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.”