“Why did he start shooting?”
“How should I know?” Gianelli’s face darkened with anger. “He killed four people.”
“He must have had a good reason. Abdula’s my cousin, I trust him completely,” Mahdi said. “He was with me when we tracked and killed that European scientist a few months ago. Remember, he was exploring near where you thought your mine might be. You questioned Abdula afterward, yes?”
Giancarlo laughed. “I wouldn’t call it questioning exactly.” He slid the tape into the VCR sitting on a credenza behind him and turned on the attached television.
He watched Mahdi’s expression change when he recognized his cousin pinioned between the forklifts. The Sudanese couldn’t tear his eyes from the gruesome scene as it played out.
Gianelli shut off the machine when the recording ended. “That is the price of disobeying me,” he said mildly. “Your cousin made a mistake that you can learn from, Mahdi, and I think now you see how serious I am.”
He stood and went to the small bar near the fireplace, filling two crystal goblets with a fortified wine. He had no way of knowing how Mahdi would react, so one hand didn’t stray from the small Beretta automatic in his coat pocket. Mahdi took the offered glass and knocked it back with a quick swallow. Gianelli took a seat opposite the killer, his drink dangling from his long fingers. He filled Mahdi’s shocked silence with words.
“Our association has been very profitable in the past. There is no need for this unfortunate incident”—he waved his free hand at the darkened television—“to interfere with that. I’ve given your cause billions of lire over the years, and I’ve asked for very little in return. I simply want your continued friendship when you eventually succeed in splitting the Sudan into two separate countries.
“I’ve supported your cause for years. Still, I believe I am entitled to a simple favor for my efforts, a goodwill token to prove that my money hasn’t been wasted on a lost cause headed by a group of fools.”
Mahdi wasn’t a diplomat or a politician, which was exactly why Gianelli chose him as his liaison with the rebel movement. Mahdi was a soldier experienced in the field of warfare, not words. It was this fact that made him easy to manipulate. Giancarlo suspected Mahdi’s superiors knew this too but allowed it to continue as long as the money poured in. If they had any opposition to Giancarlo Gianelli using some of their people as a mercenary army for his own personal reasons, they never voiced it.
Mahdi stood slowly and Giancarlo tensed, his finger tightening around the Beretta’s trigger, but the young rebel went to fix himself another, heavier drink. “Before you tell me what you require of me, I must admit that the team sent to meet Mercer in Asmara lost him after a disturbance at the terminal.”
Giancarlo hid his satisfaction at being able to read the other man so well. Mahdi was sociopathic enough to see his cousin’s death as another casualty in their long-standing revolt and harbored little in the way of anger at who had actually killed him.
“Mercer missed yesterday’s flight from Rome,” Gianelli said without rancor. “He didn’t arrive until this morning. We’ll take him in Asmara. It’s a small city, and there’s only so many places he can hide. I want a team of your best men dispatched at once. We’ll get those satellite pictures and leave him in an unmarked grave. He’s meddled in my affairs enough and I won’t tolerate it.”
“I will lead the team myself.”
“No,” Gianelli said sharply. “We are going to the Eritrean border, near where I think the mine must be. We’ll be in position to use the photographs as soon as your men have them.”
“Isn’t that a risk?” Mahdi’s tone was respectful.
“It is, but we don’t have the luxury of time.” He noted the confusion on the killer’s face. “There’s something you must know about one of the men your cousin killed in Rome. I learned through my contacts in the carabinieri early this morning that one of them was carrying a forged passport. His being near Philip Mercer was hardly a coincidence. There is someone else out there shadowing him, someone else who wants my diamonds.”
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Gianelli dismissed this threat. “We’ll get the photos and whoever it was will give up the chase. How many men can you assemble on the Eritrean border within the next week or two?”
“That will depend on the Revolutionary Council, but I estimate at least fifty.”
“That should be enough. We’ll need to round up at least another hundred men as laborers. I have South African mining specialists ready to go, but they need workers.”
“How long do you think we will be able to hold the mine once we find it?”
“It’s remained hidden for seventy years, which means it’s in an extremely remote location. The country in the far north of Eritrea is deserted once you get off the refugee routes. Your men will take care of any nomads or shepherds who might stumble on our camp. I suspect we won’t be detected for a couple of months. Which is all the time I need.”
Gianelli had heard last night from an agent in London that the diamond syndicate was already hearing rumors about a previously unknown mine in Africa. The rumors had been planted by Gianelli himself to subvert the powerful group and it was working perfectly. His agent told him the syndicate was nervous about a possible source of diamonds not in their control. Gianelli knew they would pay him billions if he could prove he had the mine, either for its location or for his assurance that he would never work it. Five thousand carats, Gianelli estimated, was all the proof he would need to get them to pay him off.
“You can count on me, effendi,” Mahdi boasted.
Gianelli looked pointedly at the mute television. “I know I can.”
Asmara, Eritrea
Selome arrived at the hotel while Mercer and Habte were having breakfast. Her dark skin and thick hair marked her as a native. Her clothes, however, were Fifth Avenue elegant and she wore them with the comfortable neglect of a fashion model. Again, there was the enigmatic confidence about her that Mercer found interesting and more than a little dangerous. He’d thought that her going to Israel would have extinguished that delicate spark he’d felt on the flight from Washington, but looking at her, he knew it hadn’t. Whether it was Mercer’s earlier warning or some sexist cultural attitude, Habte Makkonen greeted her coolly. Mercer noticed the slight, but if Selome had too, she didn’t show it. She gave Mercer a dry kiss on his cheek and sat.
“I see you’re heeding my warning about the coffee here.” She nodded to the half-empty cups of cappuccino on the table.
“I tried their regular stuff,” Mercer grinned. “Crude oil.”
She gave him an I-told-you-so smile. “The meals here are safe enough, if a little uninspired. Like most hotels in town, they only serve Italian food, a holdover from the occupation. If we have time, I’ll take you to a traditional Eritrean restaurant. If you think our coffee curls your toes, wait until you try our stew called zigini. The peppers in it are tiny but pack the fire of a volcano.”
“Thank you for your offer but it’ll have to wait until after we return here,” Mercer said gravely. “Habte’s cousin is getting our Land Cruiser right now. This morning I want to load it up, get some fresh provisions here in Asmara, and be on the road north by this afternoon. We’ll sleep in Keren tonight and continue on to Nacfa and the open country at sunup tomorrow.”