The Medusa stone

by Jack Du Brul

  Gianelli had played the end-game so quickly that Mercer had no choice. He could kill the Italian and would end up killing himself and Selome as well, gaining nothing. Or he could lower his weapon and hope for another opportunity. Since the beginning, he'd felt he was one step behind the other players, and true to form, he was behind again now.

  Mahdi sneered when Mercer released Gianelli, a contemptuous twist of his mouth that told Mercer he would have welcomed the suicidal gunfight. Selome lowered her own pistol, letting it drop with a metallic clatter. She moved to Ephraim's side, settling herself so that the priest's limp head lay in her lap. Gianelli showed no interest in restraining Mercer as he joined her on the floor. One of the Sudanese retrieved Selome's gun and the AK.

  "I'm sorry," Mercer whispered to the dying man, knowing how empty the apology sounded.

  Ephraim was losing his fight as they watched. When he spoke, it was a wet wheeze that brought blood to his lips.

  "The children," Selome translated softly. "The children who died in the mine. They were killed by . . ." His last word was not even loud enough to be a whisper.

  "What did he say?"

  "I'm not sught, and an Ingersoll-Rand rotary drill rig for pulling core samples. The equipment's din echoed and reechoed off the bowl of mountains into a deafening racket that shook the dusty air. Amid this mechanical maelstrom, Mercer saw perhaps fifty Africans--the Eritrean refugees--toiling by hand with shovels, picks, and reed baskets.

  He couldn't believe the sheer volume of dirt they had managed to move. The mountain that he and Habte had dynamited had been clawed up by the machines and carted away by the African laborers one basket at a time. The mine that Brother Ephraim had spoken of had been exposed, a dark shaft driven into the side of the mountain. It was wide enough for the skiploader to charge into the earth and return again with its bucket loaded with overburden. The operator would dump it into a mound, and a stream of men attacked it with their hands, filling baskets which they hoisted to their heads and carried away.

  Mercer thought about the heavy equipment that would be arriving soon, machinery he had either leased or bought on behalf of the Eritrean government. Alone,centuries until there was an invasion. The people who operated it sealed it entirely rather than see it captured."

  "My God, it sounds like King Solomon's Mine," Gianelli gasped.

  "Maybe, I don't know." The Italian had gotten too close to the truth, and Mercer had to derail him. "It could be that this was the basis for the legend, but as I'm sure Yappy here can tell you, there are countless spots all over Africa that also claim that distinction."

  Joppi Hofmyer growled at the bastardization of his name.

  "Fascinating," Gianelli said. It was evident that he was more impressed with his prisoner than with the man he had hired to excavate the mine.

  Mercer saw this and started to make it work to his advantage. "If I may make a suggestion. You mentioned bringing explosives into this chamber. I wouldn't. The dome may look solid, but unless you have blast mats to deflect the shock of a detonation down the tunnel, you may find yourself proving the hard way that it's not."

  "Do we have blast mats?" Giancarlo demanded of Joppi.

  "No, sir, but it would only take a few days to get them from Khartoum." Hofmyer seethed at being so easily undercut.

  "And while you're at it," Mercer continued, taking an almost casual command of the conversation, "I saw outside that you're about to resift the original tailings for diamonds that might have been missed by the original workers. Don't bother. The tailings I checked had been crushed down so fine that unless you brought a portable fluoroscope with you, it'll be a complete waste of time and manpower that I doubt you can spare."

  Hofmyer shot Mercer such a scathing look that it appeared he would physically attack him. Sorting through the tailings had been his idea.

  "Sounds logical," Giancarlo said, enjoying the frustration on his overseer's face. "If I had gone through the difficult task of mining the ore, I imagine that I would also make certain not a single stone had been overlooked." He smiled. "Fetching you back here was a good idea. I think it would be another good idea if I kept you around for a while longer. For the time being, you will be my chief among slaves."

  For a fraction of a second, Mercer's thoughts played openly across his face, but fortunately Gianelli had looked away. Mercer didn't want the Italian to see the hatred or the resolve that flashed in his eyes. Those he was keeping to himself, knowing that they would help him when the time came. Slave, he'd been called. And slave he would be. Right up to the moment he would slip his hands around Gianelli's throat and squeeze until the son of a bitch was dead.

