The Last Bazaar

by David Leadbeater

  When the outer doors opened a guard greeted him with a nod which Ramses returned. He was an unassuming, quietly-spoken man for the most part, the menace, reputation and fear associated with him derived from what he had the power to do rather than what he actually did. It took very few examples to accrue that reputation. Ramses had initially cultivated a wide notoriety for violent fits of temper, though this was fabricated on purpose, or at least he thought so. All this said, Ramses hadn’t gone soft in his thirty years as the Prince of Terrorism. He would order mass murder at the drop of a hat, sacrifice one of his sons if need be, and then turn to watch the big soccer match with a beer, a burger and a hearty laugh.

  He entered his office, which was empty. He was under no illusions. Ramses was a man alone—at the top of this game there were no comrades. But the return was worth it. For thirty years he had been exacting nothing but cold revenge, and would continue for thirty more.

  The castle—his home—sat high in the Peruvian mountains, perched halfway up a cliff face and overlooking a wide valley. Its foundations were as old as time, its stones weathered through centuries. Ramses had scoured the world for a fortress he might reside in, one where he felt secure and well-defended, one that had seen much in the way of history, one where he might live undetected. The drug dealers that had owned this gave it up without too much of a fight and now added to its rich history, part of the foundations.

  Ramses turned his thoughts to today’s itinerary. His schedule was quite full. Planning the world’s greatest black-market arms bazaar wasn’t easy and he refused to be dependent on any kind of help. Of course, it didn’t help that the venue was in the heart of the Amazon jungle—coincidentally an area where he’d had to clear even more drug dealers and other undesirables out to make any headway. The local authorities had been a big help though . . .

  Ramses rushed past the fact that he’d also had to uproot two indigenous tribes to utilize the area he wanted, not knowing nor caring in the least about their final fate. For six months he had been laying plans—now the final days were upon them. It wasn’t the money or the notoriety he would gain from hosting the bazaar—it was mostly the small and large deals that resulted from it—many of which were made whilst it was underway and which otherwise might never have seen the light of day. When people came together, agreements and even detailed covenants were often made. The problem he faced, rather ironically, was the same problem posed by his enemies—security. The dark web was good for many things but even that was no longer perfectly safe. Email dropboxes were also out these days. Ramses found himself more and more frequently returning to the old fashioned ways.

  Word of mouth, in particular. Face to face meetings in ancient rooms which were constantly swept and monitored for bugs. Underground caverns, impermeable to even the most sophisticated listening devices the Americans had. And here . . . the few places in the world where men like Ramses lived in anonymity. The logistics were awkward, but worth every discomfort.

  Ramses stared over the valley, filled with a crawling mist, the air patterned by aimless, floating droplets. Distant trees hung heavy, their boughs indistinct and ephemeral. And the mountains that kept his small castle safe sat all around, watching over it all. From his vantage point he could gaze down onto the battlements and watch his guards shiver as they patrolled. He could see into the small courtyard, which at this time was empty. Plans for the great bazaar filled his mind, turning his focus inside for a while and he saw nothing. An old memory flitted through his thoughts.

  Ramses had convened three arms bazaars in the past. The last had ended somewhat unsuccessfully due to a rather unfortunate and extremely noisy interruption—the team he now knew were called SPEAR. Like the Charge of the Light Brigade they had stormed his superior positions and totally routed his until-then highly productive event. It had taken years of recovery but here he was again—ready to lead the dark world to victory.

  And thinking of the new dark world that was coming, Ramses now remembered his guest—the wealthy idiot that had thought he could create a new shadow organization that would control entire governments. Of course, the principles were sound—it had been done before—but the execution of those principles left an awful lot to be desired.

  Ramses turned to his desk and pressed a button. “Send in Tyler Webb.”

  Before he had even taken his finger off the button an adjoining door opened and his elite bodyguard entered the room. Akatash was whippet thin, almost as tall as Ramses himself, and possessed of steel-cable like strength. His skills were unsurpassed, his worst deeds the stuff of dark legend, and quite fittingly his name the same as the demon that created evil.

