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‘Mani?’
The bony fingers squeezed his good arm. Mani shook the sweat out of his eyes and fired up the pneumatic motor. Vibrations hammered through his body. The drill chewed into the tunnel wall, spitting out chunks of blue-grey rock. The noise blasted his eardrums till they felt like they might bleed.
He released the trigger and squinted at the blast hole. The drilling had ground up more black dust and Mani could feel it coating his skin. The heat was suffocating, the reek of chemical explosives filling his sinuses.
Up until a month ago, his days had been spent in air-conditioned libraries and classrooms. He’d been studying engineering at the University of Cape Town. The student hostel was small but clean, and he’d had his own room. Here at the Van Wycks mine, he shared a locked-down compound with thirty other men. The toilets were filthy and had no doors, and the single shower doubled up as a refuse dump.
‘Roer jou gat!’ Move your arse!
The guard punched Mani hard on the shoulder. Hot pain sliced through the wound in his arm, and he winced. He half-turned, being careful not to meet the guard’s eyes. His name was Okker. He stood with his legs wide apart, anchoring his twenty-stone bulk in place. His face was a white moon, slick with sweat.
‘Daardie gat is te klein.’ That hole is too small.
Okker slapped a wooden club into the palm of one hand. Mani knew, as did all the men, that the large business end was weighted with a sheath of lead. The guard stepped towards him.
‘Doen dit oor.’ Do it over.
‘Yes, sir.’
Mani knew the switch to English would annoy him. Mani’s Afrikaans was fluent, but he rarely gave voice to its guttural sounds. He turned back to the wall, fumbling for the blast hole with the drill bit. He felt Takata’s hand under his elbow, guiding him.
A sickening crack split the air. Takata cried out and slumped to the floor. Mani spun round in time to see Okker raise his club again.
‘Stupid old man,’ Okker yelled in English. ‘Didn’t you understand what I said? I told him to do it!’
He swung the club down with both hands. In the same instant, Mani hurled himself in front of Takata. The club smashed into Mani’s shoulder. He yelled, sank to his knees. The old man’s chest heaved with his wet bubbling cough.
Behind Mani, wood slapped against skin in a slow, menacing rhythm. He snapped his gaze round. Okker lashed out with his foot, crunching it into Mani’s ribs. Stabbing pain shot through him. He doubled over, clutching his side. Dear God. Was he going to die here in this rat hole?
He thought of his brother and gritted his teeth. If it wasn’t for Ezra, he wouldn’t be here. He flashed on his brother’s face leering up at him from the bed, one tooth missing. The diamonds, they belong to the African people. And beside him, Asha, beseeching him with her calm, almond-shaped eyes.
Asha.
He tensed his muscles, heaved himself to his feet, and turned to face Okker. The guard was flexing his fingers around the wooden club, his hands small for such a large man. There was no one else around.
A hooter shrieked in the distance, and Okker froze. He narrowed his eyes. Then he rammed the club into Mani’s chest, forcing him backwards and pinning him against the wall. Jagged rock bit into Mani’s back.
‘I’ve been watching you.’ Okker’s voice was low. ‘And I know what you’re up to.’
Mani stopped breathing, every muscle suspended.
‘I don’t know how you’re doing it,’ Okker went on. ‘But I’m going to find out.’ He jabbed the club up under Mani’s chin, and leaned in close. His breath was hot and sour. ‘And when I do, you and the old man are dead.’
Mani dug his nails into the rock behind him, his muscles rigid. Okker’s eyes slid down to Takata’s motionless body. Then he jerked the club away and stepped back.
‘Get him out of here.’
Mani rubbed his jaw with a trembling hand, then bent down and lifted Takata to his feet. The old man was light, his flesh parchment-thin on birdlike bones. Takata was fifty-three, but his body was older, too old to be down here. His sons and grandsons all worked in the mine. So had his daughter, for a time.
Looping one arm around Takata’s waist, Mani half-carried him along the uneven path, ignoring the fiery pain in his own ribs. The tunnel widened. Cones of light criss-crossed through the blackness as other miners spilled from their own tunnels into the belly of the mine.
‘You should not have done that.’ Takata’s voice was low.
‘I should have let him kill you?’
Mani felt Takata shrug. He guided the old man towards the lift shaft.
‘Your daughter would not thank me for letting you die,’ Mani said.
Another shrug. ‘Asha, she knows I will not live for ever.’
