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.”
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.
Marla stood immediately behind her client, where she could protect his back as her eyes inventoried the huge enclosure. Buyers and sellers formed a circle, interrupted by two lanes through which merchandise could be herded in and out of the open area. But her eyes were elsewhere, sweeping the cheap seats, looking for any sign of a threat.
Suddenly a force of ten uniformed policemen filed into the arena. A vision of the burning helicopter popped into 47’s mind. The assassin swore silently, and was sliding one of his hands into his voluminous thawb, when Gazeau nudged his shoulder.
“Look!” the Libyan said. “They’re on the take.”
And sure enough, rather than put a stop to the slave auction, it soon became apparent that the police were there to protect it. The first thing they did was to secure both entryways, before spreading out to control the entire room. And it was a good thing too, since many of those present were carrying large amounts of cash.
The assassin released his grip on the short-slide, pulled his hand back into the open, and ordered his body to relax. He’d been hoping for an opportunity to snatch Al-Fulani right out from under Marla, but the police presence put paid to that idea, so all he could do was wait.
The slave auction got under way shortly thereafter, as a man who was wearing a linen skull cap and dressed in an immaculate white suit appeared. He addressed the crowd in French and, judging from the matter-of-fact cadences involved, it was a speech he had delivered many times before. The essence of it was that the market was in no way responsible for the mental, emotional, or physical health of the human beings who were about to be bought and sold. All transactions would be conducted in euros, all merchandise would be collected immediately after the auction, and all sales were final.
With that preamble out of the way, the first batch of slaves was herded into the room. They were exclusively male and, judging from appearances, all from the same geographical area. The Sudan probably, or the Central African Republic, where there was very little enforcement in place to protect them. A rough-looking, white South African purchased the entire lot, to work in an illegal diamond mine perhaps, or to harvest crops on some remote farm.
The next group of slaves was female, all of whom had been stripped naked before being forced out into the open, and there were multiple bidders. There was no way to know for sure, but it seemed likely that the more comely women were destined for the sex trade in any of a dozen possible countries, while the rest would be incorporated into wealthy households where they would live lives of forced servitude.
But Al-Fulani had no interest in them. It wasn’t until all of the women had been accounted for that Mahamat Dagash led his band of emaciated children out into the arena. Then the Moroccan put his coffee cup down, and began to examine the slaves through a small pair of binoculars.
Kola and her brother Baka were frightened by the crowd, and clung to each other until Dagash forced them apart.
There was a flurry of activity as the auction resumed, and Al-Fulani found himself competing with a dark-skinned man from Nigeria. When the process was over, the Moroccan was well pleased with the eighteen children who would accompany him to Fez.
Kola burst into tears as Baka was taken from her and forced to join those the man had purchased.
“Remember my name!” the little girl shouted desperately as they took him away. “As I will remember yours!”
Baka tried to respond, but staggered as a backhanded blow struck him across the mouth, and a man armed with a whip shouted orders the youngster couldn’t understand.
“We’ll follow Al-Fulani’s slaves,” Agent 47 said. “Then, once he links up with them, we’ll make our move.”
Gazeau nodded agreement, but deep down he knew it wouldn’t be that easy, because nothing in North Africa ever was.
The auction was over, and as the crowd began to break up, Marla caught a glimpse of a man who at first looked familiar. But then, having taken a second look, the Puissance Treize agent realized she was wrong. Not only was the man wearing the wraparound sunglasses dressed in a thawb, he was clearly in the company of a couple of Arabs, and Agent 47 was known to work alone.
Then the moment was over, the arena began to clear, and life ground on.
A full day had passed since the auction in Oum-Chalouba, and things were not going well. Having watched Al-Fulani’s four-vehicle convoy depart the city, and having followed them out into the desert, Agent 47 and his companions had been about to close with the Moroccan when a truck loaded with police roared past them. A few miles later, having topped a plateau, the assassin was able to look to the northwest, and that was when he saw five columns of dust, all in close proximity to one another, indicating that Al-Fulani had a police escort. Which, when combined with Marla and her bodyguards, would be impossible to overcome-certainly out in the open.
So, frustrating though it was, all they could do was follow the Moroccan and wait for something to break his way.
Hour after tedious hour passed, until the red-orange sun hung low in the western sky, and the town of Faya appeared ahead. According to the map, it was bigger than Oum-Chalouba, and boasted its own airport, so Agent 47 was surprised when the distant columns of dust veered to the right and headed due north.
“What the hell is he up to?” the assassin muttered as the Mog bucked its way over a series of bumps, and Gazeau battled the big steering wheel.