  The Mine

  Two weeks passed. Two weeks in which Mercer saw a man beaten to death. Two weeks in which he saw others drop dead from exhaustion. Two weeks in which men and machine toiled endlessly to yank the kimberlite from the womb of the earth, tearing it free with picks and pneumatic drills and bare hands. Two weeks in which his own body was pushed mercilessly.

  Gianelli and Joppi Hofmyer worked the male refugees, including Mercer and Habte, in twelve-hour shifts, allowing just ten minutes every two hours for a little food and a meager water ration. The pace wasn't enough to kill a healthy adultr his shift, watched over by one of Hofmyer's South Africans, a man named du Toit. At least ten armed Sudanese also guarded the work. The pit echoed with the machine-gun rattle of compressed air drills and jackhammers, a deafening roar of man's fight against earth's strength. It was impossible to look across the workings. The air was thick with dust and fumes, and the miners were covered with so much grit that it was difficult to tell white from black. A flexible ventilator tube with high-speed fans had been rigged along the tunnel leading to the work, but it did little to alleviate the dust or the incredible heat in the chamber.

  Taking a lesson from the British prisoners of war who had built the Kwai River bridge, Mercer dedicated himself to mining the kimberlite to the best of his ability. He selected those refugees with the strength and stamina to work the drills and jackhammers, teaching them the basics and a few tricks to make their task easier. Others he employed as pick men and priers, and still others to haul the ore back to the surface, where more people hammered it apart to search for the elusive diamonds.

  But the stones weren't that elusive. The kimberlite here was the richest Mercer had ever seen. While he was not allowed in the secure area near the mine's entrance where the ore was crushed and the diamonds were stored in a safe, he learned enough to guess that the mine was paying out better than twelve carats a ton, an astronomically high value. He did have the opportunity to see a few stones that were found right in the mine. At first the Eritreans were dumbfounded at the value placed on the small symmetrical lumps of crystal when Mercer pointed them out, because there is little of a diamond's hidden fire to be seen before the stone is cut and polished. The biggest stone Mercer saw for himself was a nice twenty carats, but he'd heard rumors about a monster stone, some said the size of a man's fist, that had been found by one of the women sorting the ore.

  It was in the pit that one of the guards beat an Eritrean to death. It wasn't known if the refugee had broken one of Hofmyer's numerous rules or if the young Sudanese had just done it for the thrill. The reason didn't matter to the victim, nor did it really matter to those who witnessed the Sudanese using the butt of his AK-47 to split open the man's head.

  Mercer had been on break when it happened, and he sprang to his feet at the first blow. Habte was next to him. He recognized the danger Mercer was about to put himself in, and Habte wrapped his arm around Mercer's leg, tumbling him back to the ground.

  "Don't, Mercer, just don't. That man is already dead and you are still alive," Habte whispered. "I learned during the war that no man's life is worth a defiant gesture."

  The beating lasted at least a minute, and when it was over, du Toit ordered the crew back to work. The corpse lay where it had fallen until the end of the shift, the workers ducking their eyes reverently as
they passed by.

  For two weeks the mining went on, a continuous chain of men burdened with baskets of kimberlite wending their way along the tunnel to the surface and returning to the workings for more. By the end of the second week, Mercer realized that Gianelli intended to work everyone to death, not only to ensure their silence, but to make certain that every possible diamond could be found in the time he'd allowed himself.

  Late at night, when Mercer and Habte were lying on the ground in the barbed-wire stockade that acted as their quarters, they would discuss theorifor us."

  Beaten, possibly raped, and enslaved, yet she still had managed to keep alive a spark of hope. Mercer ached to touch her. He felt his heart squeeze and a burst of adrenaline course through his system when he thought of her courage. He drew strength from her refusal to give up. "I'll see you tonight."

  The crew was given only ten minutes to wolf down the food before heading back into the mine. While the surface activities ceased at night to conserve fuel for the generators, underground, the men worked around the clock. The outgoing shift passed Mercer's team in the tunnel, each man watching his own feet, too exhausted to care that another day was done.

