“Anything else, sir?”
“No. As soon as I get anything from the background check, I’ll let you know.”
Washington, D.C
The Willard Hotel has been around for generations and has gone through numerous transformations since the time it was the home away from home for senators and representatives, a time when politics wasn’t a full-time profession, merely a yearly calling. Renowned as one of the finest establishments in the city, the hotel’s Round Robin Bar exuded an aura of wealth and power and privilege with subdued lighting, heavy woodwork, and a skilled but unobtrusive staff.
Sipping his first vodka gimlet of the day, Mercer debated with himself whether he should have done a Nexis background check on Prescott Hyde. Certainly, the powerful news search system would contain general information on the Undersecretary; however, he hadn’t bothered. He had a sneaking suspicion that this meeting was a fool’s errand.
The Round Robin was surprisingly busy for a Tuesday. He overheard two men arguing a pending House bill a few stools down on the bar, and clusters of men and women were conferencing around the numerous low tables. Black-tied waitresses laden with trays of drinks and snacks danced around the furniture, their movements appearing choreographed. Mercer liked to see anyone, no matter who, do a job well. He suspected that these women were better waitresses than the people they served were public officials.
“Dr. Mercer?” The maitre d’ was at Mercer’s shoulder. “Your party is here.”
“Thank you.” Mercer glanced at his aged Tag Heuer watch. To his surprise, Hyde was right on time.
Walking behind the maitre d’, Mercer felt his stomach suddenly knot up. It was an old feeling, the sixth sense that had kept him alive countless times. It had saved him while working underground when millions of tons of earth were about to collapse and aboveground as well, when the danger was from men, not nature. It was telling him that something wasn’t right. He spun quickly, scanning the patrons in the bar. Nothing was out of the ordinary, but there was a tingle at the base of his neck and he didn’t know why. He swung back and followed the retreating maitre d’ into the dining room.
The watcher was not certain if she had been seen; but her orders were clear. While Mercer’s glance had passed right by her as she sat unassumingly in a corner thumbing a Washington guide book, she felt it wasn’t worth the chance.
She reached into the pocket of her skirt, making sure her motions were masked by the folds of her sweater and double-clicked the micro-burst transmitter all of the team carried. Seconds later, another member of their detail walked in, alerted by a similar transmission from their cell leader. The woman did not acknowledge her teammate. She simply finished what little remained of her diet soda and signaled the waitress for her bill.
While no surveillance is immune from detection, usually no more than ten people are needed to maintain a twenty-four-hour watch on even the most paranoid target. Such was their interest in Mercer that all twelve operatives stationed in Maryland were assigned to shadow him and report on his every movement. As the woman walked out of the hotel to catch a taxi, she realized she hadn’t been told who Philip Mercer was or what the interest in him could be.
“Dr. Mercer, I presume?” Prescott Hyde laughed at his tired joke as he proffered a hand.
Hyde was in his early fifties, almost completely bald, with a fleshiness that showed self-indulgence. His face was dominated by a large chiseled nose that on someone else would have been distinctive but on him simply looked big. His chin was soft and his cheeks were rounded, giving him an open, comforting quality. But as Mercer shook his hand, he noticed that Hyde’s eyes were hard behind gold-rimmed glasses.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Undersecretary.”
“I thought we dispensed with that yesterday. Please, it’s Bill. My middle name is William, thank God. I can’t imagine going through life being called Prescott.” Hyde flashed another smile. His teeth were perfect. Capped.
Until they ordered, the conversation was dominated by Hyde, who turned out to be a gracious host, talking about the latest scandals within the halls of power with an insider’s knowledge and a gossip’s love of speculation. Mercer ordered another gimlet while they waited for their food. Hyde drank sparkling water.
“I wanted to make this a leisurely get-together,” Hyde said as their drinks were brought. “A sort of familiarization session because I have a feeling we will be working with each other for a while. However, I have a pressing appointment a little later on, so I am afraid our time is short.”
Hyde seemed to talk as if his words were thought out in advance, written down and practiced.
“I understand. I’m afraid my afternoon is rather full too.” Paul Gordon, the former jockey who owned Tiny’s, ran a horseracing book in Arlington. With the Kentucky Derby only two weeks away, he and Mercer had some serious strategizing to do.
“All the better, then.” Hyde leaned back in his chair. “Tell me what you know about Africa.”
Mercer chuckled. “To begin with, I was born there, in the Congo. My father was a mine manager and my mother was a Belgian national. I’ve been back probably twenty-five times, and while I don’t speak any native languages other than a bit of Swahili, my French is good enough to get me by where English fails. If you want me to describe Africa’s history, the current political situation, and economic outlook, we’re going to be here for a while.”
“I wasn’t aware that you were born there, but Sam Becker told me that you’re somewhat of an expert.”
“Not really. I’m a miner, and Africa happens to be where most of the action is.” Mercer didn’t tell Hyde that he loved the continent. Despite all the cruelty, pain, and suffering he’d witnessed there and had experienced himself, he truly loved the land and its people. His parents had been killed by Africans in one of the many rampages, but he never once blamed the people for what happened. He smiled remembering the Tutsi woman who had hidden him in her village for nearly six months after her parents’ murder. When he recalled how she’d died during the ethnic cleansings in Rwanda in the mid-nineties, his smile faded.
“What do you know about Eritrea?” Hyde asked.
The question surprised him. Eritrea was a backwater even by African standards, and Mercer couldn’t guess Hyde’s interest.
“Located just north of the Horn of Africa on the Red Sea coast, bordered by Sudan, Ethiopia, and Djibouti. They’ve been independent from Ethiopia since 1993. Their struggle was a Cold War battleground between the U.S. and the Soviets in terms of arms and aid. Currently, Eritrea has nothing in terms of raw materials, industries, or hope. I’ve heard the people live on little more than the pride of being independent for the first time in modern history.”
“Very true, very true.” Hyde nodded at Mercer’s assessment. “There’s a chance you can change all of that if you’re interested.”
A waiter took their lunch orders before Hyde continued. “While most Eritreans are agrarian, cattle mostly, there is one major urban center, Asmara, the capital. It was the only city left standing after the war. The country’s in shambles. Per capita income hovers around one hundred and forty dollars a year. Still, the land can support the three million people living there, so starvation has yet to become a problem. But there are a quarter of a million Eritreans living in the Sudan, refugees deliberately not allowed to return because the influx of that many people would shatter the struggling economy. It’s a sore spot for the government because they want to bring the displaced home. However, they refuse aid, not wanting to become a debtor nation, and unless some miracle economic boom takes place, those people are going to rot in some of the worst refugee camps on the continent.”
From his briefcase, Hyde withdrew a thick manila file folder bound with rubber bands. “You have to understand that what I am about to tell you is strictly confidential. In fact, some of this information has only recently been declassified from ‘Top Secret’ down to ‘Eyes Only.’ ” Hyde slid some photographs from the folder across the table, pulling his hand back quickly as if the images could somehow contaminate him.
Mercer had been to Africa, knew the people, and was not immune to their suffering. He had seen some of the worst hellholes on earth while in Rwanda during their civil war. He could still feel the bony limbs of children he’d carried to aide stations where the struggle for food and medicine was a losing battle. He had seen the ravages of disease — cholera, malaria, and AIDS. He had watched human skeletons shuffle in miles-long lines escaping one
