The Last Bazaar

by David Leadbeater

  “Quit!” she cried. “As of now, you guys live. Any more of this shit and I’ll personally gut the both of you!”

  Drake spun to face the Albanian, hands ready, but the man backed off, holding his arms high but still clinging to the heavy bottle.

  “Had to try,” he said, fingers grasping around the neck.

  The wife picked herself up off the floor, brushing glass from her clothes and wincing from the dozen or so cuts she’d received. Drake noted that she still did not stop even as the blood flowed and caught Hayden’s attention.

  “I think the two Albanian Kruegers really need to be restrained and guarded. No slacking. These two are bloody dangerous.”

  “I agree.”

  There was the clatter of footsteps and then the rest of the team joined them. Drake regarded Alicia.

  “How close are we?”

  “No sign of the bazaar’s guards. We’re okay for now.”

  “Good. Because we have decisions to make before we go in.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Five passes,” he said. “Eight of us. Who stays?”

  “Soldiers should go,” Yorgi said immediately. “More training if something go wrong. If I am needed I can help better alone.”

  “Then that rules me out,” Lauren said. “But I agree. I’d be no good in there.”

  Smyth watched her. “I’ll stay with them,” he muttered. “That makes it easy and they’re gonna need a guard.”

  Drake agreed with him. His eyes took in Alicia and Dahl, Hayden and Kinimaka. “Then it’s all up to us. Are you ready to crash the last bazaar?”

  “Are you kidding?” Alicia grinned. “Crashing parties is my thing.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Drake said automatically, then added, “In fact, I remember it.”

  Dahl stayed serious. “We should conduct a little extra interrogation first. Get them to tell us about what we’re allowed to take in—weapons and the like.”

  Kinimaka couldn’t take his eyes away from Hayden’s bruised face. “Shit.”

  Hayden ignored him. “All right, let’s do this. And in there we’re in hell. Murder central. Surrounded by the worst of the worst. This is gonna be like nothing we’ve experienced before, boys, so be careful. Danger, literally, will be all around.”

  “Better than that other fucker that they reckon is all around,” Alicia murmured. “Love.”

  Dahl rubbed his hands together a little too gleefully for Drake’s liking. “So come on,” he said. “What are we waiting for? Ramses’ bazaar isn’t going to obliterate itself.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Tyler Webb rather enjoyed wandering anonymously from tent to tent, pavilion to pavilion by way of several cut-back jungle trails. Yes, the persistent showers were annoying and, in truth, they were a little more than that but Webb began to welcome the heavy downpours because they actually brought a little relief from the incessant heat. Of course, their aftermath brought even more humidity as the jungle dried out, but most of these tents were air-conditioned anyway. How else could you attract so many wealthy people to Purgatory?

  Webb sensed Beauregard at his side the entire time, except for twice when the lithe Frenchman was forced into action. The conflict didn’t last long, though the one time Webb noticed his adversary was a woman several words were passed along with wry smiles. As darkness fell on that first day, Webb found himself enjoying the diversities. Wealthy, privileged men like himself craved uniqueness and Ramses’ bazaar was as unusual as it got.

  Guards moved aside, their weapons pointed upward, as Webb ambled by. This pavilion extended up to a point, white fabric stretched and adorned with lights, bathing the key area in a golden glow. Webb’s interest centered on a long, low sturdy table where sat three familiar items.

  Julian Marsh’s plan of using a so-called suitcase nuke to force the US to capitulate to the Pythians’ demands—as China previously had over the Z-Boxes—had forced both Webb and Marsh to become doyens of what was once simply Cold War tech. The only nations with enough expertise and money to successfully develop a tactical nuclear weapon small enough to fit into a backpack or large suitcase were the US, the Russians, and the Israelis. None of these three had acknowledged the existence of a weapon compact enough to be able to fit into a small suitcase, but the original technology was now at least thirty years old. It was also claimed—but never proven—that a dummy suitcase nuke was regularly carried on internal airline flights in the 1980s. For training purposes naturally. Webb allowed a little smile of disdain to creep across his features. How many times per day did a government lie to its people? And how many of those lies were for the people’s own good, rather than the politicians’?

