left leg, the severed member bleeding into the soil a few feet away. Mercer guessed that one of their pursuers had tried to chase on foot, trying to duplicate their feat, and paid the ultimate price for failure. He and Selome continued on without comment. Soon afterward, they had lost themselves in the rugged terrain, and Mercer slowed their pace, no longer concerned about being followed.

Selome called a halt hours later, her face blistered with sweat and dark patches appearing beneath her arms. She lowered herself to a stone plateau, lying flat and stretching her arms luxuriously over her head. Mercer flopped next to her, his attention riveted to the cache of goods in the two knapsacks he'd taken from the Land Cruiser. One of them had been Selome's, and he dumped out the cosmetics and extra clothing. Selome ignored him and stared up into the hazy sky.

"Selome?"

She looked at him and her eyes widened. He held another full magazine for her Heckler and Koch. "Oops."

"Oops is right." Mercer shook his head. He combined and consolidated the useful items into one pack, discarding stuff that had no value for the trek to come. Those things he did keep were pathetically few in number, some rope, a hammer, several lengths of fuse. He took the Medusa pictures from his vest and stuffed them in with the rest of the gear.

"I feel so terrible about Gibby," she said after a few minutes. "Not only about his death, but the disrespect we showed his body. That wasn't right. He deserved a Christian burial."

Gibby's death was one more on Mercer's conscience. The Fiat proved the Sudanese were in the area, and they would find the mine long before Mercer could warn away the refugees he'd asked Negga's son to bring to the valley. They would be arriving soon, and their plight was his responsibility too. "Please don't talk about religion for a while. I'm not in the mood."

She was about to respond when Mercer leaned over and reached a hand to the wedge of skin showing between the collars of her bush shirt. A thin gold chain rested against her glossy skin and disappeared between her breasts. Mercer tugged it from its resting place, keeping his eyes locked with Selome's even as the necklace popped free, revealing a golden Star of David.

"Mossad?" he asked quie like your FBI."

Relief flooded through Mercer. He knew there would be no more lies. "I've heard of it. Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"I guess I owe you."

"That's putting it mildly."

She blew out a long breath. "A few months ago, the Medusa photographs came to the attention of an Israeli fanatic group."

It was an answer Mercer was unprepared for. "Israeli? I thought Muslims were behind this."

Selome shook her head. "Those Europeans Habte saw in Asmara are Jewish extremists headed by Defense Minister Chaim Levine. We've known about them for a while, but we didn't realize until recently how powerful they'd become."

Mercer realized they'd all been duped. Dick Henna must have followed carefully placed false clues leading both of them to believe it was Arabs who had masterminded Harry's abduction. He was both stunned and impressed by how cleverly this had been worked out.

So many things came clear as he studied her. That's what Harry had been trying to tell him when he said his captors had given him Boodles gin or something. Harry must have known that he'd been abducted to the Mideast, but recognized that his abductors weren't Muslims. Mercer should have made the connection, and that oversight rekindled his anger at himself. He wondered how many more mistakes he'd made and how much others had paid for them.

Selome continued. "Levine and his followers want to make Israel a totalitarian theocracy. He recognized what the Medusa photos revealed and knew such a discovery, accredited to him, would ensure him the prime ministership. He tried to have them stolen from your National Reconnaissance Office, but instead they were sold to Prescott Hyde. Hyde, too, saw something in them, something that would bolster his shaky position within the State Department. We learned about all of this shortly after Hyde bought them, and I was sent to the United States to work with him. Shin Bet paid off a member of the Eritrean mission in Washington to vouch for me so Hyde never knew of my connection to Israel. My mission was to gather intelligence, especially if Levine's people tried to contact Hyde directly.

"Unfortunately for Hyde, he called you soon after I arrived in D.C. and you joined his search for the mine, shutting down that option for Levine's agents. Hyde and his wife were killed the morning you and I left for Africa."

Hyde dead too? Jesus, where was this going to end? "You left me in Rome to report your findings about Hyde to your control in Israel?"

"Is that how you figured out I was Israeli?"

"I was told by Dick Henna before we left Washington. Also, the night you came to Tiny's Bar, my best friend, Harry, was kidnapped to Beruit."

It was obvious from her expression that this was new information. "The old guy who introduced himself as you?"

"The same," Mercer replied. "The abductors appeared to have Middle Eastern connections, so I figured Israel would fit in eventually." He told her the whole story about Harry's kidnapping and about the assassination at da Vinci Airport. "I didn't know if you were on my side or not. Remember, you were working with Hyde when we met."

"It must be Levine's people holding your friend. After you turned down Hyde, they must have grabbed him to compel you to come to Africa and find the mine. The man killed in Rome the1em">Mercer guessed Bein's warning in Rome about not harming Selome was because the Israeli feared a problem if Levine's plot had caused the death of a Shin Bet agent. They were already planning for the day they had Israel in their grasp.

"Levine's a fascist," Selome said bitterly. "I know that sounds strange for one Jew to call another that, but he is. He believes in the purity of the Jewish people and wants all others out of Israel. He wants to build concentration camps and corral the Palestinians in fenced stockades.

"He's been planning this for years. I don't know if you remember the airlift of Ethiopian Jews to Israel in the eighties, but he was a major supporter of the operation. He said it was for humanitarian reasons, but even then he wanted to do away with the Palestinians who perform many of the menial jobs in Israel and replace them with African refugees."

So, Mercer thought, he and Harry had gotten in the middle of an internal Israeli problem and not some international terrorist plot. Selome was trying to stop Levine from using the Medusa photographs to give himself unfair advantage in the elections. All of his suspicions about her ebbed away. For the first time he felt that he could trust her. A dam was breaking inside of him. He'd been on his own for too long and now he had an ally. He felt like hugging her. "So your job was to keep an eye on this group and report their activities?"

"And to stop them if I could. But we came to Eritrea before I got close."

Suddenly something didn't make sense. "I understand Levine is a maniac, but I also read that his election was all but guaranteed even before we left Washington. Why is he willing to ruin his chances by going after a worthless fifty-year-old diamond mine?"

"He's not." Selome laughed for the first time in a long time. "You already know we have no interest in the Italian facility. I think the Sudanese and their backers are looking for that one. That's how they stumbled on us. Our two missions come from different directions but end at the same location."

Mercer matched her smile, the horrors of the morning sloughing off at least for a few seconds. "Before you'd arrived in the valley, when I was exploring for the older workings, I'd already guessed that you were aware of another mine in the area."

Mercer's expression suddenly changed as a new thought struck him. The white rock he'd found in the kimberlite tailings was a stone-aged tool, a hammer used thousands of years ago to crush the ore to get at the precious gems. Suddenly everything tied together: Jews, ancient mines, religious fanatics. He finally realized why the stakes were so high, and it had nothing to do with diamonds. Oh, my God! He tried to repress the wild thought but couldn't. "Is that mine what I think it is?" He could barely speak.

"We're on our way to talk to some priests who will confirm it, but yes, it is." Selome smiled at his breathless wonderment. "It'll be the greatest find of your life. The stuff of legend."

When he said it, it came out as a whisper. "King Solomon's Mine."

The Eritrea-Sudan Border

Gianelli felt like a conquering Caesar as his trucks rumbled into Eritrea. He sat in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle, the windows rolled down so he could smell the dry desert and hear the bellowing of the big twelve-cylinder turbo-diesels. Chuckling, he realized that the heavy-duty transporters loaded with mining gear and provisions weighed twic smile,myths surrounding it had spread as far as Sudan and Ethiopia.

"Rubbish," Giancarlo said dismissively.

His expression was fevered with anticipation, a sense of history weighing on his shoulders. The valley looked nothing like what he'd thought as a child, but now that he was here, he could imagine it no other way.

Across the open pan, he saw the skeleton of the head gear rising out of a watery heat mirage, recognized the support buildings next to it, and after a few minutes, saw the open Fiat his advance scouts had driven. His heart pounded with eagerness.

The trucks lumbered to the abandoned mine, wheezing as their overworked engines spooled to silence, air brakes hissing. Gianelli launched himself from the cab, running across the desert to the rim of the open shaft.

Joppi Hofmyer was the first to join him.

"This is it," Giancarlo gasped. "Two lifetimes of work, mine and my uncle's, and here it is." He gave no consideration to the earlier news that the mine was empty. It was a possibility he would not allow.

There was no way the mine could be worthless, he thought. Enrico had been sure there were diamonds in the area, had died believing it. Gianelli had always felt that if his uncle's plane hadn't been shot down during the war, he would have given the family proof. Mercer hadn't taken enough time to properly explore the subterranean tunnels, he told himself, nor did he have the proper equipment for a thorough search. The diamonds were here.

"Yes, sir," the South African replied uneasily. "Ah, Mr. Gianelli, I'd like to know how you want to handle this?"

"What do you mean?"

"Now that we're here, do you want me to take charge of the men, or are you going to be issuing the orders?"

Gianelli's laugh was a quick barking sound. "Joppi, my friend, I am one of those people who knows how to hire others for their knowledge and abilities. I'm paying you because you know how to extract minerals from the ground, an art that I know nothing about. From now on, you are in complete control. However you want to handle this operation, whatever steps you feel necessary, are fine. Consider me nothing more than an interested observer."

Hofmyer turned away, more disturbed by Gianelli's sudden bonhomie than he cared to admit. "Okay, you fookin' kaffirs," he bellowed at the Sudanese troopers clustered near the trucks. "Until those refugees get here, you bastards are going to be miners. You take orders from Mahdi, and as of this moment Mahdi takes orders from me. Once I get the checklist, I want ten men unloading the camp stores and setting up the tents.

"I want the rest of you unloading the mining gear, separating underground equipment from surface stuff. If you don't know what something is, ask either me or one of the other white miners and don't forget to call him Baas." The four other South Africans grinned at this. "You boys," he said to the whites, "I want the explosives off-loaded and placed in a protective redoubtment no closer than five hundred yards from the mine or the camp. Now, someone bring me the three kaffirs who were already here when the scouts arrived."

Habte sat handcuffed in the shade of the scout's Fiat with the two Eritrean equipment operators. Neither of the hired workers understood what was happening. Their market square. As of yet, the Caucasians he had seen at the Ambasoira Hotel had not made their appearance. When they did, he knew that he could expect little help from them. This time the enemy of his enemy was not his friend.

Two Sudanese rebels approached and gestured with their rifles for the trio to follow. Led back to the open mine shaft, Abebe began praying aloud. Habte had faced death many, many times before, and he would not let his own fear show.

Joppi sauntered over a few moments later, his gut sagging over his belt. With an expert eye he looked over the three captives, fixing his gaze on Habte, recognizing him as their leader. With a casualness that belied the brutality of the act, he stepped forward, planted his hands on Abebe's shoulders, and shoved him into the pit.

Abebe's scream echoed up from the shaft, diminishing like a siren until it was cut off with an undeniable finality. Habte didn't so much as blink when Joppi's eyes bored into his, waiting for a reaction that the Eritream refused to give. They were locked in this frozen tableau for several breaths.

"Oh, you're an uppity nigger, aren't you?" Hofmyer finally said. "You want me to push your other friend in as well, or do you want to start answering some questions?"

Habte willed himself not to say that the South African hadn't asked any, knowing such a retort would cause the murder of the other equipment operator. He allowed his eyes to drop in a pose of submission that Joppi interpreted as a victory. Like many others from his country who hadn't taken the time to understand traditional African ways, Joppi believed Habte's silence connoted acceptance. "That's better, now. Why don't you tell me what you were doing at the far end of the valley?"

Balancing his desire to defy the Boer and his realization that the longer he was alive the better his chances were for escape, Habte told Hofmyer everything.

An hour later, the trucks rumbled away from the Italian mine so they could set up their camp a short distance from the ancient one.

The Open Desert

In hindsight, Mercer felt he should have chanced the mine field again after the Sudanese had withdrawn in order to recover any useful equipment from the burned-out Land Cruiser, especially canteens. Or his sat-phone. Though he continued to carry the single backpack, everything in it was worthless for the ordeal to come. With nightfall only an hour away and their bodies ravaged by thirst, those short few yards through the mines could have made the difference between survival or perishing in the desert.

Without food, they could last for a couple of weeks, but a lack of water would kill them long before starvation. Mercer's mouth was beyond dry. His tongue felt like the scaly body of some desert reptile. The last time he was able to swallow, hours ago it seemed, his throat screamed in desiccated protest, as if lined with ground glass. While a woman's body was better suited to survival situations, Selome wasn't faring well either as they trudged under the unrelenting African sun. Inventorying their condition, Mercer judged that they would be dead in twenty-four to thirty-six hours if they couldn't find water. Selome's revelations, about herself, her mission, and the King Solomon mine had buoyed him for a while, but now his mind focused only on the miles.

With the setting sun at their backs, the desert bloomed crimson, painted in shades and shadows that made the steep mountains look like fairy-tale castles, heavily t them pause under normal circumstances, but as night deepened, they simply continued to walk, their pace slowing with each footfall.

Selome and Mercer used scraps from their clothing to fashion rudimentary sun protection for their heads and breathed through their noses to reduce fluid loss. They tried every survival trick either had ever learned, and still their efforts were falling far short. Had either of them carried a compass or knew celestial navigation, they could have walked in the coolness of the night. As it was, they were forced to march in the daylight, the sun as their only guide. And after just one day, with an unknown number more to go, it was clear that they would die.

"The sun's almost behind the horizon." Mercer spoke for the first time in nearly six hours. "It'll be cooler in just a little while."

"And I'll be dead in just a little while, too." Selome managed a smile, though her voice scratched like an old phonograph record.

"That's the spirit," Mercer rasped. "Nothing like a positive attitude."

His grin cracked his dry lips and a tiny bead of blood quivered at the corner of his mouth. He surveyed the terrain around them. The landscape was spiked by mountainous ramparts that grew from the desert floor with brutal regularity, forcing them to follow a meandering route as they tracked eastward toward the Adobha River.

They continued on, their steps less sure, fatigue and dehydration taking their toll. Just before total darkness set in, Mercer steered Selome to one of the countless kopjes, rocky hillocks similar to the buttes that dot the American Southwest, and led her into one of the hundreds of caves that pocked the cliff, riven out of the stone by eons of erosion. Too exhausted to speak, they tumbled to the floor and soaked up the cave's chilled air. A full half hour passed before Mercer felt he had the energy to sit up and press his aching back against the rock wall. He tried to use his pack as a pillow but its contents were even harder and more jagged than the stone.

Neither dared remove their boots. Their feet would have swollen immediately and they wouldn't be able to don them again in the morning. Mercer did loosen his laces to ease the pressure against his tender skin.

"Try it," he prompted Selome. "It feels better than sex."

"You must not be very good," she teased. "How far do you think we've come?"

"I'd guess about twenty-five to thirty miles."

"Then we're halfway to the Adobha River."

"Unfortunately no. Because of the terrain and our need to go around these damned hills, I estimate we've only walked about fifteen miles due east." Though he wanted to protect her from their reality, she had a right to know.

"So the river is . . ."

"Another forty-five miles. If the ground doesn't flatten out soon, we'll actually have to cover seventy. And our bodies are going to weaken even more during the night. Our pace will be slower tomorrow, and every second we're out in the sun, we're going to dehydrate further. I'm sorry to tell you this, but these are the facts."

Selome's body slumped in defeat. "Can we go back and take our chances with the Sudanese?"

Mercer couldn't specifically recall facing a more desperate situation but Selome took comfort from his words. She crawled to him, laying her head on the hard pads of his stomach muscles. He stroked her hair softly and she mewed before drifting into an exhausted sleep. For Mercer, the respite of oblivion was a long time in coming.

He was almost too tired and sore to sleep. Something about what Selome had told him nagged at the back of his mind, something about Levine's quest to find King Solomon's mine. It was an archaeological treasure, the find of the century, but Mercer couldn't figure out how the Israeli minister planned to use it to gain power or to help him hold it once he'd won the elections. Something didn't fit. There was another piece to this puzzle that Selome hadn't mentioned.

Had he not been so exhausted and his mind tortured by the dry thirst, he would have demanded an explanation, but until they were safe again, neither could afford to waste the energy talking about something that was, for the moment, out of their control. Just before sleep claimed him, Mercer had one more thought: the Eritrean refugees he had sent for from Sudan. They were leaving one hell and heading straight into another. He knew their labor would be eagerly accepted by the rebel soldiers who were undoubtedly at the mine at this very moment. Mercer realized that his and Selome's struggle for survival was also a race against time.

At dawn the next day, Selome woke before Mercer and her feeble stirrings brought him awake. They had snuggled together during the night, their legs twined. It was a position of intimate trust, the nocturnal pose of lovers, and for several seconds they silently enjoyed the touch. It was only when Selome tried to lift herself that they realized how much their muscles had stiffened. She whimpered, her face screwed up with pain.

"Oh, Christ," Mercer said, his voice barely a hoarse croak.

Moving like arthritics, Mercer followed Selome's lead as she began stretching her tensed limbs. His joints popped and creaked in the confines of the cave and he knew intimately how Harry White felt every morning of every day.

Thinking of his old friend brought a burst of adrenaline to Mercer's heart, the natural drug giving him just enough strength to motion for Selome that it was time to continue. It was almost six in the morning, and they would have a couple of hours before the sun's heat began searing the desert floor.

"Last one in the swimming pool is a rotten egg," Mercer tried to joke. Selome was too exhausted to respond.

The vastness of the wasteland made their progress seem like that of insects crawling across a huge table. Yet for them, every step was a personal triumph against the ravages of thirst and exhaustion. Selome called for a break after two hours, but Mercer urged her on with just a touch of her shoulder. She moved like an automaton, her gait mechanical, her arms no longer swinging because the effort was too great. After two more hours, Mercer could not dissuade her from stopping, and she plopped to the ground in the shade of a small granite outcropping. Mercer slumped next to her, watching fifteen minutes ratchet by on his Tag Heuer before staggering to his feet and extending his hand. Gamely, she reached up and allowed him to haul her up.

Trying to maintain some sort of mile, but when he reached the number, he knew they had walked half that distance. He abandoned the counting and continued to put one foot before the other, thinking their next rest would come when Selome could go no farther. Yet it was he who needed the break first.

Just after noon, at the edge of one more nameless mountain, Mercer saw a cave similar to the one in which they had spent the previous night and he led Selome to it, intending to wait out the hottest part of the day. The remorseless sun gave him a headache like a thousand migraines, an all-consuming agony that left him dizzy and nauseous. "We'll get moving again at three," he managed to say before drifting into an empty torpor that was neither sleep nor wakefulness, but a vacant zone somewhere in between.

Neither was able to stir at their three o'clock goal, so they didn't start out again until it was nearly dark, their pace so slow that they would have trouble making it to the next sheltering mountain before their strength gave out completely. Death by dehydration would still be another torturous day away. But no amount of determination or will could lessen the possibility that when they stopped for the night, they might never rise again.

"Do you think you can keep going after sunset?"

Selome nodded, then asked after a pause, "Won't we get lost?"

