Glass panes shattered in hideous progression, one after the other, crashing and tinkling in harmony.
Two more pickups raced down the street, the men in those vehicles also dressed in plain clothes. But they worked in an organised fashion. Jumping off the trucks, they headed straight for the stores with the ruined facades and grabbed at everything in their path.
It was a choreographed assault.
First the expensive shops were hit. Luxury items were yanked from stores and carried out into the street. Clothes, jewelry, watches, stereos. Those shops that had iron grates protecting them were hit by teams of crowbar-wielding thugs who worked quickly at the bolts, ripping them out of their concrete moorings.
Then the iron frames were pulled free and tossed to the ground with a loud clatter.
Joining the first band of looters were throngs of people who poured out of the modest homes and small informal restaurants on the side streets that led off the shopping district.
At first they came to see what the noise and shouting was about.
But then the looting fever spread, and they stayed to see what they could get for themselves.
With price soaring because of the hoarding instincts of those who could afford to buy the goods, many of the average citizens of Zandeville were doing without. They had less food, less drink, less hope.
But they could make up for their suffering.
Another time they might have resisted, but the mob mentality had set in and everyone helped themselves.
Uniformed policemen two blocks over climbed into their car and raced to the first block of Avenue de Paris that was under siege. But the pickup trucks had been abandoned at the end of the street and blocked their way. They had to get out on foot.
A sea of looters swarmed all around them.
Their hands clawed for their side arms, but neither man was willing to shoot. Both were afraid of the violence that might be unleashed.
The sounds of looting from the next block drifted toward the policemen. Another team of cars and pickups had struck a parallel block, turning that into a madhouse.
Sirens sounded in all parts of the city.
Riots had come to the capital, courtesy of Heinrich Fowler's plainclothes anarchists.
* * *
"Get ready," Pierre Lauchierre said as he peered out of the mouth of the alley, pushing aside a long lock of black hair that hung down his forehead like a dagger. "Here come the reinforcements."
The first pair of officers on the scene were a half block past them, already swallowed up by the crowd.
Their shouts were drowned out by laughter of the crowd, and their threats went unheeded in the passion of looting.
The second pair of officers approached just as tentatively as the first, having left the safety of their patrol car.
Lauchierre exhaled and forced himself to relax. It was always like this before a performance. Before he used his instrument.
"Half a minute and they'll be on us."
He wore jeans and a long striped shirt that hung down to the middle of his thighs. The shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a tattered white T-shirt. Though he was dressed like a vagrant, there was a hardness in his eyes seldom seen on the street. The rolled-up shirtsleeves showed a kind of muscle tone few men achieved. Professional tone.
Hidden by his loose shirt was a 9 mm Heckler and Koch automatic pistol just in case he had to use it. The weapon was tucked into a makeshift holster on his belt. It was the same make as the weapons used by the ZIS security force.
The second man was a native Zandesian of much shorter stature. He looked slim, but there was a deceptive strength about him. His name was Jacob and, like Lauchierre, he was a gun for hire. They had both served with Heinrich Fowler in a half-dozen bitter wars. For them, this was just a night on the town.
Jacob was also dressed in plain clothes. His scruffy jeans and ripped T-shirt made him look harmless, like a drunk cut adrift from the mob.
"Now," Lauchierre said. "Now."
"Got ye." Jacob staggered out into the street with a bottle of beer tilted in his hand. He piloted himself in a drunkard's walk that placed him right in the path of the uniformed ZIS officers.
They were moving slower and slower up the street as they approached the riot zone.
"Stand where you are!" the first officer shouted. At first sight of Jacob, his hand instinctively went for his side arm. But when he perceived Jacob's ragged condition he relaxed. He left the weapon holstered, laughed curtly and stiff-armed the vagrant out of the way.
Jacob let himself bounce off the wall. He muttered at the second officer and staggered toward him in his drunkard's walk.
The second officer, a shorter man in a meticulously pressed uniform, made a wide detour around Jacob as if he were a piece of human debris kicking down the street. He dismissed him with a glance and, like his partner, concentrated on the crowd of looters up the block.
The drunk suddenly became dead sober.
Jacob turned the brown bottle upside down and gripped it by the long neck. He took one long step toward the shorter officer and smashed the bottle into the back of the man's head. It made a sickening sound and dropped him like stone.
The impact of the blow made the bottle fly out of Jacob's hand and crash onto the sidewalk where it formed a frothy stain around the head of the fallen officer.
The first officer turned back, and this time his hand was really going for his weapon. But it never made it. Before he could reach his holster there was a blur of motion off to his right.
Lauchierre's right hand knifed out of the alley.
The rigid edge of his palm skimmed across the side of the man's temple, jolting his head back and dislodging his cap. Continuing the move, the mercenary curled his hand around the back of the stunned officer's neck and flung him headfirst into the alley. At the end of the maneuver he twisted his hand slightly and guided the tumbling officer face-first into the brick wall.
He groaned and dropped to the ground.