“There’s no way to know for sure,” the Libyan said grimly. “But it’s my guess that the Sous-Prefet in Faya is a lot less accommodating than the one in Oum-Chalouba, and perhaps takes a dim view of slavery. That would force Al-Fulani to use the only other airfield around—and that’s the strip at Quadi Doum.”
Agent 47 frowned. “Quadi Doum?”
“Yeah,” the other man replied. “Back in the ’80s, when Muammar Gaddafi was trying to take over northern Chad, he built a military base about twenty miles north of here. But it was overrun.”
“So the airfield is still operational.”
“The metal runway is still there,” Gazeau replied darkly. “But first you have to find your way in through the minefield that surrounds the base.”
“And Al-Fulani can do that?”
“Lots of people can do that,” the Libyan responded. “Including me. My father showed me the way. But it’s extremely dangerous.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Agent 47 replied grimly. “Besides, if we can reach Al-Fulani before his plane lands, he won’t have any place to run. This may be the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.”
“I was afraid you’d say something like that,” Gazeau replied dryly. “That means we’ll have to transit the minefield tonight, so we’ll be in position come morning.”
“Sounds like fun,” 47 said as he stared out through the filthy windshield. “I can hardly wait.”
It had been necessary to pull over and wait for the fall of darkness, lest the column of dust that the Mog generated give the pursuers away. While vehicles were to be expected on the way to Faya, once Al-Fulani and his convoy left the piste, any sign of a tail would make them suspicious. And given the size of the Moroccan’s security force, Agent 47 knew he would need the advantage of surprise if he were to win any sort of engagement.
When night arrived, they began the final trek into Quadi Doum. With Numo walking ahead and Gazeau behind the wheel, 47 struggled to focus his sleep-deprived eyes on the GPS receiver that was duct-taped to the top of his left thigh. That left his hands free to deal with the much-creased map and a long list of directions provided by the Libyan. What light there was came from the headlamp Agent 47 wore as he gave instructions over the radio.
“Five, four, three, two, one…execute a hard left turn.”
Numo, who was equipped with a Motorola Talkabout 200 walkie-talkie, executed a neat turn and walked due west. He had a compass that glowed dimly in the palm of his hand and served to keep him on course. Gazeau waited for the Mog to reach the exact turning point, yanked the wheel to the left, and downshifted. The Mercedes jerked as the clutch was released, picked up a tiny bit of speed, and continued to roll forward.
The assassin, who hadn’t been aware that he was holding his breath, let it out slowly.
“Damn, why so many turns?”
“It may not look like it,” the Libyan replied, “but we’re on a road. When Gaddafi ordered his forces to build the airstrip, they laid mines in precise patterns that allowed anyone who was equipped with a watch and compass to access the base via four two-lane roads. One for each point of the compass. The turns were supposed to keep the bad guys out.”
“Did it work?”
“Hell, no. The base was under the command of one Colonel Khalifa Assa Uadi. In spite of the fact that he had 4,000 men, 20 aircraft, and some 200 tanks, the idiot allowed a ragtag force of Chadians to find their way through the minefield, chop holes in the security fence, and infiltrate the base. It fell within a matter of hours.”
“You seem to know a lot about the battle.”
Gazeau grinned. His teeth gleamed in the light provided by the instrument panel.
“During the years after my father left the French Foreign Legion, he accepted freelance contracts from time to time. He was with the Chadian forces when they entered the base.”
“So he mapped the roads?”
The Libyan shook his head.
“There was no need to. One of Uadi’s officers sold my father a map for the equivalent of twenty-five dollars U.S. Later, after Libyan forces left, the airstrip was abandoned. Papa always kept a stash of supplies there, and so do I. About two years ago I took his directions and converted them into latitude and longitude, in order to take advantage of the GPS system.”
Agent 47 made use of his right hand to trigger the handheld Motorola.
“Stand by. We have another turn coming up.”
Numo, whose job it was to look for any mines that might have migrated along with the constantly shifting sands, clicked the transmit button by way of acknowledgment.
The desert was surprisingly cold at night. Still, he seemed oblivious to any physical discomfort, and most likely he was ignoring it to focus on the task at hand.
This was the Sahara, after all, where death lay only meters away.
By the time a long, thin crack appeared along the eastern horizon, and pink light washed the sky, Agent 47 was ready to make his first kill.
The Mog had been left at the bottom of a dry wadi and covered with the camo netting that Gazeau always carried. Now, having made it all the way to the air base’s perimeter without blowing themselves up, all 47 and his companions had to do was neutralize a combined force of something like eighteen bodyguards and police officers in order to have a nice, productive chat with Al-Fulani. It was no small task, but one the operative thought the three of them could accomplish, so long as they played it smart.