  Tyler Webb appeared through another door a few moments later, closely followed by his own bodyguard—Beauregard Alain. Ramses was very much aware of Alain’s abilities and barely resisted a quick reassuring nod at Akatash. Tyler Webb, dressed impeccably, made Ramses boil inside. Here was a privileged, puffed-up, wannabe autocrat that had never known a day of hardship in his life and thought he could walk the same lethal line as a true radical, a true believer, and for that matter a real soldier, and then wondered where everything went wrong.

  Ramses suppressed his hatred. “Welcome, my friend.” His quiet voice, surprisingly for a man his size, was designed to put people at ease. A false promise if ever there was one.

  “What do you have for me?” Webb offered no greeting, no good conduct and no etiquette.

  Ramses sat back, distracted for a moment by the silent assessments passing between Akatash and Beauregard. It would be an understatement to say that the look between them bristled with daggers, more like ballistic missiles. Ramses could feel a sphere of tension blooming in the air.

  “Remind me what it is that you need.” Ramses said, deciding to give this American devil no assistance other than that which he might benefit from.

  Webb sighed. “The suitcase nuke,” he tapped a finger. “For starters. And, far more important to me, the scroll.” He twisted a second digit rather nervously.

  “Ah, yes.” Ramses acted as if he’d just recalled an earlier conversation. “I have many clients. They want missiles or ammunition or chemical substances. They want body armor or even jet fighters. But never before have I been asked for a scroll?”

  Webb tried to act coy in answer to the implied question. “Buyer’s prerogative. My reason is my own.”

  “And you’re right, of course. Well, the scroll will be there once the bazaar begins, of that I am certain. Our terms though—they have changed.”

  Webb allowed his entire body to puff up, it seemed, from his cheeks to his chest and probably to his toes. “I think not, Ramses. We have a deal, thrashed out many months ago. One suitcase nuke and one scroll. I am here, right now, prepared to take part and offer my support to this . . . this enterprise of yours, this bazaar¸ but I will not be hoodwinked.”

  Ramses sat back in his chair, then pressed a discreet button. “Coffee,” he said, thinking hoodwinked? What a quaint old term.

  Beside him he felt Akatash shift, the almost palpable fury coiled within him squirming to be set free. Akatash didn’t take it well when other men and women questioned his prince.

  Ramses considered unleashing the demon right now, but was well aware of Beauregard’s fearsome reputation. So much so that he wasn’t entirely sure of the outcome, though the conflict would surely be epic. But not here, not inside his home.

  “It is a small matter,” Ramses said evenly. “But an important one.”

  Webb sighed, clearly torn. Ramses could feel how much the other man desired that scroll. The need washed off him like stale sweat. At that moment the door opened and a suited man appeared, carrying a tray with two small cups, spoons and sugars. With a deft skill he sidestepped Beauregard’s watchful bulk and left them in the center of the table. Ramses indicated that Webb could choose his own cup.

  “No, thank you.”

  Ramses shrugged, the gesture shaking the table that separated them. And of course, the cup loo
ked tiny in his immense paw of a hand, something that was not entirely lost on Tyler Webb.

  “What is it that you want to amend?”

  “As I said, it is a small matter and related to the suitcase nuke. The one your colleague—I can’t remember his name—has a plan for.”

  “Yes. His name is Julian Marsh and he’s as committed as I am.”

  Ramses paused for one moment. “Really? The word is that the Pythians are dead.”

  Webb stiffened. “I am the Pythians. Me. I will say when they die.”

  “Very well, then. This man, Julian Marsh—he is well travelled?”

  “Every week or so,” Webb said. “DC. Tokyo. Israel.”

  “Good, then he will not be too obvious.”

  “He’s not flying the nuke into the US.”

  “I realize that. But still, there is much travel involved is there not?”

  “Yes. I guess.”

  “Your man’s plan is to travel by circuitous route to America’s greatest city and then ransom your puppet government for, umm, shall we say—precious goods? Eh?”