  There was little that Mercer could accomplish until nightfall except have Habte alert as many workers as possible. The escape party would have to be small for any chance at success, but Mercer wanted the others forewarned, in the hope that when he went ntoctly how much. Through their policies the value of diamonds is kept artificially inflated." He turned to Mercer. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're thinking the CSS will find out about my little operation and close down the mine in order to maintain their monopoly?"

  "That's about right," Mercer said. "They know down to the individual stone how many diamonds are mined worldwide and not only in the facilities that are part of their consortium. If previously unknown stones from an unknown source suddenly appear, their investigative branch is going to find out and put an end to it, through any means necessary. You know the power they have. The CSS has contacts in the highest echelons of South Africa's and England's government. They operate with near impunity."

  "That's what I'm relying on. You see, I'm the person who's going to tell them about this mine." Mercer's eyes went wide with this admission and Gianelli gave a delighted laugh. "I have neither the desire nor the resources to take on the CSS. They, of course, don't know that. The inherent flaw with any monopoly is their fear of competition, and it's astounding the lengths they will go to maintain their supremacy."

  Mercer finally understood at last. "You're going to bluff them?"

  "Not bluff them exactly. I'm going to show them the stones we've recovered so they can see my seriousness. When I hand over a bucket of diamonds they won't be able to trace, they'll know there's a new player in the game. I don't know if they will pay me more to know the mine's location or more to ensure I don't work it anymore. Either way, they must control this site. Consider my actions extortion. I'm using their greed against them."

  Mercer kept his face neutral, but he had to admit it was a brilliant plan, elegant and simple. Gianelli would reap billions. The CSS wouldn't know he didn't really own the mine until they had paid him off. "And when your actions force the CSS to raise the price of stones worldwide in order to pay you off and send South Africa's economy into a tailspin?"

  "Who cares? So what if pimply-faced boys have to pay a few thousand dollars more for engagement rings for their stupid girlfriends? As for South Africa, I hope the country falls apart and the whites retake control. I made a lot of money down there before the blacks were given power. While part of my motivation was to reinstate my uncle's name in the family annals as the true genius he was, I certainly wouldn't have spent so much money without some financial recompense."

  Mercer knew that South Africa's fledgling democracy wouldn't survive the shock of tens of thousands of men out of work. Anarchy would run rampant as people fought to stay alive. "You sick bastard. These are lives you're playing with."

  "The cheapest commodity in the world."

  "So how much is enough? You must have a couple thousand carats, and there's a rumor going around about a mammoth stone. Why keep working these people?"

  "The more stones I dump on the CSS, the more they'll pay me to get out of the diamond industry. I'm sure you know I'm walking somewhat of a tightrope between my need for the stones and the chance of being discovered. But the efficiency of the men hasn't diminished much in the past two weeks, thanks to you, so we'll remain a bit longer.

  "To give you a little motivation, I'll make you a bargain. At the end of say, three more weeks, if I haven't been forced to leave prematurely, I'll make my ddge of the mine, that information no longer has value and they are free to go and tell whomever they wish. Does that sound fair?"

  "In three weeks there won't be ten men left alive," Mercer spat.

  Gianelli's eyes glazed angrily. "That's not my concern." He turned to Hofmyer, who had finally gained his feet. "Go get yourself tended to and see that du Toit comes in here to watch these monkeys."

  Mercer went back to work, his mind reeling. The Mideast, South Africa, the refugees, Selome, Habte and Harry. With stakes this high, he had no choice but to succeed.

  The Mine

  The noise was like the pounding of drums, a deep bass that rattled the chests of the men heading down the tunnel at the end of their shift. Even before they were close enough to see the outlet, they recognized the sound. They had been farmers once, these men, and they knew when the rains came.

  It was eight at night and so dark that the delineation between the black tunnel and the outside was just a fraction of a shade, no more than a ghost's glow. Water poured over the mouth of the tunnel in a continuous waterfall, a solid sheet that every few seconds would disgorge the soaked form of a man heading into the working pits. Conversation was impossible as Mercer and his fellow miners coming off shift approached the cascade. The sudden appearance of the replacement workers was startling and eerie.