"We already are," Mercer admitted, and they walked on in silence. They could cover more ground in the dark, regardless of direction. He had to keep them moving--simply sitting and waiting for the end just was not an option. An hour elapsed before Mercer continued their exchange, not realizing so much time had passed. "We can rest again tomorrow and maybe make it a few more miles the next night, but that'll be our last."

Selome's half-hour delay in her reply went unnoticed in their misery. "Isn't the monastery on this side of the river?"

A quarter mile later. "That's what Habte and Gibby said. I don't know how much closer it is."

Twenty minutes: "Let's hope it's a lot closer."

Darkness came swiftly, sucking the heat from the desert with a welcome suddenness. When the stars showed, they shone with a cold, indifferent brilliance. With the temperature down twenty degrees, Mercer and Selome found they could cover a greater distance between rest stops, and even those stops were shorter. For the first part of the night, they felt a small degree of hope.

But by midnight what little strength they'd managed to hold in reserve had burned away, and as suddenly as night had stolen the day, exhaustion stole their will. From a starting average of two miles per hour, they were down to just half and every hour slowed them even further. Their thirst was no longer a simple agonizing craving. Every second brought greater and greater damage to their bodies. Another twelve hours would lead to severe and possible irreversible kidney damage. After that, death would be quick.

The sun approached at five, rouging the sky. Amazingly, Mercer and Selome had traveled nearly twenty miles, their route eastward more direct as the gaps between mountains widened. Still there were untold miles remaining, and as Mercer began searching for another cave in which to hole up, he knew they would never see the end of their journey. When the sun went down again, they might cover a few more miles, but most likely, this stop would be their last. In desperation, Mercer sucked at the blood that dripped from his cracked lips.

His eyes were nearly closed by dehydration and the fast-approaching sunrise. Beyond a few feet, ss labored, a tiny but noticeable smile on his face.

The Monastery of Debre Amlak

An unfamiliar sensation brought Mercer awake, and it took him a moment to recognize what it was. A mattress! Oh, Jesus! Worn to little more than the thickness of a blanket and covered with sheets of the roughest cotton, it still felt as if he were resting on clouds. His whole body ached, his feet and legs especially. However, it was a reassuring pain that told him he was still alive. He shifted under the bedding; the blisters on his feet smeared open against the sheets. He gasped and shot up in bed, grabbing for his stinging heel. Instantly, his vision clouded over and his head swam. He collapsed back against the flat pillow, his sore feet all but forgotten.

Selome! Her image flooded his mind, and once again he struggled upright, his arms flailing to free himself from the sheets' tangling embrace. He had to find her; nothing else mattered. Then he heard a voice and he looked to his right. The room was just large enough for the bed, a desk, and a chair. The walls were white and clean, the floors were bare and well swept, and through the single window he could see it was twilight. A crucifix above the desk was the room's only decoration. A young boy dressed in a long robe stood at Mercer's bedside. He spoke again in Tigrinyan, ignoring Mercer's incomprehension.

"Selam," Mercer finally croaked.

"Selam, Selam," the youth greeted. "Kemayla-ha?"

The boy must have been asking about his condition. "Hmak." Bad. It was one of the few words Mercer had learned.

"Shemay Tedla iyu," the boy said, pointing at his chest. "Men shem-ka?"

Mercer understood the boy's name was Tedla. He pointed to himself. "Mercer," then added, "Selome?"

The boy gave a lengthy reply, but Mercer understood none of it. He let out a frustrated breath. Tedla poured water from a pewter pitcher and held it for him.

After draining the cup, Mercer settled under the coarse blankets and was asleep in moments. The next time he woke, he was alone and his room was dark except for a single candle burning on the desk. In its glow, he saw that a plate of fruit had been left for him. He had recovered enough to be hungry and reached for it, wolfing two man-goes and a banana before weakness overcame him and he was back asleep.

The candle had gone out when he regained consciousness again. A haunting sound echoed beyond his chamber. Mercer was disoriented, nearly panicked by the darkness, his own weakness, and the faint noise. Slowly his mind brought him back to the present, and his heart rate eased. He recognized the noise as a song, a chant. Then he remembered everything in a rush, the march through the desert, Selome's finding the water in the cave. Fuzzy pictures flashed in his mind of men carrying him and Selome from the cave up a steep trail to an ancient building. He lay in the darkness and smiled, letting the monks at their midnight prayer serenade him back to sleep. They'd made it to the monastery!

When the sun woke him, Mercer had enough strength to lever himself out of bed and dress. His clothes had been laundered and lay in a bundle on the desk. He was surprised to find he needed to use the chamber pot sitting under the bed. At least his kidneys were still functioning.

Once in the hallway, Mercer began to weaken but he continued past s large cleared table dominating the room. He sat at one of the chairs and lay his head on the tabletop, his breath coming in uneven gasps. Selome. He needed to find her.

He must have passed out again because suddenly Tedla was taping at his shoulder and speaking to him gently. "Where is everybody?" Mercer asked.

Tedla held up a finger to indicate Mercer was to wait and scampered from the room. A minute later, he returned with another, older monk. There was a reassuring air about the man, a comforting quality that radiated trust. It wasn't just the gray beard and the long dark robe. There was something behind his eyes that spoke of compassion and understanding.

"Selam," Mercer greeted. "Do you speak English?"

"Selam. No. Italiano?"

Mercer shook his head. "Parlez-vous francais?"

"Un peu." A little.

Mercer switched effortlessly into French, but he spoke too fast for the monk and had to slow. "My name is Philip Mercer. I'm a mine engineer working here in Eritrea."

"Selome Nagast is awake for many hours, Monsieur Mercer. I know who you are. My name is Brother Ephraim."

"How long have we been here?" Mercer could barely understand the monk through his thick accent.

"Last night was your second."

Mercer had slept through nearly thirty-six hours! The Eritrean refugees would be reaching the mine soon; maybe they were already there. He felt his chest tighten with a new panic. "I need to leave."

Ephraim spoke to his acolyte and Tedla ran off, leaving Mercer alone with him. It was clear that they would need a translator if they were to continue their conversation. Soon after, Selome entered. Her ordeal had dulled her eyes some, but she was still beautiful. The weight loss made her already high cheekbones more prominent and her eyes larger. Relief flushed through Mercer and he closed his eyes, opening them again to drink her in. When he tried to stand and meet her embrace, she held him to his chair, her arms twined around his neck, her cheek laid against his. "How are you?" she asked softly.

Before Mercer could reply, Brother Ephraim coughed, drawing their attention. Selome pulled away and adopted a demure attitude in front of the ascetic. He spoke for several minutes, Selome thinking through her translation before turning back to Mercer.

"Brother Ephraim is the monastery's abbot and he welcomes us to Debre Amlak. He says it is highly irregular for a woman to be allowed within the compound, and he is concerned about our relationship." She spoke to Ephraim for a moment and then switched back to English. "I told him that you are a man of honor and I am a chaste woman who is promised to another."

"You lied to a priest?"

"What should I have told him?"

"You shouldn't have said I'm a man of honor, that's all." Mercer suppressed a grin. "Tell our host that any carnal thoughts in my condition are impossible. Thank him for his hospitality and for carrying us up from the cave and ask him how he managed to find us."

"He says that the cave is his retreat from the monastery, a place for him to enjoy an even greater sense of solitude. He discovered us himself and went to get other monks to bring us here."

"A retreat from a retreat?" Mercer wondered aloud, thankful nonetheless.Seeing his bewilderment, she explained in simpler terms. "Solomon's son stole the Ark of the Covenant from the Temple and spirited it back to his own kingdom."

Mercer could not believe he'd heard correctly. "The Ark of the Covenant? That's what this is all about?" He could tell that she hadn't wanted to reveal any of this, and his anger mounted. This was what she'd been hiding from the beginning. "The diamonds are meaningless to you. You're all after the Ark and think it's hidden in the mine."

"Yes. Defense Minister Levine's agents are in Eritrea to find it and return it to Israel." Selome's voice took on a strident note, full of emotion and fear. "It will give him the moral authority to destroy the Dome of the Rock and erect the Third Temple."

Mercer was thoughtful for a moment. "I'd make him Emperor for Life if he pulled off a feat like that. But the Ark of the Covenant? You can't be serious. Selome, I'm not doubting your faith, but the Old Testament and this Glory of Kings aren't historical fact. They're stories."

"So was the Iliad until Heinrich Schliemann used it as a reference book," Selome countered hotly, "and discovered the city of Troy, a place many archaeologists said existed only in folklore. If you'll hear me out, you'll see Ephraim's story lends credence to Levine's plan."

"How so?" he asked with little interest. This was too much to believe.

"Soon after returning to Ethiopia with the Ark, Menyelek became embroiled in a number of wars, expanding Ethiopian territory as far as India. The revenue from trade caravans weren't enough to pay for his campaigns, so one of his priests, Azariah, told him of a mountain of diamonds far to the north of their capital.

"The Shame of Kings describes the discovery of this fabulous mountain and the history of the mining operation. The priests in charge used soldiers captured during Menyelek's battles to do the actual work. After the wars had ended, the priests turned to slave labor brought from Kush, modern-day Sudan. According to the book, the conditions were terrible and the worst was yet to come. After a hundred years, the workers had exhausted the diamonds that could be recovered from the surface and they were forced to tunnel into the earth. At first they used pygmies because of their smaller stature, but they died quickly in the shafts. One passage of the Shame of Kings laments this, for it had seemed like a promising idea."

"And it was still the priests using slaves to dig?"

"Yes." Selome obviously didn't want to continue, but she did, her voice heavy. "Because the pygmies didn't work out, the mine's overseers started using children. Boys and girls as young as six were herded into the mine, never to return. Female slaves were used as breeding stock to replenish the losses. It sounds like a system more cruel than what the Nazis did during the Holocaust, and the mine was in operation for over four hundred years. Countless tens of thousands of innocent lives were snuffed in a subterranean hell and the perpetrators of this atrocity were followers of Judaism."

"Selome, it happened two thousand years ago."

"Brother Ephraim says they were proud of what they did. Not only does the book describe some of the huge gems they found, but it also talks about the inhuman conditions and the practices used to get more work out of the children. If hate groups and anti-Semites found out that the first concentration camps were built by Jews, do you think it would matter howwanted to disagree, but he had a suspicion that she was right. Hate was an easy commodity to sell. "Okay, I'll grant you the Shame of Kings is right about an ancient mine in northern Eritrea," he conceded. "The awful working conditions ring true and I know using children in mines was a common practice until just a hundred years ago, but what does this have to do with Levine and the Ark?"

"Levine's quest dates back two decades. He's always been obsessed with holy relics, especially the Ark. When Operation Moses rescued Ethiopian Jews in 1984, he had the refugees questioned about religious artifacts left in their home country. Rumor surrounded a particular church, St. Mary of Zion in Aksum, Ethiopia's ancient capital. Some said the Ark was still there. Levine secretly sent a team of agents to break into the church, but they found nothing to convince them that it had ever been a resting place for the Ark."

"And he still thought it was in Ethiopia?" he scoffed.

"Goddamn it, Mercer! It doesn't matter if you believe this or not. Levine does, and as long as he's holding your friend Harry, that's all that's important. Enough people have died in the past weeks to convince you that your doubts don't mean anything."

Mercer's scientific background made him naturally skeptical, but he suddenly realized she was right. It was Levine's motivation that mattered, not its validity. And even if he didn't believe, he knew he shouldn't close his mind to the possibilities. Hadn't the Shame of Kings been correct about the mine? "I'm sorry, this is all so . . . Anyway, you were saying Levine thought the Ark was here."

"Ethiopia is the oldest Christian country in the world and has Jewish ties that date back even further. Besides, he was certain it wasn't in Israel. There isn't much of our country that hasn't been combed by archaeologists. Levine started to investigate some of the less-credible rumors the refugees brought with them. He learned that the Ark might have been on an island on Lake Tana but that also turned out to be a false lead. The only other reference he got to the Ark was a story about a golden chest placed in an ancient mine to help ward off an evil that was killing the workers long, long ago. When Levine saw the kimberlite pipe on the Medusa photographs, he was sure he'd find the mine the refugees spoke of. He also felt that somewhere near the pipe, he'd discover the Ark's final repository."

"He doesn't know that the mine was dug by Solomon's son?"

"He wouldn't care. It's the Ark he's after."

"Does the Shame of Kings say that the Ark's in the mine?"

"Not in so many words. The rumor of the golden chest Levine is following probably came from it, from someone who read it ages ago. The Shame of Kings does talk about a curse that killed the children, a mysterious illness caused by Satan that made it impossible to continue work in the tunnels. To combat it, a powerful talisman was brought to the mine and placed in a special chamber that was dug to the exact specifications of the Ark's original tabernacle in Jerusalem. It says nothing about it ever being removed."

"Did it work? Did the talisman prevent the disease?"

Selome asked Ephraim. "The children died in greater numbers, and soon afterward the priests realized that God was punishing them for what they'd done. They sealed the mine and never revealed its location."

For a moment Mercer allowed himself to speculate. Since the mine they discovered was undoubtedly the same one written about in the Shame of Kings, wa it possible that the rest of the story was also true? The mine had lain undisturbed for two thousand years, and if the talisman it mentioned was indeed the Ark of the Covenant, then it could still be there, buried under countless tons of rock, waiting to be discovered. He took his silent musings one step further and considered the consequences if Levine managed to find it and return it to Israel. The Mideast would explode in a religious war that would make the past fifty years of conflict seem like petty squabbling. Selome was right when she said that Levine would use its symbolism to raze the Dome of the Rock, the third most sacred site in Islam. If that happened, Mercer imagined the ensuing war would go nuclear as Muslims from all over the globe used their numerical superiority to overpower the Israelis and recapture the Temple Mount. It was a doomsday scenario that Mercer knew could happen, would happen, if he didn't stop it.

This was all too much. Just days ago he found he might have discovered King Solomon's mine, and now Mercer found that he was in a race to find the Ark of the Covenant. If he wasn't so weak and tired, he would have been terrified. The desert trek had left him in a worse condition than Selome, and his mind was beginning to fade again. He couldn't absorb any more information. "I bet the Sudanese don't know anything about this. Their backers are after the diamonds while Harry's kidnappers, Levine ultimately, want an archaeological artifact lost thousands of years ago."

"Yes, and they're both located in the Valley of Dead Children."

Suddenly the meaning behind the valley's name became shudderingly obvious.

"We should be thankful we still have time. Judging by the excavating we did before coming to the monastery, it'll take weeks to reopen the mine." And then Mercer remembered. "Oh shit! There are about two hundred refugees there right now. The Sudanese who attacked us are probably using them as forced labor as we speak. They might already have it opened!"

Mercer hadn't told her about the displaced Eritreans he had coming from the camps in Sudan, and her expression registered her shock. "Where'd they come from?"

"When we were with the nomads in Badn getting fuel, I hired one of the headman's sons to get them and bring them to the valley." Guilt cracked Mercer's voice, but beneath it was a grim determination to see them freed.

Selome spoke with Brother Ephraim for a few minutes, then turned back. "He says it's impossible to reach any town until after the Adobha has subsided. The river is impassable for at least three weeks."

"We have no choice. We have to cross it."

Ephraim seemed to understand Mercer's foul expression and his defiant outburst. Selome performed an almost simultaneous translation. "The river moves with the speed and force of a truck, and it's littered with debris washed down from the highlands. The flood would destroy any raft we could build. Every year, dozens of people die trying to cross it. Be sensible."

"I don't have that luxury. People's lives depend on us, not only those refugees but also Habte, the two drivers, and my friend Harry White. And if, somehow, the Ark really is in the mine, then maybe the rest of the world, too. I'll be sensible when the Eritrean military arrives at the mine and arrests anyone holding a gun."

Selome asked the monk a couple more questions, the priest's response seeming to calm her anxiety. "He says the talisman spoken of in the Shame of Kings was placed in the deepest part of the mine, buried r. It was too dark to see more than a shadowy form, so he threw on his pants and boots and slid from his room. The cloister's entrance was off the refectory, and he was aware of the wooden floors creaking as he walked. He feared that he would wake the monks.

Selome stood at the center of the pillared cloister, her body barely illuminated by the moon and stars. She kept her eyes locked with his as he crossed to her slowly.

"I was hoping it would be you," she whispered. "Despite his status as an acolyte, I'm afraid Tedla has taken a fancy to me."

"I was hoping that it was you, too," Mercer replied softly. "I want to say thanks. You were right. I'd never have made it to Ila Babu."

"How are you feeling?"

"Much better, but I'm still as weak as a kitten."

"How weak?" she asked with a huskiness that Mercer recognized immediately. She moved a few paces closer to him, the heat of her body soaking into his skin.

"As weak as a cat." Mercer tried to keep the catch out of his voice. It had been a couple days since he'd seen her, and the sexual tension that they had sparked before their trip to the monastery returned with a fury.

Her arms went around his neck, one knee cocked forward so it slid between his legs. "How weak?"

"How about a tired lion?"

"Better," she smiled. "We'll be leaving the monastery tomorrow, and Tedla is going to be with us every step of the way. Once we contact the government, it'll be a long time before we'll have a moment to ourselves. I'm sorry, but if we are going to make love, it has to be tonight. Now."

"Pretty forward of you."

She placed a slim finger to his lips. "No jokes."

"Selome, I--" His next words were cut off by her hungry kiss. She pressed herself to him, fitting almost perfectly, knees matching knees, hips to hips, chest to chest. He felt her breasts swell and harden against his naked chest, more and more heat pouring against him the longer they kissed.

"I was going to say," Mercer muttered, "I think it would be a good idea if we found a more private place. This is a church, after all."

That dam he'd felt cracking when Selome told him about her involvement with Shin Bet gave way completely. For the first time in months, since the split with Aggie, Mercer gave himself over to another human completely. It was liberating and frightening at the same time, but also very right.

He returned to his room for a shirt and his bedding, and they walked down the narrow path hacked into the cliff. With the moon reflecting off the sandy plain, they could clearly see the cave no more than a quarter mile south. Both were surprised at its proximity to the monastery. Mercer lit a candle and spread the sheets and blankets on the cavern floor. She motioned for him to stretch out and watch as she undressed.

He expected a hint of self-consciousness from Selome, but there was none. She pulled her shirt over her head in one fluid motion, her high breasts bouncing as they came free. Her nipples looked painfully erect, and his body reacted. Her pants fell around her ankles with just the tiniest bit of urging. She kicked out of them and hooked her thumbs iarr a dusky Venus, her body taut and perfect, her skin so flawless and waxy smooth in the candlelight that she looked like marble. Mercer couldn't help but stare at the shallow cleft that rose from the juncture of her thighs, her body's most secret place veiled by only a thin down. His heart pounded and his breath matched the shallow heaving of Selome's chest. Her arousal perfumed the air.

Mercer began shedding his clothes, but Selome dropped to her knees next to him, brushed away his hands, and began working at the buttons and zippers, her fingers stroking each newly exposed section of his body until he was nude and she held him firmly in her palm. She squeezed him every so slightly, and his hips bucked involuntarily. It was only then that she kissed his mouth again.

"You are so beautiful," Mercer said, and Selome smiled.

"So are you."

