The Last Bazaar

by David Leadbeater

  Beyond the terminal and the security fence a feeder road curved away from the main airport, vanishing into the distance. Their own personal Brazilian customs official ushered them toward a black SUV, conspicuous by its detachment, ticking over at the curb. Drake headed for the passenger seat but Dahl pushed him aside.

  “Relax, pal. Sit in the back with your new bird. The big boys can handle this one.”

  Drake steadied himself against the vehicle’s door frame. “Bird? Big boys? Nay lad, tha’s no need t’ get yer knickers in a twist.”

  The Swede blanched at the Yorkshire accent. “Cut it out.”

  Drake opened the door for the others, a little unsure if Dahl was ribbing him or trying to subtly point out that he wasn’t happy about what clearly might become a new relationship between Alicia and him. Subtle wasn’t usually Dahl’s strongpoint and, in addition, the Swede might also be warning him to stay focused. Who knew with the big lummox? Drake would find out when they grabbed a moment alone.

  Hayden and Kinimaka took the back seats; Alicia, Yorgi and Lauren the middle set. Drake wondered if he might have to climb into the trunk. Smyth just growled.

  Alicia patted her knee. “I’ll take the smallest.”

  Dahl leaned over from the front. “See what I mean?”

  Drake climbed in, leaving Smyth to wedge himself between Kinimaka and the window, not a pleasant task. Soon they were underway, tearing down the feeder road toward the airport’s exit. The driver used an ID tag to raise the barrier and then filtered into morning traffic, saying nothing as he threaded them toward the center of the city. The team remained silent, each formulating their own thoughts and plans of how best to deal with the journey ahead. Soon, at the safe house, they would be able to discuss.

  A brief, light shower coated the car’s windows. Drake, who had jammed his body beside Alicia rather than risk the other ignominy, stared out at the passing streets, the bustling life. Manaus was an intense diversity, from the most orange and bright dockside he’d ever seen to houses on stilts arrayed along the riverside, to theaters, plazas and multi-million dollar football stadiums. Inside here, it was hard to believe one of the last great uncharted wildernesses lay just outside, and so in contrast with the last place they had faced down adversity. The Arizonan desert had been a vast wilderness, both hostile and stunning to observe and scoured by one of the worst storms he had ever seen. Even that phenomenon had been overshadowed though by the sight of the ghost ship itself, a part of the desert even after all these years, and a peculiar sadness now lingered that the American government were involved with excavating and removing it, and negotiating over its treasures. Such a mythical paragon ought to be allowed to remain in place, symbolic of what secrets this earth still had to yield. But men, power and greed trumped all that.

  Their driver turned into a new road, leaving the main thoroughfare and heading across an area of flat wasteland. At the far side Drake spied a collection of dirty, rusting airplanes, parked haphazardly, wing to wing.

  “An abandoned airfield?” Hayden questioned. “I thought our weapons cache might be more . . . state of the art.”

  Smyth coughed raucously. “When did that ever happen? We’re lucky they didn’t HALO-jump us into here.”

  Dahl nodded. “He’s right. They could have just inserted us into the canopy and taught us how to sharpen sticks.”

  Drake grunted. “Sounds painful. Well let’s hope they sell more than bows and arrows and blowguns in here.”

  The SUV stopped in between two of the larger planes, out of sight. The so-far-mute driver then nodded ahead and Drake looked over to see an aircraft door being lowered next to some large blue lettering—Skymaster.

  A man descended the steps quite slowly, sporting a limp. He wore a battered brown leather jacket and faded denim jeans. The team stepped out warily into the heat as the man blinked near-sightedly at them.

  “Well, come on,” he said. “It’s hotter than Satan’s scrotum in here.”

  Alicia leaned into Drake as they walked. “Do you think he knows where he is? Y’know . . . the Amazon?”

  Drake followed Dahl, with Hayden and Kinimaka bringing up the rear. Smyth grunted that he would remain outside on watch, and Lauren chose to stay with him. Drake ascended the aircraft’s steps lightly, staying close to the Mad Swede in case any surprises awaited inside.

