by Jack Du Brul
“We are getting out of here tonight,” Mercer whispered fiercely, his anger making his quick decision easy. “Be ready two hours after my shift ends.”
“We’ll never make it. The guards will be on us the moment we start running from the camp. Wouldn’t it be wiser if you got out alone and went for help from some village?”
“It would take me a week to reach a town, and the workers here won’t last another two days. Besides, we won’t be leaving the camp. Trust me, I have an idea. It’s nuts, incredibly dangerous, but we have to try.”
“I’ll be ready. I’ve even managed to horde a little food and water for 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 into action, they could help add to the confusion.
Yet the cursed luck that had shadowed Mercer was still with him. Joppi Hofmyer was working in the mine and, after two weeks of subtle needling by Mercer, was ready to exact his revenge. No sooner has Mercer descended the particular shaft that he’d been working only hours before, than Hofmyer approached.
“Mercer, get your fookin’ ass up here,” Hofmyer shouted from the top of the fifty-foot-deep hole in the mine’s working floor, his voice booming over the shattering sounds of the equipment.
As slowly as possible, Mercer climbed the rope ladder rigged to the side of the pit until he was standing on the original floor level. He chanced a look at the long tunnel leading to freedom, then rounded back to the South African. “What’s on your mind? Another lesson in hard rock mining?”
“Aye, it’ll be a lesson, all right.” Hofmyer stood close enough for Mercer to be staggered by his rancid breath. “Gianelli’s gone for the morning, so I’ll have hours to think of an excuse for why you died today.”
Hofmyer was a few years older than Mercer, but that was in no way a disadvantage. The Boer stood half a head taller and weighed a solid fifty pounds more. His shoulders were broad, his chest like a barrel, and his fists were larger than sledgehammers. The knuckles were crisscrossed by numerous white ridges of old scar tissue. Joppi Hofmyer was in peak physical condition—while Mercer was on the verge of collapse.
Knowing his first shot would most likely be his only, Mercer struck. His move was slowed by his condition, but it caught Hofmyer off guard. Mercer’s fist slammed into Joppi’s mouth, snapping two teeth and crushing his lip against the jagged stumps so his blood flowed. Hofmyer fell back several steps, bothered more by the suddenness of the attack than the pain of his injury.
The workers on the mine floor stopped to watch the drama. Even the Sudanese slackened their vigilance. Hofmyer grinned at Mercer, a bloody display of snapped teeth and ruined flesh. “That’s the spirit,” he said wetly, spitting to clear his mouth. “This’ll be a lot more fun if you put up a fight.”
Mercer got into a combat stance and prepared to fight for his life. As he expected, Hofmyer stood solidly, his arms open. He was so accustomed to using his size and strength to overpower opponents that he’d never learned the subtleties of unarmed combat. Mercer hoped that he knew enough to at least survive the pounding that was coming. He had no illusions of actually winning.
Hofmyer’s first punch missed Mercer by an inch as he ducked away, but the follow-up landed, blowing the air out of Mercer’s lungs and rocking him on his heels. It felt as if he’d been struck by a baseball bat and the punch had been from in close, using just a fraction of Hofmyer’s strength. The South African laughed again, feigning blows that Mercer had no option but to dodge. Even a glancing shot would land him on his backside.
For ten minutes Hofmyer threw punches, some landing, some brushing by, and some missing completely. Mercer managed only a single counterpunch, a weak swing that hurt his hand more than Hofmyer’s temple where it struck. The Eritrean laborers had been cheering at the start of the fight, but upon seeing Mercer’s ineptitude at defending himself, they quieted. As each punch slammed into him, they cringed, for no man could withstand the brutal punishment Mercer was enduring.
But Mercer had a reason behind his apparent lack of defense. Every time Joppi came at him, he allowed himself, through retreat or landed blows, to move closer and closer to the idling skip loader. Its replacement driver had not yet shown for work, and the squat excavating machine rested near the middle of the domed chamber, its wide bucket elevated off the ground. If Mercer had any chance of surviving the fight, he would need the Bobcat’s power to augment his own flagging strength.
Hofmyer never became aware of Mercer’s intentions, but he also never moved to the exact spot that Mercer wanted him. Three times Mercer was beaten to within a foot of the skip loader, and every time Joppi moved out of the fray to catch his breath and enjoy the cheers of the Sudanese rebels. Three times, with an undeterred patience, Mercer was pushed and beaten and kicked until they abutted the Bobcat again. His face was bloodied and swollen so he could barely see and he kept one arm low to protect what might be broken ribs, but still he took the punishment. It was during the fourth time that Mercer judged everything was right.