In order to gain every possible advantage, Agent 47 had Gazeau draw three identical maps of the base, and divide each into sectors. Then, having checked to make sure their radios were operational, the men low-crawled into position roughly three hundred feet out from the perimeter of the base. The assassin estimated that the old radio mast was approximately one hundred feet tall. That made it the perfect watchtower-a place from which a sharp-eyed lookout could monitor activity for miles around. Had he been the one playing defense, 47 would have stationed one of his very best people up there.
But would Marla do likewise? It was an important question, because if she had, then it would be necessary to kill the lookout in order to maintain the element of surprise. But it was still too dark to be sure.
He found it frustrating, lying there as the sun continued to rise, knowing full well that valuable time was slipping away. But Agent 47 forced himself to remain where he was and gradually, bit by bit, the early morning light began to illuminate the tower. There, about halfway to the top, a platform could be seen. The image wobbled as the assassin brought the Walther WA 2000 to bear. It was difficult to hold the weapon steady because of the steep angle, but there was no mistaking the lookout who was crouched on the tiny triangle of metal, or the sticklike rifle that was slung across his back. A safety rope secured the sentry to the tower and he was looking toward the north. The assassin turned to Gazeau.
“There’s a lookout all right. But I need something to rest my rifle on. Get up on your hands and knees.”
The Libyan made a face, but crawled into position, and felt the gun barrel come to rest on his back. It was a rather undignified pose, and something the sentry was sure to notice if he turned toward the south. And Gazeau knew that he, rather than “Taylor,” would be targeted first.
In the meantime, Agent 47 found that even with the improvised gun rest, the elevation was such that the shot would be difficult to make. Yet there wasn’t any choice. So the assassin worked a cartridge into the chamber, slid the crosshairs over the lookout’s torso, and made a slight adjustment to allow for the westerly breeze. Then, having taken a deep breath and forced it out again, he took all of the slack out of the trigger.
The Walther nudged his shoulder, there was a soft phut as the bullet left the barrel, and the man on the tower seemed to sag.
The lookout couldn’t fall-given the safety rope-but his binoculars did. Agent 47 held his breath as the glasses plummeted toward the ground, disappeared behind one of the intervening buildings, and presumably smashed themselves into a hundred pieces on the concrete below. Would someone hear?
It seemed all too likely, but twenty seconds, then a minute, then five minutes passed without producing any sign of an alarm. The assassin allowed himself to breathe normally.
Gazeau was back at his side by then and ready for the next step.
“Okay, Pierre, work your way over to the tower. Climb it if you can, eyeball the base, and tell me where they are.” The operative turned to his left. “Numo, circle around to the west. Find a good position and get ready to fire on targets of opportunity.”
Both men nodded and scuttled away as 47 elbowed his way toward the sand-drifted remains of a much-abused security fence. There were plenty of holes, so he chose the closest.
Once inside he found himself at the edge of what had been a military parade ground. The concrete was cracked in places and partially covered with windblown sand, but still recognizable as what it had been. The problem was that all of the buildings were located on the far side of the hardscape. Agent 47 didn’t want to cross that much open ground, but there wasn’t any choice unless he wanted to take a long detour, the length of which would pose its own risks.
So the operative got up and began to run.
The Mossberg pump gun bounced against his back, and the weight of the spare ammo slowed the assassin down as he ran toward the three aluminum flagpoles that marked the front of what had once been the facility’s administration building. The prefab box was made of corrugated metal, and was riddled with hundreds of bullet holes. There was no way to know whether the shots had been fired by the Chadians as the base was overrun, or by vandals later on.
Three steps led 47 up to shattered double doors that sagged inward. The assassin slipped between them and instantly found himself in a murky reception area. A quick reconnaissance revealed half a dozen offices that lay beyond, one of which was larger than all the rest, and probably had belonged to the commanding officer. Agent 47 could imagine the feckless Colonel Uadi sitting behind his desk, trying to understand what was happening as his command disintegrated around him.
The building had been looted more than once, which meant that anything of value had been taken, but a few symbols of the past remained. Among the items that caught 47’s eye was a cloth jacket, still hanging from its hook; a photo of a pretty woman, on the filthy floor; and a plaque celebrating some sort of achievement, still bolted to the wall. None of which mattered to the operative as long as he had the place to himself.
Marla didn’t have enough people to secure the entire base, so she would do the next best thing, which was to choose a defensible area within the complex, establish a perimeter, and sit tight until the plane arrived. As the assassin took another look at Gazeau’s hand-drawn map, he thought he knew which area she had chosen. The area he would choose, if the decision were up to him.
