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.