He got no reaction from the four terrorists, but noticed that one was carrying a large machete that hung from a hook on his belt. Zarai’s blood was a red-black stain on the weapon’s blade. He repeated the question in English. Again, the men looked at him blankly, ignoring the flies that had descended on the camp like a plague. Two jagged-wing vultures circled high above, gliding on the thermal updrafts produced by the sun hammering the desert.
“I have nothing,” Jakob stammered. Even if the men didn’t understand the words, they could certainly hear the pleading tone in his voice. “Just a little food, enough for another day or two, and just a small amount of money. I have more money in the capital, Asmara. I could send it to you, but you must let me go.”
Silence, save the wind blowing across the camp.
“I am a scientist. I study ancient bones. I have no powerful friends. I am worth nothing to you as a hostage. Please let me go.” Jakob was crying now, tears running into the dust caked on his face. “Please, take anything you want, but let me go. Do not hurt me!”
The four Sudanese did not react as his voice rose to a shrill whine. Then the terrorist with the machete, who was a little older than the others, kicked Steiner’s boots across the few feet of open ground separating them from the Austrian scientist.
“You are a spy from America here to enslave our people,” the cadre leader said in English as if he had memorized the words.
“No,” Jakob shouted, hopeful for the first time because one of the men understood him. “I am not from America, I am Austrian. I come from Europe. I am not a spy. I study old bones, the bones of our ancient ancestors. I am not here to steal from you.”
“You are from America. You are going to die. Put on your boots and go. We will give you a quarter of the clock dial to run, and then we will hunt you down.” The young Sudanese showed off a cheap watch slung loosely around his wrist. Steiner had fifteen minutes to get into his boots and run.
“But I’m not from—”
“Run!”
Steiner didn’t even bother lacing his boots. He merely slipped them on, ignoring the small piles of sand that had already accumulated in the toes, and began sprinting.
It took the terrorists only a half hour to catch their quarry, but they did not move in for the kill. They ran behind Steiner, taunting him, goading him. It went on like this for another hour, an hour of Steiner hearing his own painful breathing tearing through his chest and his sore and swollen feet tripping over the jagged ground. Jakob hadn’t run like this in his entire life. His legs were rubbery beneath him, his feet slapping ineffectually against the hardpan. His pudgy arms were pumping slower and slower, like a machine grinding down for want of fuel.
The Sudanese slowed to a walking pace behind the shambling Austrian. Their breath came slow and even, and only a little sweat gleaned against their skin. Sensing that the chase was at an end, the leader came forward and smashed down on the scientist’s knee with the butt of his AK-47. The joint crumbled and Jakob fell to the ground, rolling in a thin cloud of chalky dust.
Settled comfortably on their haunches, the Sudanese ringed Steiner, their assault rifles held between their knees. The leader lit a Turkish cigarette and passed it to his men, each taking a long draw before giving it to the next. The cigarette made three complete circles before the leader took one last drag, pinched off the burning tip to shred the remaining leaf, and tucked the filter in the pocket of his uniform blouse.
The hunt had ended in another of the countless dry river-beds that snaked through the lowlands. The banks were not steep 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 tense, his fists tightening with unreleased energy. He grunted and rolled out of bed.
Mercer was a mining engineer and consultant who had reached the pinnacle of his 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