  He moved closer to the table in question, studying the item it held. The backpack was large and shapely enough so that it would stand out in a crowd, even scream for a closer inspection. The coloring was distinctly military, the strapping old and worn. It actually looked to Webb like half an oil drum wrapped in canvas.

  The surprise must have registered on his face, for a man stepped forward out of a discreet shadow. “Is this not to your liking, sir?”

  Webb scowled. “When I heard the term ‘suitcase nuke’ I imagined something smaller.”

  “These three items are overlarge for your purposes?”

  “They were overlarge for Hussein. How the hell am I supposed to utilize them?”

  “Might I point you this way then, sir?”

  The salesman, a young African who sported a name badge with the code word: Clay, which Webb really didn’t understand, waved him toward a set of curtains on the far side of the tent. Though the screen was merely fabric, the way it was hung and with two more beyond, it formed the perfect barrier. Webb passed through all three to find himself in a much smaller area bordered by two exterior sides of the tent. Clay left him and Beauregard to face a man whose face and demeanor was much more in keeping with the nature of the bazaar.

  “You want buy? Buy these?”

  Webb looked away from the pockmarked, scarred face, the dead eyes, the lank hair and filthy clothing, to the merchandise on the table. Surprisingly, it was the opposite of the man—clean, new, advanced.

  The man coughed harshly. “It cream of crop, yes? Those others they too big. Old. Dangerous. This new and only one left. Yes?”

  Webb tried to keep his face blank. What the hell was he looking at? Assuming the nuke was already inside then the delivery system was everything he’d dreamed about. “How did you get it so small? If an employee presented me with a suitcase nuke the size of those I’ve just seen I’d terminate his contract with excessive prejudice.”

  Rat Breath, as Webb now designated him, just shrugged. “New,” he said. “Best.”

  Webb nodded. What he found of most interest about suitcase nukes was that, according to several high-ranking Russian defectors, since the Cold War many of these devices had gone missing. It turned out that the number of “missing” nukes was almost identical to the number of targets on which they might be deployed. Might it be possible then, that they may already be deployed on US soil? Wired to batteries with several redundant backups. Just waiting . . .

  They claimed to have hidden untold caches of weapons, sleeper agents and bomb-making materials. Of course, these days it was getting harder to smuggle anything into the States, but most of the stuff was already there. Webb snapped his thoughts back to the present, focusing on the wheeled suitcase that lay on the table.

  “Is it wired to the case?” he asked, then sighed. “Remove?” he asked. “Can weapon be removed?”

  “Oh, no.” Rat Breath looked terrified. “All one. Only detonate.”

  “Nobody ever admitted to building one smaller than a foot-locker,” Webb breathed to Beauregard. “And yet here we are. Imagine if governments, for the last thirty years, had poured as many resources into disease control, famine prevention and catastrophe awareness as they have weapons. The world would be a far different place, my friend.”

  Beauregar
d inclined his head. “Shocked to hear you say it but also pleased.”

  Webb shrugged. “Hey, not that I give a fuck, right? They make their own beds, these war mongers. Tie them to what they reap. Let them burn.”

  “Is that really you, sir?”

  Webb laughed. “Oh, perhaps the wine has gone to my head. Or whatever that concoction was. Rice vodka? Who cares, right? Anyway, back to work. Julian should have arrived about an hour ago and will be fretting. How much for this new weapon, Mr. Rat—” Webb coughed to cover his error, then finished lamely. “Mr. Man?”

  “One million dollars. The larger ones are half that.” Rat Breath shrugged.

  Webb threw his arms in the air. “Then we celebrate!” He reeled off an account number and then privately entered a pin that allowed these dealers to extricate funds the potential buyers had deposited earlier.

  “Transaction good.” Ratty showed his rodent-like teeth at Webb. “You take.”

  “That I will,” Webb smiled. “That I will. Oh, and what guarantee do I have that this thing actually works?”

