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.” Meredith 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 anyone.”
Meredith took the thick stack and started going through them with a decisive flick, snapping each one facedown on the coffee table. The pictures were of female Mossad agents who had worked in the United States. A few were dark-skinned, and Henna hoped for a hit. She handed them back. “I’m sorry, but none of these women look even close.”
“That’s okay,” Henna gave her a smaller set of photographs. “How about these.”
“That’s her,” Meredith Grady cried, holding the picture for Henna to see. The photos were mostly of light-skinned black FBI employees he’d had taken to fill out the file, but one was something else entirely.
“Are you absolutely sure?” Henna pressed.
She studied the picture again. “Positive. She was the person I saw going into Jackie and Bill’s house.”
Henna’s gut gave an oily slide. Suddenly it was imperative that he reach Mercer. The picture was a blow-up from a State Department security camera. Even with poor resolution, it was unmistakably Selome Nagast.
Eritrea
After leaving Badn, Mercer and Gibby made good time on their drive north to the foot of the Hajer Plateau. Mercer drove aggressively, racing across the desert like a professional rally driver. After recovering from his hangover, Gibby enjoyed the breakneck pace as only the young can. He would ululate when the heavy truck became airborne as Mercer rocketed out of shallow defiles, the deeply lugged tires spinning off plumes of dust when they came free of the earth.
Despite Mercer’s best efforts, they managed to cover only sixty miles in their intended direction, though the odometer showed they had traveled close to a hundred and fifteen. The terrain was too difficult for a more direct route. Also, Mercer did not take Negga’s warning about landmines lightly and steered the vehicle over only the worst of the ground — that which would have naturally slowed an advancing army and was thus less likely to be booby-trapped.
Even with Negga’s directions that the Valley of Dead Children was on the western side of the plateau, Mercer and Gibby still had over a hundred square miles to investigate. According to Mercer’s map, the area resembled a huge maze with hundreds of tall, isolated hills, box canyons, and meandering valleys that crisscrossed each other in complex patterns. He tried to match the map features to what was actually outside the four-wheel drive and quickly discovered the cartographer had simply drawn a representation 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.