The Last Bazaar (11 page)

Torsten Dahl listened in silence to the exchanges between Hayden Jaye and the rest of the ground team. SPEAR’s leader was understandably upset and shocked to hear of the US Secretary of Defense so blatantly attending a terrorist arms bazaar but reminded the team that his bodyguards weren’t CIA, and that they had yet to spot that element of the game. She told them they had to be on Price closer than the paparazzi at a Miley Cyrus photo-shoot. Dahl understood that the presence of Price trumped all else for now, but that still left several angles uncovered.

Webb. Beauregard. Ramses. Dahl wasn’t exactly sure Robert Price was a bigger threat to the world than Ramses right now. But he knew where the heated conversation was going. There really was no alternative. As he listened he sat down, relaxing for a moment. For several months now he’d been feeling a little frazzled. Family time was not extensive enough and taking out one enemy was always going to lead to the emergence of another. It was a defeatist attitude, he knew, but it was more than time to take a short break.

A family holiday.

He dreamed a little now, taking himself away from the debate, cutting himself a small slice of heaven. Maybe the Caribbean, no pirates, no bloody terrorists. Just Johanna and the kids, the sapphire seas and a cool breeze.

Soon,
he promised himself.
Very soon.

The Swede shut away the guilt and the hurt, saving it for another hour, another day. It would still be there lingering like a knowing predator, waiting to strike. Johanna had removed herself from home once for him, uprooted the kids, and now they lived in Washington DC, still as lonely and even more isolated. The world would continue without Torsten Dahl fighting evil, but his marriage wouldn’t survive much more.

Forcing it down, burying it deep, he shrugged on the armor required for the work day and faced Matt Drake.

“We ready?”

“Aye, lad. That we are.”

“You do know they hate Yorkshiremen out here in the Amazon basin, don’t you? They think you’re all just a bunch of pie eaters.”

“And I guess they love super-smooth Swedes, eh? The baby-soft bone structure don’t get caught in a cannibal’s teeth.”

“Stereotypical ass.”

“Local pub lunch.”

Then Hayden’s voice became louder. “Please tell those two asses to tone it down, will ya? This is one of the biggest threats to national security in recent years and has to be taken seriously. We need photographic, video, recorded evidence. Something. We have to know why he’s there.”

“Remember General Stone?” Kinimaka put in at that point. “Back in the Pandora event. He warned us about Price even then.”

“I remember. “ Hayden said. “And I took him seriously despite his many catastrophic failings. But Price has been clean and surprisingly helpful the last few months.”

“Do we have a plan?” Kinimaka looked around.

Drake smiled. “Do you have to ask?”

Alicia raised a hand. “So long as it doesn’t involve the woman seducing the hired help then I’m in.”

“You’ve seen too many movies,” Drake said. “Besides, isn’t that your forte?”

“I’ve changed. No more free shags, eh?”

“What? You’re gonna start charging?”

Alicia struck out, maddened by the Yorkshireman’s persistence. Hayden again brought them under control.

“I feel like a friggin’ teacher supervising a kindergarten. Now guys, get it done. You’ve already wasted enough time talking to me. Price is here for something and he could be doing that something even now. Find him, get close, and report back. That’s all.”

Dahl rose. “You heard her. Let’s move.”

The team rose, hard-faced and no doubt still reeling from shock. Dahl could only imagine what a US official might be here to accomplish and the reverberations made his blood run cold. They left Yorgi and Kinimaka inside the tent—Yorgi because he was the recognized leader of their infiltration team and might be conducting business and the Hawaiian because he was simply too big and detectible. Not to mention ex-CIA.

Dahl followed Drake and Alicia out into the jungle. The air was humid, steam rising toward the canopy and the blue skies. Men and women walked around in full attire, some dressed for the conditions, others choosing to suffer them. To be fair, Dahl knew, most of the tents offered air conditioning so it wasn’t exactly challenging to the bazaar’s clientele. The first area Drake led them to was the row of designer boutiques, where they all purchased sunglasses and hats. The adage “even a little helps” was not lost on Dahl. He donned a pair of Oakleys and crammed down a ridiculously priced Armani beanie before taking a quick glance at the others.

“Do I look as daft as you lot?” Drake asked first.

Dahl nodded. “Much worse.”

“For once, I think you may be right.”

Dahl had been in odd situations before, many of them, from his early army days to undercover ops, weeks of slow infiltration, to the time he commanded a Special Forces team of his own. Those days had been dangerous, wild and oddly simple. The complications and unease had set in not when he married Johanna, but when the children came.

Everything changed. He had been told as much, warned about it, but failed to fully understand the significance of being responsible for someone who couldn’t take care of themselves until the whole thing landed on his lap. Literally. Since that moment, he’d struggled, developing a second persona to fight through the tough times. He followed Drake along the trail and then Alicia stopped, surreptitiously pointing to the right. There, at the side of a white pavilion, stood an entire gaggle of men, some suited, some dressed in the Arab garb, others clad in jeans and T-shirts and leather jackets, engaged in a very animated conversation. Alicia had spotted Price because of his two sunglasses-wearing bodyguards. He basked at the center of the group, loving the attention. Alicia drifted toward them and stayed around the fringes.

Dahl strained to hear anything. With everyone chatting, one man’s words were lost beneath another’s. Drake infiltrated the group from one side, patting shoulders, whilst Alicia hung back, sensing some kind of male gathering and not wanting to draw even a moment’s attention.
That woman,
Dahl couldn’t help but think.
Has really grown.

He eased several bodies out of the way, slipping through purposefully but carefully. When he was six feet from the Secretary’s side he dared go no further. The bodyguards were annoyingly vigilant. Instead, he turned to the nearest individual—a black T-shirt wearing twenty-something who looked like someone’s son.