She would not let him do any of the work that first time, not even sheath himself with one of the condoms Mercer's doctor made him stash in his wallet. For Mercer, it felt incredibly decadent not to have to worry about his partner's pleasure, for her expression told him that her arousal came solely from his enjoyment. For the ten minutes they were joined, they freed each other from the world as Selome rocked her body on his, drawing him in deeper and deeper. Mercer's climax left him dizzy and gasping. Then, in a feat he hadn't been capable of since college, they made love again almost immediately. Mercer had only seconds to put on another condom before Selome drew him on top of her. Her orgasmic screams echoed far outside their intimate cave.

They were so lost in their lovemaking, neither heard the convoy of trucks approaching from the east. Half an hour after the vehicles passed, they were packing up the bedding and adjusting their clothes for the walk back to the monastery when distant machine-gun fire shattered the night. The crashing explosion of sound stripped away the euphoria they had just built and brought them back to the ugliness of reality.

Tel Aviv, Israel

Danny Silver was twenty-three years old, an American by birth who had moved to the Jewish state with his parents when he was sixteen. He liked Israel well enough so long as he stayed in the country's largest city. A few years ago, he'd tried kibbutz life for a summer and found the back-to-nature, communal living to be a bore. He liked the action of Tel Aviv with its late-night discos and cosmopolitan aura. Besides, being a bartender at one of the big hotels on the beach ensured he could get laid almost any night he wanted. American girls on break from college or spending time in Israel to discover their "Jewishness" were invariably fascinated by his stories, especially the ones he made up about his compulsory tour in the army.

But it was a Tuesday night, not yet eight, and the cocktail lounge was slow. His only customers were a group of Israeli businessmen in one corner and two old women from a New Jersey tour group near the bar's entrance. Danny busied himself behind the long bar, polishing glasses that were already spotless and wiping down bottles that didn't need to be cleaned. Sara, the waitress, stood casually at her station, one eye on her customers and the other on a college textbook. Danny really didn't like her. She did nothing to hide her disdain for any Jew not born in Israel.

Screw her, he thought absently, unable to tannoard in the lobby, sending it to the floor, but the fool didn't stop to right it again. He charged into the bar like a Merkava battle tank, his hard eyes drilling through Danny to the display wall of liquor behind him.

The man resembled a scarecrow, thin and wrinkled. He looked almost comical, but there was nothing funny about his expression. Had the guy been Arab, Danny would have run for his life. But he was white, probably American, and certainly nuts. He rushed straight for the bar, heaving himself onto a stool with an explosive grunt. Hunching his shoulders like a vulture, he glared at Danny until the Israeli sauntered over to ask what he wanted.

"Drink." American, for sure.

"What kind of a drink, sir?" What an idiot.

"Give me anything with alcohol or so help me Christ, I'll tear you apart and get it myself."

Normally, Danny would have laughed at him, but the customer spoke with such force that he believed the crazy old bastard would have tried it. "Sure thing, sir, anything you say."

Danny poured a measure of brandy into a snifter, but before he could set the drink on the bar, the American lunged for the bottle. The man snapped off the speed pourer with a practiced twist and upended the bottle to his lips. Three swallows vanished in as many seconds before the geezer set the bottle carefully on the bar top.

"Sorry about that, son," Harry White rasped. "But you were taking too damn long. If you knew what I've been through in the past couple weeks, you would've done the same thing."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever." Danny backed away.

"Tell you what, kid, if you've got any bourbon back there, Jack Daniel's preferably, I promise not to bite. Deal?" The expression of madness was transformed into a smile that was almost grandfatherly.

Danny poured a shot of bourbon and wisely left the bottle on the bar. Stealing a glance at Sara, he saw her watching the whole bizarre exchange with a smirk. She looked as if she expected such repulsive behavior from Americans. Bitch.

Harry gulped down the bourbon and helped himself to another, pouring until the glass could not hold one more alcohol molecule. When he brought it to his lips, he didn't spill a drop. "You're a lifesaver, my friend. A goddamned lifesaver." The liquor filed the sharper edges off Harry's voice. "Eight or ten more of these and I might feel human again."

"Mr. White?" a female called from the lobby. She was poised at the entrance to the bar with a startled look. Her chest heaved because she had been forced to run into the hotel, chasing after the octogenarian. Wearing a conservative gray suit with an off-the-rack blouse and a ridiculous bow, to Danny she was the picture of a government employee. She trod across the marble lobby floor, her sensible shoes clacking with a horse-like clomp. "Oh, thank God, Mr. White. I was afraid I'd lost you for a second."

Harry nodded at his drink. "A second was all I needed."

The harried young woman was Jessica Michaelson. She worked for the CIA under the cover of a cultural attache and had been assigned the job of minding Harry White until his flight back to the United States. As the lowest-ranking CIA agent at the embassy, she had been saddled with Harry for nearly a week now. While not involved with his debriefing, she had to keep the curmudgeon occupied when he was not in meetings with the more senior officers, including the station ort of what Harry had been through in the past couple of weeks, and even in its sanitized version his experiences were harrowing. But after a week with him, she felt her pity wearing thin and was hoping the terrorists would come and take him away again.

From a portion of the report that Jessica Michaelson had read, Harry's own words from a stenographer's transcript described what had happened to bring him to the care of the CIA:

I'd just escaped the gun fight and was real tired. I smelled like hell and my whiskers were itchin' something fierce. I think I picked up some critters in that cell too. Anyway,

I was walking along, looking for something, anything that I could recognize, but all the signs were written in squiggly letters that looked like they were done by a blind two-year-old. Then I saw one sign I could read, and damned if fate isn't one cruel bitch. It was on a church bulletin board, and it was for an Alcohol Anonymous meeting that was going to start a half hour after curfew had been lifted. I hid out for the night in an alley a couple blocks away. The next morning, I went to the church at the appropriate time, but it was hard to step inside. This being the Holy City and all, I expected lightning to strike me dead at any moment.

Well, I went in and the group looked at me like they'd been expecting me. I sat quiet for a while and listened to the men and women, most of 'em were Americans or British. After twenty minutes of waiting for God's wrath for desecrating the meeting. I stood up and told the group that my name was Harry and with my fingers crossed behind my back told them that I was an alcoholic. I said I'd been sober for a couple of hours now, having come down from a thirty-seven-day binge that started in De Moines, Iowa, and ended in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. I told them that most of the details in between were still a bit fuzzy.

I know what I was doing was wrong, you understand. I think AA is one hell of a fine program, and it does some amazing things for folks who want to get their lives back together but I needed help pretty badly and I figured these people, seeing me in the state I was, would have a little pity. They all listened, actually they were hanging on my every word. They seemed to know each other's stories pretty well, and I was laying something entirely new on them. They fell all over themselves offering support and advice. Well anyway, after the meeting, a guy came up, told me his name was Walt Hayes from Missouri, and that he was a reporter for Newsweek.

Walt said he'd help me figure out how to get home. Said he had some friends at the American embassy. Later that day he took me to the embassy, introduced me to some attache or other, and after I told her the true story, she sicced all you CIA flunkies on me. Hey, how about that drink now?

Interviewer: In just a little while, Mr. White. Tell us again about the woman holding you who you thought was a nurse.

For the rest of the details of Harry's adventure, Jessica had broken a few security protocols and listened to the old man's ramblings when she spent dinners with him at the embassy cafeteria, including his dim recollections about the shoot-out at Dulles Airport and the names of a few of his captors.

Her superiors had acquiesced only partially to Harry's continuous entreaties for alcohol and allowed him a drink after each day's debriefing, saying they wanted him fresh for the next session. But now that Harry was I supposed to do while you're off playing hero?"

"I'm not doing this to prove how tough I am." That's an understatement. Mercer's fear made it difficult for him to swallow. "I have to go, and you have to warn the authorities about what's been happening. I want you to head south again. Stay along the cliff and drag our blanket behind you to sweep away your tracks. Find somewhere to hide for the day. If I don't come down looking for you in a couple of hours, it means I probably won't. Wait until sunset before returning to the monastery. I'm willing to bet the Sudanese will be gone by then."

Her eyes glared. "Don't even consider leaving me out of this, Mercer. I'm even more responsible than you. If you have a plan, count me in."

"Selome, I--"

She cut him off, her voice raised dangerously loud. "I said don't think about it and I mean it. I am coming with you. Like you said, you're the geologist--well, I'm the trained agent. You did pretty well in Asmara, but I have more experience in situations like this."

He was about to list a few of the gunfights he'd been in, but before he could, an unholy scream pierced the night, a sharp keening wail that dropped down the cliff, growing louder and louder until it was suddenly cut off. The silence that followed was more terrible than the scream.

There was no more time to argue.

Mercer led Selome back toward the trail leading up to the monastery. About thirty feet from where the path rose into the rock, a dark shape revealed itself on the ground. They both knew that it was a body. A spray radiated from the corpse like a diffused shadow. The sheer volume of the bloody splashes made it unnecessary to check if the victim had survived the fall.

They crossed the narrow entrance to the ascending path and continued along the cliff, the monastery now behind and above them. Mercer could feel Selome's questioning stare at his back, but he didn't take the time to explain his plan. Keeping a sharp eye for a place they could climb the hundred feet to the plateau above, Mercer considered what he'd do once they were in sight of the monastery. He had no idea how many gunmen had come here, nor how they were positioned. His only advantage was surprise and even that was relatively worthless. By throwing one of the priests off the cliff, the terrorists were telling him they knew he was here. They were expecting him. He could only hope that by coming up behind them rather than climbing the established path, he could gain something.

A quarter mile farther, Mercer found a suitable spot to make their climb. The cliff still soared in a near vertical massif, but its face was scarred with deep fissures and scaly projections that would act as hand and foot holds. And most important, they were out of earshot of the monastery.

"Wait here." He moved away from the cliff so he could study the whole wall, mapping a route to avoid climbing into a dead end. A more experienced climber would have been able to judge the features of the stone in the moonlight and possibly pick a safe route, but Mercer was, at best, a climber by necessity. He'd never had a burning desire to hang hundreds of feet above his death. He allowed himself only a few minutes, his mind absorbing every possible detail before rejoining Selome.

"Well?"

"Have you ever climbed before?"

"No."

"All right, you'll lead. I'm going to be right behind you so I can give you directions." He coulde didn'1em">The flashlight beam shone along the ground with an untutored randomness. Mercer knew that if the soldier turned it on him, he would have to surrender, but the African seemed more interested in what lay below the cliff edge. The soldier studying the drop was ten paces away when Mercer made his move, hoisting himself into a crouch and rushing forward faster than the startled soldier could react. One swift blow from the hammer was enough to kill, and Mercer dragged the African back into the dust. The entire maneuver had been silent.

He went back to Selome and led her away from the cliff, circling wide around the monastery so they could approach from a less likely direction. If the white man was an Israeli agent, that meant they'd put aside their differences with the Sudanese and pooled their resources. It was an option that he didn't want to consider.

Mercer's sudden appearance in the hallway startled a Sudanese who was walking past. Mercer reacted instinctively and struck out with the butt of the AK-47. The wood cracked against the rebel's jaw, shattering bones and spraying blood and teeth against the wall. Before the unconscious man hit the floor, Mercer was in motion. Easing into the dining room, he could feel Selome at his shoulder.

Father Ephraim was stooped over the prone form of one of his brothers, blood pooled around the ruined mouth of the other priest. Three more monks stood against one wall, guarded by several soldiers. The Italian stood close to where Mercer remained partially hidden. He faced away from Mercer, and in the fraction of a second it took a Sudanese to spot him, Mercer raised the AK by its pistol grip, grabbed a handful of the Italian's bush shirt, and rammed the barrel of the assault rifle into the man's lower spine, nearly bringing him to his knees with the force.

The Italian shouted a name. "Mahdi!"

One of the Sudanese raised his own pistol, locked back the hammer with his thumb, and leveled it at Mercer's head.

"Selome!" Mercer shouted, and she came into the room, her weapon covering Mahdi with chilling calm. "One more gun goes up, friend, and your guts are going to decorate the walls," Mercer said.

Mercer suspected that his prisoner spoke English, but he twisted the barrel of the AK further into the man's spine for emphasis.

"I think you call this a standoff, yes?" Giancarlo Gianelli said casually, not a trace of fear in his voice. "Let me end it for us now, Dr. Mercer."

A shot rang out, a sharp crack that split the air, and Brother Ephraim was slammed backward against the wall. A tendril of smoke coiled from the pistol Gianelli had kept in front of him, out of Mercer's view. "Go ahead and shoot, Doctor. None of us have anything to gain by standing around."

Ephraim breathed in shallow gulps, his face drained to an unnatural gray. He held his hands over the massive wound in his belly, blood cascading over his fingers.

"There are another dozen priests here," Gianelli continued conversationally. "I give you my word that they will not live five seconds after you kill me."

Gianelli had played the end-game so quickly that Mercer had no choice. He could kill the Italian and would end up killing himself and Selome as well, gaining nothing. Or he could lower his weapon and hope for another opportunity. Since the beginning, he'd felt he was one step behind the other players, and true to form, he was behind again now.

Mahdi sneered when Mercer released Gianelli, a contemptuous twist of his mouth that told Mercer he would have welcomed the suicidal gunfight. Selome lowered her own pistol, letting it drop with a metallic clatter. She moved to Ephraim's side, settling herself so that the priest's limp head lay in her lap. Gianelli showed no interest in restraining Mercer as he joined her on the floor. One of the Sudanese retrieved Selome's gun and the AK.

"I'm sorry," Mercer whispered to the dying man, knowing how empty the apology sounded.

Ephraim was losing his fight as they watched. When he spoke, it was a wet wheeze that brought blood to his lips.

"The children," Selome translated softly. "The children who died in the mine. They were killed by . . ." His last word was not even loud enough to be a whisper.

"What did he say?"

"I'm not sught, and an Ingersoll-Rand rotary drill rig for pulling core samples. The equipment's din echoed and reechoed off the bowl of mountains into a deafening racket that shook the dusty air. Amid this mechanical maelstrom, Mercer saw perhaps fifty Africans--the Eritrean refugees--toiling by hand with shovels, picks, and reed baskets.

He couldn't believe the sheer volume of dirt they had managed to move. The mountain that he and Habte had dynamited had been clawed up by the machines and carted away by the African laborers one basket at a time. The mine that Brother Ephraim had spoken of had been exposed, a dark shaft driven into the side of the mountain. It was wide enough for the skiploader to charge into the earth and return again with its bucket loaded with overburden. The operator would dump it into a mound, and a stream of men attacked it with their hands, filling baskets which they hoisted to their heads and carried away.

Mercer thought about the heavy equipment that would be arriving soon, machinery he had either leased or bought on behalf of the Eritrean government. Alone,centuries until there was an invasion. The people who operated it sealed it entirely rather than see it captured."

"My God, it sounds like King Solomon's Mine," Gianelli gasped.

"Maybe, I don't know." The Italian had gotten too close to the truth, and Mercer had to derail him. "It could be that this was the basis for the legend, but as I'm sure Yappy here can tell you, there are countless spots all over Africa that also claim that distinction."

Joppi Hofmyer growled at the bastardization of his name.

"Fascinating," Gianelli said. It was evident that he was more impressed with his prisoner than with the man he had hired to excavate the mine.

Mercer saw this and started to make it work to his advantage. "If I may make a suggestion. You mentioned bringing explosives into this chamber. I wouldn't. The dome may look solid, but unless you have blast mats to deflect the shock of a detonation down the tunnel, you may find yourself proving the hard way that it's not."

"Do we have blast mats?" Giancarlo demanded of Joppi.

"No, sir, but it would only take a few days to get them from Khartoum." Hofmyer seethed at being so easily undercut.

"And while you're at it," Mercer continued, taking an almost casual command of the conversation, "I saw outside that you're about to resift the original tailings for diamonds that might have been missed by the original workers. Don't bother. The tailings I checked had been crushed down so fine that unless you brought a portable fluoroscope with you, it'll be a complete waste of time and manpower that I doubt you can spare."

Hofmyer shot Mercer such a scathing look that it appeared he would physically attack him. Sorting through the tailings had been his idea.

"Sounds logical," Giancarlo said, enjoying the frustration on his overseer's face. "If I had gone through the difficult task of mining the ore, I imagine that I would also make certain not a single stone had been overlooked." He smiled. "Fetching you back here was a good idea. I think it would be another good idea if I kept you around for a while longer. For the time being, you will be my chief among slaves."

For a fraction of a second, Mercer's thoughts played openly across his face, but fortunately Gianelli had looked away. Mercer didn't want the Italian to see the hatred or the resolve that flashed in his eyes. Those he was keeping to himself, knowing that they would help him when the time came. Slave, he'd been called. And slave he would be. Right up to the moment he would slip his hands around Gianelli's throat and squeeze until the son of a bitch was dead.

The Mine

Two weeks passed. Two weeks in which Mercer saw a man beaten to death. Two weeks in which he saw others drop dead from exhaustion. Two weeks in which men and machine toiled endlessly to yank the kimberlite from the womb of the earth, tearing it free with picks and pneumatic drills and bare hands. Two weeks in which his own body was pushed mercilessly.

Gianelli and Joppi Hofmyer worked the male refugees, including Mercer and Habte, in twelve-hour shifts, allowing just ten minutes every two hours for a little food and a meager water ration. The pace wasn't enough to kill a healthy adultr his shift, watched over by one of Hofmyer's South Africans, a man named du Toit. At least ten armed Sudanese also guarded the work. The pit echoed with the machine-gun rattle of compressed air drills and jackhammers, a deafening roar of man's fight against earth's strength. It was impossible to look across the workings. The air was thick with dust and fumes, and the miners were covered with so much grit that it was difficult to tell white from black. A flexible ventilator tube with high-speed fans had been rigged along the tunnel leading to the work, but it did little to alleviate the dust or the incredible heat in the chamber.

Taking a lesson from the British prisoners of war who had built the Kwai River bridge, Mercer dedicated himself to mining the kimberlite to the best of his ability. He selected those refugees with the strength and stamina to work the drills and jackhammers, teaching them the basics and a few tricks to make their task easier. Others he employed as pick men and priers, and still others to haul the ore back to the surface, where more people hammered it apart to search for the elusive diamonds.

But the stones weren't that elusive. The kimberlite here was the richest Mercer had ever seen. While he was not allowed in the secure area near the mine's entrance where the ore was crushed and the diamonds were stored in a safe, he learned enough to guess that the mine was paying out better than twelve carats a ton, an astronomically high value. He did have the opportunity to see a few stones that were found right in the mine. At first the Eritreans were dumbfounded at the value placed on the small symmetrical lumps of crystal when Mercer pointed them out, because there is little of a diamond's hidden fire to be seen before the stone is cut and polished. The biggest stone Mercer saw for himself was a nice twenty carats, but he'd heard rumors about a monster stone, some said the size of a man's fist, that had been found by one of the women sorting the ore.

It was in the pit that one of the guards beat an Eritrean to death. It wasn't known if the refugee had broken one of Hofmyer's numerous rules or if the young Sudanese had just done it for the thrill. The reason didn't matter to the victim, nor did it really matter to those who witnessed the Sudanese using the butt of his AK-47 to split open the man's head.