There was a small spark left in him, that last bit that gave him a burst of speed and strength. Joppi came in for a devastating series of body blows, twisting his horny fists into Mercer’s flank in order to increase the pain of the battered ribs. Hofmyer expected Mercer to fall back, gasping as he had for the past three such attacks, but Mercer didn’t. Straightening as best he could, Mercer lashed out with his fist, a ranging shot that forced Joppi off balance and then, so quickly no one even saw it happen, Mercer threw himself to the ground, extending his leg in a sweep that brought Hofmyer crashing to the stone floor. Before Joppi could recover, Mercer was on his feet again, reaching across to the controls of the Bobcat. With a skillful flick of his wrist, he pivoted the vehicle in place so the hydraulic bucket centered over Joppi’s head and lowered the blade until it exerted just enough pressure to pin the South African. Had Mercer wanted, he could have crushed Joppi’s skull like an overripe melon.
The Sudanese guards finally realized what had happened, and their weapons came up.
“Back off,” Mercer shouted in English, his tone carrying his meaning. From under the bucket of the skip loader, Joppi Hofmyer shrieked. Mercer glanced down at his prisoner. “That’s right, you bastard, tell them how much it hurts. Tell them you don’t want to die.”
Joppi screamed again, a horrid sound that pierced every corner of the cavern. His body wriggled as the blade kept his head mashed against the floor.
“Habte?” Mercer shouted, and a second later the Eritrean was at his side. “Can you speak to these Sudanese?” The Eritrean nodded. “Good. Joppi, I want you to tell them to back out of the tunnel. If they’re still here in thirty seconds, your brains are going to decorate this cavern.”
The South African repeated the order, his voice shrill with fear yet muffled by the weight of the machine. Habte translated, and the Sudanese did as ordered, forming up in a ragged line and retreating from the cavern.
“You’d better hope,” Mercer spoke to Hofmyer, “that Gianelli returns soon, because you aren’t getting up until he gets here.”
He handed the control of the skiploader to Habte so he could wipe away the blood on his face. “If he twitches more than you
like, go ahead and put a little more pressure on his head.” Mercer revved the diesel to punctuate his order and drowned out Joppi’s pleas for mercy.
Giancarlo Gianelli entered the cavern about an hour later with a retinue of guards. He wore fresh khakis and he smiled disarmingly at Mercer, who sat slumped in the control seat of the small earthmover. “I see we have a slight problem.”
“Not if you don’t mind me squeezing Joppi’s head like a grape, we don’t,” Mercer replied nonchalantly.
“Well, we can’t have that, can we?”
“You’re right.” Mercer revved the engine and eased up on the bucket, freeing Hofmyer. “I wanted you to see that I could have killed him and didn’t. Every man present, including your troops, can confirm that I didn’t start this. I just want it to end. He goes his way and I go mine.”
“And just where do you think you are going?” Gianelli seemed amused by the apparent ease Mercer had subdued Hofmyer and just as casually let him go.
“You know what I mean, Gianelli. Call him off and I’ll go back to work.”
“So this wasn’t some elaborate effort to escape?” Giancarlo arched an eyebrow.
Mercer looked at him flatly. “You’ll be the first to know when I’m ready to escape.”
“Your bravado is impressive,” Gianelli chuckled. Hofmyer was sitting on the ground, his head cradled gingerly between his hands. “No more, Joppi. You want to beat Mercer to death, do it when we are finished here. Am I clear?”
Hofmyer’s reply was a moan.
“Good.”
“Gianelli, tell me.” Mercer eased himself from the Bobcat and stood in front of the Italian industrialist. It was the first opportunity he’d had to speak with him. “What’s this all about? Working this mine, I mean. You don’t need the money, and you’ve already proved there are diamonds here just like your uncle said there were. Why work these people to death for a couple thousand carats? I know I’m not getting out of this alive, so what’s the harm in telling me?” A thought struck Mercer that moment, and he voiced it. “After all, do you think the Central Selling System is going to let you move these stones? They’re going to come down on you like a ton of bricks.”
“Very astute,” Gianelli said. “You hit upon the crux of my plan on the first try.”
“What is this Central Selling System?” Habte interrupted.
Gianelli rounded to Habte and spoke in a patient tone. “The CSS is the secret arm behind one of the most recognized corporate names in the world. Unlike any other industry, the diamond market is dominated by a tight-fisted monopoly that controls every aspect of the trade: mining, cutting, and selling. Nearly everyone in Europe and America is well acquainted with their artful television and print advertisements that espouse the everlasting quality of their stones. The CSS is a shadowy organization that keeps rein on who gets diamonds, who is able to sell them, and for exactly 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 deal in London. I imagine my negotiations shouldn’t last more than a few minutes. Once completed, I’ll have the refugees released. After I sell my knowledge 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 streaks 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.