  The interior was dim, dingy, and dirty. Dust coated everything, traced through with finger marks and boot prints. Drake noted what he assumed to be droplets of sweat marking a trail along the aisle. Ahead, the leather-jacketed man stopped.

  “So Jim’s not my real name but that’s what you can call me. What are your names?”

  “James,” Drake said, indicating himself. “And Buffy.” He indicated Alicia, then turned to Dahl. “And this one’s Dolph Lundgren, in the flesh.”

  Dahl shook his head. “Shall we get this thing done?”

  Jim nodded enthusiastically. Drake sidestepped the flying sweat. Their host might be a breathing, festering pool of perspiration and his abode might stink to high heaven, but his wares were everything Drake could have hoped for.

  “All this,” Hayden said, “on a derelict airplane in an abandoned airfield?”

  Jim shrugged. “Easy all around,” he said. “And it’s not exactly abandoned. Kick-ass security system and lotsa guns.” He winked. “Surprised you didn’t spot it. Oh, and believe me . . . in Brazil finding guns ain’t a problem.”

  He turned away, leaving Hayden staring at Drake. The Yorkshireman cast it off with a sigh. “Okay, mate, so what we got ’ere then?”

  “Heckler and Koch MP5, about a million of ’em. A few UMPs, its successor. These fire 9x19 Parabellum cartridges. The MP5s are the same and semi-auto. Take your pick and whatever ammo you need. Other goodies? Follow me.”

  Drake trailed him down the narrow aisle of the plane. Beyond the third row the seats had been taken out and replaced by long, flat tables. Weapons and other military necessities lay everywhere. The team ranged out a little, examining the wares. Kinimaka knocked a table of grenades over, but only Jim noticed. The rest of the team had known it would happen. They picked between flack-jackets, first-aid kits and field rations. The first-aid kits included more specialized antidotes than even Hayden could recognize, specific to the region.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much about getting bitten,” Jim said without smiling. “Some of those creepy-crawlies out there’ll kill ya before you even think the word ‘antidote’.”

  Alicia shuddered. “I’m starting to rethink this mission.”

  “Ah, don’t worry, love,” Drake said. “No sand spiders here.”

  Jim looked at them strangely. “Sand spiders? No. But there are black caimans, jaguars and anacondas. Poison dart frogs, piranha and vampire bats. Parasites and disease vectors and fevers. Bullet ants, howler monkeys—”

  Alicia spun around. “That’s it. I’m outta here.”

  Drake watched her exit the plane. “Don’t worry. She’ll be fine.”

  Hayden continued to peruse the goods as if nothing had happened. Jim cleared his throat. “You guys wanna get a friggin’ move on. This ain’t a garden sale. I got places to be.”

  Drake picked up a military knife and a night vision scope. “Running for mayor?”

  “Something like that. I’d take those other tents if I were you.” He pointed to a pile beyond where Dahl and Yorgi were looking. “More protection from the insects.”

  “Oh, I am so looking forward to this trek,” Kinimaka puffed.

  “More predators out there than in any third-world shanty town. But luckily, you guys are the best, right?”

  The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Drake. “Just trying to make a difference,” he said. “So the good folks can sleep easy.”

  “Oh yeah? Aren’t we all?” Jim looked angry for a moment, but then his face slackened. “Listen, don’t mind me. And is there anything else you need? Be warned, those fuckers out there may live in the fucking jungle—but they got fifty cals
, RPGs, anti-tanks, you name it. Not to mention Range Rovers built specially for ‘em. The chances of you beating them . . .” he shook his head sadly.

  Drake took a final glance around. “We’ll risk it,” he said. “Believe it or not, we’ve done some weird shit in the last few years. And survived it all intact.”

  Dahl shoulder-barged him on the way past. “Well, your body at least.”

  “Oh, my body aches,” Drake said. “Even my bloody bones ache. Every time you speak.”