Mercer had been on break when it happened, and he sprang to his feet at the first blow. Habte was next to him. He recognized the danger Mercer was about to put himself in, and Habte wrapped his arm around Mercer's leg, tumbling him back to the ground.

"Don't, Mercer, just don't. That man is already dead and you are still alive," Habte whispered. "I learned during the war that no man's life is worth a defiant gesture."

The beating lasted at least a minute, and when it was over, du Toit ordered the crew back to work. The corpse lay where it had fallen until the end of the shift, the workers ducking their eyes reverently as they passed by.

For two weeks the mining went on, a continuous chain of men burdened with baskets of kimberlite wending their way along the tunnel to the surface and returning to the workings for more. By the end of the second week, Mercer realized that Gianelli intended to work everyone to death, not only to ensure their silence, but to make certain that every possible diamond could be found in the time he'd allowed himself.

Late at night, when Mercer and Habte were lying on the ground in the barbed-wire stockade that acted as their quarters, they would discuss theorifor us."

Beaten, possibly raped, and enslaved, yet she still had managed to keep alive a spark of hope. Mercer ached to touch her. He felt his heart squeeze and a burst of adrenaline course through his system when he thought of her courage. He drew strength from her refusal to give up. "I'll see you tonight."

The crew was given only ten minutes to wolf down the food before heading back into the mine. While the surface activities ceased at night to conserve fuel for the generators, underground, the men worked around the clock. The outgoing shift passed Mercer's team in the tunnel, each man watching his own feet, too exhausted to care that another day was done.

There was little that Mercer could accomplish until nightfall except have Habte alert as many workers as possible. The escape party would have to be small for any chance at success, but Mercer wanted the others forewarned, in the hope that when he went ntoctly how much. Through their policies the value of diamonds is kept artificially inflated." He turned to Mercer. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're thinking the CSS will find out about my little operation and close down the mine in order to maintain their monopoly?"

"That's about right," Mercer said. "They know down to the individual stone how many diamonds are mined worldwide and not only in the facilities that are part of their consortium. If previously unknown stones from an unknown source suddenly appear, their investigative branch is going to find out and put an end to it, through any means necessary. You know the power they have. The CSS has contacts in the highest echelons of South Africa's and England's government. They operate with near impunity."

"That's what I'm relying on. You see, I'm the person who's going to tell them about this mine." Mercer's eyes went wide with this admission and Gianelli gave a delighted laugh. "I have neither the desire nor the resources to take on the CSS. They, of course, don't know that. The inherent flaw with any monopoly is their fear of competition, and it's astounding the lengths they will go to maintain their supremacy."

Mercer finally understood at last. "You're going to bluff them?"

"Not bluff them exactly. I'm going to show them the stones we've recovered so they can see my seriousness. When I hand over a bucket of diamonds they won't be able to trace, they'll know there's a new player in the game. I don't know if they will pay me more to know the mine's location or more to ensure I don't work it anymore. Either way, they must control this site. Consider my actions extortion. I'm using their greed against them."

Mercer kept his face neutral, but he had to admit it was a brilliant plan, elegant and simple. Gianelli would reap billions. The CSS wouldn't know he didn't really own the mine until they had paid him off. "And when your actions force the CSS to raise the price of stones worldwide in order to pay you off and send South Africa's economy into a tailspin?"

"Who cares? So what if pimply-faced boys have to pay a few thousand dollars more for engagement rings for their stupid girlfriends? As for South Africa, I hope the country falls apart and the whites retake control. I made a lot of money down there before the blacks were given power. While part of my motivation was to reinstate my uncle's name in the family annals as the true genius he was, I certainly wouldn't have spent so much money without some financial recompense."

Mercer knew that South Africa's fledgling democracy wouldn't survive the shock of tens of thousands of men out of work. Anarchy would run rampant as people fought to stay alive. "You sick bastard. These are lives you're playing with."

"The cheapest commodity in the world."

"So how much is enough? You must have a couple thousand carats, and there's a rumor going around about a mammoth stone. Why keep working these people?"

"The more stones I dump on the CSS, the more they'll pay me to get out of the diamond industry. I'm sure you know I'm walking somewhat of a tightrope between my need for the stones and the chance of being discovered. But the efficiency of the men hasn't diminished much in the past two weeks, thanks to you, so we'll remain a bit longer.

"To give you a little motivation, I'll make you a bargain. At the end of say, three more weeks, if I haven't been forced to leave prematurely, I'll make my ddge of the mine, that information no longer has value and they are free to go and tell whomever they wish. Does that sound fair?"

"In three weeks there won't be ten men left alive," Mercer spat.

Gianelli's eyes glazed angrily. "That's not my concern." He turned to Hofmyer, who had finally gained his feet. "Go get yourself tended to and see that du Toit comes in here to watch these monkeys."

Mercer went back to work, his mind reeling. The Mideast, South Africa, the refugees, Selome, Habte and Harry. With stakes this high, he had no choice but to succeed.

The Mine

The noise was like the pounding of drums, a deep bass that rattled the chests of the men heading down the tunnel at the end of their shift. Even before they were close enough to see the outlet, they recognized the sound. They had been farmers once, these men, and they knew when the rains came.

It was eight at night and so dark that the delineation between the black tunnel and the outside was just a fraction of a shade, no more than a ghost's glow. Water poured over the mouth of the tunnel in a continuous waterfall, a solid sheet that every few seconds would disgorge the soaked form of a man heading into the working pits. Conversation was impossible as Mercer and his fellow miners coming off shift approached the cascade. The sudden appearance of the replacement workers was startling and eerie.

"Will the rain help us or hurt us?" Habte had to shout in Mercer's ear to overcome the noise of the tremendous runoff.

Mercer could only shrug. He was focused on things other than the storm. He'd told Selome to be ready two hours after his shift ended, and he and Habte had a great deal to accomplish in that time. Just before it was their turn to step into the torrential night, Mercer pulled Habte aside. The closest Sudanese guard was still a good five hundred yards down the drive herding the stragglers from Mercer's team. It would be impossible for him to see or hear Mercer and Habte's conversation.

"Are you set with everything you have to do?" Mercer asked tiredly. He'd rested as much as he could during the shift, but he was still weary, a bone fatigue that felt like it would be with him forever. The only bright spot was that Hofmyer hadn't broken any of his ribs.

"Yes. I'll be waiting just outside the tunnel. Everything will be rigged and ready to go."

"If it's not, this is going to be the sorriest escape in history," Mercer growled. "Does everyone know what's expected of them?"

"They will know what to do when the time comes. Those I didn't speak to directly today, like the men headed to the mine now, will hear from the others. Don't worry, they will be ready."

Mercer was relying on a hunch, a thin one at best, and if he was wrong, Hofmyer and Gianelli would probably take turns roasting his testicles over an open fire and machine-gun everyone else.

"Are you set with everything you have to do?" Habte grinned, trying to cut through Mercer's black mood.

Mercer gave a gallows chuckle. "We'll both know in two hours."

As Mercer suspected, Gianelli hadn't provided tents for his laborers. Yet the Italian, the other whites, and the Sudanese troopers were waiting out the storm in separate tents, huge affairs that hummed with air conditioners to cut the humidity and glowed feebly through the silver treaks of wind-driven rain.

None of the women were forced to serve food during the storm, but they had laid out a meal for the returning workers. The injera was so soggy it oozed from Mercer's hands like mud, and the stew kettles overflowed with rain water. Rather than waste his time with a meal he was too nervous to eat, Mercer made his way to the barbed-wire stockade. Big blue tarps had been spread on the ground, and he could see countless lumps beneath the plastic ground cloths. They were the men huddled together for warmth and protection. The sky cracked with thunder and lightning, piercing explosions that shook the earth. Following every blow of thunder, he heard the moans of the terrified Eritreans.

Three Sudanese had been given the job of watching the refugees, but as Mercer passed the tent they had erected for shelter, he saw one of them already asleep and the others looking about ready to nod off. On a night as foul as this, they weren't expecting trouble from their prisoners.

That's right, boys, Mercer thought as he entered the enclosure, no one out here but us sheep bunking in for the night. You have yourselves a good nap.

The Eritreans had reserved a corner of a tarp for Mercer and Habte, and he was directed to the spot with quiet gestures. He rolled under the top piece of reinforced plastic to wait until Habte finished his waterlogged meal. Despite the adrenaline beginning to wend its way through his system, he slept for a few minutes until Habte appeared at his side.

"You can sleep?" Habte remarked. "I guess you are not too worried."

"If you're as ugly as I am, you need all the beauty rest you can get." Mercer turned serious. "Do you have it?"

Habte showed him a small miner's hammer tucked in the waistband of his pants. "They never knew it was missing."

"And you've got the two men to help?"

"One man. I will help get us out."

"Forget it, Habte. We can't risk your hands getting too cut up. You have some delicate work to do after we get out of the stockade."

Habte nodded. "Okay, I have another who will do it."

The fencing that kept the Eritreans prisoner was concertina wire, heavy coils of razor-sharp barbed wire laid in a pyramid ten feet wide at its base and over eight feet tall. The snarled strands were wrapped so tightly, the obstacle resembled a steel hedgerow protected with tens of thousands of inch-long teeth that could cut cloth or flesh with equal ease. Mercer's plan was simple, but it needed the courage of two refugees and a tolerance for pain that was almost beyond comprehension.

When they were ready, the first refugee lay on his stomach before the coils and slowly began to worm his way under the mound. He moved with care, but even before he managed to extend one whole arm into the spirals of steel, he was cut and bleeding. He didn't cry out or complain or try to remove his limb. Instead, he started working his other arm in. He had borrowed clothing from other miners, so he wore several layers to protect himself, but as he crawled deeper into the fence, the cloth split, and seconds later blood as dark as his skin welled up and was washed away by the downpour. He cried out only when a barb pierced his face, snagging against his chin and tearing a long gash that would require stitches if it was ever to heal properly.

For ten minutes, Mercer, Habte, and another refugee watched the man's progress, holding their breath when he removed the tiny dagger and whispered back that it had missed everything critical. Five more minutes passed before all that remained of the Eritrean in the stockade was his bare feet. Then it was time for the second refugee to broach the wall of razor wire.

The second man dug himself under the first Eritrean's feet and like a snake wriggled under him, using his predecessor's body as a shield from the barbs. He snagged only a couple of times, minor snarls that he could dislodge with a quick shake of an arm or leg. It took him only a few minutes to cover the distance the first volunteer had paid for with his pain and blood. They waited another twenty minutes while the second African crawled farther forward, tunneling and burrowing slowly and carefully. His passage was marked with bits of clothing and flesh stuck on the barbs. He stopped only when his knees bracketed his comrades' head, though there was still another eighteen inches of wire to cover.

Mercer didn't hesitate. He put himself to the task with the same fatalism of the Eritreans. He slithered under first one refugee and then the other, his much broader shoulders taking the brunt of the steel thorns. "Yakanyelay," he said when he reached the second man's head. "Thank you."

Moving slowly, feeling time slipping away, Mercer began to work himself under the remaining wire. His hands were slick with a mixture of blood and rain. Water was streaming into his eyes, so he worked nearly blind. Only when a bolt of lightning flared could he see how pitifully small his progress had been. The two Africans had covered twice his distance in half the time while he appeared to be lying completely still. He quickened his pace, but a careless move rammed a barb under his fingernail all the way to the cuticle. A lancing needle of pain shot up his arm, exploding in his skull, and he had to bite down not to scream out.

He pulled out the barb and continued, closing his eyes to the agony. Suddenly his probing hands moved against nothing. He had reached the end. He wriggled forward, clearing both arms of the entanglement before whispering for Habte to follow. It took Habte just three minutes to reach Mercer, snaking under the obstacle with sinuous ease. Mercer felt at least a dozen barbs sink into his back as Habte crawled under him, pressing him up against the heavy coils. It took an act of will for Mercer not to shout for his friend to hurry.

When Habte was finally free, he helped Mercer clear the last of the tangle, plucking wire from his back and legs as Mercer slithered those last few feet. The rain fell in a biblical deluge.

"There are going to be others following our route," Habte said as they tasted freedom for the first time in weeks. Rainwater washed the blood from their faces, hands, and arms.

"If those two men don't get help, they may bleed to death."

"They know it's the price if more of us can be freed."

Mercer studied Habte and knew the Eritrean was speaking the truth as an African saw it. He wondered if the Ethiopians who'd once occupied these lands really believed they could have defeated an enemy with that kind of mettle. "Their sacrifice isn't going to be in vain. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"I'll meet you at the mouth of the tunnel in--" Mercer looked at his watch, dismayed by the amount of time that had elapsed. "One hour and twenty minutes. You'll be am">

Mercer looked into the darkness beyond the mining camp. It would be easy for him to just walk away. He could be miles from the valley by morning, and the rain would make it impossible to track him. He could be back home in a couple of days. He knew now that Harry White was being held by Israelis, and he had enough contacts in the government to secure his friend's release. The two of them could be enjoying a drink at Tiny's in a week. Mercer shook the image from his head angrily and looked away from the beckoning desert.

In order to stop Levine, he had to stop Gianelli first. To do that, he had to free some of the refugees so they could cover his attempt to contact Dick Henna. Besides, he'd led the Eritreans into slavery, and it was his responsibility to get them out again. He also thought of Selome and what she'd been through. For the first time since Aggie Johnston had left him, Mercer felt that old slow burn in his chest. At this point it didn't mater if it was love--maybe that would come, maybe not, but it gave him the strength to go on. He started in the direction of Giancarlo Gianelli's camp.

The camp for the whites was about a quarter mile from the prisoners' stockade, upwind from the open-air latrines the Eritreans were forced to use. The night was inky black, and the light spilling from the clutch of tents was like a beacon as Mercer slogged through the mud. The rain masked any sound he might have made as he slipped and slid toward his destination but it would not shield him if he stumbled into a patrolling Sudanese.

An armed soldier loomed out of the tinsel of rain so suddenly that Mercer doubted his own vision. The Sudanese wore a wet poncho and was facing away, his AK-47 held under protective cover. Mercer's throat went dry, his breath shallowing until he was holding that last inhalation like a souvenir of a less-frightened moment.

He came up on his toes, silently urging the soldier not to turn. He moved fast, making his strides as long as possible in the circumstances. With three feet to go, the soldier, a veteran guerrilla, sensed something behind him and started to whirl, clearing his assault rifle to engage.

Mercer covered those last few feet like a wraith. He brought his elbow up to his head and, using his momentum and the soldier's spin to increase the power of the blow, smashed it down on the side of the man's neck. The force of the blow drilled the Sudanese into the mud. Dead or out, Mercer didn't take the time to care. He snatched up the AK, rifled the man's uniform for spare magazines, and continued toward the encampment.

He released that held breath, returning to his focus, shutting the violence from his brain.

Armed and feeling a measure of control, Mercer approached the tents. They were laid out in two distinct groups, the larger ones aligned in four rows, the other five grouped in a circle. A crack of lightning revealed tables and chairs in the center of the grouping and a ring of stones for a fire pit. Guessing that the four smaller tents were for the whites, Mercer dodged around the encampment to approach as far away from the Sudanese tents as possible.

The storm hid him as he worked his way to the back of them. Nearly choking himself on an invisible guy rope, he fell heavily in the mud. He lay still for a slow count of twenty, waiting to see if his ineptitude had drawn attention, but no alarm was raised.

Mercer rested his ear against the tent's nylon shell, listening for voices. He had snapped hands. The gun butt made a sickening crack when it landed on the soldier's skull. Of the third guard, there was no sign.

"Damn." The guerrilla was either at the latrine or inside the women's stockade selecting a victim for the night. Mercer couldn't spare the time waiting for him.

He looked into the enclosure, but the rain obscured his vision beyond ten feet. Everything farther was a murky curtain of darkness. The lock on the barbed wire gate was off, suggesting the Sudanese was inside. He stepped in and cleared his eyes of water. But it was his ears that gave away his quarry's location.

A sharp, feminine scream lanced out from the far side of the stockade, and Mercer took off to track down the source. There was a large square of plastic on the ground, shiny wet and glossy, and Mercer knew the majority of the women were beneath it, huddled like their male counterparts a short distance away. He skirted the tarpaulin and came up to where two dark figures struggled in the rain. From a few feet away, it was impossible to make out who was who, and Mercer committed his charge to taking down the taller of the two combatants.

Then, at the moment before he jammed the AK barrel into the Sudanese's kidney, he realized that it was the shorter figure who was the man. The taller person was Selome! Redirecting his aim slightly, the rifle barrel caught the rebel in the lower back, rupturing his skin until the steel was buried in the man's flesh up to the forward sight. The African arched his spine in agony. As he bent back, Mercer released his hold on the assault rifle, grabbed the man by the throat, and slammed him to the ground. He clamped a hand over the man's

The Bobcat was taking a pounding, both front tires deflating when struck, though the vehicle continued to crawl forward. Mercer rammed the throttle to its stops. Despite the increased speed, it was obvious he'd underestimated the number of guards at the mine entrance and their accuracy. Selome was returning fire, controlled three-round bursts that pinned men behind cover, but had yet to diminish the Sudanese ranks.

Mercer chanced a look under the bucket just as one of the guerrillas caught a bullet and flew back into the mud. He was about to congratulate Selome on her shot when he realized she was changing clips. Another Sudanese went down, punched through the mouth so his entire skull erupted as the round passed through. Mercer thought Habte was shooting from his cover behind the mound of tailings, but the angle was all wrong. It was during a second-long pause in the murderous exchange of fire that he heard the sharp, distinctive whip crack of a high-powered rifle.

There was someone else involved in the fight! A sniper helping Mercer and Selome make it to cover, and he knew who it was. The Israeli commandos, the men he'd thought, hoped, he had lost weeks ago. He had no idea how long they had been watching the camp or what their plans were, but Mercer wasn't about to lose the advantage they were giving him.

"Empty the clip as fast as you can. This is it!"

They were twenty feet from the entrance, and as they drew closer, more Sudanese fell, gunned down from above by the unseen assassin. Mercer realized that the Israeli had positioned himself in the middle of where Habte had planted the explosives. He felt nothing that the man who had just helped them was about to die.

He drove the hearty little excavator into the tin shack that housed the safe, crushing one guard between the blade and the metal wall. The building collapsed under the grinding pressure, falling apart like a house of cards. The safe was white and very high-tech, about the size of a steamer trunk. Mercer lowered the blade and scooped it up. Its weight was almost too much and the Bobcat's engine seethed, but they continued forward with the safe nestled in the bucket.

Fifteen feet from the entrance, Mercer felt the ground shudder. Ten crimson blooms erupted in the darkness above the mine entrance. Habte had fired the charges he'd planted, and the stability of the rock face was gone. The overhanging mountain started to come down in an avalanche. They had ten feet to cover, and the Bobcat's motor was missing every few moments, an ominous skip that signified a bullet had pierced something critical. Mercer lowered the blade and released the thigh restraints that had locked over him and Selome.

"Be ready to run!" he screamed, seeing a solid wall of dirt, rock, and mud rushing down the mountain, hundreds of tons of debris that forced the air ahead of it in a gust.