  Rat Breath looked understandably nonplussed. “Can’t test,” he said with a verminous smile. “That would be problem. Have clever man check wiring.”

  Webb leaned forward, grinning too. “But carefully, eh? Super careful?”

  “Oh, very careful!” Rat Breath cried.

  “It will be checked,” Webb said seriously. “And any problems will be taken up by my associate here.”

  Beauregard hefted the suitcase at arm’s length.

  Rat Breath said nothing, but grinned.

  Webb exited the tent, still smiling and feeling good about himself. With all prospects of even the lightest, mildest forms of stalking currently on hold he had expected this trip to be more than depressing. But on the contrary, it had injected a feisty little spirit into him that he quite liked. The path outside twisted among dark boughs and Webb took a moment to lean against one as he checked his cell. To hell with the creepy-crawlies. To hell with anything else. Tonight was for living . . .

  Marsh was here. Webb felt instant depression. Marsh was a frigging oddball, one part of him normal the other part, well, odd. The man’s message said to meet near the caiman pit so Webb took some bearings, headed off, and then switched to the opposite direction at Beauregard’s wry insistence. He’d never been particularly good at finding his way around.

  Not exactly right, he thought. I’ve always been good at finding my way around people’s homes. And lives.

  Water dripped without end, a constant accompaniment to whatever revelries were happening tonight. Webb trudged through wet leaves and piles of mud, passing the slave tent once again and the sports pavilion. Many were inside catching up on live matches and results they were missing, but Webb had never cared for games of any kind. Beyond the pavilion lay the caiman pit, bordered by a high fence and still well-lit, but now patronized only by one man—Julian Marsh.

  Webb blinked twice as he saw Marsh climbing the fence to peer over the top, face pressed firmly between wrought-iron barbs, as if he couldn’t see straight through the gaps between the uprights. This was not a good man to send out into the world with a nuclear weapon. Not a good man at all.

  Webb coughed loudly. “Julian?”

  “Yessss?” Marsh turned, still clinging to the uprights.

  “Come down from there. I have our merchandise.”

  Marsh leapt from the railings, arms and legs out in a star-shape, landing awkwardly but without injury. Webb stared openly at the contrast of sheepskin jacket and tailored pants, the luminous green gloves and purple rain boots. The doubts in his mind suddenly gelled.

  “Julian,” he said carefully. “Are you okay?”

  “Never been better!” the last of the Pythian generals squeaked. “And you and the French condom? Okay?”

  Webb gave in. The end-game here was actually the scroll, not the damn nuke. “Well, here we are. As agreed. Smuggle this into the US and then New York City. Once you’re there, let me know and we will start the show.”

  Marsh reached out both hands for the suitcase. “Looks a little small, boss. Some FBI agent gets a look at this he’ll pee himself laughing.”

  Webb hadn’t had time to formulate a believable story. “It’s real, I’m sure. Get it checked before you reach the United States though. And be careful, Marsh. This is the Pythian swan song.”

  “Cool, cool. So . . . what do I do with it when we’re done? Throw it in the Hudson?”

  Webb winced. “Umm, no. Let me get back to you on that. Use the burner phone method. No dead drops anymore. They got that covered these days. Code words as we agreed. This is it now, Julian. You are a Pythian carrying out his duty. Possibly the last. Do not stray from the road, my friend.”

  Webb needed the distraction. Ramses’ new ultimatum may have painted this picture with a wholly different brush, but Webb needed it to happen one way or another. Once the Saint Germain angle was in play Webb would be free, whole, able to live and stalk and destroy without restraint or restriction. Quickly, he sent Marsh on his way, marveled at how the man stayed upright in those rain boots, and then used a two-way radio to contact Ramses.

  “The matter we spoke of? It is in play right now. My man is on his way to the final destination, but carefully. It will take some time.”

  Ramses voice was deep and sonorous. “Not too long I hope.”

  “Next week perhaps.”

  “That is acceptable. So now I assume you require this scroll?”

  Webb allowed the excited tingle to spread from his skull to his feet. “I do.”

  “Tomorrow,” Ramses breathed. “Seven p.m. At the slavers’ tent.”