Mani didn’t answer. Together they trudged alongside the metal conveyor that carried the ore to the crushers. It creaked and rattled, hauling thousands of tonnes through the tunnels. The dust here seemed paler but just as dense, whipped up by dry ore on the move. Dry drilling was the rule in the Van Wycks mine. Dust-suppressing water sprays would have cleaned the air, but were forbidden in case they harmed the kimberlite.
Mani pushed into the lift along with Takata and a dozen other men. Daylight bled down through the shaft, and all around him the miners hacked out their damp, rattling coughs.
The ancient crate groaned upwards. Inch by inch, the darkness thinned, the air grew warmer, until finally they broke through the surface. Mani squinted against the sunlight and the blizzard of dust. The lift clattered to a halt, and Takata hobbled out, following the other men. Mani trailed after them, his mask still in place.
The throb of diesel engines filled the air. Tractors and dumper trucks lumbered around the open pit. The men on the ground, mostly black, guided the heavy machinery with yells and hand signals. None of them wore a mask.
Mani flicked a glance at the tonnes of ore piled in the waste pits a few hundred yards away. There were diamonds in those discarded mounds, if you knew where to look.
‘I’m watching you, kaffir.’
Okker was so close that Mani could feel the heat radiating from his white flesh. He slid his gaze away and shuffled behind the other men, keeping his eyes on the ground until Okker had moved away. Then he turned to stare again at the stockpiles of kimberlite ore. Dust caught in his throat, and he coughed like the other men, pain slicing his lungs like slivers of glass. His eyes watered, blurring his focus. His gaze drifted beyond the waste pits to the shadowy Kuruman mountains in the north. The mountains they called the Asbestos Hills.
Diamonds and dust.
He wondered which would kill him first.
3 (#ulink_f66c0d03-b486-50b0-b32e-39758c52a322)
Harry yanked open the vault door and scrambled inside, Beth pushing in behind her. Outside in the hall, the front door slammed.
Harry’s eyes raked along metal shelves, her heart pumping. Together, they groped through them. Stacks of small coloured envelopes covered every surface. No sign of a laptop.
‘What the fuck?’ Garvin’s gravelly voice echoed in the hall.
Harry whipped around, but they were still alone. She turned back to the vault, craning to get a view of the top shelf. Blood drummed in her ears.
A second voice spoke, lighter than Garvin’s. ‘Move inside. Now.’
Harry frowned. Garvin hadn’t sounded like a man to take orders. Then her brow cleared. In the corner of the top shelf was a slender black shape.
‘Got it!’ she whispered. She stretched up, grabbed the laptop and shoved it into her case. ‘Come on, let’s go. He can’t take on both of us.’
She checked on Beth, one hand on the vault door. Beth was on her knees, stuffing blue and white envelopes into a black duffel bag. Why wasn’t she moving?
Ratchet-snap. Harry spun round. The spring-loaded action had come from the hall. When Garvin spoke, his voice was shaking.
‘You can’t shoot me,’ he said.
Harry’s eyes widened. Behind her, Beth had stopped moving.
‘Someone will hear.’ Garvin sounded close to tears. ‘There’ll be witnesses.’
‘I never leave witnesses.’
Harry’s hand flew to her mouth. She ducked back into the vault and swung the door to, leaving it open a slit.
‘The light!’ Beth pointed at a button on the door jamb.
Harry pressed it, keeping her finger down, and like a fridge light the bulb went out. She peered through the crack.
A heavy-set man was backing into the room, hands in the air. Crescents of sweat stained his shirt under the arms.
‘I’ve got money,’ Garvin said. ‘Take whatever you want.’
He stumbled against a chair and whimpered, his shoulders sagging. A middle-aged man in a baseball cap followed him in. His hands were clamped around a blocky pistol trained on Garvin’s face.
Harry swallowed. Her fingers felt slippery with sweat. Beside her, Beth had frozen.
The man gestured with the gun. ‘Face the window.’
Garvin swivelled obediently to his right, like a child anxious to please. Harry could see his profile: the trembling lip, the puffy face. The other man scanned the room, his gaze sliding towards the vault. Harry shrank back, pressing up against the shelves, her finger still on the light switch. Beth had flattened herself against one wall.
Metal snapped and clicked. Harry flinched, waiting for the shot. When none came, she inched forward and peeped out through the slit.
Garvin’s hands were handcuffed behind his back. The man jabbed the gun into his shoulder blade.
‘Kneel.’
