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.
NORTHWEST OF OUM-CHALOUBA
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,” th
e 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.
Hitman: Enemy Within Page 17
