“Don’t worry,” he assured them. “It happens all the time. I’ll take Mr. Bedo back to his hotel and put him to bed. He’ll be as good as new in the morning.”
Having no reason to doubt the man in the red fez, and being understandably happy to rid themselves of what could have been a problem, the orphanage’s staff hurried to escort the duo out through security, and load the unconscious Bedo into the van. It was dark by then, but Agent 47 discovered that traffic was a little bit lighter than before, as he drove the American back to the Oasis Hotel.
The question—and a rather important one—was whether Mr. Ghomara had been discovered, or was still lying in the locked linen room. Having circled the hotel twice without detecting any sort of police presence, Agent 47 concluded that no alarm had been raised. And since neither Ghomara nor Bedo had seen him without the Kufa disguise, it didn’t matter what they told the police the following morning.
Not that Bedo was likely to be all that forthcoming, given his visits to the orphanage or his true reason for visiting Fez.
The assassin entered the garage without incident, chose one of the more remote parking spots, and shut the engine down. Thanks to the power lift it was possible to unload the wheelchair, move Bedo into an elevator, and return the American to his room without any assistance. Then, having removed the Silverballers from the chair’s cargo pocket, he returned both weapons to their holsters.
Bedo’s head came up at that point. The mask had fallen off.
“Where am I?” the American demanded groggily, as he blinked his eyes. “What happened?”
Agent 47 thought about his plan to kill Bedo and replace him with a heavily sedated Al-Fulani. The American had no idea how lucky he was. “You’re in your hotel room,” the man in the red fez answered evenly. “Which is all you need to know.” And with that, the assassin was gone.
CHAPTER NINE
WEST OF KUTUM, SUDAN, NORTH AFRICA
The acacia tree stood like a lonely sentinel on the vast windswept savannah, its large umbrella-shaped canopy of gnarled branches, small leaves, and needle-sharp thorns throwing a pool of welcome shade onto the bone-dry ground where a group of one hundred and twenty-three Dinka refugees had stopped to rest.
They had dark black skin, almond-shaped eyes, finely wrought features, and wore brightly patterned robes of red, blue, and gold. Many had traditional tribal scars on their foreheads. Some had children, who were so malnourished that they simply sat on their mother’s laps, too tired to brush the flies off their eyelids. The group had a small flock of goats that hadn’t been eaten because of the milk they gave. But except for the treadle-powered sewing machine that one elderly gentleman and his family had brought along, the group had very few possessions.
The Dinkas were just a few of the thousands of black Africans who had been forced to flee southwestern Sudan by the bloodthirsty Janjaweed militia. Though naturally tall and slim, many members of the group were emaciated due to a lack of nutrition and the intestinal diseases that eternally plagued them. Hope, such as it was, lay across the border in Chad, where the refugees might be able to find shelter in a European-run camp.
But first the Dinkas would have to reach Chad before the ruthless, camel-riding militia members could catch up with them. If that happened, the men would be murdered, the women would be raped, and the children would be killed or left to die. Which was why Joseph Garang, the group’s unofficial leader, was squinting into the rising sun. If trouble found the group, it would arrive from the east, where the Arab-dominated government held sway.
Garang was a slender man, with richly black skin and intelligent brown eyes. Though only twenty-seven years of age, he looked older, and was considered to be an elder because so many of the real elders had been killed. Many of the Dinkas were Christians, and had just begun to sing one of their favorite hymns when Garang spotted a momentary flash of light low on the eastern horizon.
He stood, stared across the flat savannah, and wished he had a pair of binoculars. Had the momentary glint been produced by sunlight reflecting off a shard of broken glass? Or something more sinister? There was no way to be certain, but this was North Africa, where all who lived fell into two broad categories: The hunters and the hunted. Which meant that anything-even a wink of reflected light-could signal a predator’s presence.
So he made his decision.
“Up!” Garang commanded sternly, striding through the group. “Get up and walk. For he who walks, strives, and he who strives shall be rewarded. So saith the Lord.”
