The Medusa Stone

Khartoum, Sudan

In Arabic, the name Sudan means “black,” but those in control of the country were not black Africans but people of more Arabian descent. Millions had been slaughtered through warfare, disease, and famine to maintain the subjugation of Sudan’s more ethnically African citizens in the south by their northern government. All in all, Africa’s largest nation was a hate-filled sewer that claimed a thousand more victims every day.

Sudan was thus a perfect arena for Giancarlo Gianelli to add to his wealth by preying on the misfortunes of others.

People with the kind of money Gianelli had existed in a supra-national elite class who travelled on private jets, stayed in opulent villas or exclusive hotels, and rarely bothered with the formality of customs when abroad. Only moments after landing in Khartoum, he was whisked to a house he owned in the hills overlooking the city, an enclave reserved for Sudan’s few wealthy citizens and the rulers of the military government. Though it was his least favorite city in the world, Gianelli did enough business in Khartoum to warrant the expense of a twenty-room house and a full-time staff of eighteen.

Gianelli’s majordomo in Venice had alerted his African counterpart to prepare for the visit. The staff was lined up when the limo eased through the gate and up the long drive. The headlights flashed into their faces as the car swept under the covered portico, stopping so that the head butler could simply bend at the waist to open Gianelli’s door.

“Grazie, Ali,” Gianelli said to the majordomo. “How have you been?”

“Very well, sir,” the elderly Sudanese replied gravely in Italian. “I was not told how long you would be here, sir. Should we prepare for an extended stay?”

“No, Ali, I won’t be here long at all.” Gianelli eyed his staff. Not recognizing two girls dressed neatly as maids, he asked Ali about them.

“I bought them about a month ago from a slaver selling off the last of his stock. They were expensive, but they have already been well trained,” Ali said proudly.

Sudan was one of a handful of countries that maintained a slave trade. The practice was illegal but more than tolerated by the government. Slaves, usually young girls, were routinely captured during raids in the south by either the army or regular slavers and brought to Khartoum for the pleasures of the city’s elite or sold off to Arab countries across the Red Sea. Ever open to possible business opportunities, Gianelli had considered entering the trade, but the big markets had already been exploited and he found it wouldn’t be worth his time or effort to open up a new conduit to move girls from Sudan to the Middle East.

He turned his gaze away from the girls and addressed Ali again. “Has he arrived yet?”

“Your guest arrived an hour ago.” Ali couldn’t keep the contempt out of his voice. “He is in your study. There is a guard waiting with him to make sure he does not move.”

Giancarlo chuckled at his man’s foresight. He himself wouldn’t leave Mahdi alone for a second. Gianelli entered the house, enjoying the sweet coolness provided by the air conditioners. The house was stucco on the outside, but much of the interior was marble, built in the Mediterranean style with a large open foyer. He hadn’t dared to bring any of his European artwork to Khartoum, so the decorations were all native pieces bought for him from all over the continent by a professional collector. Ashante masks and Ndebele shields mixed with woven Dinka wall hangings and displays of ancient gold jewelry from every corner of Africa.

The study was at the end of one wing of the great house. Gianelli strode in, ignoring the shelves of books and the tall elephant tusks that flanked the native stone fireplace, their butter patina glowing in the room’s subdued lighting. Instead, he kept his eyes on the young Sudanese lying on one of the leather couches, his feet indolently resting on the glass top of a coffee table. The guard standing next to a stinkwood desk came to attention. “Leave us,” Gianelli barked at the guard, then stared at his guest.

“Make yourself at home,” he sneered, switching to fluent Arabic.

Mahdi wore Western clothes, black jeans and a baggy T-shirt under a loose-fitting leather jacket. His head was covered with a brightly colored keffleye like a Palestinian freedom fighter, though he was a Christian and a member of Sudan’s rebel movement. “Have I offended you in some way, effendi?”

“Yes.” Gianelli lowered himself into his chair and slid the video cassette from the outside pocket of his suit coat. “That fool you sent to Rome nearly got Philip Mercer killed. He was ordered to tell me if anyone approached Mercer, not open fire with an automatic weapon in the international departure area. You’d better pray the carabinieri never learn of my involvement with this.”

“Why did he start shooting?”

“How should I know?” Gianelli’s face darkened with anger. “He killed four people.”

“He must have had a good reason. Abdula’s my cousin, I trust him completely,” Mahdi said. “He was with me when we tracked and killed that European scientist a few months ago. Remember, he was exploring near where you thought your mine might be. You questioned Abdula afterward, yes?”

