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 uninspiring, and the lobby’s furnishings were hard-used and tired.
Habte’s cousin chatted with the hotel’s manager while Mercer checked in, making certain that the crates he’d shipped from home had 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.
“Is she coming with us when we head north?”
“I’m not going to let her out of my sight until this is over.”
Mercer and Habte spent the rest of the day at the bar discussing the upcoming expedition. Habte had secured a newer Toyota Land Cruiser for their transportation and had hired two locals as laborers. From Mercer’s earlier request to Selome, he had also rented an old Caterpillar tracked excavator and transporter that were waiting in Nacfa, the closest town to their target area. The other heavy equipment Mercer had leased was still en route and wouldn’t arrive in Eritrea for weeks.
After a meal of overcooked pasta with a watery sauce and an unidentifiable slab of meat, Mercer retrieved some of his luggage from storage, made arrangements to meet Habte the next morning, and retired to his room. The shower produced only a thin trickle of cool water and Mercer had wisely brought his own soap. He was on the small balcony admiring the dark city below when the satellite phone still in his luggage chirped quietly. Mercer cursed himself. He’d accidentally left the phone on receive mode, and when he snapped it open, the LOW BATTERY light glared back at him. Shit. Expecting Dick Henna, he didn’t recognize the voice on the other end, though the accent matched that of the man killed in Rome.
“Harry White has suffered terribly because of what happened to our comrade in Italy,” the voice said. “That is the second time you have tried to foil us. If you attempt a third, White will be executed and his body buried forever.”
Mercer absorbed the news like a body blow. Harry was tough, but he didn’t know how much his friend could take. His sense of failure deepened.
“I had nothing to do with that,” he protested quickly. “I never saw who shot him, but it wasn’t me.”
“That doesn’t matter,” the caller said with menace. “Your friend has paid for the murder. We will be calling you on this phone every three days at midnight for an update on your search for the mine.”
“Save yourself the trouble.” Mercer couldn’t contain his anger. “It’ll take at least a week just to get started, and I don’t need you sons-of-bitches breathing down my neck every couple of days.” He didn’t want to consider how they had gotten the number to the satellite phone. “Contact me two weeks from Monday at midnight and every Monday after that. I may have something for you by then.”
It was a small point of negotiation, Mercer knew, but he hoped it would open the way for more when the time came. “That sounds reasonable,” the kidnapper conceded. “Remember that you will be under observation at all times.”
Mercer knew there was no way they could watch him once he was in the mountains. “I understand. I don’t want anything to happen to Harry. I guarantee that I will uphold my end of the bargain.” He nearly choked on the last words.
“Two weeks, Dr. Mercer.” The phone went dead.
Three rooms down the hallway from Mercer’s, Yosef snapped off his own sat-phone and turned to the other “European businessman” who’d been with him in the bar recording Mercer’s conversation with Habte Makkonen. The other Israeli, younger than Yosef by thirty years, was cleaning a pair of Desert Eagle.50-caliber Action Express automatic pistols. The heavy weapons were perhaps the most powerful handguns in the world. A bullet anywhere in the body would take a man down permanently. A head shot would decapitate. Their other weapons and the remainder of their equipment was with the rest of the team at another hotel.