Night Of Knives Part 32

The other prisoners are doing their part almost too well: their loud babble is giving Veronica a headache. She can barely hear the sounds as Lovemore stabs the Leatherman again and again at the floor between the two of them. The noise and utter darkness is dizzying, disorienting. It takes her a few seconds to realize he's stopped.

She reaches out to survey the damage. The concrete around the edges of the grille has been reduced to less than half its initial depth, and flakes cover the nearby floor. Her hands encounter Lovemore's fists, wrapped around the iron bars, pulled as hard as he could. Veronica adds her strength to the effort. They gasp for air, but the grille doesn't move.

"Not yet," Veronica groans.

"Harder," Lovemore insists. "Use your legs."

She does, she pulls with all her might, as he does the same - and with a crack crack so loud Veronica fears the guards might have heard, the grate pulls free. The high-volume conversation around them dwindles for a moment as the prisoners realize what has happened; then the noise swells up again, this time with a jubilant tone. so loud Veronica fears the guards might have heard, the grate pulls free. The high-volume conversation around them dwindles for a moment as the prisoners realize what has happened; then the noise swells up again, this time with a jubilant tone.

Veronica feels around inside the now-open shaft. It is walled by uneven rocks, and its thirty-degree angle will make it difficult to descend, but they have no choice. She takes a deep breath. She has never wanted to do anything less than to descend into this dark, narrow, slanted pit with no known bottom.

"We can't all go," she says.

"They know. I have spoken with them. We will go first. Perhaps some of them will follow later, but they are not eager to go deeper into the mine."

Veronica certainly understands that: she's not exactly eager herself. But it's that or throw herself on Danton's eventual mercy. If she can just get out of this mine, according to Lovemore they're near the Mozambique border, she can get out to there and seek help from someone, maybe get to South Africa, to the civilized world. Even being captured on an Interpol warrant will be better than this.

It occurs to her that maybe, just maybe, if they do somehow manage to escape this abandoned mine, it might not be too late to stop Gorokwe, to blow the whistle before Mugabe is murdered. Maybe she can turn Danton's weakness into a fatal error. By imprisoning her instead of killing her they have brought her into the vulnerable belly of the beast. Now she knows where the missiles are, and when the a.s.sa.s.sination will happen. If only that when was not too soon - but it is. Less than forty-eight hours. She'll be lucky to even get to a phone in that time, much less make somebody believe her. But she has to try. If they a.s.sa.s.sinate Mugabe, if Lysander was right, soon afterwards all Zimbabwe will erupt in a civil war that might kill hundreds of thousands. She can't really wrap her head around what that means, the sheer scale of the disaster beggars the mind; but Veronica thinks of that little girl who tried to ride with them on the oxcart, and tries to imagine a city full of little girls like that, all of them dead.

Descent into the slender ventilation shaft is awkward. The walls of rough-hewn rock are full of sharp stony protrusions; they serve as ledges and handles, but also jab and sc.r.a.pe. It is steep enough that initially Veronica props herself up with a foothold or handhold at all times, rather than risk sliding down the sharp rocks into Lovemore beneath her, and maybe sending them both tumbling to their deaths. She eventually settles on lying on her belly, allowing the grip of her body on the stones to keep herself from falling, and worming her way down in reverse. At least the ongoing physical effort helps to keep panic at bay. The air is thick with dust dislodged by their pa.s.sage, and she has to breathe through her s.h.i.+rt. She seems to be moving faster than Lovemore, her feet keeps connecting with his hands. Of course he is weaker: he was beaten and tortured before being left to languish in that nightmarish cell.

They have the Leatherman, her phone, her money belt and wallet, her cigarettes and lighter. It isn't much. Veronica turns on the phone only once while downclimbing, after half an hour, when the voices above are no longer audible. Green light blooms from its screen, enough to illuminate a narrow shaft continuing both up and down without any visible end. The sight is so horrifying she immediately switches the phone off and has to bite her lip until it bleeds to forestall another panic attack.

Veronica decides not to think about where she is, or about the future, near or distant. The present is all that matters, and in it she is climbing down. The future does not exist.

