The storm hid him as he worked his way to the back of them. Nearly choking himself on an invisible guy rope, he fell heavily in the mud. He lay still for a slow count of twenty, waiting to see if his ineptitude had drawn attention, but no alarm was raised.
Mercer rested his ear against the tent’s nylon shell, listening for voices. He had snapped one of the barbs from the razor wire, which he could barely hold without slicing his fingers. When he was satisfied that the tent was empty, he used the little blade to slit open a gash where the wall attached to the floor.
He had to strain to make out any details once he was inside. Light from the adjoining tents cast just the feeblest glow. As soon as he realized there were two beds, he knew he had the wrong tent. He was looking for Gianelli’s, and it was doubtful the billionaire would bunk with anyone else. This one must belong to a couple of the South Africans currently in the pit, he thought.
At the next tent, he heard Gianelli and Joppi Hofmyer talking. The rain made it impossible to hear what was being said, yet there was no mistaking the voices. Mercer slid to the opposite side from where the voices were loudest and used his blade to cut a tiny eyehole. His vision was obscured by a piece of Louis Vuitton luggage. Rather than stare inanely at the leather, he put his ear to the hole.
“Better than using the Bobcat, why not the mechanical arm of the excavator?” Gianelli laughed, and Mercer guessed they were discussing the manner of his own murder.
“I think it would be more fun to turn him over to the Sudanese and let them rape the fooker to death,” Hofmyer boomed.
“I didn’t think Christians did that sort of thing.”
“Aye, but remember these monkeys are Africans first. Raping your vanquished enemies is about the oldest custom around here.”
“It’s nine-thirty,” Gianelli exclaimed. “I lost track of time. I need to call Venice. You will have to excuse me.”
“Sure, Mr. Gianelli. Sorry to make you late for your call.”
“Not late yet, but I’ve got to use the toilet again. Boiled water, imported food, and no ice for weeks and my stomach is still fouled.”
“Touch of Menyelek’s revenge, eh?”
“Not funny, Hofmyer.”
Mercer heard a tent fly zip open like the sound of tearing silk and then the voices faded. The last words he could discern were a curse by Gianelli about the rain.
He had maybe ten minutes before Gianelli returned, and he wasted none of them. He enlarged his peep hole so he could slip into the tent. His movement unsettled the mound of matching luggage, tumbling the pile to the floor. “Son of a bitch,” Mercer hissed, massaging the back of his head where a valise had caught him.
He began a systematic search of Gianelli’s tent, pawing through the trunks and cases. Gianelli had brought several pieces of furniture with him on the expedition, including an antique ironwood canopy bed complete with mosquito netting. Mercer searched under the mattress and box spring and rifled the two built-in drawers beneath it where he found the sat-phone he’d given Habte at the nomad village of Badn. One item down, one to go. The desk was also an antique. It had ten drawers, and Mercer went through them all, fruitlessly shuffling through mounds of papers.
He glanced at his watch. Eight minutes had passed. Panic was beginning to hurry his movements. Next to the camp chair was a small table. Its top was piled with more papers. Mercer plucked them up to see if anything was hidden beneath — again he turned up nothing. Gianelli would be back any second, and if Mercer failed in his search, his plans for escape were finished. He would be better off returning to the stockade and trying again the following night.
The rain pattered against the nylon roof, making it impossible to hear anyone approaching. Mercer checked the time again. Eleven minutes; he had to leave. It would take him another minute to right the stack of luggage, and he’d already stayed too long. Just then the gas powered refrigerator to his left gave a little shudder as it cycled off. Mercer realized it was the one place he hadn’t looked. The fridge was small, designed for camping. Mercer opened it. Set on the bottom shelf was Mercer’s leather kit bag. He took just a moment to make sure the folded Medusa photographs were still amid the clutter. Oh, thank you, Christ! Had they not been there, Mercer’s escape plans would have crumbled.
Gianelli must have put them in the fridge to protect them from the brutal humidity, he realized, slinging the kit bag across his shoulder. He had begun stacking the luggage, leaving just enough space for him to crawl back out again, when Gianelli’s voice made him freeze. The Italian sounded as though he was just outside his tent, calling something to one of the Sudanese guards, Mahdi perhaps. Mercer didn’t move.
Ignoring the remaining cases, Mercer ducked for the hole just as the tent fly zippered open, the metal tag climbing the wall as if by magic. He threw himself to the ground, scrambling to get out of the tent before Gianelli spotted him. At the last second he hooked his foot on the precarious mountain of Vuitton, sliding it in place just as Giancarlo entered his temporary home.
Mercer lay panting next to the tent, the rain washing away the nervous sweat that slicked his face and hands. He could hear Gianelli begin speaking on the satellite phone hooked to his computer. Five seconds, Mercer thought. Five seconds and he would’ve been nailed. He snatched up the AK-47, transferring the spare magazines into his satchel, and raced back to the compound. He had only fifteen minutes to free Selome and link up with Habte.
“Shit!” he breathed. He had anticipated a cushion of a half hour.
As he ran, he wondered if it wouldn’t have been smarter to seize Gianelli and use his life as a bargaining chip to free the remainder of the Eritreans. That might have worked, he conceded, slipping in the clinging morass, his eyes straining against the darkness in hopes of spotting any guards before he himself was seen. But if Gianelli either refused to cooperate, which was a distinct possibility given the man’s instability, or if the soldiers got trigger-happy, then Mercer’s action would lead to the deaths of a hundred innocents. No, he thought, his original idea was better. Mercer felt he couldn’t win a head-to-head with Gianelli, so he would hide, and fight only when he was ready.
The women’s stockade was smaller than the men’s. There were only about thirty women and girls in it along with those male children too young to work in the mine. Mercer had studied it in the early-morning hours before his shifts and knew its only weakness was the guarded entrance. He didn’t have the luxury of time to burrow under the coils of razor wire as he had done earlier.
Like the men’s enclosure, the guards here had erected a tent to shelter themselves from the elements and to give privacy to their nightly rapings. There was just enough light for Mercer to see the gleam of brass when he snapped the banana mag from the AK to check its load.
The guards’ tent was quiet as he approached. He had no way to disguise his clothes and white face, so he simply ducked in. The first Sudanese to notice him was sitting on a wooden stool. When he stood to challenge, Mercer cracked the butt of the AK between his eyes, sending him sprawling. Another guard dodged away when Mercer twisted to repeat the attack, rolling to the floor next to a low pallet the men used for sleep. The Sudanese hadn’t had the time to arm himself and Mercer ignored his supplicating hands. The gun butt made a sickening crack when it landed on the soldier’s skull. Of the third guard, there was no sign.
“Damn.” The guerrilla was either at the latrine or inside the women’s stockade selecting a victim for the night. Mercer couldn’t spare the time waiting for him.