The Last Bazaar

by David Leadbeater

  Drake took in as much as he could without appearing suspicious. The rickety dock led to a flat, muddy area that had clearly been cut out of the jungle and leveled off. He was lucky to be wearing boots but didn’t hold out much hope for the Albanian couple’s shoes. More fortunately it appeared Ramses had thought of everything—including his special guests underestimating the jungle’s hostility—and pairs of rain boots were provided as they came ashore. Drake glared at the bright lights that emanated through the densely packed trees and caught the sounds of laughter, shouting and music, but for now they were stopped at a polite but necessarily suspicious guard station. Here, Drake noticed, the gun barrels were much lower.

  Without a word or barely a glance Yorgi handed five pass keys over. The inspector, suitably attired in a penguin suit and white gloves, plucked the pass keys from the Russian’s hand and placed them all, golden micro-chip up, on his table. With an emotionless smile he glanced past them toward the boat, then surveyed the rolling waters and silent banks. Drake said nothing, but prayed there wouldn’t be a series of questions.

  Moments dragged on for hours. Drake eyed the guards and they eyed him back. His weapon was holstered but close at hand. The white-gloved concierge waved the first black plastic key onto a portable scanner and waited for a beep. Information must have flashed up on a hidden screen for the man then asked for names and nationality.

  Yorgi spoke for the both of them, as haltingly as the Albanian, and trying to keep any Russian inflection from his voice. Drake saw the concierge’s eyes flick and a flex in his fingers, but the look was only a surreptitious one to take in Alicia’s form and soon passed. Drake however noticed Alicia’s sudden tension and prayed that she wouldn’t decide to teach him a lesson. Not here. Not now.

  “All keys are good.” The man smiled. “As expected, of course. Please,” he stood aside and indicated a path of stones that had been inlaid into the jungle floor, “follow the . . . yellow brick road.” His polite laugh at the end was well rehearsed and clearly performed hundreds of times. Yorgi ignored him and pushed past, waving at Alicia to follow but not watching to see if she did. Drake thought the Russian had the terrorist’s mannerisms down to a T and followed Alicia across the unstable stones.

  The noise and light drew nearer. Drake saw more guards, their eyes roving the group and nearby shadows. Then they rounded a huddle of trees and entered the bazaar and paused for a moment, looks of shock on their faces. What could only be described as state-of-the-art market stalls lined a wide pathway, their supports and coverings wound among upstanding trees and foliage. Floodlights illuminated all, and helped keep unwanted insects at bay. Vendors hawked their wares, but their offerings were not ordinary merchandise. Drake saw compact sub-machine guns, boxes of grenades, rocket launchers and a missile battery at just a glance. Guards were stationed everywhere, and groups wandered the winding pathway, stopping to peruse stalls at their leisure. Rising at the end of the path Drake saw a pavilion, its opening framed by lights. An odor of cooked meats drifted on the wind. A mini-explosion in the jungle testified to the presence of interested predators.

  “They don’t care,” Dahl said, nodding at the buyers. “It’s just another day on the road to them.”

  Drake also whispered. “They buy and they buy and it funds more terror,” he said. “Many of them don’t see what they reap. These people are the money, not the zeal.”

  Yorgi pretended some interest in a crate of missiles, pointing out the fact that they did possess the Albanian’s pre-paid credit card. More stalls offered knives, swords and military gear. More pavilions appeared ahead and, on quick inspection, presented every sort of deadly paraphernalia Drake could think of, and more besides. All in all, the bazaar was an extreme show of incredible excess, tailored toward the more mature lunatic and his doting wife.

  Alicia spoke little as they walked, so far out of her comfort zone even she couldn’t poke fun at it. Banquets lay spread alfresco on tables covered in satin. Auctioneers sold men and women to left and right, so blatantly that the entire five-person team were forced to employ all of their self-restraint not to step in. By contrast the next cleared area along had been overlaid in some kind of thick fabric to allow men and women an area to dance slowly to quiet tunes.

