information to Baines.
“It does, but Levine has many supporters in the upper echelons of Mossad. You are aware that the pictures show the northern sections of Eritrea and southwestern Sudan and may or may not reveal the presence of a diamond vent in the earth’s crust. They may also reveal something else, something that I will get to in a moment, but trust me when I say Levine became very interested in getting the actual pictures.
“For some time, he’s been building a private army from the ranks of our military, intelligence services, and anywhere else he could find useful people. These are men and women who share his beliefs and are willing to die for Levine’s vision of Israel’s future. Shortly after learning of the Medusa images, Levine sent one of them to Eritrea posing as an Austrian archaeologist. His name was Jakob Steiner, and his real job, of course, was to search for the kimberlite vent. He had been recruited by Levine from the geology department of Tel Aviv University. He was killed by bandits before he could find the vent.” The Prime Minister paused, as though considering how much more he should say.
“Go on, David,” the President prompted, his face suffused with the dark blood of fury at Litvinoff’s disclosure. If anything, he was angrier than Henna.
“Levine had to get those pictures, so he ordered a team to Washington under the leadership of Ibriham Bein, a brilliant field operative who is both Palestinian and Jewish. Bein had turned his back on his Palestinian heritage and became a vehement Zionist. His orders were to get the Medusa pictures at any cost.”
“Are you saying that Selome Nagast was working for this Bein?” the President asked.
“No, she’s actually one of my people ordered to stop Ibriham and his team. We found out about Rosen’s sale of the Medusa pictures to Prescott Hyde and sent Selome to Washington, putting her in contact with Hyde. Her Eritrean nationality convinced him that she could help discover the kimberlite pipe.”
Things were clarifying for Henna. “That must be where Mercer comes in.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know anyone by that name.” Litvinoff was clearly confused.
“He’s an American mining engineer currently in Eritrea looking for that vent,” Henna explained. “Selome Nagast and Prescott Hyde approached him to make the search.” Suddenly Henna stiffened. “Oh Jesus, it’s Israelis holding Harry White, not Arabs!”
“
“It’s this bastard Bein who kidnapped Mercer’s friend, Harry White.” It took a physical effort for Henna to calm himself. “Mercer didn’t want anything to do with Hyde, but shortly after their first meeting, Harry was taken from his home. His ransom is Mercer’s participation in the search. Harry was spirited out of Washington on a private jet destined for Beiruit, which led Mercer and I to believe the kidnappers were Arab terrorists. Neither one of us considered there could be Jewish ones.”
“I did not know about this kidnapping and apparently neither did Selome, but you have my word that if Harry White is in Israel, I’ll do everything in my power to rescue him,” Litvinoff promised. “And Mr. Henna, fanaticism and terrorism are not just the province of our Muslim friends. We Jews also have a long history of terrorist activities, less publicized, but no less brutal. Ask any British soldier stationed here after the Second World War.”
“Then it was this Ibriham Bein who murdered Hyde and his wife?” Henna realized Selome must have gone there right after Bein had shot them.
“Yes. He had probably tried to acquire the Medusa images through nonviolent methods, but when that didn’t work, he resorted to intimidation or torture to get what he wanted.”
Henna was putting the pieces in place. “Mercer must have been in possession of the pictures by then. Hyde was killed when the Israelis realized he was no longer an asset, was now, in fact, a liability because he knew about the diamonds.”
“Correct! Selome Nagast showed up at their house after they were killed. She set the fire to delay an investigation and protect us and then got out of Washington. She returned to Israel right after that to brief me personally about what had happened. I’m surprised she never mentioned that mining engineer you just told me about, but she has an independent streak that tends to protect her friends if she feels our knowledge of them may pose a threat to their lives.”
“So where is Ibriham Bein now and what can we do about him?” Henna asked.
“He’s dead, which leaves us with a much bigger problem. It’s now time to tell you why Levine is so interested in that kimberlite pipe and introduce an entire new faction, Italian and Sudanese, that complicates this mess even further.”
It took an hour. Both Henna and the President were held spellbound by the story David Litvinoff told. It bordered on the unbelievable, but there was so much supporting evidence in the past weeks that neither doubted what was really at stake. When he had finished, the President had just one question. “Do you believe it’s buried in that abandoned mine, David?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible. We’re talking about an artifact my people have coveted for thousands of years, and Lord knows we’ve looked everywhere else. I guess it’s a question of faith, Mr. President, which is a force of immeasurable power. Mine gave me the strength to survive labor camps in Russia and build a life here in Israel. However, it doesn’t matter whether I believe it. Our concern is that Chaim Levine does, and no amount of bloodshed is going to stop him from proving he’s right. If it is in Eritrea and Levine recovers it, he’ll use it to rally Jews from all over the world to his cause. After that, you can forget about there ever being peace in the Mideast again.”
Dick Henna grabbed the phone the instant the President hung up. Dialing quickly, he looked at the President when the connection was being made. “I’ve got to warn Mercer. He’s got no idea he’s sitting in the middle of a three-thousand-year-old battle.”
“Calm down, Dick,” the President said in a reassuring voice. “You know him better than I do, but Mercer has proven more than once that he 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 recorded and the tape played into the phone. Through the distortion, Mercer could still feel the terror in the old
