The Medusa Stone pm-3

by Jack Du Brul

  Thinking that he could reach Mercer before the shifta made their move, Habte launched himself across the terminal floor, shouldering aside families still in the rapture of reunion. No sooner had he made his move than the leader of the bandits also started forward, not quite as moderate in thrusting away those who stood in his way. He did not appear to notice that Habte shared his interest in the white passenger. His three comrades followed suit, unknowingly vectoring to cut off Habte’s advance.

  Mercer stood at the customs deck, his cases at his feet and his passport spread before him, the distinctive pale pink Eritrean visa sticker prominently displayed on the page awaiting an official stamp. Habte increased his pace to get ahead of the bandits and stole a quick glance behind him to see that the shifta’s pistol was still out of view. So these men did not want to see the American killed, he thought. That gave him latitude he hadn’t realized he possessed.

  Habte turned sharply, but the crowd slowed his momentum. He raised one fist and punched with all the force of his spin. It was enough to send the nearest Sudanese to the floor, his jaw either broken or severely dislocated. Several women screamed. Habte took advantage of the confusion, twisting so he was in range of another of the shifta, still keeping himself away from the armed leader. He let his wristwatch slide down to his hand so its face stretched across his knuckles, then pounded it into the Sudanese’s face. Three rapid blows dropped the man, his mouth and cheeks bloodied and deeply scarred by the watch’s sharp bezel.

  The two Eritrean soldiers guarding the arrivals lounge came alive, shouting over the din and racing across the room, weapons held low to better push aside the people who were in their way. Mercer came through the gate oblivious to the tumult. Before the shifta leader could react, Habte grabbed Mercer by the wrist. A shot rang out, a concussive explosion that echoed painfully. Towing his charge, Habte ducked and dashed out the doors of the terminal. He owned a Fiat sedan and Mercer was just barely in the rear passenger seat when Habte gunned the engine, kicking up twin spirals of dust from the unpaved road.

  “Welcome to Eritrea, Dr. Mercer. My name is Habte Makkonen,” Habte said, relieved and amazed to be away from the airport. It would take hours for the authorities to sort out what had just happened if they even bothered to try.

  “Je ne comprend pas. Je m’appelle Claude Quesnel.” Habte’s passenger was near hysterics as he spoke in rapid-fire French. “Qu’est-ce que se passe maintenant? Et qui est Docteur Mercier?”

  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.

  Unknown Location in the Middle East

  News of Ibriham’s death in Rome reached Yosef a full day after the machine-gun attack because the team had been on the move during the night, traveling with their prisoner from their previous location in Lebanon to a more secure site. They were now ensconced in an urban safe house near the bustling city center, but cut off from it by the house’s ancient stone walls. The house was attached to its neighbors in the time-honored way of Middle Eastern cities, yet it had been vacant for several years.

  The neighborhood was full of those sympathetic to their cause and would not report that the previously unoccupied house suddenly had ten people inhabiting it, eleven if one knew about Harry White held captive in the windowless cellar. This location did afford more amenities, but it was still much too dangerous to use for the remainder of their mission. Discovery by the police or special investigative services would mean either a shoot-out or execution after a quick, one-sided military trial. Apart from everything else, Yosef also had to consider the team’s next relocation, no more than a week away if he wanted to maintain the hard-and-fast rule about safe houses.

  Yosef betrayed no reaction when he’d learned of the death of his nephew. But the few team members who’d worked with him before knew he was taking the killing very badly. He had a new hardness, a new layer of armor that shielded him from the loss and continuing pain of his life’s work.

  Several of the team sat at the dining room table with pitchers of water and carafes of rich coffee. It was morning, the first minutes they had been able to relax. The remainder of the group were either on sleep rotation or out purchasing supplies. The dining room was heavy with both quiet grief and the coolness of the morning that soaked through the plastered walls.

  Yosef had never used this particular safe house, but it was like so many others he had slept in, worked in, and killed in before. He had willingly given up his life to live like this, and while he felt no regrets for that decision, its toll was becoming too heavy. Losing Ibriham could very well be the last blow he would take.