  The owner of a shooting range encouraged them to take a try, whispering that he would take any currency that they had. A quiet, domed tent required inspection by Yorgi and turned out to be a drugs boutique. Drake was surprised to see Italian and French designer stalls too, though who could say if the goods were genuine or fake? Certainly not him. None of this interested him too much, but what he did find noteworthy was that none of the guests spoke to or barely glanced at each other. He wasn’t sure if this was sheer snobbery or precautionary but, if pushed, would have bet on the former.

  A small array of private tents passed and then they were nearing the end of the bazaar, a railed hole ahead. Drake briefly wondered what might lay inside when Dahl leaned in to Yorgi.

  “Think we should buy something? For appearances sake?”

  Drake took that one. “Let’s leave it tonight, it’s getting late. We’ve done the groundwork. Tomorrow the real work begins. We find Webb, Beau, and the bloody CIA. And whomever this main man may be.”

  “And then Ramses,” Alicia breathed. “After all I’ve been through, I am so looking forward to putting that guy in his rightful place.”

  “All you’ve been through?” Yorgi echoed, looking a little hurt. “Playing at being my wife, you mean?”

  Alicia scowled. “You’re too young for me, Yogi. And too dainty.”

  The thief’s expression was a study in hurt.

  “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I like my men with a bit more meat on them. And more definition. Experience. Weathered. Been around the block a few times . . .”

  Yorgi held up a hand. “Please don’t go on. I understand you.”

  Drake still stared at the railing. “Not sure where you’re gonna find one of those around here, Princess.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Drake turned around to find Alicia considering him. Quickly, he coughed and gave Kinimaka a push. “C’mon, pal, let’s find our tents.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to go to bed.” Alicia pouted. “The night is yet young.”

  “Big day tomorrow. Huge day. This isn’t going to be easy.”

  “Nothing worth doing ever is,” Dahl said.

  The group took a last look around the meandering throng, the sparkling tables with their gritty, dirty commodities and the attentive, well-spaced guards. The main players, it seemed, had all retired for the night.

  Tomorrow would be madness, Drake thought. Without a plan, backup, or up-to-the-minute intel they somehow had to take down and capture what amounted to a village full of high-class terrorists, a splinter of the CIA and the Pythian leader, not to mention the revolutionary myth himself—Ramses.

  Dahl caught his eye, clearly thinking the same thing. “Let the games begin.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The night was not yet over, Alicia saw to that. An intercom system linked to Wi-Fi had been installed inside their sumptuous tents and the Englishwoman made full use of the amenities. “After all,” she said. “You don’t stay in a five-star, all-inclusive hotel and not make use of the friggn’ facilities, do ya?”

  So, Drake stood guard and watched as she snuggled in next to Yorgi and waited for the bottles to arrive. In keeping with the superior service of the place two waiters appeared within five minutes, immaculately tailored even down to their black Gucci rain boots, holding silver platters in white-gloved hands. The first knelt beside Alicia and poured red wine, the second set out a table full of cold cuts. Almost before they were gone Kinimaka was falling upon the food.

  “Ah, ah,” Alicia clucked. “Prince and princesses only. You peasants can go catch a wild boar or something.”

  The Hawaiian glanced at her, a slice of ham dangling from his mouth. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Dahl g
rinned. “If I don’t get my steak I’m going to punch somebody in the face.”

  Drake laughed and grabbed a handful for himself. Alicia toasted the team and then went down to a little more snuggling. “So, Yorki, how do you like being married to a treasure hunting, ball-busting chickadee?”

  Yorgi, never totally comfortable in Alicia’s presence, inched away. The glass of wine in his hand was already half empty. “Umm, fine. I am good.”

  “Good?” Alicia snorted. “I’ll show you good. We just need to ask the guards to leave,” she hesitated. “Unless . . . unless you’d preferred they stayed?”

  Yorgi spluttered some more as Drake turned away, hiding a smile. One thing you could say for the inimitable Alicia Myles—she always livened up a room. Or a tent, to be more precise. With Kinimaka still filling up it had left Dahl to quickly check the perimeter and the Swede now returned.

