The Last Bazaar

by David Leadbeater

  “Yes, hallelujah. What do they say in the Middle East?”

  “How the hell should I know?” Akatash laughed. “I’m a terrorist, sir, not a cleric.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Drake and the rest of the SPEAR team waited for Yorgi to exit the seedy bar. Their vantage point was a narrow, filthy alley across the way where they could keep eyes on all the comings and goings. Yorgi had been chosen to reconnoiter the bar because he was the less European looking individual among them and more likely to pass with only a cursory glance. The Spider’s Web wasn’t among the most popular tourist traps in Manaus, though perhaps its name suggested it wanted to be.

  Their target, a crooked official by the name of Almeida, drank here every night, bothering the local girls and the barmaids until it was time to move on to even less respectable neighborhoods. Almeida was a drunk and a drug-taker, and worked throughout the day only to feed his nightly habit. Known for his brutality, mercilessness and corruption, he was as much feared as he was abhorred, but so long as he continued to grease the right palms he would keep his position in the localized Manaus administration.

  Drake crouched in silence, taking his turn at eyeballing the street. It was no secret that various American agencies had people in almost every major city around the world and much more. The team had purposely chosen Manaus as a destination because it was the closest city to the Amazon where the CIA and even less publicized acronyms kept a presence. Of course being the most populous city of the rainforest helped. He was aware of the others talking quietly behind him, planning the rest of the op. His gaze saw every movement, every coming and going and logged it, as his mind contemplated all the ways his life was changing. First, and most importantly, Alicia had reached a crucial turning point in her own life. No matter how it looked and no matter how much Dahl ribbed him, he would be there to help her. The motto ‘so far, so good’ was an overused one, but when it applied to Alicia Myles and her steady progress it was the most apt. That led him to Mai. The Japanese woman was currently overseeing Grace’s recovery with help from her sister and Dai Hibiki. The best news was that Grace would almost certainly completely recover; the rather tricky news was that she didn’t need Mai by her side to do it.

  Would Mai return?

  Was anything left of their relationship?

  Drake didn’t think so, but it wasn’t as though Mai and he had discussed anything before she left. Or since, for that matter. The fluid, molten flow of their lives saw to that. Peace would be nice, he often thought. But they were soldiers. Peace might also deal them a slow death.

  His eyes flicked around the entrance to the bar. The saving grace tonight was that the temperature had dropped at least three degrees, not exactly good old Yorkshire weather but a relief nonetheless. He watched a man with a brown weathered face enter the bar and then stiffened as Yorgi walked out.

  The Russian thief headed away at first, ensuring he hadn’t been pinned with a tail before doubling back.

  “Any minute now,” he said. “They’re tired of him and want him to leave.”

  Hayden came forward. “Okay guys, be ready.”

  Yorgi pushed in next to Drake. “This is not a nice man. How far do we go with him?”

  The Yorkshireman didn’t move. “As far as we have to, Yorgi. But we’re not judge, jury and executioner. Remember the old saying—cut off one head and another three shall take its place? Something like that.”

  “Is that a Yorkshire saying?”

  “No. I think it was from Jason and the Argonauts.”

  They watched as the bar’s door swung open once again and their target staggered out. Already weaving, he belched loudly, smoothed his black matted hair and then swung wildly down the middle of the street. When a car did come toward him he shouted at it loudly until it moved aside. Hayden split the team up to track his every step. They had already reccied up and down the street for the perfect abduction spot and it was now only twenty yards ahead.

  Hayden keyed her throat mic. “Ready?”

  “Ready.” Affirmatives came back.

  Drake, Lauren and Smyth pulled back, their jobs to ensure nobody saw the seizure. The only people in the street were two youths trying to gain entry to the bar and a couple now occupying their old alley, closely wrapped up in each other and paying no attention to the rest of the world. Windows lined the street and couldn’t be properly verified, but everything Drake could see and control was acceptable.

  “It’s a go.”

  Behind them, Dahl rapidly closed the gap between himself and Almeida, Alicia a step behind. As a convenient alley came up the Swede pounced, dragging the Brazilian out of sight and clamping a huge arm across his windpipe. Alicia backed him up and then, seconds later, popped her head back out of the alley.