It gets steadily warmer as they descend, and her sweat-soaked hands begin to slip off the rocks. She is already desperately thirsty. At least there is a draft, hot air rising past them. She can't imagine where that air is coming from.

A small eternity seems to pa.s.s before Lovemore grunts, "Floor."

She follows him down to a flat surface that seems unnatural after their long descent. Lovemore is doubled over, panting for breath. This worries Veronica more than she lets on. Going down is easy compared to climbing up, and they might have descended as much as a kilometre below ground level. At least they haven't been intercepted.

She checks her phone. Nine PM. Somewhere up above, night has fallen. They have thirty-six hours to try to avert a b.l.o.o.d.y civil war, and all they've succeeded in doing is going deeper into this mine with no idea how to get out. It's not going to happen, Veronica realizes, they're not going to be able to get the word out and save Mugabe, she doesn't even know who to call. She and Lovemore have to focus on saving themselves.

The phone's LCD seems incredibly bright in the absolute darkness of the mine. Its pale green glow illuminates another corridor with inset rail tracks, almost exactly like the level above. Veronica supposes there isn't a whole lot of room for originality in mine design.

"No signal?" Lovemore asks, with the ghost of a smile.

"Very funny."

Veronica realizes she can look around at this corridor's low ceiling and narrow walls with something like equilibrium. Maybe her body has run out of the enzymes and chemicals required to manufacture a panic attack. Maybe this mine has served as involuntary exposure therapy. After the ventilation shaft this tight corridor seems almost s.p.a.cious.

Lovemore's face and body are streaked with blood. He is wider and thicker than her, was less able to keep clear of the sharp stones of the shaft walls. None of the cuts are serious, but they worry her all the same, the opening and descent of the shaft seem to have consumed all of his strength reserves, he looks worryingly frail and feeble.

"What do we do now?" she asks, and her voice is more frightened than she had intended.

Lovemore says, "We must walk into the wind."

She blinks. "But - no, the wind's coming from below. We have to go up now."

"I know something about mines. My father was a miner. They are built with ventilation circuits. As we go deeper, it becomes hotter." She nods, wondering how deep they are right now, how close to the Earth's molten mantle. "Hot air rises, any schoolboy will tell you. This creates a pressure imbalance that brings cooler air down from somewhere else, somewhere outside. All we must do is keep walking into the wind, to the source of that air."

It sounds good. As long as their escape isn't discovered, or the air doesn't get unbreathable, or the heat unbearable, or the climb up to the surface isn't too much for them, or the exit isn't blocked. There are so many ways to fail. But at least they have a plan.

"How are you feeling?" she asks.

She sees his teeth but can't tell if he's smiling or grimacing. "I will be fine."

Veronica isn't at all sure of that. "Let's rest a little longer."

"We have no time."

"Five minutes won't make any difference."

"With this air perhaps it will."

He has a point. The air is now so thick and hot it feels like breathing through a cigarette. If they stay too long at this level oxygen deprivation might become a real issue, like alt.i.tude sickness in reverse. And heat exhaustion is unquestionably a danger.

"All right," she says. "Let's get going."

They advance into the draft, much fainter in this wide corridor than it was in the shaft, but still noticeable. Everything looks green in the phone's LCD light. Walking fast is a relief after slowly worming their way down the endless shaft in darkness, but she has to slow down for Lovemore, who is limping. At one point he b.u.mps his head painfully on the ceiling; afterwards he walks on exaggeratedly bent knees. They reach an intersection with an equally wide and high corridor, but one without rail tracks. They stand there a moment, unable to determine from which direction the stronger draft comes.

"The tracks must go to the main elevator shaft," Veronica says. "We can't go up there. Let's try the other way."

Lovemore nods. He is now breathing with every few steps he takes, as if running rather than walking. They continue down this corridor, moving with new hope; the wind is stronger here, and noticeably cooler.

The corridor ends at a metal grille set in stone. Beyond the grille, a circular shaft six feet across rises at a forty-five-degree angle towards the sky. Cool air hurtles down into the mine. Veronica thinks she tastes water in the air. It's a way out except for the solid metal grate that bars their way.