Giancarlo laughed. “I wouldn’t call it questioning exactly.” He slid the tape into the VCR sitting on a credenza behind him and turned on the attached television.

He watched Mahdi’s expression change when he recognized his cousin pinioned between the forklifts. The Sudanese couldn’t tear his eyes from the gruesome scene as it played out.

Gianelli shut off the machine when the recording ended. “That is the price of disobeying me,” he said mildly. “Your cousin made a mistake that you can learn from, Mahdi, and I think now you see how serious I am.”

He stood and went to the small bar near the fireplace, filling two crystal goblets with a fortified wine. He had no way of knowing how Mahdi would react, so one hand didn’t stray from the small Beretta automatic in his coat pocket. Mahdi took the offered glass and knocked it back with a quick swallow. Gianelli took a seat opposite the killer, his drink dangling from his long fingers. He filled Mahdi’s shocked silence with words.

“Our association has been very profitable in the past. There is no need for this unfortunate incident”—he waved his free hand at the darkened television—“to interfere with that. I’ve given your cause billions of lire over the years, and I’ve asked for very little in return. I simply want your continued friendship when you eventually succeed in splitting the Sudan into two separate countries.

“I’ve supported your cause for years. Still, I believe I am entitled to a simple favor for my efforts, a goodwill token to prove that my money hasn’t been wasted on a lost cause headed by a group of fools.”

Mahdi wasn’t a diplomat or a politician, which was exactly why Gianelli chose him as his liaison with the rebel movement. Mahdi was a soldier experienced in the field of warfare, not words. It was this fact that made him easy to manipulate. Giancarlo suspected Mahdi’s superiors knew this too but allowed it to continue as long as the money poured in. If they had any opposition to Giancarlo Gianelli using some of their people as a mercenary army for his own personal reasons, they never voiced it.

Mahdi stood slowly and Giancarlo tensed, his finger tightening around the Beretta’s trigger, but the young rebel went to fix himself another, heavier drink. “Before you tell me what you require of me, I must admit that the team sent to meet Mercer in Asmara lost him after a disturbance at the terminal.”

Giancarlo hid his satisfaction at being able to read the other man so well. Mahdi was sociopathic enough to see his cousin’s death as another casualty in their long-standing revolt and harbored little in the way of anger at who had actually killed him.

“Mercer missed yesterday’s flight from Rome,” Gianelli said without rancor. “He didn’t arrive until this morning. We’ll take him in Asmara. It’s a small city, and there’s only so many places he can hide. I want a team of your best men dispatched at once. We’ll get those satellite pictures and leave him in an unmarked grave. He’s meddled in my affairs enough and I won’t tolerate it.”

“I will lead the team myself.”

“No,” Gianelli said sharply. “We are going to the Eritrean border, near where I think the mine must be. We’ll be in position to use the photographs as soon as your men have them.”

“Isn’t that a risk?” Mahdi’s tone was respectful.

“It is, but we don’t have the luxury of time.” He noted the confusion on the killer’s face. “There’s something you must know about one of the men your cousin killed in Rome. I learned through my contacts in the carabinieri early this morning that one of them was carrying a forged passport. His being near Philip Mercer was hardly a coincidence. There is someone else out there shadowing him, someone else who wants my diamonds.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Gianelli dismissed this threat. “We’ll get the photos and whoever it was will give up the chase. How many men can you assemble on the Eritrean border within the next week or two?”

“That will depend on the Revolutionary Council, but I estimate at least fifty.”

“That should be enough. We’ll need to round up at least another hundred men as laborers. I have South African mining specialists ready to go, but they need workers.”

“How long do you think we will be able to hold the mine once we find it?”

“It’s remained hidden for seventy years, which means it’s in an extremely remote location. The country in the far north of Eritrea is deserted once you get off the refugee routes. Your men will take care of any nomads or shepherds who might stumble on our camp. I suspect we won’t be detected for a couple of months. Which is all the time I need.”

Gianelli had heard last night from an agent in London that the diamond syndicate was already hearing rumors about a previously unknown mine in Africa. The rumors had been planted by Gianelli himself to subvert the powerful group and it was working perfectly. His agent told him the syndicate was nervous about a possible source of diamonds not in their control. Gianelli knew they would pay him billions if he could prove he had the mine, either for its location or for his assurance that he would never work it. Five thousand carats, Gianelli estimated, was all the proof he would need to get them to pay him off.

“You can count on me, effendi,” Mahdi boasted.

Gianelli looked pointedly at the mute television. “I know I can.”