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.
When they were ready, the first refugee lay on his stomach before the coils and slowly began to worm his way under the mound. He moved with care, but even before he managed to extend one whole arm into the spirals of steel, he was cut and bleeding. He didn’t cry out or complain or try to remove his limb. Instead, he started working his other arm in. He had borrowed clothing from other miners, so he wore several layers to protect himself, but as he crawled deeper into the fence, the cloth split, and seconds later blood as dark as his skin welled up and was washed away by the downpour. He cried out only when a barb pierced his face, snagging against his chin and tearing a long gash that would require stitches if it was ever to heal properly.
For ten minutes, Mercer, Habte, and another refugee watched the man’s progress, holding their breath when he stuck himself in the groin and exhaling when he removed the tiny dagger and whispered back that it had missed everything critical. Five more minutes passed before all that remained of the Eritrean in the stockade was his bare feet. Then it was time for the second refugee to broach the wall of razor wire.
The second man dug himself under the first Eritrean’s feet and like a snake wriggled under him, using his predecessor’s body as a shield from the barbs. He snagged only a couple of times, minor snarls that he could dislodge with a quick shake of an arm or leg. It took him only a few minutes to cover the distance the first volunteer had paid for with his pain and blood. They waited another twenty minutes while the second African crawled farther forward, tunneling and burrowing slowly and carefully. His passage was marked with bits of clothing and flesh stuck on the barbs. He stopped only when his knees bracketed his comrades’ head, though there was still another eighteen inches of wire to cover.
Mercer didn’t hesitate. He put himself to the task with the same fatalism of the Eritreans. He slithered under first one refugee and then the other, his much broader shoulders taking the brunt of the steel thorns. “Yakanyelay,” he said when he reached the second man’s head. “Thank you.”
Moving slowly, feeling time slipping away, Mercer began to work himself under the remaining wire. His hands were slick with a mixture of blood and rain. Water was streaming into his eyes, so he worked nearly blind. Only when a bolt of lightning flared could he see how pitifully small his progress had been. The two Africans had covered twice his distance in half the time while he appeared to be lying completely still. He quickened his pace, but a careless move rammed a barb under his fingernail all the way to the cuticle. A lancing needle of pain shot up his arm, exploding in his skull, and he had to bite down not to scream out.
He pulled out the barb and continued, closing his eyes to the agony. Suddenly his probing hands moved against nothing. He had reached the end. He wriggled forward, clearing both arms of the entanglement before whispering for Habte to follow. It took Habte just three minutes to reach Mercer, snaking under the obstacle with sinuous ease. Mercer felt at least a dozen barbs sink into his back as Habte crawled under him, pressing him up against the heavy coils. It took an act of will for Mercer not to shout for his friend to hurry.
When Habte was finally free, he helped Mercer clear the last of the tangle, plucking wire from his back and legs as Mercer slithered those last few feet. The rain fell in a biblical deluge.
“There are going to be others following our route,” Habte said as they tasted freedom for the first time in weeks. Rainwater washed the blood from their faces, hands, and arms.
“If those two men don’t get help, they may bleed to death.”
“They know it’s the price if more of us can be freed.”
Mercer studied Habte and knew the Eritrean was speaking the truth as an African saw it. He wondered if the Ethiopians who’d once occupied these lands really believed they could have defeated an enemy with that kind of mettle. “Their sacrifice isn’t going to be in vain. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll meet you at the mouth of the tunnel in—” Mercer looked at his watch, dismayed by the amount of time that had elapsed. “One hour and twenty minutes. You’ll be able to do everything?”
Habte thought for a moment. “Yes, it will be tight, but I’ll be waiting.”
“See you in a while.” Mercer and Habte shook hands, and in seconds they were swallowed by the storm.
Mercer looked into the darkness beyond the mining camp. It would be easy for him to just walk away. He could be miles from the valley by morning, and the rain would make it impossible to track him. He could be back home in a couple of days. He knew now that Harry White was being held by Israelis, and he had enough contacts in the government to secure his friend’s release. The two of them could be enjoying a drink at Tiny’s in a week. Mercer shook the image from his head angrily and looked away from the beckoning desert.
In order to stop Levine, he had to stop Gianelli first. To do that, he had to free some of the refugees so they could cover his attempt to contact Dick Henna. Besides, he’d led the Eritreans into slavery, and it was his responsibility to get them out again. He also thought of Selome and what she’d been through. For the first time since Aggie Johnston had left him, Mercer felt that old slow burn in his chest. At this point it didn’t mater if it was love — maybe that would come, maybe not, but it gave him the strength to go on. He started in the direction of Giancarlo Gianelli’s camp.
The camp for the whites was about a quarter mile from the prisoners’ stockade, upwind from the open-air latrines the Eritreans were forced to use. The night was inky black, and the light spilling from the clutch of tents was like a beacon as Mercer slogged through the mud. The rain masked any sound he might have made as he slipped and slid toward his destination but it would not shield him if he stumbled into a patrolling Sudanese.
An armed soldier loomed out of the tinsel of rain so suddenly that Mercer doubted his own vision. The Sudanese wore a wet poncho and was facing away, his AK-47 held under protective cover. Mercer’s throat went dry, his breath shallowing until he was holding that last inhalation like a souvenir of a less-frightened moment.
He came up on his toes, silently urging the soldier not to turn. He moved fast, making his strides as long as possible in the circumstances. With three feet to go, the soldier, a veteran guerrilla, sensed something behind him and started to whirl, clearing his assault rifle to engage.
Mercer covered those last few feet like a wraith. He brought his elbow up to his head and, using his momentum and the soldier’s spin to increase the power of the blow, smashed it down on the side of the man’s neck. The force of the blow drilled the Sudanese into the mud. Dead or out, Mercer didn’t take the time to care. He snatched up the AK, rifled the man’s uniform for spare magazines, and continued toward the encampment.
He released that held breath, returning to his focus, shutting the violence from his brain.
Armed and feeling a measure of control, Mercer approached the tents. They were laid out in two distinct groups, the larger ones aligned in four rows, the other five grouped in a circle. A crack of lightning revealed tables and chairs in the center of the grouping and a ring of stones for a fire pit. Guessing that the four smaller tents were for the whites, Mercer dodged around the encampment to approach as far away from the Sudanese tents as possible.