  “All good. We have a homeless male down here but looks like he’s asleep. Target is ours.”

  Hayden keyed her mic. “Mano. Bring the car.”

  *

  Forty minutes later the team stood facing Almeida who was tied to a chair in the middle of an empty warehouse, head hanging down toward his own lap. Alicia brought over a bottle of water.

  “Ready?”

  Hayden grunted. “Do it.”

  Alicia emptied the contents of the bottle over their captive’s head, then stood back as he revived with a splutter and a nasty curse. Alicia decided that was out of line and slapped him across the face with the empty plastic bottle.

  “Language.”

  Almeida shook his head, droplets flying. “What have you done? Don’t you know who I am?”

  Drake crouched down so that they were at eye-level. “We know who you are. We know what you do. Now, if you tell us what we need to know, we’re willing to let you keep doing it.” He didn’t add, until the bazaar is over, then we’re gonna make sure your degraded ass gets its just desserts in the worst Brazilian prison this side of Hell.

  Almeida laughed, as they had known he would. “Fuck off, American. You can’t intimidate me.”

  Drake blinked hard as Dahl laughed. “What did you call me?”

  Kinimaka moved into the man’s eyesight. “If you think he’s American then you’re gonna struggle with me, brah. Now listen. We know you helped establish a huge arms bazaar somewhere in the rainforest. We know you were paid to look the other way whilst they shipped men and goods in. We know it’s been underway for many months now. Don’t look away—” Kinimaka reached out to hold the man’s face in place. “All we’re asking is for a location. An area. And a list of attendees.”

  The man spat on the floor. “How would I even know that? You think they would tell me that? Fucking idiot.”

  Kinimaka stared to squeeze. “You are a parasite, Almeida. You hear things. You make sure you hear things. It’s how you survive. Your dirty little friends hear things. The game turns, the players going round and round. It has been months. I know that you have a list of attendees. You wouldn’t be the filthy, lazy, bloodsucking fuck we know you are if you didn’t.”

  Almeida’s eyes bulged as his jaw was squeezed in an unbreakable grip. Drake could almost hear him wondering just how far the big Hawaiian would go. It was a little ironic that Kinimaka had stepped up to the interrogation, since he was probably the most laid-back person in the room.

  Almeida clammed up, pretending not to be intimidated. Alicia then hefted a heavy bag of nails they had procured along with a claw hammer. The threat was obvious.

  Almeida suffered in silence for a minute, then said, “I can’t. They would kill me. Not just that. They would crush, chop, obliterate me. They could do worse than you. Much worse.”

  Hayden nodded. “That I can understand. Yes, they could because they are unconscionable psychopaths much like yourself. But how would they ever know?”

  “I ain’t telling ya, bitch. An’ I ain’t telling this big fucking whopper neither.”

  Kinimaka let go of the man’s face. “Then you die,” he said. “You die tonight. In that chair. With your hands tied behind your back and no h
ope. Are you ready to die?”

  “Ah, fuck off with the flowery speech, man, and hand me one of those nails. If I stick it through my ears it might drown out your bleating.”

  Kinimaka bowed his head. “I tried,” he said. “For you. I really did.”

  Almeida stared. “What are you taking about?”

  Dahl and Smyth stepped forward at the same time. “Me,” they said in unison, before glaring at each other. As Almeida stared, Drake watched Alicia step quietly up to the back of the chair, towel in hand. With one deft swoop she wrapped it around the shocked man’s face and held it tight. Dahl then stepped forward with another bottle of water and, without ceremony, upended its contents over the towel.

  Almeida struggled soundlessly, inhaling the liquid until Alicia gave him a moment’s respite. Then they started again; and again until Almeida buckled.

  “Stop.” He held up a hand, spluttering uncontrollably. “Please stop.”

  Hayden sighed deliberately. “You don’t tell us when to stop, asshole. We tell you when we’re ready to hear you start talking.” She motioned at Alicia to continue.