The likely candidate was what had been the air base’s maintenance facility, which consisted of a large prefab building that fronted the main taxiway, but was at least a hundred feet away from the neighboring hangars. That structure would allow Marla to bring the vehicles inside where they couldn’t be spotted from the air, keep all of the slaves in one place, and maintain good fields of fire all around.
So, assuming that his assumptions were correct, it would be important to close with the maintenance facility before the opposition tried to make contact with the dead lookout, or the plane came in for a landing. It could be on its way already.
With that in mind the assassin slipped outside, made his way along the front of the building, and vanished into the ruins of Quadi Doum.
It was still cold enough for Marla to see her breath as she sipped hot tea and stared out across the sand-strewn runway toward the quickly rising sun.
The security chief was nervous, which seemed stupid, given the size of the force at her disposal. But even though the Puissance Treize agent had sixteen men on hand, six were policemen who weren’t about to take orders from a woman. And while the other ten knew better than to defy her, Marla estimated that only seven of them could be counted on in a firefight. The rest were relatives of Al-Fulani’s who were a lot better at carrying weapons than actually firing them.
So, counting herself, the Moroccan had roughly eight people who could be relied upon to protect him.
Still, Marla thought, our lookout will spot trouble long before it arrives and give us plenty of warning. It was a comforting thought, and having finished her tea, the Puissance Treize agent turned to go back inside the building.
A child started to cry, a man barked an order, and the noise stopped.
Had it not been for the broken glass that made a crunching sound as Agent 47’s boot came down on it, the policeman might never have learned of his impending demise.
In spite of orders from Al-Fulani’s European whore, he had gone out to take a look around, just in case several generations of looters had missed something of value. Nothing major, he was too realistic to expect that, but an adjustable wrench perhaps. Or a good clasp knife, or-
But that was when he heard a crunch, felt the bottom fall out of his stomach, and made a grab for the big revolver that hung on his hip. Unfortunately the fiber-wire loop was tightening around his throat by then, which caused him to pluck at the relentless ligature in a vain attempt to loosen it.
The world went black.
The policeman collapsed, and 47 was left to consider his next move. It was tempting to appropriate the dead man’s uniform, but that would burn time, and might set him up as a target for Numo. So the assassin towed the body into a shed, and was careful to close the door on it before he continued on his way.
Gray buildings lined both sides of the street. What appeared to be barracks and warehouses were off to the left, with a long line of one-story hangars to his right. The numbers on them were still legible. Everywhere 47 looked he saw partially stripped vehicles, heaps of no longer identifiable machinery, and all manner of garbage. There was very little rust, thanks to the dry climate.
Judging from the graffiti on many of the buildings, not to mention the remains of a recent campfire, the assassin got the impression that there were others who knew how to find their way in through the minefields. But those thoughts were interrupted as a bullet chipped the concrete directly in front of him, the flat whip-crack report of a rifle shot echoed between the buildings, and the element of surprise was forever lost.
No sooner had the sound of the shot died away than Marla was on her radio, checking in turn with each of her troops. It took moments to establish the fact the man in the tower was dead, that one of the policemen was missing, and that it had been the second lookout who had had the good fortune to spot the intruder from his rooftop perch, and subsequently opened fire on him.
Unfortunately the bastard missed. But at least he was awake and paying attention. As were all of her men by then.
“Good morning, my dear,” Al-Fulani said, as he ambled over to where the Puissance Treize agent was standing. He had just gotten up, and having spent the night with two of the children, was still dressed in red silk pajamas. “What’s going on?”
“That’s what I’m trying to piece together,” Marla replied quickly. “Somebody is out there, that much is clear, but who? It might be locals, who want to steal our vehicles, but the fact that they aren’t afraid of the police, and the way they killed our lookout, would seem to suggest another possibility.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll take care of the matter,” the Moroccan said confidently. “All you need to do is keep them at a distance. The plane will be here in three hours at the most.”
It was good advice, and Marla took it to heart as she left to begin her rounds. Here was an opportunity to prove what she was capable of, put the Kaberovs of the world in their place, and secure a lasting reputation within the Puissance Treize. Then, with Al-Fulani’s continued sponsorship, the sky was the limit!
Buoyed by those thoughts Marla started to climb the stairs that led to the building’s flat roof.
“They’re in the maintenance building,” Gazeau said from his perch on the radio tower. It was very exposed up there, some twenty-five feet below where the lookout’s body still hung, and the Libyan knew the Moroccan’s security forces could see him because bullets were pinging the metal around him.