There was no such passage in the tattered Bible that Garang carried with him, but only ten members of the group could read, and even they took comfort from the possibility that something good would come of their efforts.
Slowly, like reanimated skeletons, the Dinkas stood. And then, without giving the matter any conscious thought, they followed Garang out onto the savannah in exactly the same order as they had arrived. None of the refugees bothered to look back because there was nothing to look back at, except a painful past and the solitary acacia tree.
And the tree, like all of its kind, was content to remain where it was and worship the sun.
Mahamat Dagash lowered the powerful 10©42 HG L DCF Nikon binoculars, and brushed a fly off the bridge of his nose, the only part of his face not concealed by the ten-foot-long strip of white cloth that was wrapped around his head.
The refugees were a long way off, but his eyes were good, and the glasses made them better. So Dagash had seen everything he needed to see, and that knowledge brought a smile to his thin lips. Because there were many wonders of the world, including Toyota Land Cruisers, AK-47 assault rifles, and the fact that even the poorest people have something worth stealing: themselves. Flesh, muscle, and bone that could be put to work, or in the case of the younger ones, sold, sometimes for a great deal of money.
Satisfied that the Dinkas were on the move, and that he would be able to circle around and intercept them before they could reach the border, Dagash was careful to replace the lens caps on the expensive binoculars before pushing himself back off the ridge where he lay. Then, comfortable in the certainty that he wouldn’t be seen, the Tuareg made his way down the reverse side of the dune using a series of well-timed leaps.
Two battered 4X4s and six robed men waited below. All were heavily armed, and with good reason. Even though the refugees lived at the very bottom of the North African food chain, Dagash and his slavers were only a few rungs higher up, and vulnerable to the government-supported Janjaweed, a group that was not only extremely jealous of their God-given right to kill, torture, and rape the peoples of the south, but could call upon helicopters and planes to attack anyone foolish enough to compete with them.
Which meant that as the Toyotas roared back to life and the sun continued to arc across the sky, there was no peace, or prospect of peace, except for that which was granted to the dead.
It had been a long hard day, but Garang and the refugees had covered nearly ten miles of barren ground since leaving the acacia tree’s shade, and taken refuge at the foot of a rocky outcropping that promised to shelter them from the wind. There was a dry riverbed nearby, where by dint of considerable digging, the men had been able to coax a puddle of muddy water out of the reluctant ground. Small as it was, that was a blessing, as were the tiny fires the women had built and the vast wealth of stars that lay like grains of sand on the night sky.
Dinner consisted of lentil soup followed by cups of cinnamon tea, neither of which had much substance, but served to quell the worst of the hunger pangs and quiet the children. The little ones would fall asleep soon, the adults would talk for a while, and then they, too, would go to sleep.
Such were Garang’s thoughts as he sat on a rock and stared up into the night sky. The moment of peace was shattered as engines roared, powerful headlights swept across the rocky ground, and the shooting began.
Judging from their targets, the slavers were only interested in children over the age of four and under the age of fi
fteen. For them, it was easier to shoot the rest rather than take them prisoner and be forced to feed them.
Garang and some of the other men grouped together and charged the attackers, hoping to overwhelm one of the evil men, and take possession of a gun. But it didn’t work. Garang managed to get within five feet of the man who appeared to be the leader, before a burst of bullets cut him down.
By the time the shooting stopped, more than ninety Dinkas had been slaughtered. As soon as all resistance had been overcome, the more comely women were raped, often in front of their children, and then put to death.
With that out of the way, all the slavers had to do was corral the sobbing children and march them off to the town of Oum-Chalouba across the border in Chad. Where, Allah willing, Dagash would be able to eat a decent meal and take a bath.
The thought cheered him as the Land Cruiser’s right front tire rolled over one of the dead bodies. Life was good.