  “Quite a community,” he said. “I counted over thirty tents like this before I gave up and half a dozen more in a clearing fit for a king. Probably Ramses and his finer guests. Now what is Alicia doing to Yorgi?”

  Drake walked to the tent flap. “Any guards around?”

  “Bloody hundreds. Add all of these people’s personal minders to Ramses’ own security force and you have a genuine army.”

  “So we stay covert.”

  “Absolutely. Though with Mano’s appetite and Alicia’s antics I’d say we’re already on somebody’s radar.”

  Drake perched on a footstool. “What are they gonna do? Call the front desk?”

  “Out here,” Dahl said. “Nothing would surprise me.”

  “Point taken.” Drake cleared his throat. “Umm, Alicia, be a good girl now and put Yorgi down.”

  The blonde rounded on him. “Careful, Drakey.”

  “You’re making too much noise.”

  “Never been accused of that before. Okay, okay, whatever. Hey, I have an idea!” Alicia drained her glass and reached for a walkie-talkie. Drake rose to stop her but paused as she held up a hand.

  “Hey,” she said when a voice answered. “Do you guys do dancers? Y’know, male dancers?” Her sly glance at Drake ensured he knew she was trying to provoke a reaction.

  Drake nevertheless ended the communication for her, urging her to keep a little restraint. “It’s not One Night in Bangkok,” he reminded her. “It’s a terrorist arms exchange. And all the staff are slaves who either work or die, I’m betting. So stay focused.”

  Alicia sobered at his words, finally relaxing her grip on Yorgi’s neck. The Russian headed over to the other side of the tent.

  “So where are we supposed to sleep?” Kinimaka asked. “Us guards, I mean.”

  “I guess we don’t,” Drake said. “We guard.”

  “There’s always the jungle,” Alicia said a little petulantly.

  “Oh yeah. I’d just love to get snuggled down with a bird-eating spider for the night.”

  Alicia eyed the sides of the tent as if expecting a visitor. “They have those here?”

  “Oh aye,” Drake drawled. “Bigger than a kitten, hairier than a gorilla. They have a sound like a horse’s hooves chasing you through the trees. Great bedfellows, I hear.”

  Alicia sniffed. “No doubt I’ve had worse.”

  “Classy.” Drake looked away. “So, how about we try to get some rest and wake up refreshed for the morning? I get the feeling tomorrow’s gonna be a blast.”

  Dahl eyed him. “Are you being ironic?”

  “Sure, mate, sure. Aren’t I always?”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The morning welcomed them in spectacular and now sadly familiar fashion. The heavens spared no quarter as they opened up a deluge of gargantuan proportions, the rain slamming against the tent with a fury none of them could have imagined. Dahl thrust his head into the downpour to get a look at the morning’s proceedings but soon reported that the bazaar seemed to be taking a break.

  “Funny that,” Drake said.

  An hour later the torrent subsided and the group made their way out of the small tent village. A huge snake lay across their trail but even as they all paused, startled, it slithered away, its lazy undulations almost mesmerizing. Alicia took a deep breath as if she’d just faced down the worst horror of her life and then moved off. Drake grinned at her back. Dahl warned him with a finger to his lips.

  “I’d stay quiet, mate, if you fancy keeping your wedding tackle.”

  Drake nodded. The bazaar was back in full flow, gaudy market stalls open, tents with openings flung wide and pop music drifting in the background. Groups and couples were already wandering the byways, stopping to browse at various stalls. A group of tired-looking men dressed in white thawbs and keffiyehs emerged from one of the privately marked tents, moving as if they’d been involved in negotiations all night. Drake would have given a year of his life to know what they’d been plotting. If only the CIA had been concentrating more on surveilling this event rather than attending they might have made the world a safer place for decades to come.