She examines this obstacle. It is not like the ones up above that were welded in place. This one has two halves separately seated in the stone walls; in the middle, their flat metal edges overlap and are bolted together. She unfolds her Leatherman and sets to work. Lovemore sits with his back to the corridor wall and concentrates on breathing.

There are only four narrow bolts. Two come out easily once she sc.r.a.pes the rust off. The third requires a great deal more effort. But the fourth, near the bottom, will not budge, despite Veronica's increasingly frantic efforts. It appears to have rusted in place.

"Motherf.u.c.ker," she pants, staring at the grate. One rusted nut. That is all that stands between them and the path to freedom. But it will not move.

"There must be stairs," Lovemore said hoa.r.s.ely. "In case of some disaster. There must be stairs."

"If we can find them. Maybe they've been blocked. Or that exit's locked. And they'll probably take us right to Gorokwe's troops. f.u.c.k. One f.u.c.king nut."

"The top of this shaft may also be walled off."

She winces. He's right. She stares venomously at the offending hexagonal hunk of metal. Then she reaches up to the top of the grate. Her previous removal of three bolts allows the two halves to pull away from each other and create a little vee of s.p.a.ce, just enough to wedge her fingers into. She pulls as hard as she can. Even with this leverage it doesn't feel much different from trying to rip an iron bar apart with her bare hands.

Veronica threads the fingers of her other hand into the grate, and then climbs up onto it, placing both her feet flat against the metal bars, supporting herself with her hands. She pushes with all the strength of her legs. At first nothing happens. Then there is a groaning sound and then an unexpected crack crack and suddenly the grate is open and Veronica has to flail about to avoid falling off as metal rattles on the floor. She hoped she might loosen the rusted nut; instead she has torn it right off its bolt. and suddenly the grate is open and Veronica has to flail about to avoid falling off as metal rattles on the floor. She hoped she might loosen the rusted nut; instead she has torn it right off its bolt.

"Marvellous," Lovemore wheezes.

She drops back to the ground and pulls the two halves of the grate apart wide enough that she can squeeze between them. Then she looks up the wide ventilation intake shaft and wishes it wasn't so steep. They could maybe walk up a thirty-degree incline, like that they descended. This forty-five-degree shaft will have to be climbed with both hands. It will take them hours to reach the surface.

She says, "Maybe there's another way out, but I'm thinking this is the only way we might actually escape."

"Yes."

"It's a long way up."

"Yes."

"Do you think you can climb all the way?"

Lovemore looks at her a moment, then says, softly, "If I must, I will."

"I'm sorry," Veronica says. "I think you must."

Chapter 37

"Lovemore," Veronica croaks. "Look."

He doesn't react.

"Look." She grabs at him clumsily. "Up."

His head slowly turns upward, towards the distant blotch of ... not light, exactly, but a different shade of darkness than what they have been moving through for hours.

"What is it?" he asks dully.

"I think it's the outside."

At least the air is clean up here. That has been the only good thing about the climb. Their ascent has been far longer and more gruelling than Veronica expected. Her muscles are near collapse, her toes are covered in blisters, the skin on her hands has been ribboned by sharp rocks. Her blood- and sweat-wet fingers keep skidding away from handholds. This slanted six-foot-square shaft is far more dangerous than the smaller one they descended. Veronica's feet have slipped off footholds once, and Lovemore's twice. All three times they barely avoided tumbling to their deaths, and survival cost them several deep cuts. Her thirst is burning, ravenous, and the pebble she sucks on has ceased to help, the inside of her mouth feels as dry as paper. Lovemore seems in even worse condition. He has almost ceased to engage with the world.

"We're almost there," she promises him. "Just a little farther."

"You go."

"You first." She wants to be below him in case he faints.

He sighs, takes two s.h.i.+vering breaths, then forces himself to resume his upward progress. Veronica climbs behind him. She is only dimly aware of her external pain. It pales next to her all-consuming thirst.

