“Swear to me, Ephraim, that you will not read it. There are things within those pages that were never meant for man’s eyes.” The old abbot’s voice had the strength of a guttering candle. “I lost my faith that night. It was too much for me to believe that a god, our God, could allow such an outrage, such an abomination.”
“I swear it to you,” Ephraim readily agreed, wishing he had not even touched 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-class seats.”
Mercer looked at her in shock. “Why didn’t you tell me you were taking this flight.” Apart from that one meeting at Tiny’s, he’d only spoken with her on the phone. “My expense account could have paid for another seat. After all, it’s your money I’m spending.”
Selome quickly grasped that Mercer was making a joke and not being boorish, and she smiled again. “I have to confess that it’s been a fantasy of mine to pay for a coach seat and sneak into the first-class area.”
“And I thought diplomats always enjoy the finer amenities.”
Selome seemed to take his comment to heart. “They do if they represent a wealthy country. I’m lucky when my government can afford to send me abroad. I pay for many of my missions myself.”
Mercer wondered which master she was serving now. Was she on a diplomatic mission for Eritrea, the land of her birth, or a covert assignment for her adopted state of Israel? It was easy to figure out Prescott Hyde’s interest in this affair. Under the guise of his undersecretary position and spouting humanitarian platitudes, he would certainly manage to reap personal financial gain as well as political cachet if Mercer found diamonds. But Selome Nagast?
Was her motivation the betterment of some of Africa’s poorest people, those who dwelled in what is referred to as the Fourth World? Or was she currently working for the Israeli Defense Force or the Mossad? Was there something darker behind her willingness to help his search?
They had another five hours together on the flight, and maybe, Mercer thought, he could find out.
“Never let it be said that Philip Mercer came between a woman and her secret fantasies,” he quipped. “But you must allow me a fantasy of my own. If they ask, tell the attendants that I picked you up on the plane and that you’re going to have a romantic tryst with me when we land.”
“Deal.” She shook his hand. He was surprised again by the strength of her grip and the warm feel of her skin.
“It’s nice to see you again.” Mercer slid back into his seat, making sure to bundle his papers into his two briefcases. “The last time we spoke face to face wasn’t one of my most productive meetings.”
“I don’t blame you for turning down Bill’s offer. It’s daunting, to say the least. I was more surprised that you changed your mind.” She looked into his eyes as if searching for an answer. “Why did you agree? What made you join us?”
Mercer deflected the question quickly. “Why did you pick me in the first place?”
“That’s easy. You’re reputed to be one of the best in the world at finding valuable minerals.”
“Keep talking like that and we’ll need another seat for my ego.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Why did you change your mind?”
Mercer gave her his most honest look. “I guess you could say that going after the impossible has become one of my trademarks. God, does that sound pretentious. But it is sort of true. After I refused Hyde, I spent that afternoon and most of the night looking for any indication that what he was saying was true,” he said, mixing fact with fiction. “While I couldn’t find any proof, I walked away with a gut feeling. I’ve learned to trust them before, and I just couldn’t refuse this time.”
“Does that mean you believe that the diamonds exist?” There was a breathless quality in her question.
“No, it means I don’t mind spending six weeks and a lot of your money searching.” Mercer meant to sound harsh. He was not about to get trapped into giving her any false hopes.
The sun coming through the porthole caught the claret highlights in her hair. “You may convince yourself with talk like that, Dr. Mercer, but you don’t convince me.”
“Well, maybe I believe a little bit. But not much.” He grinned. “Tell me about yourself.”