The Medusa Stone

Rome, Italy

The dark rain came in wind-driven sheets that shrouded a set of warehouses near the airport. It pelted the metal roofs and sides of the huge buildings like hail, so loudly that even the shriek of distant jets was reduced to a background whine. The air was cold, too cold for April. The storm had come in from the north, an unusual phenomenon, ripping the icy layer of air off the Alps like a katabatic wind so that sleet mixed with the rain. The weather made the hour around midnight particularly black and ominous.

The warehouses were owned by one of Giancarlo Gianelli’s many companies, as was the limousine that glided to one of them. They were bonded buildings, meaning the warehouses’ contents had already passed customs and were thus to be kept secure. Customs officials guarded the warehouses, as they did similar trans-shipment points all over Europe and abroad, but the right amount of lire in the right pockets ensured laxity in tonight’s vigil.

Diesel trucks were lined up outside the building, many with trailers ready for loading. In the darkness, they looked like prehistoric beasts slumbering through the night. The multiple warehouse doors were designed to admit the behemoths, gaping holes that could be opened with a signal from a transmitter. The guard riding in the Mercedes’ front seat held such a device and one door clattered upward.

Only when the door was closed again did the driver step from the vehicle and open the rear door for his important charge. As if choreographed, the instant Gianelli’s feet touched the floor, a hundred lights snapped on. They buzzed for a moment before coming to full illumination, bathing the warehouse in harsh white light.

Gianelli straightened the drape of his floor-length overcoat, making certain that the four-thousand-dollar garment did not touch the oily stains on the concrete. His suit underneath cost an equal amount. Despite his rough surroundings, Gianelli looked as elegant as usual — not a hair out of place or a wrinkle on his clothing.

Rows of boxes and crates were stacked twenty feet high, lining the walls of the warehouse and creating parallel aisles just wide enough to maneuver one of the yellow forklifts parked near the loading doors. The packing crates ran all the way to the back of the warehouse. In one section, special containers designed to maximize cargo space aboard commercial air freighters waited to be loaded or unloaded. The building smelled of the storm raging outside, of machinery, and of the hundreds of men who usually worked here.

Gianelli idly scanned the pallet of boxes nearest him, reading the listed manifest in its protective plastic sheath. Within one crate were twenty million doses of anti-malaria medication destined for the Congo. Gianelli smiled tightly as he looked at the stack of identical boxes. He’d not known this particular pallet would be nearest him and took its presence as a good omen. There actually were pills within the cases, hermetically sealed in white plastic containers ready for distribution by the medical authorities of one of Africa’s most populous nations. He recalled that there were even some active ingredients in the tablets but just enough to pass an inspection if the Africans ever bothered to check. However, most of the medication was composed of inert material. The pills were worthless.

Gianelli was selling twenty thousand dollars’ worth of placebos for an even million, and he knew there were twenty identical loads ready for shipment. Twenty million dollars of profit and the only victims of his swindle were a bunch of ignorant blacks who, if given the real medicine, would die of something else anyway. Gianelli was new to the counterfeit medication trade, but he was quickly working his way to its forefront.

An area beyond the first rows of shipping containers had been specifically cleared of crates for the night. In the open space, two of the powerful forklifts were parked so closely their steel tines overlapped like meshed fingers. Several men were standing near them, obviously waiting for Gianelli’s arrival. Between the forklifts was the Sundanese terrorist who had fired the murderous volley in the terminal earlier in the day. He had been stripped naked, his bare chest glistening with sweat despite the frigid air. It was the sweat of mortal fear. Heavy cables secured his feet to one set of forks while more wire under his arms tied him to the other.

Gianelli moved into the circle of men with a bored expression, loath to be bothered with such a trivial task. Without preamble, he gestured to one of his henchmen, and the man hoisted a camcorder to his eye and began videoing first the Sudanese guerrilla and then Giancarlo.

With the camera on him, Gianelli began speaking, his tone as uninterested as his demeanor. “Over the past years we have had a very successful business association, and you have been well paid for your services, enough so that your revolutionary movement is beginning to enjoy success in overthrowing the government of Sudan.” He was speaking to the man standing before him, but the words were meant for whoever listened to the tape. “Until today you have done well by me. This afternoon’s disaster though, forces me to remind you who is in charge of this operation. This fool in front of me was supposed to keep Philip Mercer under observation and determine if he was being followed or contacted. Firing an automatic weapon in a crowded airport was not part of my instructions. We’ll never know who contacted Mercer because of you, not to mention that your actions could have cost Mercer his life.”

Gianelli’s voice suddenly exploded. “You stupid fucking monkey. We may miss Mercer in Asmara because he was delayed here by your action. Security has been tightened in Eritrea, making a snatch when he lands impossible. I won’t ask what you were thinking because I know you are incapable of thought.” He stared at the camera’s cyclops eye. “Let this be a lesson to the rest of you godless cattle fuckers.”

He gestured to the forklift operators, and the machines rumbled to life. The cameraman swung to the Sudanese shackled between the two vehicles. His eyes were huge and his mouth worked silently. It was impossible to determine if he was praying or begging for forgiveness.

With a nod from Gianelli, the two sets of forks lifted simultaneously, hoisting the terrorist off the ground. His voice became audible then, a piercing scream that carried over the noise of the diesels. One operator halted the upward motion of the lifting carriage while the other continued to rise. In seconds, the African was stretched in a modern version of the medieval rack. There was just enough pressure on his body to drain the blood from his face and raise the volume of his screams, but he was not yet in any pain. The camera turned back to Gianelli.

“Watch well, Mahdi,” he said to his intended audience. “You have failed me once by sending this idiot on such a delicate job. If you fail me again, a worse fate awaits you.”

One operator pumped his machine’s throttle and the forks began to draw apart, one raising and the other lowering back to the ground. Caught in the relentless mechanical pull, the Sudanese’s screams worsened as the pressure on his body increased. Stretched to the very limit, his skin turned an unnatural gray and his body looked like some carnival oddity.

And still the forks drew apart. The cords wrapped under his arms and around his legs turned crimson, and blood began to course down his body as the steel sliced into him. The small give offered by his flesh was quickly exhausted as the wires dug even deeper, drawing taut against bone. Then they began to pull his skeleton apart.

Gianelli was in a distracted conversation with one of his lieutenants when the torture came to its inevitable conclusion. The man’s screams were choked off by a wet tearing sound, and the contents of his chest cavity splashed unevenly to the concrete. The dismemberment happened so quickly that Giancarlo didn’t have time to step away from the blood that erupted from the corpse. Startled and angry, he stripped off his soiled overcoat and threw it into the puddle of gore under the dangling remains.

“Turn that camera off and let’s get out of here,” he snarled at his driver. “Call my pilot. We’ll be staying in Rome tonight. After what happened this afternoon, I’m sure it will be a while before airport operations resume. Tell him to refile the flight plan for tomorrow.”

He sat back into the padded seat of his limousine. While not bothered by the actual murder, he was disturbed that it had been necessary in the first place. His Sudanese mercenaries had been incredibly loyal, fulfilling his orders without question or fault. He thought back to the archaeologist a couple months ago as an example of their efficiency, but he couldn’t allow laxity now. As the operation got into full swing, he would be relying on them more and more. Tonight’s grisly demonstration was a just reminder.

More disturbing than the blunders in Rome and Asmara was the fact that Gianelli had no idea who had contacted Mercer at da Vinci. There were other forces at work, another group that he had no knowledge of or control over. Speculating over their identity was a fool’s task, yet he could not help pondering their existence or how they knew about the lost mine. His lost mine.