The Bobcat surged again, finding a bit of power that carried them into the mine just a fraction of a second before the first of the avalanche plummeted to the desert floor. Mercer kept the throttles to their stops, racing ahead of the debris that started to fill the tunnel itself. The ground continued to shake, rock falling from the ceiling. The tunnel was about to collapse.

"Mercer!" Selome gasacing forward faster than the Bobcat could possibly move. Mercer considered abandoning the excavator, but he needed the safe and the diamonds inside it for bait. Pressure bursts erupted just behind them, chunks of rock exploding down the shaft with the speed of bullets, more rubble clogging the tunnel. Stones rattled off the skiploader's safety cage.

They drove for two hundred yards with a surging wall of debris chasing their heels. The engine began coughing again just as they started to pace ahead of the wending fissures in the walls. Mercer's lips worked in a silent entreaty for the rig to keep moving.

After a few more seconds, the sound of falling stone receded. He looked behind them. The cave-in had stopped, though he could still feel the earth shifting as the mountain settled.

He shut down the Bobcat and silence rushed in, he and Selome panting in the dust-choked air.

The string of lights in the tunnel were powered by a generator in the main chamber, and they danced in time with the man-made earthquake. A few of the bulbs had smashed against the ceiling and plunged the drive into shadow. Behind them stood a packed jumble of stones, some as large as automobiles, others mere shards, but still the drive was completely sealed.

"What in the hell was that all about?" Selome coughed, stunned by the ferocity of the avalanche.

"Our entombment," Mercer replied, unconcerned by the destruction around him.

Valley of Dead Children

Yosef couldn't believe his eyes when the mountain beneath his sniper's position suddenly began sliding downward in an unstoppable rush. He was a quarter mile away, higher in the hills that surrounded the valley, and he watched the whole thing through night-vision glasses. Even in the greenish distortion of the second-generation optics, the sight was unbelievable.

One moment, he saw his man work his rifle, the long silencer fitted to the American-made Remington, eliminating all telltale signs of his location while cutting just a fraction off the deadly weapon's accuracy. And then the hill heaved upward in multiple gouts of earth. The sniper was caught unaware, vanishing into the maelstrom of debris so quickly that Yosef couldn't track his position as he was swallowed by the avalanche. Nor could he tell if Selome Nagast and Philip Mercer had made it into the tunnel. It was possible they'd been crushed by the tons of rock and dirt.

He radioed his other team, thinking that the mine was under attack. The two-man team reported that nothing was happening at their sector.

If it wasn't an attack, then Yosef had no idea what had happened. He'd watched Mercer's escape from the barbed-wire enclosure and tracked him as he moved stealthily around the mining camp, first to a cluster of tents and later to free Selome. Their dash for the mine in the small digging machine was dismaying. Yosef couldn't understand why they hadn't tried to escape the valley. And then came the avalanche. He considered that perhaps the explosions were the result of a trip-wire booby trap designed to prevent unauthorized entry into the mine. There could be no other explanation.

Then came the full realization. The ancient mine had been sealed by the landslide! He gaped at the mounds of rock and earth that blocked the entrance and was struck dumb. All the work that had gone into the opening of the mine was lost, and it could only be the fault of Philip Mercer. Yosef prayed that the American had been smeared into a weion opticvery rough."

Gianelli whirled. "You had better well hope so!" Spittle flew from his lips. "Mercer's satellite phone is missing, which means the government is going to know about us shortly. I need those stones. We still have time, but not much."

The men and machines continued to rip apart the mounds of dirt and rock that covered the entrance. If anything, Hofmyer's time estimate was too generous. To Gianelli's eye, it appeared that the tunnel would be cleared in two hours, maybe less. One of the South African miners had come up with the idea of using the pumps brought to empty the earlier Italian workings and use them to power a water cannon. The apparatus was turned on while Giancarlo watched, water drawn from a rain-created lake that had grown to enormous proportions. The high-pressure jet tore into the debris like a drill, washing away soil and smaller rocks.

Yes, he thought, maybe this won't be too bad after all. He hoped Mercer had survived the cave-in so he could watch the man die a much slower death. The idea gave him a grim satisfaction.

Mercer didn't have a good plan for eliminating the four other Sudanese guarding the pit. He wanted to avoid a firefight, since he and Selome had only two guns and a finite amount of ammunition. While waiting for inspiration, providence provided for him. The white miner--Mercer recalled the man's name was du Toit--started up from the pit floor, heading for the tunnel exit and his own investigation. Hidden as they were, the miner wouldn't see Mercer and Selome until he was almost on top of them.

Selome read Mercer's intentions and crossed the tunnel to take up a position to prevent du Toit from bolting. The South African walked between them, his flashlight aimed straight ahead. Mercer stepped from around a large boulders, his AK held low across his belly, the barrel pointed at du Toit's groin.

The South African raised his hands so quickly that his knuckles scraped on the low ceiling. Selome made a tiny scuffing sound as she came up behind du Toit, and if anything, the miner's hands pressed tighter against the hanging wall.

"Smart choice," Mercer said softly. "Now, we're going back to the pit and see if you can convince the guerrillas to do the same thing. Nod if you think that's a good idea."

Du Toit bobbed his head vigorously, though his eyes never left the 7.62mm aperture of the AK leveled at his genitals.

"That's good, because if you aren't convincing, you'll be the first to die."

Mercer stood at the top of the working pit, holding du Toit by the shirt collar, and gave a bellowing, primeval yell. The four Sudanese swiveled their guns to the duo standing ten feet over their heads but held off firing. Selome quickly crawled forward to cover the guards with her own AK.

"Drop your weapons!" she shouted in Tigrinyan, and when one of the Sudanese who understood the language did so, the others followed suit. Eritreans near the guards scrambled to retrieve the assault rifles.

Many of them had been freedom fighters just a few years earlier, and they handled the weapons with easy familiarity, forcing the Sudanese to their knees and asking Selome if they could kill them.

"No," she called. "We need the ammunition for later, and these dogs may have value when we get out." She looked at Mercer and repeated what she'dhat led to the floor of the mine. He sat at a table used as the underground office, clearing away rock samples and mining gear with a sweep of his arm. "I estimate we have another three hours before Gianelli breaks through, so first we need to put another roadblock in his way. And then we've got some serious mining to do."

"What's your plan?" Selome joined him.

"First thing is to send some men to drag that safe in here with us. Then we need to drop more of the tunnel hanging wall, close to where it reaches the pit. There's more than enough explosives here for the job."

"Didn't you say something to Hofmyer about needing to channel the explosions away from the chamber to avoid destroying the main dome?"

Mercer chuckled,. "Hofmyer might be a miner, but he's no geologist. That dome's been here for a billion years, sitting near some of the most active fault lines on the planet. If earthquakes haven't destroyed it by now, it'd take a nuke to damage it today."

"So we replug the tunnel. I'm guessing that's to slow Gianelli again?"

"Correct."

"And what will we be doing while he's digging?"

"I told you, we're going to vanish into thin air." Mercer slid the Medusa pictures from his kit bag and carefully unfolded them. When he found the one he wanted, he showed it to Selome.

She studied the unintelligible jumble of lines and swirls and splashes of color. "I'm sorry, but those pictures make no sense to me."

"If Alice had a photograph like these, she never would have gotten lost in Wonderland." Mercer grinned. "I'll explain it all in a while, but first we need to get these men working. We'll split into two teams, so you'll have to do double duty interpreting for me unless anyone else here speaks English."

Twenty minutes later, Mercer had a gang of ten men standing in the tunnel. He'd used a can of fluorescent spray to mark where he wanted holes drilled into the ceiling and fashioned a piece of metal wire as a depth gauge. There were about thirty bright orange spots spread along a hundred-foot section of the tunnel. Through Selome's translations, he explained that he wanted half the holes drilled straight upward and the other half at an angle. Angling the holes would direct the force of their explosives in a more random destructive pattern. The holes didn't need to be any deeper than the wire gauge. He left instructions to be told when the first fifteen holes had been drilled so he could place the charges needed to bring down the hanging wall.

He watched for several minutes to make certain the men knew what he wanted and was pleased at how proficient they had become with the drills. Each one weighed a hundred pounds and they were as long and unwieldy as railroad ties, yet the Eritreans worked them with the expertise of seasoned professionals. Water from a tank lubricated the drill's cutting heads, and chips of rock and mud began pouring from the ceiling in a steady drizzle. One of the men paused to wave at Mercer when he removed the drill from the first completed hole.

"Hit it again, man." Mercer slapped him on the shoulder and the miner started boring into another of the painted marks.

Mercer left them to their task and returned to the table with the Medusa photographs. Selome had laid out some food and water for him and he ate while studying one particular picture. She sat close by, watching him as he worked but he paid her little heed. His face was a mask of conark wi agent, was interested in the mine--according to what Mercer had said--but Habte could guess at the man's interest in him now. He had made an earlier, unsuccessful call to Dick Henna on Mercer's satellite phone. He'd spoken for a few seconds before realizing that the recorded voice he heard was telling him he had a bad connection and to try the call again. The Israeli must have overheard him responding to the unfamiliar device. Habte cursed his own stupidity for not calling farther from the mining site. If he was going to alert Henna quickly, Habte didn't have much leeway to wait out the sniper. He had to get clear to make that call.

Skirting an ancient landslide, Habte saw something across the plain that gave him an idea, and he wondered if the sniper would allow him to do it. Walking across a thousand yards of open land with a sniperkendth="1em">Ignoring the hundred-foot hole beneath the head gear's lattice of struts, Habte leaped onto one of the supports, scampering up ten feet without pause, ignoring the slashes in his skin made by the scaly surfaces. He nestled the satellite phone into the crotch of two beams and clung tightly, his silhouette hidden in the tangle of metal. He doubted the Israeli had seen this mine before and was certain the sniper would not be able to resist the urge to peer into the stygian mine shaft.

The sniper had shouldered his long rifle and moved slowly, an Uzi rucked hard against his flank, the bulbous night-vision gear resting on the top of his head. His body was shrouded in a ghillie suit, a camouflage garment made of hundreds of sewn-together rags that from a distance of a few feet looked like an innocuous shrub. With the amount of rain that had soaked the suit, Habte estimated the soldier was carrying an additional thirty pounds, and his movements would be slowed by the encumbrance.

A bolt of lightning cast a sizzling light across the sky, and the Israeli rolled to the ground, coming up against the camp building, covering his exposed right side with the machine pistol. Habte's suspicions were confirmed; the man's movements appeared lethargic. At this range, there was enough ambient light for Habte to watch the Israeli clip the goggles over his eyes for a moment to peer around the camp and into the building before slipping them off again. He'd studied the head gear for an instant but didn't notice Habte.

As predicted, the sniper seemed more interested in the mine shaft as the only other logical place for his quarry to hide and began crawling over for a better look. Habte estimated he had only a few seconds to wait before springing on the soldier.

The sound was sharp enough to carry over the storm's fury and so incongruous that Habte waited until it sounded again before reacting. The sat-phone was about to ring for a third time when Habte snatched at it, clumsily dislodging it from its resting place and knocking it from his perch. The Israeli was equally startled, but there was nothing clumsy about his movements. He rolled on his back, bringing his Uzi to his shoulder, and when the phone rang again, he adjusted his aim. His reactions were instinctive. He fired off a quarter of the magazine, a long tongue of fire leaping from the compact weapon as bullets pinged off the steel scaffold.

His aim, however, was directed at the falling phone and not at the dark figure poised in the murk above. Habte leaped from the tower, propelling himself out into the night, landing yards short of where the Israeli lay on the muddy ground. The sniper scrambled to trigger the Uzi at the apparition rolling toward him. He took just a second too long, and while Habte's lunge lacked force, it was enough to foul the weapon's aim. A harmless spray of 9mm rounds streaked into the sky.

The phone had survived the drop and hadn't been hit by the opening fusillade so it rang again.

With the Uzi clamped between the two struggling figures, Habte had the advantage. The Israeli grappled with him, but Habte's wet skin gave him no handhold. The Eritrean grabbed a hank of the ghillie suit and started to shake the sniper vigorously, slamming his head into the mud. Even when the sniper tried to hook an ankle around Habte's and roll them to gain the upper hand, his feet just slid up Habte's bare leg. Yet Habte couldn't get enough of a grip to force the writhing agent's face into the ooze to drown him, so they continued in a macabre parody of lovemaking, both moving against each other, arms and legs entwined.

The advantage shifted when the Israeli grasped the dangling bunch ofsqueezed them with all of his strength. Habte howled, arching his body in an effort to break the grip, but the sniper held on with the tenacity of a remora. Managing to free one hand, Habte wrapped his fingers around the Israeli's throat and angled the sniper for a vicious head butt that shattered teeth and forced blood to pool in the soldier's mouth. Choking on his own blood and with his wind pipe almost crushed, the sniper started to die, his grip on Habte's balls loosening.

Habte maintained the pressure long after the sniper stopped struggling and only stood when he felt that all the life had been crushed from the body. He studied the face and recognized him as the driver of the car parked outside the Ambasoira Hotel when the Sudanese and the Israelis had clashed in Mercer's room. Habte wished it was the Israeli team's leader lying here covered in mud and soaked with his own blood, but that would have to wait.

The phone's ring shocked Habte, and he lifted himself painfully from the ground and found the small device half buried in the mud. It had landed about an inch from the lip of the mine shaft.

Habte snapped it open and pressed the button to accept the call. His voice was a painful wheeze. "Hello, you have reached the phone of Philip Mercer. He's been buried alive. May I help you? My name is Habte Makkonen."

The men working to clear the mine entrance heard and felt another explosion deep within the earth, a jolt that shook the ground. In the pause that followed, Gianelli asked Joppi Hofmyer if he knew the origin of the subterranean detonation. The South African had no answer, and rather than speculate, as Gianelli seemed to want, Hofmyer put the crews back to work. It took another forty minutes to clear the entrance enough for a man to slip inside.

Hofmyer went first, a powerful flashlight supplementing the lamp on his miner's helmet. Gianelli scrambled after him, and the two started down the near-black tunnel. Hofmyer kept his eyes on the walls and ceiling, looking for new cracks in the rock. Every few feet he would tap the stone with a hammer, listening for a dull thud that would indicate a rotten place. In contrast, Gianelli stared into the gloom ahead of them, his mind focused on recovering his diamonds.

"They must have tried to blow open the safe. That's what we heard," he told an uninterested Hofmyer. "Mercer warned about using explosives under the dome without blast mats, so it couldn't be anything else."

The lights cut just a few feet into the choking veil of dust that mingled with the chemical stench of explosives. So far the path into the mountain was clear. Nothing seemed out of place amid the dressed stones that lined the walls and ceiling.

Hofmyer was the first to see a new plug in the tunnel, when he estimated they were only about two hundred feet from the pit. Rubble blocked the drive from floor to ceiling, but this avalanche wasn't as tightly packed as the first one. The rock was loose and shifted with just a tap of his foot, and when he levered a few pieces out of the pile, nothing new fell from above.

"What's this all about?" Gianelli asked.

"No idea, but if Mercer thinks this'll stop us for long, he's out of his bloody head," Hofmyer sneered. "It'll take nothing to move this out of the way and get to the pit."

"Are you sure?"

"When we get our hands on him, he'll wish he had died in the avalanche."

Once the entrance to the main tunnel was completely cleared, Hofmyer ordered the Eritreans to remove the debris from Mercer's drop mat. The explosives had rendered the waste into easily maneuvered chunks, and a human chain was quickly established to transfer the debris outside. It still took nearly two hours because of the distance to the surface and because Hofmyer used specially designed screw jacks to prop up the hanging wall.

Gianelli was standing next to the South African when they broke through to the pit. Hofmyer poked his head into the chamber, a pistol held in his fist, just in case. He was silent for a long moment.

"Well?" Gianelli panted.

Hofmyer didn't answer. He directed a couple of workers to clear away the last of the rubble and crawled into the domed chamber. Emboldened by Hofmyer's actions, Gianelli dogged his heels. They found themselves standing on the ledge above the ancient mine floor. Lights still blazed brightly, running on internal battery power because the generators were silent. In fact, they had been destroyed, their mechanical guts spread around them in pools of oil. The drills were lined up next to the generators, and they, too, had been wrecked, the couplings for the air hoses smashed beyond repair.

Apart from the equipment, the chamber was empty.

"Gone," Gianelli said, not believing his eyes. "They are all gone."

Hofmyer stood next to him, slack-jawed incredulity on his face. There was no sign of Mercer or the Eritrean miners or the Sudanese guards. Mercer had made the entire group vanish.

On the far wall of the pit, written with neon yellow paint in letters five feet tall was a simple six-word message composed, no doubt, by Philip Mercer. It sent a deep chill through Hofmyer and especially Gianelli. They both felt that somehow it was true.

I'M WAITING FOR YOU IN HELL

The Mine

An hour before Gianelli broke through the first avalanche and encountered the drop mat, the working floor of the mine had been far different. Machinery thrummed and ratcheted, echoing off the arched roof and drowning the shouts and oaths of the Eritrean workers. The activity was frantic as they strove to reach Mercer's nearly impossible deadline. They tore into the deep shaft like madmen, jack-hammering out chunks of stone that had to be muscled from the pit. They had bored a man-sized hole a further fifteen feet into the soft stone, deflected at an angle from the main shaft in strict accordance to Mercer's instructions.

In the entry tunnel, the scene was less hectic but just as noisy, the crew continuing to drill ten-foot-deep holes into the hanging wall. Mercer had left the work in the pit and joined this crew, following behind them with bundles of explosives. He placed each charge carefully, not letting the pressure of time rush the delicate process. Selome worked with him, handing him the cylinders of plastique from aot lers were far enough ahead so they could hold a shouted conversation.

"Are you finally going to explain what we're doing?" she asked.

Mercer didn't look up from the charge he was wiring. "Yeah. This drop mat is going to buy us a few more hours before Gianelli reaches us."

"You already told me that," Selome replied. "And you said you're going to make us all disappear, but what do you mean?"

Mercer answered her question with one of his own. "Did you notice something incongruous between the mine that Brother Ephraim described and this tunnel here?" Selome shook her head. "He said that Solomon's mine was excavated by children working in slave conditions, right?"

"Yes."

"Then explain to me why the children needed to dig this tunnel so wide and so tall. Also, how could they have dug it straight to the kimberlite deposit? The odds against that are about one in a trillion."

"I have no idea." It was obvious that she hadn't considered either of these points.

"This tunnel was built after the kimberlite had been discovered in order to make extracting the ore more efficient. It was sized for adults, not children, dug so that two men carrying baskets of ore in their hands could pass each other comfortably. The kimberlite had already been located through another set of tunnels that run beneath this one, and that's the mine that The Shame of Kings describes."

"Oh, my God," Selome breathed. "It was staring in front of me all along and I never saw it."

"Hey, I do this for a living," Mercer said. "This one was dug when the mine's high assay value made it economical to drive a tunnel directly to the ore body rather than haul it out through the smaller, children's tunnels below us."

"So the other team is digging where you think the two mines intersect? You found the location from the satellite photographs?"