  Another three empty bottles hit the ground before Hayden ended it. Even then she only gave Almeida a few seconds respite before slapping his attention into focus.

  “Here,” she said. “Right here. Now do you remember what we want from you?”

  “It’s some kinda natural ground-clearing they’re using and widening, right next to the Jutai so they can boat everything in. Even people. This guy’s a major whack-job, thinks he can tame the jungle or something. King of Leopard, ha!” Almeida spent a moment spitting up water before continuing. “Coordinates are in my wallet. Please, please don’t rat me out for this.”

  Dahl nodded grimly. “Not a problem.”

  “Good . . . good. Some of the people I have helped gain passage,” even the hardened criminal blanched, “you should not even speak their names . . .”

  “What?” Alicia flapped the towel ominously. “If you’re about to say Rumpelstiltskin I’m afraid it’s back to Water World for you, boy.”

  “No, no! There is Abdel Nour, leader of the Black Light; El-Baz, leader of The Dozen Death Squads; Boutros, ultimate boss of the world’s biggest cartel; Ghannouchi, leader of the biggest crime family in the world. Not America or Italy. The world. Al-Macabre, terrorist leader of Devil’s Breath, and let’s not forget Ramses himself . . .”

  Drake listened as the man rattled on. For a man so reluctant to spill the beans they could now barely shut him up. The names he reeled off would be amazing scalps, even a single one could be a game-changer in the unstable war on terrorism. But ten or more? Drake saw havoc ahead.

  “And they’re just the ones arriving by barge, the ones I have facilitated. There are many more arriving by helicopter and other means. I don’t know many, but one is Tyler Webb, the leader of the Pythians.” Almeida stared at them as if expecting a pat on the back. “Y’know him, right? Most wanted man in the world?”

  Drake steered him back to an earlier point. “Ramses,” he said. “What exactly do you know of him?”

  Almeida’s eyes clouded over. “Crown Prince of Terrorism. Runs everything. Knows everyone. They say not a single attack passes that he doesn’t have previous knowledge of, not a hit happens without his sanction. They say some of these terrorist leaders don’t even know they work for him.”

  Drake waited. “Is that it? So you know . . . nothing?”

  Almeida shrugged. “Man’s a myth. I’ve heard whisperings that this is Ramses’ last bazaar, but it’s probably being run by some big cartel. They own most of the basin anyway.”

  “They don’t own it,” Drake said. “They’re just squatting until a man with a bigger gun comes along. Or until the forest figures out a way to annihilate them.”

  Dahl nudged him. “Whoa, that’s deep for a Yorkie bar. Have you been sneaking some of this guy’s coke?”

  “Well, let’s hope it happens,” Drake said. “Save us a job.”

  “You spoke of others arriving by chopper.” Hayden turned to Almeida. “What others?”

  Now, the Brazilian dropped his gaze cagily. “I shouldn’t tell you,” he said. “I shouldn’t even know. It’s not even definite, just hearsay, and sounds like a deep pile of shit to me.”

  Hayden shrugged. “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “And what happens to me then?” Almeida asked. “After I tell all.”

  “Then you can go. Free.”

  “Do I have your word?”

  “You have this,” Alicia barked, wrapping the towel around his face again. Almeida struggled and flapped his hands.

  “Okay, okay!” he squeaked as the towel was removed. “I heard this from a dude I know, but like I said it could be complete bullshit.” Again he hesitated.

  “Speak!” Dahl cried. “Do it now!”

  “Okay, okay. Keep yer trilby on. It was the CIA,” he said matter-of-factly. “The CIA are coming.”

  Hayden, perhaps naively, immediately shook her head. “No way. We’d have heard about a joint op.”

  “No.” Almeida grinned maliciously at her misunderstanding. “The CIA are here . . . as clients. Customers. They’re fucking buying, lady.”

  Drake touched Hayden’s shoulder as the ex-CIA agent gaped and then looked ready to explode. The truth was, the CIA had many shadowy arms as did most organizations. Black ops missions and black sites had to get their raw materials from somewhere. Maybe this was one of those places. But this was a revelation from which the whole team would have to take stock. Were they safe? Did this particular CIA entity know they were here? Or was it all, as Almeida said, complete bullshit?