  "Will the rain help us or hurt us?" Habte had to shout in Mercer's ear to overcome the noise of the tremendous runoff.

  Mercer could only shrug. He was focused on things other than the storm. He'd told Selome to be ready two hours after his shift ended, and he and Habte had a great deal to accomplish in that time. Just before it was their turn to step into the torrential night, Mercer pulled Habte aside. The closest Sudanese guard was still a good five hundred yards down the drive herding the stragglers from Mercer's team. It would be impossible for him to see or hear Mercer and Habte's conversation.

  "Are you set with everything you have to do?" Mercer asked tiredly. He'd rested as much as he could during the shift, but he was still weary, a bone fatigue that felt like it would be with him forever. The only bright spot was that Hofmyer hadn't broken any of his ribs.

  "Yes. I'll be waiting just outside the tunnel. Everything will be rigged and ready to go."

  "If it's not, this is going to be the sorriest escape in history," Mercer growled. "Does everyone know what's expected of them?"

  "They will know what to do when the time comes. Those I didn't speak to directly today, like the men headed to the mine now, will hear from the others. Don't worry, they will be ready."

  Mercer was relying on a hunch, a thin one at best, and if he was wrong, Hofmyer and Gianelli would probably take turns roasting his testicles over an open fire and machine-gun everyone else.

  "Are you set with everything you have to do?" Habte grinned, trying to cut through Mercer's black mood.

  Mercer gave a gallows chuckle. "We'll both know in two hours."

  As Mercer suspected, Gianelli hadn't provided tents for his laborers. Yet the Italian, the other whites, and the Sudanese troopers were waiting out the storm in separate tents, huge affairs that hummed with air conditioners to cut the humidity and glowed feebly through the silver treaks of wind-driven rain.

  None of the women were forced to serve food during the storm, but they had laid out a meal for the returning
workers. The injera was so soggy it oozed from Mercer's hands like mud, and the stew kettles overflowed with rain water. Rather than waste his time with a meal he was too nervous to eat, Mercer made his way to the barbed-wire stockade. Big blue tarps had been spread on the ground, and he could see countless lumps beneath the plastic ground cloths. They were the men huddled together for warmth and protection. The sky cracked with thunder and lightning, piercing explosions that shook the earth. Following every blow of thunder, he heard the moans of the terrified Eritreans.

  Three Sudanese had been given the job of watching the refugees, but as Mercer passed the tent they had erected for shelter, he saw one of them already asleep and the others looking about ready to nod off. On a night as foul as this, they weren't expecting trouble from their prisoners.

  That's right, boys, Mercer thought as he entered the enclosure, no one out here but us sheep bunking in for the night. You have yourselves a good nap.

  The Eritreans had reserved a corner of a tarp for Mercer and Habte, and he was directed to the spot with quiet gestures. He rolled under the top piece of reinforced plastic to wait until Habte finished his waterlogged meal. Despite the adrenaline beginning to wend its way through his system, he slept for a few minutes until Habte appeared at his side.

  "You can sleep?" Habte remarked. "I guess you are not too worried."

  "If you're as ugly as I am, you need all the beauty rest you can get." Mercer turned serious. "Do you have it?"

  Habte showed him a small miner's hammer tucked in the waistband of his pants. "They never knew it was missing."

  "And you've got the two men to help?"

  "One man. I will help get us out."

  "Forget it, Habte. We can't risk your hands getting too cut up. You have some delicate work to do after we get out of the stockade."

  Habte nodded. "Okay, I have another who will do it."

  The fencing that kept the Eritreans prisoner was concertina wire, heavy coils of razor-sharp barbed wire laid in a pyramid ten feet wide at its base and over eight feet tall. The snarled strands were wrapped so tightly, the obstacle resembled a steel hedgerow protected with tens of thousands of inch-long teeth that could cut cloth or flesh with equal ease. Mercer's plan was simple, but it needed the courage of two refugees and a tolerance for pain that was almost beyond comprehension.