CHAPTER TEN
FEZ, MOROCCO
Several more days of surveillance from the apartment across the street from the orphanage led to the conclusion that Marla was keeping Al-Fulani away from the place. So Agent 47 had assumed a new persona and taken up residence in the ultramodern Hôtel de Nouvelle Vague located only two blocks from the Moroccan’s mansion.
The “New Wave Hotel” was a small but exclusive hostelry that normally catered to young, well-heeled Europeans, and was currently jam-packed with musicians of many nationalities who were in Fez to perform in the week-long Festival de la Musique slated to begin the following evening. An event of special interest to the assassin because Al-Fulani was sponsoring it, as just one of many good deeds that kept local authorities happy and the orphanage in business.
So there the “record producer” was, lying in a chaise longue and soaking up the warm Moroccan sun when his phone began to beep. The assassin flipped the device open and brought it to his ear.
“Yeah? Talk to me.”
Hundreds of miles away, deep within the Jean Danjou’s hull, Diana looked up at one of the twenty-four monitors arrayed around her. The shot was being relayed to her from a spy sat, and, thanks to lots of magnification, she could see 47 and the scantily clad young people sprawled all around him. Groupies, for the most part, who, having followed their favorite bands to Fez, were in need of a place to stay. Having been taken in by a free-spending producer known as “The Jammer,” they had unwittingly become an important part of 47’s cover.
“You look comfortable,” Diana commented. “Too comfortable for someone who is supposed to be at work.”
The assassin said, “Screw you,” and directed a one-fingered salute up at the sky. If any of the young things sunbathing all around the agent thought that was strange, they gave no sign of it.
Diana chuckled.
“Sorry to bother you, 47, but it looks like you’ll have to postpone the exercise scheduled for tomorrow, in order to deal with something more urgent.”
The operative swore silently. Al-Fulani was scheduled to be present as the event got under way the next evening. He planned to kill the businessman’s bodyguards as the Moroccan left the stage, hustle Al-Fulani into a stolen limo, and drive him out into the countryside. A workable plan with a decent chance of success.
“Whatever it is, it can wait,” the assassin said evenly. “Opportunities like this one don’t come along every day.”
“No,” Diana replied patiently, “they don’t. And we’re sorry, but there won’t be much point to snatching Al-Fulani if he’s dead. Which will almost certainly be the case if the Otero brothers come after him.”
Agent 47 took a sip of iced tea as one of his well-endowed guests stood long enough to drop her thong. Then, having straddled a long-haired musician, she began to lick his face.
“The Otero brothers?” the assassin inquired mildly. “Who are they? A new boy band?”
“No,” Diana replied firmly. “They work for the Tumaco cartel in Colombia. They specialize in killing judges, government officials, and anyone else who gets in the organization’s way. And based on the latest intelligence, it looks like they have orders to hit Al-Fulani. It seems the cartel wants a cut of the money the Moroccan makes by smuggling drugs into Europe, and he refused. That’s where the Otero brothers come in.”
The assassin felt a rising sense of frustration. No matter how hard he tried to move this assignment forward, it always seemed to slip back. Now, instead of abducting Al-Fulani as planned, The Agency wanted him to protect the miserable bastard!
But Diana was right. It would be pretty hard to pry information out of a dead man. And if the Oteros showed up in the middle of the snatch, then everything would go straight to hell. The risk factor had just ratcheted up to an eleven.
“So how’s the internal audit going?” the agent inquired, as the couple to his right began to make noisy love.
“They haven’t found anything so far,” Diana admitted. “Which makes your initiative that much more important. Check your inbox. You’ll find everything we have on the Oteros waiting there. Including their love affair with explosives. Bombs big enough to bring down entire buildings, blow up airplanes, and demolish bridges.”
Someone else might have interpreted that particular approach as demonic overkill, given the amount of collateral damage that would be involved. But 47 saw the strategy for what it was. After all, why sneak into a well-protected casino and inject the owner with an overdose of insulin, if you can just hire some poor slob to drive a truck loaded with explosives into the parking lot underneath the building? And detonate the load from a hotel room blocks-perhaps even miles-away.