  As they paused near the end of a trail, dripping trees all around, a chopper rose into the air carrying some unnamable extremist back to his homeland. This was the bazaar’s middle day and some deals had already been struck. The team made a point of heading back toward the river and watched their boat for a while. Smyth made an obvious figurehead, standing atop the deck, looking fresh and staring at the skies as if daring them to drench him again. Nothing passed between the team but judging by the sight of him, Drake had to assume all was well. The nearby guards eyed them carefully, and soon Yorgi signaled that they should return to the bazaar. As they walked away one of the river boats started up and also left the bazaar, its owner’s deals all done.

  They made a point of attending the slave market, having agreed the previous night that this was one place they would ensure was liquidated of scum before they left. Crowds of buyers and their entourages were now walking outside and gathering in the tents, the bazaar at its busiest. Drake saw how the deals were made, where the slaves came from and then were stored for later collection, and which guards were the most vicious. The auctioneer in particular warranted something special, maybe a visit from one of Kinimaka’s spiders. The evil, vile glint in his eyes and his actions were not those of a man whose humanity might be salvaged.

  Half an hour later, sick to their stomachs, the team exited the slavers’ tent and huddled for a brief confab.

  “It’s time to find Ramses,” Kinimaka said. “Vulnerabilities. Targets. Weapons of major interest . . .”

  “Dude,” Alicia breathed. “What the hell do you think we’ve been doing? Ramses’ tent is a two minute stroll that way, and his neighbors are probably worth a prod or two.” She indicated a game trail made larger by the men. “Guards are either facing in or out, not both. Also they don’t appear to call in at all, for some reason, so if one disappears the rest don’t know. No communications center, either. We haven’t identified who’s in charge yet. As for weapons—didn’t you see the suitcase nukes, the PU94 plutonium inside their radioactive carrying cases, the stock of prototype RPGs and fluid body armor? Man, we can’t let a single terrorist get away with a single item of that lot. And as for targets, well why the hell do ya think we’re doing all this strolling? For our good health?”

  Drake grinned. Alicia was clearly on her game, making up for last night, and the Hawaiian scratched his head as he absorbed all she had just said. “The CIA don’t work that way,” he said. “When we’re gonna do something we say so. At least, we do to the one percent we trust.”

  “Not in the CIA—” Alicia tapped his shoulder “—any more.”

  “Yup, I got that.”

  Again they emerged from the enlarged trail close to the fenced off pit, and now saw several men and women peering down through the bars. With a horde of people between they walked soundlessly toward it, peering at every face and inwardly bemused by the absolute lack of eye contact.

  It was then that Drake saw familiar faces. One that cause
d even him a moment’s panic. Quickly, he caught everyone’s attention and pulled them aside to stare with interest into the forest as two men walked by.

  Tyler Webb and Beauregard Alain.

  Drake allowed his head to hang, his shoulders to slump. Anything to appear different. Alicia struggled not to send a quick glance at Beauregard. Not one of the team could safely stare at the passersby because they knew of Webb’s stalking abilities and that he would no doubt know them all by sight, but they did manage to piece together the scenario between them.

  “Webb’s here to buy,” Drake said as they turned to watch the men’s backs move away. “And Beau’s here as his bodyguard. Shit, Beau might have purposely let this thing slip but I didn’t realize they would be attending.”

  “Nor me,” Alicia muttered. “Whoa, that man looked good.”

  “If Webb’s here to purchase,” Dahl said, “then it can’t be good. We have to mark them down as a definite target.”

  “The leader of the Pythians? Most wanted man in the world?” Drake said. “Oh yeah, he’s on the list.”

  As the group watched, Webb and Beauregard abruptly stopped, confronted by a small entourage of bearded men. All wore the traditional Arab dress except two, and it was these two who looked to be the most interesting. Drake studied a huge man, up to seven feet tall, and the other who appeared to be his bodyguard. It was a giveaway how both he and Beauregard squared up to each other, equals, and stopped studying their surroundings for danger. It was enough that they watched each other. Drake saw Webb engage in conversation with the lofty individual—whom, he noted, was also quite muscular and probably capable—and tried to read lips.

  “Now there’s a shocker,” Dahl said. “You see the big guy? How he holds himself? How the others all defer to his gestures and looks? He’s royalty, I’m sure. That’s our man.”