  He imitated the rest of the team in choosing a Glock for his handgun and then adding as many spare mags as he thought it would be feasible to carry. Of course, they could get more ammo once they encountered their enemies, but it was sounding like this mission might have to be a more clandestine event than usual. It wouldn’t do to crash the party before all the special guests arrived.

  Drake exited the plane. The heat outside actually felt air-conditioned for a few moments as he descended to the asphalt. The military surroundings turned his mind toward Karin, and what she might be up against right now. At the end of the last mission he had eased her way into Fort Bragg, the home of American Special Forces, and into an intensive training program. Yes, she was British, he thought. But the commander hadn’t batted an eye. Drake just hoped Karin might find some kind of peace in the strict regime of military education.

  Now, the team congregated beside the SUV. Hayden surveyed the area, perhaps searching for the hidden security. After a minute she said, “Time for the next step. Let’s find the safe house, break this stuff down and then find our pet official.”

  Drake glanced at the SUV. “Shit, so now we have to cram all this gear in there too.”

  “And under the tarps.” Dahl nodded at the back end. “Don’t want the local constabulary sniffing us out.”

  “Speaking of local constabulary,” Alicia said as she worked. “Do we have a location for this official? And exactly how far can we push him?”

  Hayden looked grim. “We know exactly where he goes and what he’s into after his shift ends, so yes. And this is our shindig, remember? Most of the nine countries with a stake in the Amazon wouldn’t like it if they knew we were here. Some of them are clearly facilitating the arranging of this bazaar. Some are protecting it. If it weren’t for Beauregard . . .” she trailed off for a moment. “But yes, this official has clear ties to the terrorist, Ramses. We can push him as hard as needs be.”

  “All we need to extract is a location,” Dahl said. “Apart from—the Amazon.”

  “Something narrower would be better,” Yorgi agreed. “I have never seen so much greenery.”

  “Seriously,” Alicia spoke up. “I need an exact location. Something we can just drop in on. This creepy-crawly, caiman-frog, poisonous-disease thing ain’t my cup of tea. C’mon, other horizons await, people.”

  “But you’re not running anymore,” Drake said seriously. “Remember? Take each day as it comes and enjoy it if you can. If not, face it anyway. Survive. Become stronger.”

  “That’s what I’m doing.”

  “Then you have a future. Tomorrow could bring . . . roses?”

  Alicia almost guffawed. “Oh, really? D’ya think they’ll be poisonous?”

  Drake did laugh. “Probably.”

  Hayden urged them on. “So let’s get a move on. If my calculations are correct, our bazaar’s about to start and the crown princes of massacre and destruction are already in town.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ramses took his time climbing out of the chopper that deposited him in the exact location he’d demanded. Most of the time, his bulk came in handy for intimidation, as a deterrent and even in combat, but occasionally it could be an impediment. Like today—one wrong shift in muscle mass and he’d be paying his first visit to the hallowed turf of the Amazon jungle on his face. Akatash went first, of course, and Ramses waited until he nodded the all clear.

  Outside, the saturated heat descended, an uncomfortable blanket. He concentrated on his reason for coming, and tried to forget he would be remaining here for days to come. The end result would be worth any discomfort. The canopy stretched above, completely intact, but the area he occupied had been cleared. His scouting party had no doubt found a small open spot and enlarged it as best they could. This was only a small part of the bazaar, and the construction crew were even now building stalls and erecting tents, wrestling with timbers and clearing undergrowth for just under a kilometer all around. A man would be able to walk an entire circuit of the bazaar in around fifteen minutes, but it was the diversity, delight and destructive capacity of the various commodities on offer that would make him linger for days.

  Ramses walked the circuit slowly, taking pleasure in seeing the emerging skeleton of the dream he had created. The shops were small but well built, and currently being draped with fineries to hide any remnants of the jungle. Inside the larger pavilions, heavy-duty tables and crates were being positioned to display items like nuclear warheads and artillery. Refreshment stands were being installed. Staff were being trained, flown in sightlessly from various camps that Ramses owned. They would respect their new minimum contract—work hard or die—for obvious reasons.