  “And the Big Dog,” the Brazilian added. “He’s coming with them.”

  Now Drake frowned. “Big Dog? What the hell are y’ blathering about?”

  Almeida seemed confused. “What?”

  “Explain,” Smyth growled.

  “That’s all he said,” Almeida blurted. “My friend. The man I talked to who helped them with the choppering in. We spoke often,” he admitted. “Compared notes in case there was someone we—” he stopped abruptly.

  “Could blackmail,” Dahl completed it for him. “Yeah, we know.”

  “He told me about a guy the CIA were bringing to meet the man of myth—Ramses. Called him the Big Dog. That’s all.”

  Hayden turned to Drake, shock embedded into her features. “Surely not the director? The assistant director? The—”

  “It could be anyone,” Drake affirmed. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions.”

  Alicia flung the towel at Almeida’s head, making him flinch. “We done with this bottom-feeder? Can we fling him back to the sewer now?”

  Hayden nodded. “Take him back. Keep his wallet.”

  As Alicia and Smyth led him away the SPEAR team leader regarded the rest of them. “That’s some roster,” she said. “And some target. Security will be absolute and top-notch. Are you guys ready for true jungle warfare?”

  “Always,” Dahl said.

  “I do like to enrich my resumé,” Drake said. “Bad ass is an easy label to achieve. But jungle bad ass? That’s special.”

  “Then let’s move.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Tyler Webb was as unhappy as he’d ever been in his life. He sat alongside Beauregard in the back of a luxury chopper, minutes away from landing at Ramses’ ridiculous flea market, compelled to attend by the one thing he desired most of all in this world.

  The scroll. The final piece of the puzzle on the path to Saint Germain.

  Call it a life-revolution, a game-changer, a world-ender. It was all of those and yet didn’t matter. It was the last thing he needed to lead him to the treasures of Saint Germain. It was a much-deserved redemption.

  For now though he needed to temper those desires, almost impossible though that was. Their unstoppable itch ran in his blood. But even this close the scroll still stood a world away. Just a little while longer, went the mantra inside his head. I’m almo
st there . . .

  The chopper descended. Webb clung on as the canopy rose toward them—a seemingly impenetrable bed of green. Beauregard sat like a statue beside him, unreadable. Webb choked and hyperventilated as the pilot deftly inserted them into the canopy, veering through stepped gaps and then deposited them with a bump onto terra firma.

  Beauregard yawned. “Ready?”

  Webb gulped hard. “Sure. Of course. Yes.”

  The Frenchman led the way, straight into an atmosphere of cloying heat. Webb stopped to stare into the surrounding jungle, a ruthless force barely held at bay, and tried not to hear the sounds of predators lurking and screeching within. The tents nearby were overhung with mosquito netting and other accoutrements but Webb dreaded to think what Ramses might have set up for him. The Pythian network was almost dead, their mercenaries unpaid and deserted, its leaders isolated and unable to communicate with their leader. Zoe Sheers? He hadn’t heard from that woman in over a week. Webb’s only requirement now was that Julian Marsh performed. The rest would be his to discover. Beauregard followed a safe but makeshift path cut through the underbrush, passing by overhanging trees and through lines of old trunks.

  “What is this?” Webb grumbled. “The goddamn scenic route?”

  “Just be thankful you remembered to apply the insect repellent,” Beauregard returned petulantly. “And that I reminded you.”

  Webb knew the man had a point. He didn’t deign to reply, but eyeballed several unmistakably obvious guards as he passed them by, oddly reassured by their presence. The path wavered for a while, eventually leading to a large clearing at the center of which stood a high podium. Arranged around the outside were a series of tall tents. Webb spied lines of sturdy wooden tables and more tents, even what looked like a pavilion further away near the bend of a quick-flowing river. More people were coming from that way, all shapes and sizes and wearing everything from cut-off jeans and leather jackets to turbans and sandals, from dark-skinned men to platinum blond women, and from several traveling alone to those who were surrounded by thick-necked bodyguards. The sound of quiet chatter filled the nearby trees.