The Curse of Medusa

Kiefel clicked his fingers and Jakob dragged Agent Dirk Partridge across the room. On his way to the hideous floor show, he knocked the camera and made the picture wobble for a few seconds. Out of frame, bound and gagged, Charles Grant was helpless and could only watch the insanity.

“Don’t kick and squeal like…” he paused searching for the word before looking at Angelika and snapping his fingers. “Ein Ferkel?”

“Piglet,” she said flatly

“Ah! Do not squeal like a piglet, Agent Partridge!” Kiefel said. “The whole world is watching… have some dignity, at least.”

The senior Secret Service agent, only four years from his retirement, began to run out of energy as the German gymnast held him fast against a support post at the side of the distillation unit. Angelika tied him to the post with the same rope that had secured the security guard. She paused to kiss him on the cheek and mock him with a sadistic wink before gently tracing her finger down his sweating face.

As she tightened the final knot, Kiefel gave an order in German and everyone in the room put on their gas masks and gloves.

As Jakob fitted a mask to Grant, the President’s heart sank as he realized he had no way of helping his loyal old friend.

Kiefel moved purposefully to the box and extracted the head for the second time, holding it aloft to the camera for the world to see.

“Behold, the Mighty Medusa!”

He carried the mummified skull over to Agent Partridge, who was now sweating profusely and unable to move his terrified eyes away from his fate.

“People of America!” Kiefel continued. “What you witness now is not merely a demonstration of my power, but the evidence about your world which you have long sought. This is the final proof that the history you learned in your schools was all lies! This is the final proof that the world is not what you think it is.”

Kiefel raised the skull and held it in front of Partridge’s face. Almost tenderly, Kiefel removed Partridge’s glasses and handed them to Angelika. He lowered his voice. “This is your end time, Special Agent Partridge… auf wiedersehen.”

Partridge tried to speak but the terror coursing through his veins froze his words before they reached his lips. He stared at the hideous, twisted face of Medusa — its blue-black skin and pits for eyes — and began to hyperventilate.

Grant tried to scream through his mask but the gag muffled his desperate pleas.

“Silence!” Kiefel screamed.

Jakob padded over to Grant and powered a heavy fist into his stomach causing him to double over in agony. Winded and desperately trying to heave breath into his lungs, Grant knew there was nothing he could now do to save Partridge.

Concentrating once again on Partridge, Kiefel pushed the skull closer to the Secret Service agent, and he began to react the same way as the female security guard — juddering and more hyperventilation. Seconds later, the looked of crazed fear on the Secret Service agent’s face was preserved in stone for eternity.

Grant looked away, horrified.

Angelika applauded and giggled insanely.

Kiefel beamed with pleasure and turned to the camera.

“People of America! If you enjoyed this performance, please tune in for the main show when I will turn your President to stone right before your eyes!”

He motioned at Pauling who cut the signal, and then he turned to Grant.

“I wonder what the viewing figures will be for our grand finale, Mr Grant, hmm?”

* * *

Hawke sat up front with Kim Taylor in the first of two Secret Service Cadillac Escalades as they made their way north-east along New York Avenue. Doyle and Vincent followed behind with three SWAT men in the back.

They drove in silence. They had watched the terrible last few moments of Dirk Partridge’s life on an iPad en route and no one had spoken since the signal was cut.

“We’re there,” Kim said at last. She braked and signalled to leave the highway.

They reached the Amtrak yard and pulled right to enter Ivy City, parking up a hundred yards down the road from the warehouse and surveying the industrial park for any signs of trouble. Hawke wondered how people like Kiefel always seemed to find places like this.

This was the industrial zone of the city, the part the rest of the world never saw.

The warehouse itself was a red-brick building that ran the full length of the block and was punctuated by three double roller-doors where trucks could make and take deliveries. A few yards behind a chain-link fence topped with razor-wire was a Ford F-150, jacked up on bricks in the parking area. The place didn’t exactly look like it was overwhelmed with trade.

Doyle, Vincent and the SWAT guys joined them as they strapped on bullet-proof vests and loaded their guns.

“Nice place they have here,” Vincent said.

Hawke smirked. “Just what I was thinking.”