Hitman: Enemy Within (21 page)

The man that Gazeau knew as Alex Taylor quickly ran out of ammo, but by then there was a fresh clip in the AK-47, and Numo was still firing when the Eurocopter hit the ground. The remaining engine screamed as the aircraft did a nose-over, the main rotor shattered, and pieces of blade scythed through the air.

The long-slide went back into its holster. The act of slipping a fresh magazine into the shorter weapon was as natural as breathing, but there was no need. The fat man was still alive, struggling to free himself by then, but it was too late, and 47 caught one last glimpse of the policeman’s desperate face as the 135

blew. There were three explosions in all, and even though he was about seventy-five yards away, it was still necessary to go facedown in the sand as a wall of heat rolled past and pieces of flaming debris fell all around.

Finally, once the explosions were over, the assassin stood. Gazeau appeared at his side.

“It will take days for the government to sort this out…assuming they ever do. Still, there’s bound to be a whole bunch of gendarmes running about. So it would be a good idea to get in and out of Oum-Chalouba as quickly as we can.”

Agent 47 nodded.

“That works for me. Let’s get out of here.”

OUM-CHALOUBA,CHAD

The town ofOum-Chalouba had the one thing that no desert traveler can do without and that was water. Evidence of it could be seen in groves of lush date palms, private gardens that could be glimpsed through partially opened gates, and a tiled fountain located in the public square. Unfortunately the fountain was dry at the moment, and had been for the better part of two years, ever since its sixty-year-old pump had broken down. A new one was on order, or so the
maire
(mayor) claimed, but none of the local residents expected to see water flowing into the big bowl anytime soon. The city’s architecture included a lonely Catholic church, three mosques, a French Colonial administration building, and a poorly maintained military base. There were also three truly fine nineteenth-century houses, dozens of flat-roofed structures of the sort seen throughout theMiddle East , and a sprawling metal-roofed
souk
that had been in business for more than a thousand years. And that was where Al-Fulani and his entourage were, as shop owners hawked their wares, loud music blared from ubiquitous radios, and a silversmith hammered ornate patterns into a large platter. The air around them was hot and heavy with the odors of spices, broiled goat meat, and tanned leather. People claimed that one could buy anything in the
souk,
and based on what Marla had seen, they were correct. In addition to food, clothing, and household goods the
Puissance Treize
agent had seen shops filled with military uniforms, used auto parts, artificial limbs, exotic animals, hashish, and all manner of weapons.Which was to say, something for everyone.

But the
souk
had another category of merchandise for sale. Something that had once been trafficked in the main square, as hard-eyed Tuaregs stood all around and camel caravans plodded through town. That was human flesh, which was what Al-Fulani had traveled all the way fromFez to buy.Children, specifically, who could be put to work in his so-called “orphanage,” where they would service wealthy pedophiles until they were too old to be considered young.

At that point the slaves would be resold. Such was the market that the Moroccan and his bodyguards sought—but only after pausing to inspect all manner of merchandise, chatting up the shop owners, and buying a variety of trinkets. It was a process Al-Fulani clearly enjoyed. Marla had a different perspective, since she saw the labyrinthine market as the perfect place for an ambush. Yet it was a concern Al-Fulani was unwilling to take seriously.

“I have faith in you, my dear,” the businessman said, when reminded of the dangers. “Besides, who would come after me
here
?”

So what could have been a ten-minute walk through the
souk
was transformed into an hour-long shopping expedition that eventually delivered the group into the shattered remains of what had once been a small palace. Artillery shells had destroyed the structure’s dome during the war withLibya in the early

’80s. Having been artificially opened to the azure sky, the mostly intact walls embraced an arena in which a myriad of animals were bought and sold each day. The smell of their feces was so strong that Marla found it necessary to breathe through her mouth as she followed Al-Fulani into the circular enclosure. Women were a seldom-seen sight in the arena, and men turned to stare as the Moroccan and his entourage entered. Three of the onlookers were dressed in
keffiyeh,
and ankle-length black
thawb
s, slit open at the sides so the wearers could access their guns. And, thanks to the sunglasses and goatee he was wearing, Agent 47 felt confident that he wouldn’t be recognized. Finding the house that Al-Fulani was staying in had been easy, thanks to Numo’s scouting skills, and everyone in the
souk
seemed to be aware of why the Moroccan had come to town. So, rather than follow the businessman and almost certainly be spotted, the assassin had chosen to anticipate his movements instead. And now, as Marla paused to wrap a scarf around her face, 47 knew he’d been right.

There were other potential buyers as well, some of whom were known to Al-Fulani and greeted the Moroccan respectfully as he made his way to a section of seats reserved for wealthy VIPs. Once the businessman was seated, a tray bearing a tiny cup of very strong coffee and a selection of sweetmeats was summoned, and Al-Fulani took full advantage of it as he chatted with the man seated to his right. Marla stood immediately behind her client, where she could protect his back as her eyes inventoried the huge enclosure. Buyers and sellers formed a circle, interrupted by two lanes through which merchandise could be herded in and out of the open area. But her eyes were elsewhere, sweeping the cheap seats, looking for any sign of a threat.

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. TheSudan probably, or theCentral 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 foundhimself competing with a dark-skinned man fromNigeria . When the process was over, the Moroccan was well pleased with the eighteen children who would accompany him toFez .

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 inNorth 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 ofFaya 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 northernChad , 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,” the 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.”