When she looks up next the blotch seems hardly larger. She wants to cry. You can't spare the moisture You can't spare the moisture, she tells herself firmly. Just climb. This will be over soon and you will forget this nightmare ever happened. Just climb. This will be over soon and you will forget this nightmare ever happened.

Climbing a forty-five degree slope is equally unlike rock climbing and walking erect; it requires locomotion on all fours, like an animal. Veronica tries to climb like a monkey. It actually seems to help a little. When she looks up next the the blotch is noticeably larger, and definitely a paler shade of black than its surroundings. She remembers with something like despair that the exit is probably blocked by a grate, as at the other end of the shaft. If it has been welded in place she doesn't know what they will do. Lovemore certainly doesn't have enough strength to climb back down. Veronica doubts she does either.

Nothing they can do about it now. Above her, Lovemore is moving faster, proximity to the surface seems to have lent him new strength.

"It's open," he grunts when they are only a hundred feet away.

She refuses to believe him, refuses to hope. But it's true. The shaft leads straight into open air. It isn't until they reached the edge that they realize why; the exit is in the middle of a sheer rock wall, directly above a wide river. The moon is clouded but there is enough light to see the boundary where the cliff meets the river twenty feet below. They can hear and smell the rus.h.i.+ng water beneath them. Water. She has to hold herself back from simply throwing herself into the river and drinking deep.

"What do we do now?" Lovemore asks.

Veronica thinks a moment. There aren't a whole lot of options.

"We rest, get some strength back," she says. "Then we jump. It doesn't look shallow." She has no idea what shallow water looks like in darkness, but saying it makes her feel better. Than a horrible idea occurs to her. "Wait. Are there crocodiles?"

"No," Lovemore says. "In the Zambezi, the Limpopo, yes. But not here."

She sighs with relief.

"But I cannot swim."

She stares at him. "Really?"

"I'm sorry. I never learned."

"Well. We can't climb back down. I was a lifeguard once." She thinks back to when she watched children in the neighbourhood pool when she was sixteen. Not exactly the same as supporting a full-grown man in a powerful river at night. But she has no choice. "Just trust me and don't panic, and I'll keep you up."

After a second Lovemore says, "I trust you."

"Good." Veronica looks at the water. She knows she should wait, gather her strength. But she doesn't think there's much left to gather, and she is overcome by a blinding urge to just get this over with. "f.u.c.k it. Follow me."

She steps back down the shaft, lowers herself like a sprinter on blocks, then takes a stumbling running jump into the river. The fall is so terrifying she almost screams.

But the water is deep and cool and deliriously refres.h.i.+ng. Veronica is drinking from it even before her head breaking the surface. She has to pull away and remind herself not to drink too much too fast.

"Hurry!" she cries, floating in the strong current, trying to stay near the shaft entrance.

She is almost too successful; Lovemore nearly falls directly onto her. He comes up spluttering and thras.h.i.+ng, panicked despite her warnings, grabs Veronica's arm with a vicegrip and drags her head down below the waterline. His body is convulsing like a landed fish, pulling them both deeper into the river. Veronica kicks as hard as she but barely manages to get her head above water for another breath.

She fights to free herself but he is far too strong. Veronica gives up the struggle and allows him to pull her closer, wraps her other arm around him so she holds him from behind, and kicks again, with all the strength left in her legs. Their heads emerge from the river again for a few seconds. Lovemore is still thras.h.i.+ng uncontrollably.

"Calm down!" she orders him.

They fall back into the water. Then Lovemore goes limp, and his vicegrip on her arm loosens. Veronica grabs him in a bearhug and pulls them back up above the waterline. It isn't easy treading water for two, Lovemore is dense with muscle, but she manages.

"Sorry, sorry," he coughs.

"It's okay. Just hang loose."

She can't tell if the rus.h.i.+ng sound ahead indicates rapids or a waterfall, but she knew they don't want to find out. They swim clumsily for the sh.o.r.e opposite the mine. The river shallows into a pebbly bed, and they stumble onto rocky land. Above them she could see the outlines of trees against the clouds; thick, untracked African bush.

"Free," Veronica says, almost disbelievingly, and collapses to the ground.