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.
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.
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.
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
