Al-Sharr was surprised. Maybe his instincts had been wrong. Maybe the men were exactly what they claimed to be. Or maybe they were too greedy to pay a reasonable bribe. He took another sip of Coke, put the can down, and felt the first pangs of hunger. It was time for his lunch, followed by a nap and a cooling bath. “Here are your papers. Please let me know if there is anything else you need. Have a good day, gentlemen.”
“There is one other thing,” 47 said, as both he and Gazeau came to their feet. “Could you tell us if a party of three vehicles and about fifteen people passed through Mongo within the last twenty-four hours? They’re friends of ours, and we were hoping to catch up to them.”
Given the fact that Al-Sharr had hosted Al-Fulani and his party with an enormous feast the night before, and had been on the Moroccan’s payroll for the past three years, there was little doubt as to who the foreigner meant. But were the men in front of him friends of Al-Fulani’s? Or were they enemies? There was no way to know. Regardless, given that the information could be had in the local market, he thought it best to tell the truth.
“Yes, as a matter of fact there was. A Moroccan, if I’m not mistaken. He and his party left early this morning.”
Agent 47 thanked the policeman, and together with Gazeau, left the Sous-Prefet’s office.
The two men had just exited the building, and were halfway to the gate, when Al-Sharr summoned the corporal into his office. They were related, so there was no need for pretense.
“Have someone follow them. Someone reliable. And keep me informed. Maybe they are what they claim to be…and maybe they aren’t. Call me if you discover anything. I’m going to lunch.”
The corporal nodded, sent for his brother-in-law, and returned to his desk.
The fan turned, the flies buzzed, and the people who lined the benches continued to wait.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SOUTHEAST OF OUM-CHALOUBA, CHAD
Darkness had fallen over the desert, leaving only half a dozen small fires to hold back the night, as the ragged children ate what little bit of food they had been given. The air was starting to cool, making travel possible once again, so it was time to move.
Allah willing, Mahamat Dagash and his men would deliver the children to the market in Oum-Chalouba just before dawn. Even though the ambush had gone extremely well, there had been problems ever since. First with one of the Land Cruisers, which took a full day to repair, and then with the children, because their legs were short, and they were suffering from malnutrition, which made them unbearably slow.
Whipping the little beggars was always good for a momentary increase in speed, but the orphans soon began to slow once again, forever testing the slaver’s patience. Yet now, with only hours to go, Dagash felt his spirits begin to rise.
“Extinguish the fires!” he ordered brusquely as he made the rounds. “Load the trucks! And give each child a drink. We’re almost there.”
That announcement was sufficient to elicit a cheer from the slavers, all of whom were looking forward to a good meal, hot baths, and a rich payday. Money with which to support their families, purchase a vehicle, and to possibly open a business.
They went to work with enthusiasm.
Kola was ten years old. Both she and her seven-year-old brother Baka had survived the slaver attack, but had been orphaned in the process. Now, as Dagash shouted orders and his men hurried to obey, the little girl knew what to do. It was pointless to resist, and punishments could be painful, so she ordered Baka to stand and take his place in line.
“I won’t!” the boy said rebelliously. “I’m hungry…and tired.”
“We all are,” Kola replied patiently. “Now do as I say, or one of the men will hit you.”
“So what?” Baka demanded sullenly. “I’ve been hit before. They’re just going to sell us.”
“That’s true,” the little girl acknowledged calmly. “But we will live. More importantly, you will live. And so long as you live, all of our ancestors live.”
Having no written records to rely on, each Dinka child was required to memorize his or her entire lineage at a very early age. It often went back for hundreds of years. Because to remember one’s ancestors was to keep them alive.
And since females took their husbands’ names, and Baka was the last male in their immediate family, the weight of the entire ancestral line rested on his narrow shoulders. A heavy responsibility indeed. Having been reminded of his place in the world, Baka stood.
“I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “You’re right.”
The two children held hands as they made their way over to where the lead Land Cruiser was waiting, and took their places in line. The 4X4’s engine rumbled, and its parking lights served as beacons as the children trekked across the desert.