  Crates cracked and revealed their exciting possibilities as Ramses wandered around, the variety of goods he’d acquired lending a carnival atmosphere to proceedings. A nuke here. A prototype ray-gun there. A missile with guiding capabilities there; some sarin over here. Communications devices, passwords to dark web forums and the computers on which they were operational. Pounds of yellowcake. The list went on.

  Ramses soon found another clearing, and here sat several great prizes for lucky customers. Attack choppers once owned by the Americans and one by the British, captured, repaired, ready for action. Akatash then took him toward the edge of the camp where a wide river flowed, the largest and deepest in the general area. This was a far tributary of the Jutai River, a twisting body of water whose extremes were largely unexplored. Ramses watched the river flow at a rapid pace, then turned to his bodyguard.

  “This is where the barges will land?”

  “Yes.”

  “We need a dock. A landing area.”

  Akatash nodded toward a new pile of timbers. “It will be ready in time.”

  A barge appeared as they waited, loaded down with more product, eager men ready to disembark and offload the floating vehicle. Ramses nodded. “All seems to be in order.”

  “It will soon be ready.”

  “I want to see the pond,” Ramses said. “Is it where I specified it should be?”

  “Almost to the precise inch,” Akatash said. “The crew had to dig the hole, fill it with river water and then haul the—um, new residents—by hand.”

  Ramses laughed. “What fun. I hope nobody got eaten.”

  He followed the map in his own head now, the one he’d drawn by hand and expected to be able to follow on foot. Soon, he arrived at a freshly dug hole ringed by a high chain-link fence. Beyond, and deep down, the water churned.

  Ramses stared. “Are they being fed human flesh?”

  “Of course. As per instructions.”

  “Excellent. But I want them starved for the start of proceedings.”

  Ramses let his eyes linger onto those that stared back at him, unblinking. Black caimans were dark in color, carnivorous, and the largest predator in the ecosystem. They would make a good spectacle for his more jaded guests.

  “Akatash,” he said, “show me my tent.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  The bodyguard led the way and Ramses easily followed. He had employed the man many years ago now, and still shuddered a little when recalling his story. Born into privilege, Akatash had rebelled time and again until his parents could stomach the insubordination no more. With pure malice aforethought they explained what would happen, took him to some squalid warehouse and handed him over to slavers in exchange for nothing except the promise of future favors. Akatash grew up hard; old enough by then to know the difference between a life of
honor and a life of adversity. Old enough to know what his indiscretions had cost him.

  The lesson had been learned. But by then it was too late. Still, in later years, Akatash made sure he dealt out his own lessons. He was now the sole surviving heir of that family, though he could never set foot in the country again. At least, not officially.

  Ramses entered his own luxurious tent, smiling at what he saw. All the comforts of home had already been shipped in: clothes, watches, oils, enormous TV, delicacies, guns . . . and much more. He could manage three days here, especially considering the diversions he had planned.

  With a deep sigh of acceptance he turned once again to his bodyguard. “Security?”

  “The men you call your ‘legionnaires’ have run every possible scenario, time and again. They are ready. Your own abode is under the usual scrutiny, no change there.”

  “No mercenaries? Not one?”

  “Of course not, sir. These men are deserving of the title you give them.”

  “And the camp? The bazaar?”

  Akatash never sugar-coated the truth. “This is the Amazon, sir. Dangerous and unpredictable by definition. I mentioned at the outset that we cannot control everything and we can’t. But we’re as close as anyone can be.”

  “Contingencies? Escape routes?”

  “All in place.”

  Ramses thought about all they had accomplished. “It will be a grand occasion, Akatash. Good for us and for our brothers. The consequences of this day will alter the course of history. Do not underestimate this . . . pure beginning.”

  “I don’t.”

  “We begin tomorrow. The last great bazaar will open for business, my friend, and the world will shudder in the aftermath.”

  “Hallelujah, sir.”

  Ramses blinked. “Hallelujah?”

  “Isn’t that what they say, sir?”