  “You can say that if you like.”

  “But the whole exercise is a bluff, nothing more. The nuke is real; it has to be real to make the whole plan work, but he will never detonate. If they call his bluff he walks away with his tail between his legs.”

  Webb prickled a little. “They will never call the bluff of a man holding a nuclear weapon in the heart of New York City. Are you mad?”

  “A little, yes. I find it makes life much more interesting. But listen—that small change I asked for? I want the nuke detonated. For real.”

  Tyler Webb stared as if all the blood-soaked nightmares of hell had just risen before his eyes. “What . . . are you . . . are . . . you can’t do that.”

  Ramses enjoyed the spectacle for a minute, then sighed. “Then I’m afraid there will be no scroll. Not for you, at least.”

  “But we made . . . we made a deal!”

  Ramses was aware of both bodyguards shifting a little, most likely to achieve optimum attack positions.

  “Marsh would never agree to it!”

  Ramses allowed a sly smile to creep across his face. “But I thought you were the leader of the Pythians?”

  Yes, yes, but we’re talking a nuke. In New York! Only a fucking monster would condone that! You could be starting Armageddon.”

  The smile that then transformed Ramses’ face was entirely genuine. “I know. And thank you.”

  “I need time . . .” Webb blustered.

  “It’s easy,” Ramses said. “Do you want the scroll or not?”

  “Of course!”

  “Then it’s settled. Let’s shake on it.”

  Ramses leaned forward, hand outstretched. Webb regarded it like he might a predator’s claw. At that moment Beauregard Alain coughed.

  “I think it’s better that you two stay apart, don’t you think?”

  Webb fought to think. Ramses could see multiple emotions warring inside the man’s deviant mind—from complete acceptance to hard persuasion and from pretend ignorance to actual deception. Ramses knew even now that, in the end, both Webb and Marsh would try to betray him.

  But that was fine. They were merely the dupes he needed to get the weapon inside the US.

  Webb ignored his bodyguard, clasping Ramses’ hand. “If I agree to this barbarity I get the scroll. No more changes?”

  Ramses inclined his head. “In a few days after the bazaar has started. No more changes.”

  Webb shook.

  Ramses gripped the man’s pasty white, limp-wristed limb hard enough to grind bone. “You will not betray me, Tyler Webb.”

  Beauregard moved but Ramses sat back quickly, leaving Webb gasping but no worse for wear. Tears stood out on the Pythian leader’s eyes but he waved Beauregard back. “No, no, I must have that scroll. Must. Do you hear? Everything depends on it.” Then he closed his mouth, aware that he’d spoken aloud. Ramses wondered about the scroll in that moment, wondered greatly, but quickly decided that a scrap of paper was a madman’s folly. Only power and force and immense weaponry could defeat the infidel and all its machinations.

  “We are agreed?” he said.

  “Yes, we are agreed. I will inform Marsh. But not too soon.”

  “Then I would start—quietly—to withdraw any holdings or connections you might have down the east coast.” Ramses grinned. “Just a thought.”

  Webb shrugged it off. “When should I arrive?”

  “At the bazaar? Oh, from the very start of course. Enjoy. There will be live entertainment, food, banquets twenty four hours a day. Only the best. Slave auctions, dancing men and women, shooting ranges, drug boutiques. Private tents, Sky TV and sports channels so you need not miss a single minute of your . . . favorite wickedness.”

  “You have got to be kidding.”

  “Of course not! And there’s more,” Ramses was enjoying himself now. “There’s athletics. A daily hunt for crocodiles and other predators. Designer clothes stalls. Designer sunglasses and watch shops. Tents for secret meetings. Jet skiing down the river. Free Wi-Fi, of course, and secure connections. Any form of alcohol you might enjoy on a whim. And one extra special type of hunt—involving a live human.”

  Webb’s face was a picture. Ramses wished he could take a photo, but that would just spoil the moment. Instead, he spread his hands. “Sound good?”