They dragged the officers into the alley, quickly removed their uniforms and changed them for their own clothes.
A few moments later the two "police officers" came out of the alley and headed for the riot.
Without saying a word they waded into the milling crowd.
Then they began shooting, the 9 mm automatics spitting flame.
It took a while before the people realized what was happening. At first they thought it was just noise and went on with their looting.
But then the constant roar of gunfire and the attendant screams of pain filtered through the chaos.
Like a panicked herd of cattle, the looters ran in all directions, away from the center of danger, away from the uniformed officers who coolly stood there firing at anything that moved.
When it was over there were ten men and women — lying dead in the road, trails of blood showing the doomed paths they'd taken as they'd tried to crawl away.
The two real ZIS officers were stunned.
"Why'd you do it?" one of them shouted, his face red with fury. "Why the hell did you fire?"
"Just following orders," Lauchierre replied. "Which reminds me…" He turned the gun on the ZIS officers and squeezed off two quick shots.
The officers dropped to the ground, joining their Zandesian comrades.
The street was empty now, littered with broken bottles and smashed crates, coats, hats and stereos, one of them playing tinny music from an untuned station.
The plunder remained on Avenue de Paris.
And all that the survivors really carried with them was the memory of a government gone mad, a government that had begun killing its own people.
* * *
That night copies of another communique revere delivered to embassies in Zandeville and to the television and radio stations.
Soon the audiotape was broadcast around the country, and then it was picked up by the international news services.
It was a joint message from Heinrich Fowler and Leopold Sabda,
calling for peace and condemning the brutal actions of the government.
"The slaughter has to stop," Fowler said. "We are willing to do anything we can to bring about peace and restore stable government to Zandesi. The military regime that shed the blood of its own people in the streets of Zandeville must be abolished. Speak your minds and call for the return of peace, the return of Leopold Sabda."
The communique ended with Leopold Sabda's voice seconding Fowler's plea.
He sounded solemn and sincere as he said, "Raise your voice for freedom. Raise your voice for Leopold Sabda… and Heinrich Fowler."
* * *
Within an hour, the official voice of the government of Zandesi responded to the communique. Janelle Vallois appeared on-screen in a ZNT broadcast that was fed around the world.
And though it obviously troubled her to do so, she spoke against Leopold Sabda, the man who had groomed her for the role she now had to play.
"The slaughter in the streets tonight was orchestrated by Heinrich Fowler. Every indication points to a military operation carried out by his guns for hire. The ZIS is investigating and has already gathered testimony from witnesses who saw this terrorist action. The nearly naked bodies of two brutally slain ZIS officers were found in an alley, indicating that Fowler's confederates murdered the officers and then disguised themselves in official uniforms. It wasn't the government of Zandesi that caused this outrage. It was the work of Heinrich Fowler his bloody fingerprints are all over this." Her voice quavered, but she continued. "As far as the plea from Leopold Sabda I must tell you that it was the voice of terror that you heard tonight. It was the voice of a man with a gun to his head. And that is the only way Fowler wants to hear you speak. Voices raised in terror. In fear."
The broadcast featured several witnesses who recalled seeing the militarylike operation that sparked the looting. It also featured the names of the dead and showed the mourning families.
Instead of covering it up, the media showed the street massacre in all of its hideous colon It was an effective rebuttal, coming so quickly after Fowler's communique. The people wanted answers, and Janelle Vallois gave them everything she knew.
But still there was doubt in the minds of some of the people. They'd been lied to so often in the past, it was hard to recognize the truth when it came.
It was all part of the war that was being fought in the streets and in the media.
And right now the government could only claim a slim victory.
* * *
Lights flashed from the desert below as the drone of the chopper neared the rendezvous point. Like diamonds formed from a coal-black darkness, the twinkling lights seemed to grow larger, forming a T-shaped landing zone.
Laden with fresh ammo cases, water containers and stocks of food, the Westland Lynx came in at an angle, kicking up a rotor-wash trail of grit and sand as it touched down just to the left of the lights.
Then a blanket of darkness fell over the chopper as the lights blinked off.
Now that the Lynx had landed safely, moonlight was all they needed to finish the operation.
As the well-oiled sliding cabin doors rolled open, a half-dozen mercenaries swarmed to the chopper. They unloaded the cases in a hurry and handed them off to another string of men, who carted them off into the darkness.
When the materiel was off-loaded, the replacement cargo headed for the chopper.
The «cargo» was a string of well-armed men who'd been standing in the shadows surrounding the chopper.
Heinrich Fowler was in the lead, flanked by Gauclere, his right-hand man. The men were followed by several well-dressed mercenaries who looked distinctly out of place in their shirts and jackets.
It was a good crew, Fowler thought, dressed for a different kind of war. In the city they could pass as businessmen if they had to.
Beneath their jackets they packed holstered automatics. In their athletic bags and attache cases they carried submachine guns and spare clips.
Everything they needed to conduct the business of war.
