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 ng 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
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 ng 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
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