Garvin dropped to his knees, making small mewling sounds. The man with the gun touched the elongated barrel to the back of Garvin’s head.
‘Any last requests? Sorry, too late.’ Phut-phut. The muffled shots spat into Garvin’s skull. He jerked once, then crumpled to the floor.
Harry gasped. Her finger slipped, and light flooded back into the vault. The man in the baseball cap whirled round and for an instant they locked eyes. Then he raised his gun to her face. Harry screamed, slammed the vault door shut. Bullets zinged against metal, and the door’s automatic bolts clanked home.
Harry backed away, her heart pounding. She could hear Beth moaning in the dark.
‘Who is he?’ Harry whispered, but Beth didn’t answer.
The door handle rattled, and Harry held her breath. She cocked her head, straining for more sounds. Nothing.
Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the dark. Beth had slid to the floor, knees up, hands over her ears. Harry had a sudden image of Garvin’s bulk, towering over Beth with a broken chair. She hugged her arms across her chest, and tried to be glad he was dead.
She squinted into the gloom. The only source of light was a small red dot blinking on the door, the twin of the light on the security panel outside.
Harry stiffened. The keycard! Had she left it in the slot? She couldn’t remember. But she’d dropped the wine gum to the floor, hadn’t she? Even if he found it, he couldn’t possibly guess its purpose.
Unless she’d left it on the sensor.
Dammit, why couldn’t she remember?
The light blinked amber, and Harry froze. He must have found the keycard and fed it back into the slot. She backed up against the wall in line with the door and lifted her case, ready to strike. It was the only weapon she had. Her eyes fastened on the amber dot, waiting for it to turn green.
Nothing happened.
‘What’s he doing?’ Beth whispered, clambering to her feet.
Harry shook her head. She pressed her ear up against the door. The steel was like ice on her cheek. She could make out a faint, scuffing sound, like something heavy being dragged.
Nausea slithered inside her. Dear God. He was going to use Garvin’s fingers on the sensor. Harry closed her eyes, blocking out the image of him roughing up a corpse to press dead flesh against the pad.
The numbers. Concentrate on the numbers. Ten fingers, three shots. Maybe they’d get lucky and he’d strike out.
The scuffling grew closer.
Who was she kidding? Those odds weren’t real. After all, who used their pinkie on a biometric scanner? Chances were, Garvin had used his thumb or index finger, something the man in the baseball cap had probably worked out for himself.
Four fingers, three shots. Those odds were on the killer’s side.
The scuffling stopped. Harry waved Beth to the other side of the door, and raised her case back over her head. She stared at the amber light.
Handcuffs clicked, then clattered to the floor. A trickle of sweat ran down Harry’s back. There was a grunt, a final heave. Harry counted to three. Then a soft beep sounded from the other side of the door.
Strike one.
Harry took a deep breath and flexed her fingers on the case. Beth had found a metal cashbox on one of the shelves and was holding it high over her head. She traded looks with Harry and nodded, her eyes wide with fright.
They waited. One, two, three.
Another beep, faint but unmistakable. Harry let out a long breath. He had one shot left. If he failed, he’d need a code to reset the device before he could try again. And the only person who knew that code was dead.
Sweat ran into Harry’s eyes and the amber light blurred. Beth’s breathing came fast and shallow.
Beep-beep-beep. Amber flashed to red. The man outside roared, and gunshots pumped into the lock. Harry screamed, spinning away from the door. Metal screeched as the vault’s anti-attack bolts slammed into place, dead-locking it against assault. Bullets blasted the door, round after round, until finally the shooting stopped.
Harry glanced over at Beth. She was cowering on the floor, arms over her head. Had that become her only means of defence, curling into a submissive ball? Harry rubbed at her ears. They still pounded with echoes, or maybe it was her own blood exploding through her veins.
For a long time, neither of them moved. Hot metal ticked into the vault. The air grew muggy, heavy with exhaled moisture, and for the first time Harry worried about being able to breathe. The walls seemed to crush in on her, and she fought an urge to hyperventilate. How long could they last in here without fresh air?
‘Maybe he’s gone,’ Beth whispered eventually.
‘Maybe.’ Harry slid to the floor and tried to regulate her breathing. ‘Or maybe he’s just waiting us out.’
Beth’s face crumpled, making Harry feel like a brute for pointing out the truth. She studied her for a moment: the cropped hair, the bruised eye, the fingers that plucked at the black duffel bag.
‘Are you glad Garvin’s dead?’ Harry asked.