The transmission served to confirm what Agent 47 already suspected as he continued to work his way in toward what they were calling “section six.”
“Good work,” the man known as Taylor replied, his voice little more than a terse whisper. “Now get down off that tower before someone shoots you.” Gazeau was well ahead of him, and was already descending the metal ladder by the time he heard the transmission, but appreciated the sentiment as a bullet tugged at his sleeve.
He heard the man trying to reach Numo by then, as well.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” the Libyan replied. “I can.”
“Do you have any sort of shot at the maintenance building?”
Numo stared through his sight. From his perch on the walkway that circled the elevated water tank, he could look down on the building in question and the two-no, make that three-people standing on the roof.
“Yes, I do.”
“Then go to work on it,” came the instructions. “Bullets will go right through that metal siding. I want you to drive them out into the open. Try not to shoot Al-Fulani however. That’s a no-no.”
It was an extremely cold-blooded order, because there were children inside the maintenance building, and it was clear that the man named Taylor didn’t care. But Numo had children, lots of them, and wasn’t about to shoot someone else’s.
That didn’t apply to the adults on the roof, however, so he said, “Will do,” and chose the first person to kill.
Marla could already feel the sun’s warm promise as she opened the door and stepped out onto the metal roof. Soon-within an hour or so-the surface would be too hot to stand on. She knew that the man on the tower had been forced down onto the ground. But as she turned to take a quick look around, the Puissance Treize agent spotted movement up on the water tower!
“Get down!” she shouted. “There’s a man on the-”
But the warning came too late, as the shooter squeezed the trigger and sent a bullet spinning toward his target. The man nearest to Marla was in the process of turning toward her when the bullet slammed into his torso and threw him down. Then, before anyone could react, another rifle shot was heard and a second man fell.
Marla felt as if she were wading through quicksand as she turned back toward the door, and threw herself into the darkness that lay beyond. There was a loud clang, followed by a report, as a third bullet flattened itself against steel. That was the moment when she realized the truth.
What had been a sanctuary had been transformed into a trap.
A slender, nearly emaciated corporal was in charge of the surviving policemen. Not only was he angry about having lost one of his men, but the whore’s repeated attempts to exert control infuriated him more.
So when the shooting began, he led his men past the cowering children to the building’s back door.
Then, knowing how important good leadership can be, he exited first.
Agent 47 was within fifty feet of the maintenance building by that time, and was just about to check the seemingly unguarded back door when it unexpectedly flew open. And, having prepared himself for close-in fighting, he already had the 12-gauge shotgun in his hands.
As the police rushed the assassin, the pump gun made its characteristic boom-clack, over and over again, as the weapon jumped, and the double-aught buck tore the men apart. Blood sprayed the concrete, the doorway, and inside the building.
Marla was back down on the main floor by that time, and any thoughts she had of charging through the open door were put to rest when she saw blood come spraying in through the portal. So she and the rest of Al-Fulani’s bodyguards opened up on the exit with automatic weapons. That forced the shooter to withdraw-thumbing shells into the shotgun’s receiver as he backed away.
It was Agent 47.
Just as the threat faded Marla heard the roar of an engine. The vehicle sounded like a maddened beast as it came across the taxiway, and a Mog crashed into the huge double doors that guarded the interior, slamming them aside. That was followed by the sound of screeching tires, as the driver stood on the brakes, and a cacophony of screams as terrified children ran in every direction.
Marla might have rallied her surviving troops at that point, but a big fender struck the Puissance Treize agent a glancing blow and threw her into one of the parked vehicles.
That knocked the security chief unconscious.
Agent 47 was forced to step on the dead corporal’s chest in order to enter through the back door.
Four of Al-Fulani’s bodyguards had the presence of mind to respond, but both of the Silverballers were out by that time, and 47 fired them in quick succession. The hapless guards were forced to perform a macabre dance as the heavy.45 caliber slugs slammed into them.
Then more shots were heard—only muffled this time—as the remaining bodyguards attempted to escape via a side door, only to be met by bullets from the sharp-eyed Numo.
Satisfied that the situation was under control, 47 took the time required to reload both handguns before going in search of Al-Fulani.
The agent found the Moroccan cowering in a storage room, where he was shaking like a leaf and had recently shit his lovely silk pajamas.
“Good morning,” the assassin said politely, as the terrified businessman stared up at him. “My name is Taylor, and I have some questions to ask you.”
There weren’t any historians present to record the moment, but the airfield at Quadi Doum had fallen for the second time, and vultures were circling above.
mayor