  Webb barely refrained from letting out a frustrated sigh. “Seven p.m.? No sooner?”

  “It is what it is, friend.”

  “Very well.” Webb tried in vain to hang on to his feeling of wellbeing. “I will see you then.”

  He glanced around at Beauregard. “Find my tent. I’ve had enough of this shit. I want a bottle of rice vodka, Cinnamon Buns ice cream and a DVD player with Once Upon A Time already loaded. Can you do that?”

  “I’ll do my best, sir.”

  “Make sure you do. Oh, and Beauregard?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Next week, tell any friends you have in New York to take a vacation. But for now, keep the rest of these murderers, betrayers and savages away from me. Okay?”

  “Got it.”

  “We have two days left to make this bazaar work for us,” Webb said. “Tomorrow, we’ll shop like we’re on Rodeo.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  In the heat of battle and the intense pressure of a soon-anticipated conflict the wisest person will always grab a little respite when he or she can, and Matt Drake’s came in the form of watching Alicia Myles play dress-up. It had now been decided that Yorgi would play the Albanian mafia boss and Alicia his wife, as they were the closest physical match team SPEAR could find at short notice.

  Out in the Amazon, Drake had said. It’s you, Alicia, or a cougar.

  That one earned him a bruise.

  But there were more, so many more potential wisecracks, as Alicia and Yorgi donned the bespoke clothes of the wealthy terrorist couple and figured out a way to conceal their new, slimmer body armor and several weapons. Alicia in particular looked uncomfortable wearing civilian clothes, not to mention customized fabrics, and took some time to tug at the neckline, hemline and sides of her black dress.

  “Is it me?” she asked. “Or is this a little inappropriate for the fucking Amazon?”

  The Albanian terrorist’s wife shrugged, her blond locks bobbing. “I just dress nice. All places we go are same.”

  Alicia stared. “Do you even know what the Amazon is?”

  The wife shrugged again. “It is the next place we go. After that it is Cairo. Then the Atlantis Dubai. Then—”

  Her husband cut her off with a hiss. Drake grunted. “Don’t count on it, love.”

  Alicia gestured fev
erishly at the window. “Don’t you ever look out the window? There’s a jungle out there not a fucking shopping mall!”

  Drake burst out laughing as Dahl grinned. The Yorkshireman said, “You’re perfect for the part, Alicia. A proper terrorist princess.”

  “One more crack out of either of you and we’ll be a guard short. Believe that.”

  Yorgi stepped up, adjusting a tie and shrugging into a dinner jacket. The young thief also looked out of place, but Drake thought he carried it off quite well. Maybe it was the criminal in him—his life of wearing a disguise. Of course, Lauren would have been better for the job Alicia had been lumbered with but the team would not take her quite literally into the dragon’s den unless there was no other option.

  Drake, Dahl and Kinimaka donned new jackets taken from the now trussed-up guards, the Hawaiian having most trouble and having to tear several ambiguous holes to get the right fit. “Next time,” he told the Albanian, “get some guards with a proper set of muscles on ’em. Not toothpicks.”

  “Be careful you don’t rip that jacket in half,” Hayden fretted a little. “Just . . . be careful in there, okay? All of you.”

  The five-person team nodded, ready to go. Smyth managed a grimace, still with his weapons trained on the Albanians, and Lauren manned the helm to guide them closer to the site of the bazaar. Very soon, Drake saw guards appear dotted at the top of the riverbank, all with weapons pointed at the skies but on full alert. Again he was reminded that these men weren’t the complacent mercs they had grown used to. Some stood in full view whilst others lurked in the dark, covering their colleagues. Dahl pointed out what appeared to be an anti-aircraft set-up and inhaled loudly without speaking. What was there to say?

  Soon, a makeshift dock appeared ahead and Lauren guided the craft slowly in. Once they were docked and tied, the five-person team climbed up on deck, attitude and pass-keys at the ready. Drake stayed close to Alicia and Dahl to Yorgi whilst Kinimaka hung back a little to gauge reactions and study the area.