  No one at the table had spoken. Each was waiting for Yosef, the team’s new leader, to take up his mantle of command. He remained silent, inhaling cigarettes until the small astray before his chair brimmed. This morning had aged him a further ten years.

  “What is the state of our prisoner?” Yosef finally asked, avoiding the real issue by addressing other details first.

  “Settled as well as can be expected,” one of the team replied. “He’s much quieter and more cooperative since we started giving him cigarettes.”

  “His injuries?”

  “For an old man, he heals remarkably well. His hand’s doing fine.” This from a nurse who had been with the organization for a year.

  Yosef lit another cigarette, watching the blue-gray smoke coil to the wood beams that trussed the high ceiling. He didn’t bother to blink away the smoke that scalded his eyes. The inquiring stares of his people galled to the point where he wanted to escape the room, the house, the entire organization. But not before Philip Mercer paid for his nephew’s death.

  He forced himself from his reverie. “There is no point in going over what has happened. We all know that Ibriham is dead and this places me in command. It’s a job I don’t want, but that doesn’t matter.” If they wanted a morale-boosting speech, they could get it elsewhere, he thought. “We will continue as before. The only significant change of plans is that I will be heading to Eritrea to keep track of Mercer with those already scheduled to go. Also, when this operation’s done, I want our prisoner executed and I personally will deal with the American.”

  The most junior member of the group spoke. “I am not questioning you, Yosef, but aggravating the situation with two more deaths won’t help our cause. According to our information, Mercer had nothing to do with Ibriham’s murder. Killing him will only draw more attention to our presence.”

  Again nothing showed on Yosef’s face, but his voice was deadly. “Killing Mercer has nothing to do with our cause. It’s a personal matter. And no one will be aware of it. Eritrea’s a big country, full of danger. One more corpse buried in the desert will make no difference.”

  He looked around the table to see if anyone else would question his decision, but none would meet his gaze. He had to keep the team focused for just a few more weeks, until the election. After that, he no longer cared what happened to them or himself, or God forbid, Israel.

  Yosef thought back to the murder of his niece, Ibriham’s cousin, so many years ago. She’d been shot by an Israeli soldier who was so shaken by the accident that he’d been unable to return to active service. Ibriham had taken her death particularly hard, and Yosef had feared that he would join a Palestinian splinter group to reap his revenge. But d
ays later, a bomb at a bus stop in Tel Aviv had killed eleven Israelis. Television reports showed cheering crowds of students in Gaza celebrating the martyrdom of the suicide bomber. That evening, Ibriham approached his uncle and asked to join him in the Mossad. Ibriham had been so impressed by the compassion the soldier had shown following the fatal shooting and so sickened by the crowds that the internal conflict that had torn him since childhood had cleared. He had said he was a Jew first and foremost and wanted to be like his uncle, dedicated to the preservation of the Jewish homeland.

  From that time, Ibriham’s uncertainty gave way to a zeal that forced him to work tirelessly within the ranks of the Mossad. In just a couple of years, he’d topped the list of field operatives. This brought him to the attention of Israel’s current defense minister Chaim Levine, who was forming a secret team from within the ranks of Israel’s military and intelligence community for a shadowy program of his own. Ibriham quickly accepted Levine’s offer to join and eventually lead his cadre in pursuit of the minister’s dream. It had been Levine who drew Ibriham in, but now the responsibility fell on Yosef’s shoulders. The team watched him quietly.

  “I know what you’re thinking: the old man has gone mad. You think I might jeopardize the mission with a vendetta against a man who’s actually helping us. I assure you, nothing will happen to Mercer until after he discovers the mine and we retrieve what we lost so long ago.” Yosef paused to fill a glass with water. “Ibriham’s death has been a devastating blow, not only to me personally, but also to you. But it doesn’t mean that we’re going to stop. In just a few weeks, if we are successful, we’ll rejuvenate our nation and will lay the foundation to ensure that never again will Jews feel that we do not have a rightful place on this planet.