But that sort of thing wasn’t tolerated everywhere. Sometimes the subtle approach was necessary. Which was why individuals like 47 were so sought after.
The woman was picking up the pace, her head was thrown back, and she was making high-pitched whining noises as her breasts flopped up and down and her friends looked on.
“I’ll look forward to meeting the Oteros,” the agent said dryly. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes,” Diana said. “There are four brothers—and each one of them is worth $250,000.”
“Then there’s a client other than ourselves?”
“Yes,” the controller replied. “A certain agency within the American government would love to see the Tumaco cartel fail. And they don’t like the Oteros, either.”
“Well, there isn’t a whole lot of time, but I’ll do what I can,” he promised.
“Mr. Nu will be pleased,” Diana said evenly. “And one other thing…”
Agent 47 looked skyward.
“Yes?”
“Tell the young woman to your right that she’s getting a sunburn.”
There was only one large public square within the city of Fez; that was where most of the main events involved in the music festival were scheduled to be held. And as Agent 47 exited a cab deep within the area known as Fes El Bali, he saw that preparations were nearing completion. The streets that emptied into the square had been blocked with police barricades, a huge stage had been set up at one end of the plaza, and the area was thick with workmen.
Having paid his fare, the assassin made a beeline for the closest security checkpoint. He wasn’t carrying any weapons other than a garrote, and was relying on the ID card that dangled from his neck to get him in.
The queue continued to move ahead in fits and starts as a policeman examined the cards proffered by the people who had lined up in front of the operative. Then came the moment of truth as 47 stepped forward.
The ID was the rightful property of British folk singer Peter Samo, who was currently passed out on Agent 47’s couch. It had been altered by the simple expedient of pasting a picture of the Jammer persona over the photo of a petulant Samo. It was an amateurish job by most standards, but the panoply of henna tattoos that covered the Jammer’s hairless skull, face, neck, and bare arms proved such a distraction that the cop barely glanced at the card before waving him through.
Whic
h, to 47’s way of thinking, was a clear indication that if the Otero brothers wanted to sneak into the square, they certainly could. And quite possibly had, since the setup phase of the festival was the perfect time to plant a bomb for detonation the following evening. The easiest way to prolong Al-Fulani’s life, at least for the moment, would be to remove the device. Or, if the bomb was too complex for the agent to handle, an anonymous call to the police would take care of the matter as well. Once that problem was out of the way, the assassin could turn his attention to finding the Colombians. A necessity if he were to prevent the Oteros from activating some sort of backup plan.
The problem was that there were literally hundreds of places to conceal one or more bombs on, under, or in the vicinity of the stage. Which meant there was lots of work to do. By far the easiest and most effective place to plant explosives would be directly under the performance platform, so the assassin resolved to begin his inspection there.
It was dark under the stage, and a maze of crisscrossed supports made it difficult to move around. But thanks to a penlight and his willingness to crawl through small spaces, 47 was able to thoroughly inspect the area under the platform. Half an hour later, without having found a bomb or any signs of suspicious activity, he was forced to brush off his clothes and return to the stage, where a team of electricians was working on the sound system.
Having checked to ensure that none of the workmen looked anything like the Otero brothers, 47 began to examine anything that might contain—or be—a bomb. He was stopped and questioned about his activities by a suspicious security guard, but the assassin explained that he was looking for his lost cell phone. That, plus a look at the Jammer’s fake ID, was sufficient to put the guard’s concerns to rest.
Just as 47 was about to give up and leave the platform, a couple of newcomers appeared. And unlike all of the other men in the area, they were wearing stylish sports coats on a very warm day. Why? Because they’re armed, that’s why-a problem he could relate to. Yet they weren’t the Oteros, so who were they? Plainclothes police? Goons hired to protect the Oteros? Bodyguards for some mullah or another?
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