"Yes." Mercer finished with the charge he'd been wiring and inserted it into the hole over his head, tamping it gently to seat it properly. "Those Medusa pictures finally had some value after all. When I first saw them in Washington, I noticed that white lines covered some of them and assumed they were either distortions or veins of a dense mineral giving back a strong echo to the positron receiver. What I figured out since coming here is that they represent hollows in the earth, tunnels like this one."

"And you found a way back to the surface?"

Mercer looked a little sheepish. "Well, not exactly. Remember, the resolution on those pictures was terrible. It's not quite guesswork on my part, but damn close. Still, I think where those men are drilling will lead to the older tunnels, the ones Ephraim told us about."

"I'm not saying I don't believe you, but what if it doesn't?"

"Then Gianelli's going to break into this mine and gun down everyone he sees." Mercer shrugged. "I've gotten us this far, haven't I? Maybe our luck will hold."

They blasted the drop mat as soon as Mercer had rigged the last charge, everyone having taken an impromptu vote to either surrender to Gianelli or try to find a way out on their own. Mercer felt he owed them that. had been worked by primitive stone tools. The air was just rich enough to breathe, but it was a struggle. In the few moments since the tunnel had been sealed, the air was starting to foul. Mercer realized he had to string out the forty men with him if he was to avoid depleting the oxygen in one section, yet he couldn't have them too far apart for fear of losing someone.

From where he sat, he could see three branch tunnels meandering off, one to left, one to right, and one rising up and over this one. The claustrophobic tunnels reminded him of pictures he'd seen of the myriad branches in a human lung or the den of some burrowing rodent. A man could become hopelessly lost after only a few feet. He crawled over the supine men until he had reached the front of the group, passing the Sudanese guards, oblivious to their wrathful stares. Selome waited for him with her own flashlight. They had only two others, but these lights were powered by hand crank mechanisms that required no batteries so there wasn't any danger of them dying. Still, the tunnel was so dim that it was impossible to see beyond just a couple of yards.

"What now, fearless leader?" Selome asked, her pride in Mercer evident in her eyes and smile.

Mercer's kit bag bulged with items he thought he might need for the ordeal to come. He dug out one of the lighters. He sparked the wheel and watched the flame until the metal top was too hot to touch. The flame remained in a solid column, not flickering in the slightest. "No air movement, but that doesn't mean we won't find some. It just means we are too far back to feel it. What I want to do is find a place to leave everyone behind, a chamber like the children would have used as a dormitory. Chances are it will be situated near a natural air vent."

"And then?"

"You and I find the way out of here. We'll be able to move a lot faster if we don't have to worry about stragglers and our prisoners." Mercer glanced back into the darkness, listening to the coughing fits of the men. The air was rank. "Now you know why I didn't want Habte with us. As much as he smokes, he wouldn't last five minutes in here. By the time we get out, he should have reached Dick Henna and a couple hundred Marines will have landed, taking care of our former Italian slave master."

"And then we come back for the rest of the miners?"

"You got it."

They started out, Mercer in the lead with Selome right behind. They followed the erratic beam of his flashlight as he crawled through the serpentine tunnels on his hands and knees. After an hour, all of them were feeling the effects of the dust their motion kicked up, and the tunnel echoed like a tuberculosis ward. The Eritreans were drinking water at a prodigious rate to salve their burned throats. Mercer was becoming concerned. They needed to find a small chink in the earth's armor that allowed a seep of air to reach the dark maze.

Another two hours of uninterrupted agony followed as the party oozed through the warren with wormlike slowness. Every few hundred yards, Mercer would test the air for movement, but each time the lighter's flame held steady. He studied the Medusa pictures at many of the major junctures. Their resolution was so poor that the lines on the photos did not correspond with the three-dimensional map he was creating in his mind. After the fourth frustrating time, he angrily tucked them back in his bag. Their only hope lay with Mercer's instincts and his intimate knowledge of mines and mining. He was the only one who could navigate this subterranean realhave ignored.

They were well into their fourth hour when Mercer sparked his lighter again. The small flames swayed away from him, its movement so slight that had he not been staring, he never would have noticed it. Selome saw the expression on his face and grinned.

"I think we're going to be okay," he said.

The chamber they found fifteen minutes later was about twenty feet square, and while the quarters were cramped, everyone fit. Mercer noted that the cavity was a natural formation, one that the child miners had discovered and exploited for themselves. It was like a warm womb deep underground, a sanctuary from the agonizing labor they endured until their young lives ended in the darkness. The ceiling of the cave was about six feet tall and was scarred with hundreds of cracks. Through one of these fissures and through a labyrinthine twist in the living rock, a trickle of air descended into the earth, freshening the atmosphere. After the foul odor of the tunnels, the air in the chamber was sweet and joyously refreshing.

Selome settled against Mercer's chest as he lay against one wall, taking a much needed break. The men were tangled around them like a litter of exhausted puppies, too tired to sort themselves out. Many minutes would pass before the last coughing spell ended with a wet expectoration of blood.

"It's all downhill from here," Mercer said.

"You mean it gets easier?"

"No." Mercer shook his head. "We've been climbing toward the surface for the past hour so these tunnels will have to slope downward again if we're going to find an exit we can use."

"Okay, mister." Selome looked at him with mock severity. "You've been giving cryptic answers and telling only half the story since we entered the mine, and every time you pull some trick out of your hat. So what's your trick this time?"

Mercer laughed. "Found me out, did you? Yes, I have another trick. Remember when we first entered the mine after Gianelli caught us at the monastery? I said I was looking for an escape route." Selome nodded. "I noticed a section of wall a hundred feet from the surface that looked as if it had been rebuilt. The stone was a shade lighter than the blocks used to line the rest of the tunnel. I'm betting our lives that there's another tunnel behind it that had been covered over, hidden."

"You think these old mine shafts lead to it."

He nodded. "But if they don't, we are seriously screwed." They rested for another half hour before Mercer decided that if he delayed any longer, he'd be too stiff to continue. He roused Selome and spoke with the gang leaders, again asking her to translate. He laid out his plan and the Eritreans agreed. Their faith in his abilities was an inspiration for Mercer, but also a burden. First it was Harry's life which depended on what he did, then Selome's and Habte's, and now he'd added forty more people, plus the others still in the slave compounds. He cleared his mind of creeping defeatism. It was much too late to doubt his decisions, even if he led them into a possible, and quite literal, dead end.

"Are you ready?" Mercer asked.

"Have I ever said no?"

"That's my girl."

They started out of the chamber, exiting through one of the larger tunnels. In only a few seconds, they could no longer see the glow from the two flashlights they'd left with the Eritreans. The beam of their own single light seemed puny in the mounting blackness of the unnatural maze. And a kicking sleeping miners as he rushed toward a side tunnel away from where Mercer and Selome had disappeared, screaming unintelligible curses as he went. Mahdi too was in motion, using the other Sudanese as shields as he twisted away from the group, blending himself into the darkness beyond the feeble glow of the single lit flashlight.

The Eritreans came awake, one of them taking aim in the gloom and gave the trigger a quick tap. Three red explosions appeared on the diversionary guerrilla's back, and he pitched forward, his body collapsing against the wall next to the exit. In the confusion, Mahdi rolled away from the group, the rope binding his hands making it difficult to move, but still he managed to grasp the spare light on his way out of the cavern.

He regained his feet and stumbled on. The tunnel was so dark he walked with his eyes closed, keeping his arms stretched to one side so he could brush along the wall. After passing several side branches, he ducked into another one and snapped on the light. It took him only a moment to pluck the knife from his boot and cut through the hemp securing his wrists. His men would destroy the other flashlight left with the Eritreans in the melee following his escape, so he was now immune from pursuit. He, and he alone, was the hunter in this hellish world, and Mercer would never know what was coming.

If Mercer thought the early part of their trek was torturous, it was nothing compared to the past couple of hours. It seemed he could do no wrong leading the miners to the fresh air chamber, but since then he'd led Selome up two long blind alleys and had been forced to wriggle through areas that even the children who'd dug these galleries would have trouble negotiating. It was as though they were trapped in the body of some enormous creature not willing to give up its latest meal. As they corkscrewed through the twisting intersections and aimless shafts, Mercer was beginning to think he would get them hopelessly lost. So far their motion had created a trail in the dust, but if they passed a spot that was clean, it would be impossible to backtrack to where the Eritreans waited.

Finally they entered another tall cavern, one that lacked fresh air but had been mined extensively. The flashlight's beam revealed a sight that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Unlike the bodies he'd discovered in the Italian mine, these were not neatly laid out. It appeared they had been left where they had died. Their poses were agonizing. There were maybe a dozen of them, desiccated mummies with skin stretched tightly over screams of pain. The corpses were all of children, the oldest not more than ten or twelve. Even in death, their suffering transcended the millennia.

"Oh, God." Selome gagged.

Mercer said nothing. He looked at the pitiable remains of the slave children, trying to keep emotions from clouding his judgment. By the ore piled around a couple of them, he could see that work had continued without pause next to the bodies. No attempts had been made to give the children any kind of burial. They had been abandoned, worked to death, and left to rot where they'd died. Selome began praying.

Still in shock, Mercer forced himself to make a closer examination of one of the bodies, wanting to know the exact cause of death. He didn't dare disturb the fragile corpse, but from the areas he could study, he saw no signs of injury; no broken bones or blunt trauma. The only bizarre feature was the unnatural curling of its hands, arms, and feet. They were co the What the hell could have done this? he thought. He noted the child still had its teeth, so he discounted scurvy, but rickets was a possible candidate. Then the clinical side of his brain shut down and he felt pity wash over him in tidal surges. What did it matter how they died? They were gone, murdered by a nameless slave master long ago who'd probably been rewarded for his efficiency. Mercer had to force himself to breathe. He said a silent prayer for the children, and when he raised his eyes and took note of the vein of ore they'd been working, a sickening realization came to him.

He wanted to escape this macabre cave, but the scientist in him had to be sure, even if he knew the results could be a death sentence for him and Selome. She continued to pray as he crushed down a small sample of the ore left on the footwall. He unclipped the protective steel casing off the boxy flashlight and poured a measure of the ore into it. He ignored the coils of fuse in the bag and withdrew a stick of dynamite. He worked the explosive until he could pour the powder onto the ground beneath the container. Only when he was finished did she notice his efforts and join him.

"What are you doing?"

"An experiment," he replied, and Selome recognized the fear in his voice.

He laid their full canteen onto the metal case so it acted as a lid. "Do you remember what Brother Ephraim said about the children who worked the mine being killed by sin?"

Without a tight constraint, the explosive burst into flame when he touched it off with his lighter, illuminating the cavern in harsh white light. When the fire burned out, he tapped the canteen several times and stuck it back into his bag. The reddish ore in his makeshift apparatus had darkened considerably. He dumped it onto a jagged rock and waited. It took just a few seconds for silvery beads to ooze out of the ore and pool on the ground next to him.

"He wasn't warning us about sin with a S, but sin with a C, as in cinnabar, also called red mercuric sulfide. It's the principal ore stone for raw mercury." They both stared at the shimmering pool of liquid metal.

"But isn't mercury--"

"One of the most toxic substances on the planet. It can cripple, paralyze, or kill just by breathing its fumes."

"That's what killed the children?"

"That's what going to kill us, too, if we don't get out of here. It's so deadly that miners who dig this stuff today only work eight days a month. Every second we delay can have permanent effects." He was already leading Selome down another tunnel.

"Is there anything we can do?"

"Yeah, sweat a lot. Believe it or not, perspiration can cleanse the body of mercury if it's not allowed to bond to the cell proteins. After every shift, miners spend time in a room called 'the beach' to sweat out the toxins under powerful heat lamps."

The mine was stuffy and hot already, so there wasn't a problem keeping their pores open, but they only had that single canteen of water, and when that ran out, their bodies would no longer waste fluids on temperature control. The mercury would then begin its absorption process, and the consequences after that might be irreversible.

They encountered several more horror chambers as they wound through the mine, one of them containing at least a hundred mummified victims. Mercer could see that many of the children had been exposed to mercury through their mothers when they were in the womb. The poison had done terrible damage to their chromosomes, and they suffered horrifying malformations. Some were barely recognizable as human.

"Somehow the kimberlite vent came up through a vein of mercuric sulfide. I've never heard of a geologic feature like this but I can understand why they thought the Ark of the Covenant may have helped the children," Mercer said.

"How?"

"Even at the time the Ark was brought to Africa, metallurgists knew that mercury bonded with gold. I think they were hoping it would absorb the mercury vapor and stop its debilitating effects. Remember, apart from any mythical properties it may have had, the Ark was covered with gold."

"But this much mercury?"

"I didn't say it was a good idea."

They continued through more endless passages for another hour until Selome had a disturbing thought. "Mercer, the tunnel leading to the working pit was about a mile and a half long, and even at a slow crawl, we must have covered five times that distance on our way back." Her voice was muffled by the tight passage as the walls soaked up the sound.

"You noticed that, too?" he replied. "I'm beginning to get a little concerned myself. These tunnels were constructed through softer material to make the mining easier, but it doesn't seem possible that they'd meander as badly as this. I'm starting to think we may be in another dead end."

"We're lost?" She started to panic.

Mercer stopped, twisted around so he could see her with the flashlight. Her face was tiger-striped by beads of sweat cutting runnels through the dust caked to her skin. He could see she was starting to lose confidence. Mercer cupped her chin in his palm. "There are two inevitabilities in life, death and taxes. You have my word that come next April, you'll be cutting a big check."

She forced bravery into her voice. "Americans pay taxes in April. I'm Eritrean."

The next chamber they found was high enough for them to stand, and unlike the others, it was enormous. Their flashlight could penetrate only a fraction of the way across, but by gauging the echoes, Mercer estimated the cavity was nearly the size of a football field. He immediately recognized the mining technique used to excavate the space. Room and pillar mining called for huge spaces to be gouged into the ore while leaving support columns of undisturbed rock to hold up the hanging wall. It was a common technique in coal mining, but not very efficient in a diamond mine, and he was surprised it had been used to work this kimberlite vein. The pillars were so numerous, it felt as if they were walking among the trunks of a dense petrified forest or in the eerie catacombs under an ancient cathedral. He was stunned that the mine overseers had conceived and engineered the system as he led Selome across the expanse. Over their heads, the hanging wall was in terrible shape, cracked and scored by the enormous pressure of the earth bearing down on it. He guessed that in another hundred years or so, the pillars would succumb to the strain and the entire room would collapse.

Halfway to the other side of the room a shadow caught Mercer's eye, and when he turned to investigate, Selome gave a startled scream and was thrown to the floor. Mercer was flattened by a rushing apparition that materialized out of the darkness. His head cracked against the ground, his mind spinning. It was impossible that anything alive could be down here with them; the mine had been sealed for thousands of years. A vicious kick to his stomach pulled him back to reality. It didn't matter who or what was with themceived andd sharply in the beam of the flashlight that had flown from his stunned hands. The AK-47 lay out of reach beyond the penumbra.

The thing jumped on Mercer as he lay stunned. He managed to raise a hand and deflect the blade plunging at his chest. He twisted his assailant enough for him to counter with a crushing punch, the blow snapping a couple of short ribs. Rather than being slowed by the shot, the attacker went wild, striking Mercer across the jaw with his elbow, and the darkness of the cavern rushed into Mercer's brain. He would have lost the fight right then had Selome not leaped on the assailant's back, drawing him off Mercer for a moment.

For her effort, Mercer saw her catch a savage punch in the face that sent her reeling, her body falling like a deflated balloon. He scrambled to find his assault rifle and the attacker was on him again, this time sinking the knife into the fleshy part of Mercer's thigh. Screaming with the needle-hot pain, Mercer torqued and back-handed the creature across the cheek. To his horror, he felt his hand sink into its putrid face and saw a chunk of flesh fly off. The wound did nothing to deter the assault and Mercer realized he really was fighting some demon who roamed the labyrinth.

He scrambled out of the monster's reach, dodging around a pillar and into total darkness. From his vantage point he could see the creature shuffling to the abandoned light. The beam caught the apparition in the face, and Mercer recognized Gianelli's principal henchman, the leader of the rebels, Mahdi. He remembered one of the guards he'd taken prisoner had worn a bandage--that was what he'd wiped off Mahdi's face.

Mercer had no time to consider how he had escaped the Eritreans or managed to track them. He knew Mahdi would go for the AK next, and he had to get to the gun first. He concentrated on his exact position when Mahdi had first hit him and the most logical direction the gun would have sailed. A glint in the distance caught Mercer's attention, but it was too far away to be the gun. He struck out boldly, his hands in front of him to avoid slamming into one of the stone columns. In the darkness, Selome was still screaming as if she believed that some specter stalked these galleries.

Both men spotted the weapon when it caught the light's beam. Mahdi had a shorter distance to run to reach it, but Mercer's reactions were quicker and they both dove and got a hand on it at the same time.

Mercer had a better grip on the AK and used it to twist the weapon away from the soldier. Mahdi kneed him viciously in the inside of his forearm and Mercer's entire hand went numb. Suddenly the gun was in Mahdi's control. Struggling under the man's weight and only able to use his bad arm to deflect the gloating Sudanese, Mercer reached into the kit bag still slung around his shoulder.

He'd planned to use the high-speed fuse in conjunction with the dynamite he carried if they'd needed to blast any obstacles that got in their way, but now it had a more urgent purpose. Mahdi either didn't notice or didn't care as Mercer dropped the two-hundred-foot coil of fuse over his head. The rebel was laughing, knowing he had the advantage, but when he spied a tiny flame shooting from the Zippo in Mercer's fingers, his eyes went wide with terror. In those last seconds he understood what Mercer had looped over him.

The fuse burned at twenty-two thousand feet per second, so the entire coil cooked off faster than the eye could see. Even under its protective coating, the temperature of the burning chemicals snt>

Mahdi's finger tightened on the AK's trigger even as his eyes rolled back into his skull. A full clip arrowed into the ceiling, ricocheting and filling the chamber with deadly lead. The crashing shots and the echoes weakened a section of the scaly hanging wall, and a fifty-ton slab of stone crashed to the floor a short distance away, followed seconds later by several more.

The whole ceiling was giving way! Mercer rolled out from under the struggling terrorist, grabbed up the assault rifle by its hot barrel, and grasped the flashlight in his other hand. More stones let go, huge chunks whose impact loosened even more of the ceiling in a domino effect. It was as if the earth had come alive and they were caught in its jaws. With the weight shifting its balance, one of the pillars exploded like a bomb, crushed beyond its structural tolerance, hurtling rock like grapeshot.

Mercer heaved Selome off the floor as if she was no more than a child. As more debris rained around them, they ducked into a side tunnel. He took just a second to look back and watched a slab of rock larger than an automobile land squarely on Mahdi as he writhed with the pain of his burned neck. The weight of the stone forced the contents of his torso toward his head, but they could not erupt through the cranium. Mercer saw Mahdi's throat expand like that of a bull frog's until the entire bulbous mass exploded in a red mist and the body lay still.

He trained the light to the far end of the gallery where he had seen the distant glint. Just before his view was obliterated by the crumbling chamber, he watched an eerie blue light radiate from the gloom, burning brighter and brighter until a chunk of stone crashed right in front of him, sealing the room forever.