Somewhere, out beyond the curtain of darkness, millions of people slept.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ABÉCHÉ, CHAD
Agent 47 was exhausted by the time the Mog pulled into Abéché, so much so that he skipped dinner and went straight to bed, which consisted of a narrow section of concrete located adjacent to a thin mattress on a latticework of creaky springs. The rock-solid floor seemed to move at first, as if he were still in the truck, but the sensation vanished as sleep pulled him down.
And that’s where 47 was—dreaming about a game that had no rules—when Gazeau touched his shoulder.
“Wake up Alex. We need to get out of here.” If the fact that his client had chosen to sleep on the hard floor rather than in the bed struck the Libyan as strange, he gave no sign of it.
Agent 47 squinted at the dial of his watch.
“Give me a break…it’s two in the morning.”
“That’s right,” Gazeau agreed, “which is why this is the perfect time to leave! Remember the helicopter? The one parked next to the police station in Mongo? It put down ten minutes ago. And guess who went out to meet it…Mr. Citroën.”
The assassin swore, threw the blanket off, and stood. An old Citroën had been following them ever since Mongo. Gazeau saw light glint off one of the stainless steel pistols that Taylor habitually carried, and realized that the weapon had probably been pointing at him moments earlier.
“How do you know this stuff?” the assassin inquired.
“Numo followed Mr. Citroën to the airstrip,” the Libyan answered simply. “But that’s not the worst of it…Al-Sharr was on board the helicopter. I think it’s safe to assume that Mr. Citroën works for him.”
The agent’s pants were draped over the back of a rickety chair. He hurried to pull them on.
“Al-Sharr? The cop?”
“One and the same.”
“We can’t outrun a chopper,” Agent 47 observed, as his shaving kit went into a suitcase.
“No,” Gazeau agreed, “but the helicopter isn’t armed. Sure, they can hose us down with an AK-47, but that’s all.”
The assassin smiled thinly. “Isn’t that enough?”
“It could be a tad uncomfortable,” Gazeau admitted wryly. “But we can shoot back! Choppers are delicate machines. I doubt the pilot will linger.”
“But what about the authorities? Won’t Al-Sharr call for help?”
“Possibly,” Gazeau allowed calmly, as he led his client out through the hotel’s grubby back door. “But I doubt it. Remember, this may be Chad, but bribes are still illegal. The fat man can’t let his superiors know what he’s up to.”
Agent 47 hoped the Libyan was correct, but still had plenty of misgivings as he took his place in the backseat, and Numo guided the Unimog out into the cold Saharan night. It was about a hundred miles to Oum-Chalouba. Where, if The Agency was correct, Al-Fulani had already checked into a hotel and was probably enjoying a good night’s sleep. Would the fat policeman give chase? And would the Moroccan stay in Oum-Chalouba long enough for the assassin to catch up?
There was only one way to find out.
It would have been dangerous to drive very fast, since many traps lay beneath the shifting sands, so
hours were spent driving through the tunnel created by the truck’s headlights while waiting for the Eurocopter EC 135 to roar overhead. But nothing happened, and thanks to their early-morning departure-likely coupled with Al-Sharr’s apparent unwillingness to pursue them during the hours of darkness-47, Gazeau, and Numo were able to make good progress. When the sun rose they were on a flat piste, or track, traveling at about 30 mph, as they followed the road toward a clutch of basalt towers that were the only things worth looking at.
Distances could be and often were deceptive, which meant that even though the rocky spires appeared to be relatively close, they were actually many miles away.
The better part of half an hour passed before the outcroppings grew appreciably larger, and the track swung out to the west of them. That was when something appeared in the sky, circled behind the rock columns, and emerged to race straight at them. The EC 135 was no more than fifty feet off the deck and growing larger with each passing second.
“There it is!” Gazeau said grimly. “It looks like the fat bastard finally rolled out of bed.”