  “So long as I get my fucking scroll you can keep your live hunts and jet skiing. But I will be there,” he added quickly, “from the beginning.”

  “Excellent!” Ramses smiled. “In two days then.”

  Webb rose, and made a point of looking out at the startling Peruvian landscape. “This place complements you, Ramses. The cold and wet tempers whatever searing madness stirs within your black heart. You should stay.”

  “I might just do that. I do find it . . . soothing. Oh, and I guess certain parts of America will be a little muggy for at least a thousand years, eh?”

  Ramses’ belly laugh filled the room, overwhelming. Webb motioned at his bodyguard. No more words were said as the two men departed. Once they had exited the inner castle Ramses motioned that Akatash could depart too. The demon withdrew without a word. Ramses wandered over to his window and stared down at the courtyard, down upon Tyler Webb and Beauregard Alain.

  How easily men could be manipulated. How easily even a mad megalomaniac could be turned to malleable jelly. All you had to do was find the thing they loved or needed—and squeeze.

  First the bazaar, then the nuke business, and finally his revenge.

  All of a sudden, Peru didn’t look so lackluster after all.

  He pressed another concealed button. “Let’s begin,” he said. “In the years to come the world will look back upon this moment, this day, and this place as a turning point in history. A fulcrum to ultimate change.”

  “So you’re saying—let the games begin?”

  Ramses laughed. “That I am, my friend. That I am.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The SPEAR team landed in Manaus, Brazil, a densely populated city forming the main entrance for visiting the wildlife and plant life of the Amazon rainforest. Once known as the ‘Heart of the Amazon’, it became more famous for its Free Economic Zone and cellphone manufacturing plants.

  The team saw none of the colorful city as the plane landed at Eduardo Gomes International and then taxied to a stop near the smaller terminal normally reserved for regional aviation. They were met on the tarmac by officials who knew they were coming, locals firmly in the pocket of the local US agency way station, with instructions to let them pass. Of course, in theory this was easy but in real life nothing ever went to plan.

  Before they left DC the team had been promised an utterly discreet passage and a final destination where they could equip themselves with all the latest weaponry—most of which they would unquestionably need—before being shown to a Manaus safe house. Drake trusted such seamless planning as much as he trusted most social media sites�
� privacy policies and the small links at the bottom of spam emails that read: ‘click here to unsubscribe’.

  The temperature was in the thirties and the ground looked as if it had recently received a soaking. Drake allowed Hayden to approach the authorities as he and the rest of the team fanned out to guard their flanks. He was also on alert for any kind of distant surveillance although actually spotting such a thing in any situation was even harder than it sounded. With the still grumbling plane at their backs and in the shadow of the terminal, the team could see only half a dozen windows overlooking them from a distant building and no activity in any of them. They waited until Hayden had produced the necessary credentials and then followed her through a small gate, passing two more smoking guards as they went. One of the guards blew smoke in the air, bored, whilst the other stared with deep interest at his belt. Drake guessed that this kind of thing happened all the time in this part of the world.

  The Amazon rainforest, though known for many things including its great river, its immense flora that formed over half the world’s rainforest, its deadly creatures and biodiversity, had now also become a haven for drug dealers, arms smugglers and other similar scum-sucking types. Authorities were paid so little that they were always open to a little extra grease-money and those that weren’t were often found decaying by the side of quiet roads or, in many cases, never seen again.

  It has been said that the Brazilians had lost control of whatever small influence they had in the Amazon basin, but then eight other nations also claimed a percentage of it, and with every nation offering up a different policy, who could keep track of that? Drake knew it would be best to concentrate on their own small mission whilst they were here—a quick ‘in-and-out’ demolition of most of the leading lights in international terrorism—but found himself wishing there was some way to preserve such an innocent area of the world. Not everywhere should feel the touch of human boots, of human avarice and arrogance. The futility of his thoughts saddened him. Someone, somewhere, would always be prepared to destroy everything that stood in their way in order to accomplish their own goals.