While the men stowed their gear the copilot of the Serpentine Force helicopter went back to the cabin. His zip jacket was laden with survival gear, and the flap of his side arm holster was open and ready for business. He looked furtive, as if he expected a lightning bolt to strike him at any time.
"Situation report," Fowler said to him.
"Sir, most of your people are already in position…"
"Our people," Fowler corrected.
"Yes, sir. Most of our people are in position now or will be by the time we get there."
"And the opposition?"
"Business as usual. No extra patrols. No sign of any unusual troop movements."
"Good." Fowler studied the nervous airman. "And how about you? Any problems?"
He paused. "We've been questioned several times about our performance in the skirmish and why we didn't discover the second body of men. But we held up fine."
"I see. And how about our brave pilot? Does Julian share your confidence?"
"To be honest…"
"If you want to keep on living, that's the only way to be with me," Fowler warned.
"We're both uneasy. Our movements are watched closely. But then, so is everyone who's been brought into the ZIS. The vetting process goes on all the time. However, to our advantage, Molembe has to spread Serpentine Force very thin, chasing after all of the shadows you've created. We can get away when we must."
"Good." Fowler nodded. "I realize you're taking chances." He gripped the man's shoulder. "But high risks bring big rewards."
The copilot nodded.
"All right," Fowler said. "Let's go pay our respects to the good people of Z'ville."
The copilot went back up to the cockpit.
A smile slowly spread across Fowler's face as the crew prepared to lift off.
Vengeance was coming.
He'd been stung badly by the media war that was raging in the capital. Fowler's initial communiques featuring his and Sabda's taped pleas for reconciliation had fallen on deaf ears.
But Molembe had done quite well in putting out his message that all was well.
The staged riots hadn't disrupted the city as much as he'd anticipated. The people still bought Molembe's pitch that everything was under control and there was no need to negotiate with Fowler.
Somehow Molembe and his witch, Janelle Vallois, had convinced them that the riots were a brief aberration, a lamentable tragedy that couldn't happen again.
His contacts in the city informed him that even though there was a lot of grumbling, the majority of Zandesians supported Molembe.
The feeling was that if they couldn't ransom Leopold Sabda, they still had a good man in control.
But at least the riots had one good effect.
They'd given Fowler's people in Zandeville a chance to ob serve how well the ZIS responded to emergencies and where some of the quick-reaction teams were located.
It would all even out in the end, Fowler thought. Soon the mood of the people would change. The first stage hadn't gone well. No problem. That was merely a soft probe, a minor stratagem.
Soon he'd be in the city itself, preparing to launch the second stage. Zandeville would have a taste of the anarchy to come, anarchy that could only be vanquished by men like Heinrich Fowler and the Desert Knights.
Yes, the people would welcome him back with open arms once he demonstrated just how out of control the country could get. Then they'd realize it was better to deal with the devil they knew rather than risk the lethal lottery of terror.
The helicopter lifted off like a flying warhorse, angling past the landing zone. Once it was airborne, it headed back the way it had come.
Soon they'd be in the capital, where Heinrich Fowler belonged.
The shuddering aircraft had a soothing effect on Fowler as they left the desert rendezvous behind. The drumming of the rotors was like a lullaby of war.
In a way, part of him was content with how matters turned out. Perhap
s he'd sat in the comfortable seat of power too long. Perhaps it was meant for him to spend his forty days in the desert.
Even though he kept himself physically sharp, maybe he'd slipped a little mentally.
There was nothing like a full-scale war to bring back a man's senses. Not that he'd been totally idle. Though the Fowler clan had extensive holdings in Zandesian industries, from time to time he had to supplement his fortune by brokering mercenary operations throughout Africa.
His main sphere of influence was the West African coast. The countries to the north and south of Zandesi were always ripe for hired armies or surgicalstrike teams. Sometimes he operated in the open. Other times he or his people went in as arms merchants, selling sophisticated weapons along with "paramilitary consultants" to demonstrate their use in live field tests against the enemy.
He'd also performed services for South Africa, having maintained close ties ever since he'd served a tour with the Recce Commandos.
Upon his return to Zandesi, he'd carried out a number of low-key operations for the South Africans that couldn't be officially attached to the government. But credit was given to him by those in the know, and his name was whispered by power brokers who worked behind the scenes.
The whispers were good for business. The mercenary market turned out to be a gold mine for Fowler, a hidden network of lost treasures that could only be found by those who had the right key. Fowler had the contacts and the reputation that made other nations eager to buy into the legend.
It was a legend he had to live up to in his own country now. If Zandesi was lost to him, so was the rest of Africa.
9
The chopper flew north, cutting a wide swath around the corridors patrolled by other units of Serpentine Force.
Two hours had passed by the time the chopper landed in the middle of a field bordering a deserted stretch of road along the northern coast of Zandesi.
From a nearby farm two black cars and a jeep headed down the long driveway that led to the main coastal road. They swung out onto the road, then slowly rolled past the new arrivals who'd disembarked from the chopper.
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