Agent 47 tried to watch as the helicopter passed over them, but the cab’s roof blocked his view. His mind went to the weapons stashed in the back, but he knew that neither one of the long guns would be very effective against the chopper.
Then, having turned back, the Eurocopter pulled up next to the left side of the truck and sped along, not 60 feet away from the driver’s-side window. Dust blew backward and boiled into the air. Sous-Prefet Al-Sharr was clearly visible beyond the Plexiglas, and gestured for Gazeau to stop. The Libyan offered a rude gesture by way of a reply, which caused the chopper to pull ahead and enter a wide turn.
“Uh-oh,” Gazeau said. “How much do you want to bet Al-Sharr brought one of his cops along?”
Agent 47 never had an opportunity to reply as the helicopter passed along the truck’s right side and a man opened fire with an AK-47. It took practice to fire an automatic weapon from a moving platform, especially when shooting at a speeding target. And it soon became apparent that the policeman knew what he was doing.
The assassin heard a series of pings as half a dozen 7.62 mm slugs hit the Mog. Then the EC 135 was gone, giving the gunner time to slam a fresh thirty-round magazine into the weapon’s receiver, and prepare for the next pass. Agent 47 was thrown against his shoulder restraint as Gazeau hit the brakes.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “They’ll shoot the hell out of us!”
“No they won’t,” the Libyan replied. “They expect us to stop.”
Agent 47 heard a familiar clacking sound and turned to discover that Numo had assembled an AK-47 of his own. The Libyan grinned as the Mog skidded to a halt. First the rifle…now this. It seemed that Gazeau kept a small arsenal aboard his truck. Which, given the way things were unfolding, was a pretty good idea.
The chopper’s dual Pratt amp; Whitney PW 206B2 turbine engines howled wildly as the pilot put the ship into a wide turn, blew sand across the now-stationary truck, and hovered just off the piste. The helicopter had an Avionique Nouvelle cockpit, and the large glass canopy allowed Al-Sharr to see the truck in front of him, but it also meant that the occupants could see him as well. That, plus the fact that the aircraft’s nose-in position made it impossible for the AK-47-wielding corporal to make use of his weapon. It was a fatal error.
However, just as the Sous-Prefet was about to say something over the chopper’s PA system, Numo jumped down from the Unimog and fired a three-round burst. Thanks to the fact that the aircraft was square in his sights, two of Numo’s slugs struck their intended target. A hole appeared just over Al-Sharr’s head, the pilot panicked, and that led to a second mistake.
Rather than back away and protect his engines, the chopper jockey turned to starboard. That gave Numo the opportunity he’d been waiting for-a clear shot at the port engine. The AK-47 rattled as the Libyan emptied his clip into the exposed turbine. It coughed, burped smoke, and the chopper started to spool down.
The EC 135 rocked as the pilot shut off the fuel supply to the port engine and goosed its twin. The nose dropped, the remaining turbine screamed, and the aircraft began to move away. But Agent 47 had exited the Mog by that time, drawn both of his Silverballers, and was striding toward the helicopter, firing as he went. Empty shell casings arced away from the assassin and a tight grouping of holes appeared around the chopper jockey’s head as he slumped forward.
The man that Gazeau knew as Alex Taylor quickly ran out of ammo, but by then there was a fresh clip in the AK-47, and Numo was still firing when the Eurocopter hit the ground. The remaining engine screamed as the aircraft did a nose-over, the main rotor shattered, and pieces of blade scythed through the air.
The long-slide went back into its holster. The act of slipping a fresh magazine into the shorter weapon was as natural as breathing, but there was no need. The fat man was still alive, struggling to free himself by then, but it was too late, and 47 caught one last glimpse of the policeman’s desperate face as the 135 blew. There were three explosions in all, and even though he was about seventy-five yards away, it was still necessary to go facedown in the sand as a wall of heat rolled past and pieces of flaming debris fell all around.
Finally, once the explosions were over, the assassin stood. Gazeau appeared at his side.
