Flash Fiction by Frank Sonderborg
“There is no escape. No rescue. No hero coming at the last minute to save you.
You are going to die. So, what’s it going to be, painful or peaceful? I know, it’s an old cliché. But we do need to know if you’ve told anyone.”
The man he was speaking to was bound tightly to an ancient oak chair with leather straps. Tradition still meant a lot to Francis.
The man said nothing, just stared into some inner bottomless void. Francis nodded again to the white coated assistants, and they moved in quickly and injected him with an increased dose of processed Burandanga.
Burandanga was derived from the flower of the Borrachero shrub. In powder form it was known as, “The Devils Breath.” It induced extreme hallucinations, and when you wanted some answers in a hurry, a loose tongue. We have some of the greatest chemists in the world working here, thought Francis. So why not use them.
He leaned in and whispered into the man’s ear.
“There is an old expression they have here my friend, in vino veritas,” (in wine there is truth). And here on the left bank of the Gironde we would get the final truth, thought Francis.
The soil in this special place is gravelly, the forest shelters the precious vines from the heavy Atlantic winds. The gravel soil forces the roots to burrow ever deeper into the soil seeking nourishment. Combined with the heat of the sun, it consistently produces wines of outstanding vintage. The wines of the left bank are considered the elite of all Bordeaux.
Graves is the name of an area that has been producing fine wines since Roman times. It’s also an apt place to disappear bodies. Just like the grapes, the bodies are skin stripped, crushed, and the dissolved skin with the pulverised bone essence spread to enhance the flavour of the grapes on the vine. We are, after all, living in an eco-friendly age. When we finished with him. The bound man would go the same way. Are we not all re-cycled star men? The result of some distant exploding super nova.
But first, what did he know of the great plan! Who had he revealed it to?
The man started convulsing as the twisting Devils drug bore into his mind. The irradiated Burandanga doing its filthy chemical work. He trashed and struggled against his bonds. Sweating profusely, eyes bulging as his worst nightmares unleashed from the id, consumed him. With a violent tremor his overworked heart exploded, and he died, without revealing anything of importance.
Francis was impressed. The man was tough, well trained. He had not broken or was it possible he just had nothing to say. Still, there was always the fear. That icy feeling that he had somehow passed on some vital shred of information to his, ‘Pay Masters’.
He was an agent. Part of the International Black Ops Circus. Of that Francis was convinced. Working for one or more of some shadowy Government spook department. Who took an unhealthy interest in what Francis and his chemists were up to.
He suspected the Russians or possibly the Canadians. Francis had executed executive contracts for them all. A shame the man never got to tell us which one to send a condolence card too.
He sat at the ancient oak table. A table that had graced some of the great Conquistadors houses in Mexico, before being salvaged and shipped back to the old world. He sipped slowly on his Tennessee mash whiskey. Not wine, never wine.
He’d stopped drinking wine, many years ago.
It troubled him that it was all coming to an end. Many years of breeding and planning. The vine and the family tree. He had been raised here in France as a Catholic. But the buried secrets of his lineage, was always controlled by Shaykh al Jabal.
They hid in the open among the unbelievers. Shaykh al Jabal played his part, as leader of a tame religion, a sect the western powers could feel safe with. The great horse breeder. The great playboy dilettante.
Weighed in gold and rubies every year on his birthday. But all the time his revenge festering, as he planned to strike back against the descendants of Mongke. And now that time had come.
The entourage began to arrive at the chateau in their shiny expensive bullet proof chariots of the Hun. The guards flowed in. Shaykh al Jabal moved smoothly among them, like a trained dancer. A tall thin man, immaculate as always, wearing a dinner jacket and tie. Centred in the bubble of his solid security team. All things to all men. A great Gatsby, a great leader, a living God.
Francis humbly splayed on the marble floor in reverence before him, mumbling the secret greetings, the secret prayers from the mountain.
The security bubble moved on into the board room. Francis followed. The doors closed and Shaykh al Jabal spoke.
“Are we ready! Are we finally ready?”
“Yes, my Lord, the vintage is excellent, and the Chinamen are panting for delivery of their liquid gold. The sons of Mongke will feel the hard callused hand of, “The Old Man of the Mountain, back on their throat”.
Shaykh al Jabal laughed at this mention of the “Old Man of the Mountain.” A name much abused by the western unbelievers.
“Tell me once again Francis, how we will gain our revenge, for the destruction of Alamut and the dispersal of our people.”
“My Lord. The Chinamen have acquired an addict’s weakness for the red grape of Bordeaux. They buy it at any price and drink their toasts and boasts to the conquering of the west. This year is the release of the finest vintage Bordeaux has ever seen. It has been bought up at exorbitant prices, exclusively by the sons of Mongke, the Mongol Chinamen. They have paid a high price to die.”
“This poison, this substance how will it work.” Shaykh al Jabal asked, as he played with a globe of the world.
Francis just smiled and said, “We have lived and worked here for generations, our chemists are Wolf Prize winners in Chemistry. There are no finer wine experts to be found here or in the new world. We work with and have access to all the produce of the great Wine Houses of Bordeaux”.
“The plan Francis, speak to me of the plan.”
“Yes, my Lord. The Irukandji jellyfish has some of the most poisonous venom’s known to man. On a pain scale from one to ten, the pain level has been said to be over twelve. Our chemists have refined and increased that pain level.
But more importantly my Lord, we have delayed the effect. There is no antidote and no pain reliever. One year after consuming a glass of the finest vintage Bordeaux has ever produced, you will have your revenge on the elite of China. The sons of Mongke and Kublai Khan will die screaming in such agony, that the ears of their Sky God Tengri will remain closed to them.
The merest cold smile graced the lips of the Shaykh al Jabal.
“And our family?”
“We will disappear as we’ve always done. The wine industry will be destroyed in this part of the world, for a while. But the vine, as always, grows again. Just as we will my Lord.”
“We are indeed the Noble Rot, Francis.”
“Yes Lord, botrytis cinerea, the fungus that grows on the grapes. Sucking the water out and leaving the sugar necessary to produce the finest sweet wines.”
“Indeed. Send me notice when the year starts.”
“It has already started my Lord. It’s being shipped as we speak. Innocents will die. But dealing in death is our family trade my Lord. There will always be a market for political assassination. It’s why we, as a family, will always survive.”
Shaykh al Jabal left in a hurry with his security entourage.
Francis would not admit it to anybody, but he feared them, “The Hounds of Mongke.” He knew when the Chinamen realize what has been done to them. And by whom. They will come after the family, and they will exact a bitter revenge.
And the killing circle will start again and again. Until the glory that was Alamut is recreated or the world has been turned to dust.
Bio: Frank Sonderborg was born in Dublin, Ireland, lives in the UK and does his best to write interesting stories. His stories have appeared in: Action: Pulse Pounding Tales 2:, Noir Nation 3: Noir Nation 5:, Pulp Modern JFK Issue #6, Pulp Alternative, Shadows and Light:, Thrills, Kills ‘n’ Chaos:, ShotgunHoney, Twist and Twain
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