The side tunnel's roof was lower than most of the others they'd encountered, and Mercer had to ease Selome to the ground and coax her to follow as more of the chamber behind them collapsed. Huge clouds of dust blew into the tunnel, enveloping them, choking them until they could no longer open their eyes and every breath was torture. And still more of the room fell, a roaring sound that filled their world and threatened to tear away their sanity. They scrambled from it, ripping skin from their hands and knees as this tunnel began to fill with debris.

They covered fifty yards before the cave-in ended. The sudden silence left their ears ringing. Looking back the way they'd come, Mercer saw that they were cut off from the others by untold billions of tons of earth. Even if they had wanted to, there was no way they would ever be able to return.

What the hell was that glow? The blue light had to be a static discharge, he thought. When rock is crushed, it can give off a small amount of electricity. Given the amount of moving stone, the phenomenon could easily explain what he'd seen. Or maybe it was a pocket of methane catching fire after being ignited by a spark. He had several other naturally occurring explanations, but deep in the back of his mind, he knew there was also an unnatural one. No, it couldn't be.

"What happened in there?"

"Mahdi suffered a crushing defeat," Mercer rasped, waiting for Selome to take a drink from their canteen. He wanted to give her time to recover before telling her that this tunnel went in the opposite direction from where they wanted to go. There was no way he was going to tell her what else he'd seen.

"You have no p.

"I can't leave you."

Her cry made him wince. He didn't want to die alone, but he hardened himself, pushing aside his own needs. He struggled to regain his breath and purged his mouth of more blood. "Just go. You have to find a way out of here. I can't have your death as the last thing on my conscience. You can't do that to me."

She sniffed back tears. "What about the canteen and the flashlight?"

"Take them."

"Philip, I think that . . . I . . ." He could hear her struggling with the words and her own feelings, and before she committed herself, she changed her mind. "I think that we should go to Egypt, maybe a Nile cruise. I've always wanted to see the ancient monuments."

"I'll call my travel agent when you're gone."

Selome slithered away, vanishing from sight after a couple of yards. Mercer could see that a few impossible feet in front of him, the tunnel tantalizingly widened. The rock held him tighter than a straitjacket, and he struggled between panic and frustration. He'd never suffered claustrophobia, but he felt its icy tentacles reaching for him, grabbing him around every inch of his body and squeezing until his lungs convulsed. He drew shallow gulps of air so fouled with dust that he retched.

He was alone, shrouded in a darkness worse than death. He tried to wriggle forward but became more tightly trapped, the tunnel pressing him from all sides, holding him in a grip it would never relinquish. The blackness was so complete he could taste it as it filled his mouth and smell it as it invaded his lungs. His skin crawled with the silence of his tomb. His mind screamed for release from this prison, to move just a fraction of an inch. He could barely swivel his head, and when he did, crumbly mercury ore scraped off the ceiling, more poisonous dust for him to draw into his body.

"Okay, well, this is interesting, isn't it?" It would only take a few days before his words became the ravings of a madman as he fought against the darkness and the silence and the isolation of his death.

Another spasm of coughing took him. His chest was unable to expand properly and the internal pressure threatened to shatter his ribs like glass. He wondered if pneumonia would develop and kill him before the mercury he was breathing destroyed his motor control and rotted his brain. He remembered that the beginning stage of mercury poisoning was a tremor in the extremities, and he couldn't tell if the quiver in his legs was real or imagined.

Rather than dwell on the inevitable, he let his mind drift to the blue glow. What if he hadn't seen a static discharge or a methane explosion? What if it really was the Ark, now crushed beyond recovery? "I've got the rest of my life to figure it out."

Washington, D.C.

Dick Henna broke years of training when he made that call. Since the early days of their marriage, Fay had worked tirelessly to get a little culture into her workaholic husband's life. She had started out easy on him, the occasional foreign film or ethnic restaurant, and over time she had him going to musicals and actually enjoying the opera. Her only major setback had been a too-early introduction to ballet that had soured him forever, but the night he made the call to Mercer's phone, she'd crosst i.

He'd mumbled an apology to Fay about needing the rest room and slid from the box at the Kennedy Center, dodging out of the huge theater and into the red-carpeted lobby. His Secret Service escorts seemed equally relieved at their temporary escape from the performance. Next to the bronze bust of the late President Kennedy, which to him was the ugliest statue he'd ever seen, he snapped open his cell phone and dialed Mercer for the hundredth time in the past weeks. It was a fruitless gesture, he knew, but he hadn't had word from his friend and State Department reports about violence in Asmara had him concerned.

He was about to cut the connection after the fifth ring, when an unfamiliar voice answered in accented English. "Hello, you have reached the phone of Philip Mercer. He's been buried alive. May I help you? My name is Habte Makkonen."

Their fifteen-minute conversation cut short Henna's concert. He sent an agent back to his seat to apologize to Fay. Like just about every other husband in the country, he figured he'd spend his retirement making up to his wife for the years of broken promises. The phone in his limo was more secure than his cell phone, and the attached scrambler had the latest in encryption software. He was on it for the entire drive to the Pentagon.

After alerting Marge Doyle, he called the Pentagon and had them track down C. Thomas Morrison. The limo reached the Department of Defense's sprawling headquarters just as Admiral Morrison was located.

"Evening, Dick, how're you doing?" the Joint Chiefs' chairman asked jovially.

"I've got a present for you, but you're going to have to unwrap it," Henna replied. "Where are you right now?"

"Home. My son's in town looking at colleges for his daughter. She wants Howard because it's a black school, and he wants her at Georgetown because of its reputation."

"Tell them they're going to have to thumb through the catalogs without you. I'm at the Pentagon and you're going to want to be here too."

"What's happening?"

"I found your Medusa photographs and we're going to need some firepower to get them back."

Admiral Morrison's voice went serious the instant he heard the word Medusa. "Say no more. I'm putting on my shoes right now. I should be there in half an hour."

Leave it to a military man to know the exact time of his commute no matter what the traffic situation. Twenty-nine minutes later, Morrison strode through the entry doors closest to his E-ring suite of offices, two uniformed aides pacing behind him in an arrowhead formation. He and Henna shook hands and strode to the elevators, arriving at Morrison's office just an hour after Habte's call. That hour was the longest delay in the chain of events to follow. Henna quickly outlined his conversation with Habte and the circumstances surrounding it.

"Northern Eritrea, huh?" Morrison studied the world map behind his desk. He chuckled. "Isn't that a coincidence. Since our last conversation, a detachment of Force Recon Marines found themselves rotated to an amphibious assault ship off the coast of Somalia. There are two hundred soldiers on that ship who'd been planning a piece-of-cake tour in Italy and are mighty pissed off at their new deployment. I bet they'd love to vent some of that anger."

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 >Admiral ea 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. "Ot 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.

King Solomon's Mine

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 as he se 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.

"Gold doubloon I'm not."

He couldn't believe how good it felt to be sore. It meant he was still alive. He swayed to his feet, reaching to brush a tendril of hair from Selome's face. "I didn't think you were coming back." His voice was thick. He wanted to tell her what had happened when she left him alone, but he couldn't. What he felt went beyond words. He simply stepped into her embrace, soaking up the heat of her body. "Thank you."

There was just enough amber incandescence from the flashlight for him to visually explore the chamber they occupied and to understand how she had gotten him out of his tomb. The gallery was roughly rectangular and at least thirty feet tall with a shallow alcove at one end. Its walls had been covered with blocks of dressed stone. Mercer recognized the stones used in the closet-sized niche. He had seen them before. They were the same type as those lining the main tunnel from the surface. This room had been a staging area, a link between the direct path to the kimberlite ore beds and the older, more meandering tunnels. Behind him, a towering pile of dirt reached almost to the ceiling. At its summit, he saw the tiny round hole that led to the rest of the old mine and had held him prisoner for so long.

When the new, straighter drift had been driven into the mountain, the workers must have back-filled the passageway to the room and pillar mine chamber. In the thousands of years since then, the fill had settled enough for Mercer to crawl almost to the point where it emptied into this room. Of course, Selome had recognized that if she dug into the base of the mountain of dirt, it would collapse into the room and free him.

"I'm sorry it took so long, but when I fell into this chamber, I cracked my head against the floor and blacked out." There was an angry bruise above her left eye.

"You won't hear me complaining." Mercer gulped half the remaining water from their canteen and examined the shovel Selome had used to loosen his earthen constraints. "It's a shame you had to use that. It's a beautiful example of a bronze-aged tool."

"Then I'm glad you're not an archaeologist. I ruined about five of these things getting you out."

There was a collection of primitive tools in one corner of the room, picks and shovels, some scaled for an adult's use, other miniature versions for the child slaves. Next to them sat rotted piles of leather that had been buckets and water flasks. A little bit off lay stacks of clay lamps.

"We can bemoan lost artifacts later," Mercer said. "Right now I want to get us out of here and take care of some business."

He rigged the stones blocking the alcove exit with explosives from his kit bag, careful to use just enough to take down a section of the wall and not blow it apo idea what was happening in the main tunnel beyond the barrier and didn't want to advertise his presence until he was ready.

"What about fuse? Didn't you use it against Mahdi?"

Mercer plucked another coil from his bag and snipped off a length. "Second rule of hard rock mining: you can never have enough fuse."

"What's the first rule?"

Mercer held up more dynamite. "You can never have enough explosives."

The fuse was much slower than the one he'd used to disable Mahdi, so they had plenty of time to make it to the trench redoubt he'd dug with Selome's help. He covered his head with one arm, keeping his body over Selome. When the charge blew, the concussion pelted them with debris.

He looked up and blinked. The wall hadn't crumbled, but there was a three-foot crawl space at its bottom and light from the outside spilled into the chamber. Neither of them had ever thought they would see sunshine again and they embraced in its comforting aura.

"Now, let's see this put to an end." Mercer slung his bag over his shoulder, snatched up the AK-47, and led Selome into the tunnel.

The echoing sounds of a gun battle reverberated down the length of the shaft, stray tracer rounds winking by. Mercer quickly shoved Selome back into the chamber.

"Stay here and don't move until I come for you. You just saved my life. Now it's my turn." He stepped out, keeping low to the footwall, the AK at the ready.

Mercer couldn't tell who was using the mine as a cover position so he started crawling forward as more rounds streaked over his head. His eyes adjusted to the sunlight filling the shaft, but the haze of cordite smoke was nearly blinding and he had to get close to recognize the men firing out toward the camp. They were Sudanese soldiers. Habte must have made the call because he guessed the return fire ricocheting down the drive was from the Marines.

The rebels held an unassailable position against the American soldiers as long as they had ammunition. Unless a rocket launcher was used, there was no way to dislodge them. The Marines surely knew Habte's warning to Henna about the trapped miners, so explosives were not an option. Remembering Mahdi's sneak attack in the mine and the brutal raping that had taken place outside the women's stockade, Mercer felt nothing as he brought the AK to his shoulder.

With controlled double taps on semiautomatic, he shot four Sudanese in the back and the remaining two in the chest when they whirled to face the threat that had come unexpectedly from behind. He scrambled up to their barricade and searched frantically for something white to wave at the Marines still pouring rounds into the tunnel entrance. He had to make do with the well-used handkerchief he found in the pocket of one of the dead man. A second after waving it over the barricade, he heard a command in English to hold fire.

He stood. "Don't shoot. I'm an American."

"Dr. Mercer?" a Texas drawl asked over the din of a continuing battle farther from the mine.

"Yeah, I'm Mercer." The euphoria he should be feeling had been suppressed by his desire to make the Sudanese and especially Gianelli suffer for what had happened in the past weeks. "I've got a woman with me, and there are forty miners still trapped in here." He looked to where he thought the Marines had taken cover, but he couldn't see them. There were too many places to hide ome of the heavy equipment that hadn't been damaged during the battle or behind one of the countless piles of dirt excavated from the mine.

"Ya'll have to hold tight for a spell longer. This is one hot LZ." The soldier's comment was drowned by the thundering rotors of an AH-64 Apache gunship as it crabbed across the desert, its chin gun pouring a steady stream of 20mm rounds into the far side of the camp.

Mercer spotted the cluster of Force Recon Marines huddled next to an overturned and still burning D-4 bulldozer. The soldier in charge saw him, waved in acknowledgment, and led his squad across the camp. Mercer drained the contents of two Sudanese canteens, and when the Marines were out of sight, he bolted from the mine, jinxing around toppled lighting towers and mountains of overburden. Though the rain had stopped, the sky was thick with clouds. The heat and humidity made his dash slow, and his bruised chest protested every breath. The knife wound in his leg was a sharp throb. Suddenly, the sky directly overhead exploded. A pressure wave of air slammed him to the earth, the concussion blasting against his eardrums. He rolled to his back and began scrabbling across the ground.

Two hundred feet above him, the flaming carapace of the Apache gyrated out of control, streamers of greasy smoke belching from its engine, its tail rotor assembly coming apart like a shrapnel bomb. One of the rebels had fired a surface-to-air missile into the helo and scored a direct hit. The gunship crashed close enough to throw Mercer again, fiery sheets of aviation fuel raining around him, but incredibly none landed on his clothes or skin.

When he stood, the ribs that had first taken a pounding under Hofmyer's fists and later by Mahdi and the tunnel walls had finally given out. He felt a sharp stab of pain that reached all the way to his heart, and the agony of the broken bones forced him to his knees. He had taken so much physical abuse that he wondered just what he hoped to accomplish. The Marines were here. They would handle the rebels. He was putting his life in danger for absolutely no reason.

Deciding that maybe it was best to wait this one out, he was searching for a good place to hole up when bullets kicked up erratic fountains of dirt at his feet. Clutching his ribs with one arm, Mercer ran as best he could, reaching cover behind a big portable generator. He squinted into the haze created by the dozens of smoke grenades, their clouds of smog cutting visibility to almost nothing. He didn't see who had opened up on him, but spotted a Sudanese ambush set up for a squad of patrolling Marines. The American soldiers were alert and moved well, but they were about to be diced in a surprise cross-fire.

The AK bucked in his hands, stitching two of the guerrillas and then the clip ran empty. Mercer fumbled to slam home a fresh one, dodging to the other side of the mobile generator as rounds pinged off its metal hide. The Marines dropped to the ground, entering the melee and killing three more Sudanese. Mercer was joined a second later by the four young Americans.

"Thanks, pal," the leader of the patrol wheezed, slumping against the Ingersoll-Rand.

"My pleasure. Can't tell you how glad I am to see you."

"You're Mercer, right?"

"Yeah."

"We were briefed to look for you when we landed, but weren't you buried or something?"

"I was until about ten minutes go." Mercer took a p know more than we do. Briefing said about fifty armed troops guarding this camp with minimum equipment and arms. Bastards capped an Apache just a minute ago with a portable SAM, and there seem to be a lot more than fifty."

"The number's about right," Mercer countered. "But these guys have been fighting for years in the Sudan. They've got combat experience to spare, and their former commander was one mean son of a bitch."

"Yeah, well, anyway, we've taken heavy losses. If it weren't for all the civilians mixed up with the bad guys, the captain would've called in some close air support and bombed the shit out of this place."

Any chance for a continued conversation was shattered by a chain of detonations at the fuel tank farm. The eruptions of flame and smoke towered into the leaden sky, building and blooming like deadly flowers. The ground shook so hard that Mercer felt his teeth were going to loosen from his jaw.

As he was recovering, the Marine seated on the far side of the corporal jumped spastically and the paintwork of the generator behind him splattered with clots of blood and the back of his skull. The Marines reacted even before they knew where the shot had originated, sending out a scathing return fire and racing from their cover. Mercer had no choice but to follow. He ran in a doubled-up position, aiming the AK behind his hip and unleashing a fusillade of his own.

They slogged up a mound of overburden, the soldiers slowed by the pounds of equipment each carried and Mercer by his own condition. Another shot blew a geyser of dirt just an inch to the left of Mercer's shoulder, grit lashing his face as he clawed his way to the summit. In the protection of the artificial hill's flat peak, he realized just who was shooting at them and why.

The Israeli team was still here. The two shots were so accurate that they could only come from a sniper rifle. They were either firing to add to the confusion so they could slip into the mine or they were planning on an evacuation and wanted to keep the combatants occupied while they escaped. For Mercer, both options were unacceptable.

Chancing a look over the parapet of their earthen fortress, he could survey the entire camp and the clusters of men fighting below. It looked as if the Sudanese's numbers were greatly diminished. He could see a few holdouts near Gianelli's big transporters. In the distance, there were figures running away from the battle, but he guessed they were Eritreans. Of the bodies he could see littering the ground that weren't dressed in American desert BDUs, two were white, but from this range he couldn't tell if either was Gianelli.

"Say again?" the corporal was shouting into the radio built into his combat helmet. "Roger that, Sky Eyes. Keep us posted."

"What's happening?" Mercer clipped his last banana magazine into the well of the AK-47.

"AWACS plane circling off the coast reports a low-level contact about six klicks east of here and moving in at a hundred miles an hour."

"Shit!"

"What is it?"

"There's a team of Israelis in the area. They've been after this mine for a while, but I think they're cutting their losses and bugging out."

"Well, they're going to make it," the Marine said, not really interested in another enemy with his hands so full of Sudanese. "We don't have any more gunships to go after it, and if that AWACS only now just spotted it, you can believe it'll disappear just as easily."

Three charging guerrillas were hit in the hail of gunfire, snapped back by the pounding gun in near perfect sequence.

"Keep the fuckers back!" Chavez screamed as he worked on a gash in the leg of the other soldier. The man's desert camo uniform was soaked through with blood from a point just below his groin.

Mercer continued to fire the weapon, traversing the barrel in tight sweeps to keep the Sudanese pinned. Another rocket slammed into the hill, and part of its peak blew away, exposing their flank. He had no idea how many rounds were in the boxy magazine clamped under the SAW, but he prayed it was enough to cover them until the chopper arrived.

"Evac flight." Chavez was on the radio with the helicopter again. "We need some help here . . . Roger."

Chavez unclipped a smoke grenade from his combat harness, slipped the ring, and tossed it to the other side of the hill's summit. A second later, putrid green clouds boiled off the mountain, marking their location to the approaching Blackhawk.

Bullets raked the top of the hill, explosions of dirt and lead that sent Mercer and the two surviving Marines reeling. Yet over the din they could still hear the chopper as it came in, its rotors whipping the smoke in violent eddies. The copilot had opened the helicopter's side door, but as they began their hover for the pickup, he was forced to return to the cockpit.

"The pilot can't land, not enough room up here. You'll have to jump in first," Chavez screamed over the rotor blast, his dirty hand still clamped over the entrance wound in his squad mate's leg. "I need to hold pressure on this dressing."

Mercer emptied the SAW's clip, a further thirty rounds chewing up the camp. He commandeered the wounded soldier's M-16 and, as the Blackhawk lowered even closer to the hillock, leaped for the open door.

A surge of air grabbed the chopper at that instant, and Mercer's chest slammed into the bottom of the door frame. In the split second before the pain struck, he felt the ends of his ribs grind against each other like corroded machine parts. The Blackhawk had been pushed away from the mountain of overburden, and Mercer found himself dangling above seventy feet of empty space, his legs bicycling uselessly as the pain loosened his grip on the door sill.