“It will take days for the government to sort this out…assuming they ever do. Still, there’s bound to be a whole bunch of gendarmes running about. So it would be a good idea to get in and out of Oum-Chalouba as quickly as we can.”
Agent 47 nodded.
“That works for me. Let’s get out of here.”
OUM-CHALOUBA, CHAD
The town of Oum-Chalouba had the one thing that no desert traveler can do without and that was water. Evidence of it could be seen in groves of lush date palms, private gardens that could be glimpsed through partially opened gates, and a tiled fountain located in the public square.
Unfortunately the fountain was dry at the moment, and had been for the better part of two years, ever since its sixty-year-old pump had broken down. A new one was on order, or so the maire[6] claimed, but none of the local residents expected to see water flowing into the big bowl anytime soon.
The city’s architecture included a lonely Catholic church, three mosques, a French Colonial administration building, and a poorly maintained military base. There were also three truly fine nineteenth-century houses, dozens of flat-roofed structures of the sort seen throughout the Middle East, and a sprawling metal-roofed souk that had been in business for more than a thousand years.
And that was where Al-Fulani and his entourage were, as shop owners hawked their wares, loud music blared from ubiquitous radios, and a silversmith hammered ornate patterns into a large platter. The air around them was hot and heavy with the odors of spices, broiled goat meat, and tanned leather.
People claimed that one could buy anything in the souk, and based on what Marla had seen, they were correct. In addition to food, clothing, and household goods the Puissance Treize agent had seen shops filled with military uniforms, used auto parts, artificial limbs, exotic animals, hashish, and all manner of weapons. Which was to say, something for everyone.
But the souk had another category of merchandise for sale. Something that had once been trafficked in the main square, as hard-eyed Tuaregs stood all around and camel caravans plodded through town. That was human flesh, which was what Al-Fulani had traveled all the way from Fez to buy. Children, specifically, who could be put to work in his so-called “orphanage,” where they would service wealthy pedophiles until they were too old to be considered young.
At that point the slaves would be resold. Such was the market that the Moroccan and his bodyguards sought-but only after pausing to inspect all manner of merchandise, chatting up the shop owners, and buying a variety of trinkets. It was a process Al-Fulani clearly enjoyed.
Marla had a different perspective, since she saw the labyrinthine market as the perfect place for an
ambush. Yet it was a concern Al-Fulani was unwilling to take seriously.
“I have faith in you, my dear,” the businessman said, when reminded of the dangers. “Besides, who would come after me here?”
So what could have been a ten-minute walk through the souk was transformed into an hour-long shopping expedition that eventually delivered the group into the shattered remains of what had once been a small palace. Artillery shells had destroyed the structure’s dome during the war with Libya in the early ’80s. Having been artificially opened to the azure sky, the mostly intact walls embraced an arena in which a myriad of animals were bought and sold each day. The smell of their feces was so strong that Marla found it necessary to breathe through her mouth as she followed Al-Fulani into the circular enclosure.
Women were a seldom-seen sight in the arena, and men turned to stare as the Moroccan and his entourage entered. Three of the onlookers were dressed in keffiyeh, and ankle-length black thawbs, slit open at the sides so the wearers could access their guns. And, thanks to the sunglasses and goatee he was wearing, Agent 47 felt confident that he wouldn’t be recognized.
Finding the house that Al-Fulani was staying in had been easy, thanks to Numo’s scouting skills, and everyone in the souk seemed to be aware of why the Moroccan had come to town. So, rather than follow the businessman and almost certainly be spotted, the assassin had chosen to anticipate his movements instead. And now, as Marla paused to wrap a scarf around her face, 47 knew he’d been right.
There were other potential buyers as well, some of whom were known to Al-Fulani and greeted the Moroccan respectfully as he made his way to a section of seats reserved for wealthy VIPs. Once the businessman was seated, a tray bearing a tiny cup of very strong coffee and a selection of sweetmeats was summoned, and Al-Fulani took full advantage of it as he chatted with the man seated to his right.
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