The pilot must have seen what happened. Ignoring the turbulence and the whirling blades' proximity to the ground, he heeled the nimble chopper nearly onto its side, throwing Mercer bodily into the aircraft. By the time Mercer recovered enough to crawl to the doorway, the Blackhawk was once again on station over the hill. Chavez was ready to pass the wounded Marine up to him.

They came under renewed and intense fire, the chopper taking a dozen rounds, ricochets scoring the cabin like hot coals. Mercer fired his M-16 one-handed, the stock braced against the helo's body as he lay half in and half out to help Chavez. He had his free arm under the young Marine's limp arms when a third RPG rocket hit the top of the hill. The Blackhawk lurched with the explosion and the Marine slid from Mercer's tentative grip. The soldier and Corporal Chavez disappeared in a hellish world of flame and smoke and debris.

The Blackhawk pilot lifted his craft away from the hill and out over the open desert, well beyond the range of any weapons the Sudanese might have. Mercer sat numb, unmoving, staring downward as if he could bring back the two dead soldiers by freezing his position. It took all of his strength to blink, to wash>

"I'll call you later." Mercer killed the connection and slumped. Oh, God, thank you.

The guilt and the fear and the responsibility fell off Mercer in a liberating wave, leaving his mind clear for the first time since Harry's abduction. It was over. He was finished. Nothing else mattered anymore. Harry was safe. Selome was safe. The Eritreans were free. Even Gianelli's plan to blackmail the diamond cartel was over. He knew if he let it, his relief would cut through his resolve. But he wasn't quite done yet. Mercer wasn't going to allow Yosef to escape. He didn't want it for his friends or for anyone else. He wanted this for himself.

The pilot spoke before he could switch the radio back to the fleeing chopper. "We've got two problems here, Dr. Mercer. One is we'll enter Saudi airspace in about four minutes. The other is a pair of fast movers just came up on radar. They're closing at mach one from the north. ETA is ten minutes."

"Whose are they?" Mercer had a sinking suspicion he knew the origin of the approaching jets.

"I've got no IFF signature off either of them." The pilot referred to the Identify Friend or Foe transponders carried by the military aircraft of the United States and her allies.

"So they're not Saudi?"

"I doubt they'd shut off their IFFS over their own territory, especially since the coastline's covered with SAM installations."

"In other words, we've got ten minutes before that helicopter's fighter escort arrives."

"Yup.">

"Let's take 'em down."

"Hey, listen, Doc, is that such a good idea? I mean, whoever has the clout to wrangle up fighter cover must be legit."

Mercer grunted. "We're about to be one of the checks and balances of the Israeli democracy. Maneuver us directly over that helicopter. I've got an idea."

Two miles from where the land met the sea, the Israeli renegades banked north to meet up with the jet fighters, skirting the outer reach of Saudi Arabia's coastal defenses. There was no chance the lumbering Super Stallion could outrun the Blackhawk, but they certainly were trying. It took only three more minutes for the American helicopter to take up a position above the Israeli's huge rotor.

"You'd better have a damn good idea," the copilot shouted. "Radar has those jets down our throats in four minutes."

Mercer worked furiously. "When I shout, break left as hard as you can, then land this pig. Fast. Those jets may take a shot even after I destroy the Stallion." He keyed his mike to speak to Yosef. "Listen up, you son of a bitch, and listen good."

"Ah, the good doctor is back," Yosef replied mockingly. "I thought you'd already left us."

"I've always preferred roulette, but I know enough about poker to know that when your bluff gets called, the game's over."

Yosef's voice was strained and his reply took just a fraction too long. "And you think I'm bluffing? Remember, it's not your life you are gambling with but that of your friend, Harry White."

"Asshole, I know you're bluffing." Mercer estimated how long it would take a two-pound object to fall from anga minute you're going to pay the highest stakes of all."

"Bravado, Dr. Mercer," Yosef replied. "In one minute, if I'm not given free passage, two F-16s are going to blow you from the sky. I may die, yes, but so will Harry White. Your revenge may be gratifying, but it will also be short-lived."

"You should have known when to fold 'em, partner," Mercer drawled. It took a few tries to light the fuse in the air whipping around the cabin, but once it was burning evenly, he shouted, "Now!"

The Blackhawk pilot had anticipated Mercer by a crucial half second, and when he released the explosive, he realized it would miss the upperworks of the Israeli helicopter. While an explosion near the hull of the Sikorsky would be damaging, it was doubtful it would cripple the huge cargo chopper.

Mercer's mouth opened for a scream of frustration even as the Blackhawk twisted and fell from the sky so fast that he became momentarily weightless. Yet his gaze never left the Israeli helo or the little package tumbling torward it.

A helicopter's rotor produces lift by creating a pocket of high pressure below the blades and low pressure above. For a chopper the size of the CH-53, tons of air rush into the vortex around the rotor, centering the craft like the eye of a hurricane. Into this maelstrom fell the dynamite. The little bomb would have fallen harmlessly past a conventional aircraft, but when it felt the relentless draw of the turbine-powered blades, it changed direction in midair. The millisecond before the packet was shredded by the rotor, the fuse touched the chemical explosives.

The helicopter vanished behind an expanding blossom of fire, and when it finally reemerged, the six rotor blades and the top third of the aircraft were gone. The Super Stallion was dead in the air, only its forward momentum carrying it in a flagging parabola. Mercer didn't blink until it slammed into the cobalt-blue sea, fire from its ruptured tanks washing away on the waves spawned by the impact. In a second it was gone.

"Get us to the Arabian coast and under their radar umbrella," Mercer shouted to the pilot, but the veteran was way ahead of him. The chopper settled into a flight path scant feet above the sea, the engines torqued for maximum speed.

"Those jets are breaking off and returning north," the copilot yelled a minute later.

Mercer was too tired to care, but he gave a weak cheer for the crew's benefit. "Let's get back to the mine. We're not done yet."

It took forty minutes, and on the inbound flight they heard radio chatter from other Blackhawks ferrying the injured to the amphibious assault ship.

Habte was the first to greet Mercer on the ground, shaking his hand solemnly, then enfolding him in a brotherly hug that would add another day or two to the recovery time for Mercer's broken ribs.

"I didn't think I'd see you again." Habte tried to keep the emotion out of his voice but failed.

"Came damn close."

Selome was next to reach the little group huddled near the Blackhawk. She too hugged Mercer, much more gently, but her kiss was consuming--as if she was trying to fit every possible emotion into that one gesture. Mercer's response was no less enthusiastic.

"I'm fine, don't worry." She preempted his question.

"The Mem">Mercer was still on an adrenaline high. Everything felt otherworldly. An hour ago he had been fighting for his life, and now he was holding hands with a beautiful woman, surrounded by grimy but satisfied soldiers. It would take a long time for everything to soak in, the horror and the pain, but for just a few minutes he felt like he was invincible, and the thought made him grin.

"That's great, but I was about to ask if you are ready for that vacation yet?"

A Marine approached, extending his hand to Mercer. Behind him, two guards held Giancarlo Gianelli and Joppi Hofmyer. The smile vanished from Mercer's face, his gray eyes going deadly flat.

"Captain James Saunders, USMC," the redheaded Marine introduced. "It's an honor to meet you, Dr. Mercer."

"Honor's mine, Captain." Mercer grasped the outstretched hand. "On behalf of all of us, thank you."

"Just doing our job, sir," the Marine demurred. "I thought you might want to see these two characters before I shipped them out of here. The FBI already has agents in Asmara to escort them to Europe, where they're going to stand trial."

"I've seen enough ugliness in the past weeks to want to pass up this last opportunity. Thanks anyway."

"Fair enough." Saunders gestured for the guards to take the two to a waiting helicopter, but when they were just a couple of steps away, Mercer reconsidered. "One second, Captain."

Both captives were filthy and looked ravaged by their attempt to flee the battle, yet both were also uninjured. Mercer addressed Hofmyer first. "I've already kicked your ass once, so I'm not even going to bother with you." Then he directed his hatred at Gianelli. The Italian yelped when Mercer's murderous eyes fell on him.

"You, on the other hand, well, this I'm going to enjoy." Mercer cocked his fist, centering Gianelli's face perfectly, but he stayed his hand. "Screw it. You're not worth the effort."

Gianelli sagged with relief and stared goggle-eyed when Mercer turned away.

"Like hell you're not." Mercer twisted back and slammed Gianelli, the punch rolling the industrialist's eyes into his skull and laying him flat in the dirt. "Thank you, Captain Saunders. I think I needed that."

Selome ducked under one of Mercer's arms and Habte braced up the other, so he walked between the two of them, using them for support. Then he straightened, the old fire returning, his face lit with a devilish thought. "What do you say we go find Gianelli's safe and see what all this fuss has been about?"

Masada, Israel

In a land where nearly every building and hillock and cave has significance, few sites are as awe-inspiring or sacred as King Herod's fortress at Masada. It sits atop a diamond-shaped mountain, commanding a view unlike any other in the world. The Dead Sea--earth's deepest spot--lies in its shadow, over a thousand feet below sea level, the salty haze reflecting off the lifeless waters making it impossible to distinguish the Jordanian coast just seven miles away.

Masada had been built as an unassailable defensive fort but became a favorite retreat to King Herod, who'd spared nothing in making its opulence legendary. It had two separate palaces and a swimming pool that was kept full year-round ad once been a pilgrimage destination for the lame and injured, and many of the pictographs depicted medical procedures and prayers.

Today was their last day alone together. Here at Kom Ombo, they were being joined by Dick Henna and his wife, Fay. Later, in Aswan, the two couples would leave the boat for another week of sightseeing, including a privately chartered plane trip to the massive Ramses II temple at Abu Simbel.

No sooner had Mercer thought about the impending end to their solitude than there came a disturbance at the gang-plank. At first he thought it was another curio merchant trying to sell souvenirs, but then he heard Dick Henna's voice and Fay's excited exclamation as she got her first look at the true nature of her ride south.

"Selome, wake up," Mercer called, and her eyes fluttered open. He tossed her the bikini top. "Company's arrived."

She gave a little moue of annoyance and slipped the bikini over her chest, settling her breasts in the twin cups just as Henna and Fay came out to the sundeck.

Mercer was on his feet in an instant, shaking Dick's hand and kissing Fay's cheek. "Welcome to Mercer's Barge of Sin. Your whim is our command."

"I said it before and I'll say it again, I got into the wrong line of work." Henna drank in the barge's opulence until his gaze fell on Selome. He gaped.

"Selome Nagast, this is Dick and Fay Henna." While Dick was shaking her hand, Fay shot Mercer an approving wink that made him smile. "How was your trip?"

"Great," Dick replied. "First-class from Dulles to Cairo, private jet from there to Aswan and a limo here. Who could complain?"

Mercer had paid for it all as thanks to Dick for his help and Fay for her patience.

"And Harry?"

"He'll be here the day after tomorrow. He's in Israel now, helping Mossad identify the people who held him captive. I can't believe he has that much energy. His constitution is like iron."

"While his heart's gold and his liver is lead," Mercer laughed. "Why don't you two get settled? We can talk over lunch."

An hour later, they sat at one of the outside tables, Henna and Fay dressed in shorts and loose shirts. Mercer had thrown on a T-shirt and Selome had covered up with a colorful wrap. As they ate, two lateen-rigged feluccas dashed by the barge, the traditional craft still a regular sight on the river after countless hundreds of generations.

After the stewards cleared the table and refreshed everyone's drinks, Mercer finished his nearly textbook history of the temple behind them and turned the conversation more serious. "We might as well get the working part of your trip out of the way so we can enjoy the rest of the week in peace."

"I agree," Fay chimed quickly.

"Fair enough." Henna looked lovingly at his wife of thirty-five years. "Okay, we'll do the bad stuff first and work our way to the good news.

"Three of the miners trapped when you escaped the mine pit have died from mercury poisoning, and four others aren't expected to make it. Most, hautopsies proved they were all killed by the Sudanese. Out of the Marine detachment, we lost eight men with another twelve wounded. Only three Sudanese survived the battle and are being held in Asmara awaiting trial. The minister of justice assures me their execution will be swift. In a deal between Interpol and the Eritrean authorities, they also get to keep Joppi Hofmyer and the other South African mine engineer, but Giancarlo Gianelli went to Europe. The board of directors for Gianelli SpA have been forthcoming about his other illegal activities in an attempt to stave off bad publicity. Even with good behavior, he'll be in prison long after the next ice age."

"Has he shown any remorse?"

"None."

"I should have killed him when I had the chance," Mercer grunted. He knew even a life sentence was too lenient for what Gianelli had done.

"Now for the good news. I'll save the best stuff for last. As I'm sure you heard, Defense Minister Levine died mysteriously a couple of weeks ago. The official cover story is heart attack, but the truth is, Prime Minister Litvinoff shot Levine himself. Litvinoff called for a postponement of the elections, but it looks like when they are held, he will retain the prime ministership with a Labor Party majority in the Knesset. The other conspirators we know about will be tried in secret. Israel's government is keeping this whole affair quiet, but our President knows exactly what transpired and he's going to use that for leverage during the next round of peace negotiations if they balk at old promises again."

"Carrot and stick diplomacy?"

"Not my concern, I'm just a cop." Henna smirked. "Now for the really good parts.

"That heavy mining equipment you had ordered from Washington arrived in Eritrea the day after you and Selome came here. The Army Corps of Engineers gave them a hand getting it to the mine site as part of a cooperative loan package. Habte Makkonen has been named as the mine's general manager, and he'll have it in operation soon. Of course, they're calling it the King Solomon Mine. Makkonen and the minister of mines have already struck a deal with the London diamond cartel for distribution. Within another few weeks the first stones will be shipped. No one can predict how much this will change Eritrea, but everyone agrees that their cycle of poverty is over."

"Tell him the other part," Fay prompted.

"Oh, yeah. Remember that safe, the one you couldn't open at the mine?"

"Mercer tried everything short of dynamite on that stupid thing," Selome offered.

"Gianelli refused to give us the combination, so the safe's manufacturer was contacted and they sent one of their technicians. I guess that little pig was the latest in strongbox technology because it took the safe-cracker a full week to open it."

"And?" It was Fay who was showing more excitement than anyone else, even though she knew the story.

"You probably heard rumors about a huge stone that had been found when you were working in the pits. Well, they were true. Rough, it weighs one hundred and twenty carats. Diamond-cutting experts who have it in Antwerp say it'll polish out at over sixty."

"Jesus Christ!" Mercer was stunned. "A stone that size is priceless. A collector will pay a fortune for the right to name it."

"It's already been >

"The people of Eritrea have donated it to the Smithsonian's Museum of Natural History. It will be displayed next to the Hope Diamond in the Hooker Hall of Geology." Henna beamed. "It's going to be called the Mercer Diamond."

Mercer felt a prick of tears behind his eyes and turned away before the others could see how touched he was by the gesture. When he recovered, he looked at Selome. "You knew about this?"

"I learned about it the last time I called the Minister of Mines." She couldn't keep the smile from her face. "On behalf of all my people, we wanted some way to thank you for what you did for us."

Such gratitude made Mercer look uncomfortable, but there was a glint of self-satisfaction behind his expression.

Later that night, Mercer and Selome made love in the big master suite. As they lay in the damp tangle of sheets, Selome rested her head on Mercer's chest so he could not see her face when she spoke. "You've changed since this morning. Was it the diamond?"

He respected her enough not to evade the question. "No, it isn't that."

How could he explain it to her? What words could tell her that despite all they had been through, he wanted to go home and pick up where he'd been before that first call from Prescott Hyde. He had to forget about this nightmare. It wasn't fair or right to include her too, but she was part of it. Everything was just too painful, images of Gibby and Brother Ephraim and the mummified children, the sight of bodies he'd found in the other mine, Chavez's face when the hill exploded. It would take years for the horror to dissipate, and some of it would be with him forever.

"It is Dick and Fay then," she said. "They remind you that life exists away from here and you are now eager to return."

"Selome, I--"

He wasn't eager, but he had to go. He had to sever every tie with what had happened. He had to make a clean break if he hoped to start the long healing process.

"I know, Philip. I understand. You are ready to go home. Don't think I didn't know this was coming. I expected it." Her voice caught. "When we met, I sensed you were carrying an old pain, something from your recent past that you could not get rid of. It's gone now, but maybe you're afraid that this experience will follow you too."

Mercer smiled. "You were the one who made the old memories fade. I think I'd given up on people, shut myself off, but you reminded me that I'm still alive inside. I can never repay you for what you've done for me." And then Mercer realized he could. "I made a promise with myself that I wouldn't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you and you have to promise that the secret stays here, in this room."

Selome twisted so she could look at him, his serious tone demanding her full attention.

"In the chamber where Mahdi died, I saw something, something I can't explain." He could see her searching his eyes. "I've been trying to rationalize what I saw, come up with a scientific explanation in my mind, but I can't."

"What was it?" Selome asked, already sensing she knew. Her body quivered.

"It was unlike any natural phenomena I'd ever seen, an otherworldly blue light that glowed and pulsed as if it was alive. I didn't actually see what caused it, but I'm pretty sure that the Ark of the Covenant was down there with us. Levine w it. Do you know what this means?"

"Yes, I do," Mercer said. "How many people have died because of it already? If the search continues, more will be killed until all of Israel is destroyed, maybe the world. No, Selome, we shouldn't go get it. It was crushed under a billion tons of rock, and that's exactly where it should stay." He paused. "Do you remember that Ephraim said God commanded Menyelek to take the Ark to Africa? Maybe it was for just this reason. It was meant to be a tool for God's veneration, not a means for men to destroy each other. We aren't ready for it yet, we can't handle it."

"But . . ." Her voice trailed off. She knew Mercer was right.

"I told you this so at least you would know the truth. That's my gift for your help."

She could see what it had cost him to reveal this secret. The internal conflict etched his face and tightened the muscles in his body. "Thank you," she whispered. "I think my gift was much less painful to give. I'm now in your debt."

"No more debts. We're even."

"So what will you do once you get home?" Her serene expression told Mercer that they really were even. "Will you find some new adventure to occupy your mind and help you forget about me?"

"I'll never forget you, but no more adventures," Mercer said. "I'm teaching mine rescue in Pennsylvania in a few weeks. After that, I hope to be heading to Greenland as part of a scientific expedition. Compared to what you and I have been through, it'll be a cakewalk."

Selome studied his eyes, a secret little smile on her lips. "In all of your questing, have you ever really found what you're looking for?"

Mercer considered for a minute. "It's not the goal that interests me, it's the quest itself."

"In that case, promise me that for our last week together, I am your sole quest."

He did.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jack Du Brul is a graduate of the Westminster School and George Washington University. Trying to add as much adventure to his life as he does to his novels, Du Brul has climbed Masada at noon, swum in the Arctic Ocean off Point Barrow, explored war-torn Eritrea, hiked in Greenland, and was gnawed on by piranhas in the Amazon River. He collects zeppelin memorabilia, and when not writing or traveling (twr mi

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Monastery of Debre Amlak

Valley of Dead Children