“Enjoying it?”

“Oh yeah!” the youth bellowed. “Did you get a look at the bulletproof G? Whackadonk, man. Fucking whackadonk.”

Dahl hadn’t, but filed the consideration away for later perusal. What he really needed was for this kid to speak a little lower.

“So,” he whispered. “Buy anything?”

The kid grinned and dropped his voice too. “Oh yeah, a fuckin’ bevy. The first . . .”

Dahl tuned him out, nodding along, but listening in a completely different direction. There was an art to eavesdropping. It involved picking up on your target’s tones, their timbre of voice, and focusing only on those qualities and pitches. It took a moment but he soon placed Robert Price’s tenor on his radar.

“They’re here.” Price’s words clicked into place.

Dahl immediately regretted not having eyes in the back of his head.
Who’s here?

Price again. “Stay as sharp as a bath of acid, boys. These assholes are the dregs of the world.”

Dahl doubted the veracity of that statement, considering who spoke it, but stayed on point, hoping Drake and Alicia had spotted the arrivals.

“Where we going?” Price asked.

One of the bodyguards answered. “Gazebo number 8, sir. To your left.”

“Gazebo? Is that a fancy word for a tent?”

“Yes, sir.”

Dahl chanced a glimpse. Price was heading away, flanked by his men, brushing shoulders with a disguised Drake even as Dahl started to move. He made a show of staring at the skies and adjusting his glasses, then scanning the surroundings.

More black-suited men made a beeline for Price.
Ah,
Dahl thought.
The CIA have arrived.
Or a nasty little tributary at least.

What interested Dahl mostly was why Price would choose to meet with members of his own government here. Surely there were easier places? But a quick analysis of that thought offered several answers almost immediately—perhaps these guys were stationed here, or close by. The location was above top secret, offering absolute anonymity. Ramses’ reputation was solid. And who knew what goodies they might have dropped in to buy?

Dahl drifted in as they passed a sign that read
Gazebo #7
, and then walked on as the guards arranged themselves around the next tent and Price walked inside. Drake was at Dahl’s shoulder.

“You catch any of that?”

“Yeah. Nothing clear, but they’re here to make a deal.”

Alicia popped up beside Drake. “We have to hear that conversation. You know what Hayden would say—‘ain’t nothin’ more important’. ‘Safety of the nation’, and all that.” Alicia’s American accent left much to be desired but this wasn’t the time to comment. Dahl agreed with her.

“I can sneak around the back, through the jungle. You two should distract the guards.”

Drake halted. “How the hell are we gonna do that? Those boys’re ex-military for sure, not morris dancers.”

“Talk to them.” Dahl was already walking away.

“Yeah,” he heard Alicia say. “Talk to them about boy stuff, y’know? That silly AC Cobra car thing, like the one I torched. Remember?”

“Remember? It haunts my bloody dreams.”

“Well, there you go . . .”

Dahl moved out of earshot, ensuring his instinct was correct about being in a blind spot before creeping soundlessly among the trees. If his calculations were correct—and they were—then only one of Ramses’ guards was placed between him and Price’s tent, and he could skirt that obstacle with a three minute journey deeper into the jungle.

Silence surrounded him very quickly as he walked, the rainforest enforcing its will. Dahl watched for predators in all directions, the four points of the compass as well as straight down and straight up. The trees were quite dense at this point, making a soundless skulk almost impossible. He paused on seeing Ramses’ guard, then inched by a small step at a time. It took ten minutes of hard, wet slog to reach the back of Price’s tent and then another two to steal in close. Now was the significant moment, but he saw no reason why these tents, built purposely up against the dense forestry and marked private, would be singled out as special inside this nest of murderers, thieves and leaders.

Dahl crept low on his belly right up to the leading fabric at the back of the tent. It had been fastened to the earthy ground using pins at varying points and, as hoped, the material between the pins was loose. Dahl shuffled relentlessly closer and gently lifted a piece of fabric.

Again the voices were distorted. He couldn’t make one from the other. Surveying the area one more time, ensuring there were no footprints anywhere close that might attest to a guard patrol, he rearranged his body so that it lay lengthways to the tent and scooped up even more material, a half inch at a time. Eventually, he could lie with one ear flat to the wet floor, eyes peering into the tent to establish some bearings.

Robert Price traipsed up and down the side of the tent whilst the three CIA agents lounged on comfy chairs facing him. Of course, the agents still wore sunglasses and Price was puffing on a cigar. Probably Cuban. Dahl waited for somebody to speak.

“This is the last bazaar,” Price said finally. “You people need to get your heads around that. Unlimited offshore funds. Goodies that can’t possibly be traced back to the United States or even the CIA. We’re looking at an immense opportunity.”

“I think most people wandering around here have unlimited funds. Sir.” The agent deliberately paused before adding the title. “It’s being selective that counts. We know the jobs we have planned and the items we will need.”

“A little short-sighted don’t you think?”

“Black bag is by its very nature fast, fluid, and impossible to predict,” another agent said carefully. “Primary at the moment is the African deal.”

“Yes, yes, destabilize the Congo and some other third-world cesspit, I know, I know. Who cares really? Nothing changes, eh? We fight and fight, we plot and plot, we work with them, we kill them, we help them, we destroy them, and it’s all the same. Nobody wins except those who make the money. Well, it’s our time to be winners. Do you agree?”

“Off the books?” an agent asked.

Price snorted. “Did you just fall off a banana boat, son? Black bag means ‘off the books’ as far as I’m concerned.”

“There are always books,” someone said. “Always.”

“Not on my watch,” Price said a little theatrically. “Not on
this
watch. Am I understood?”

“Sir,” the most vocal of the three spoke up. “Considering where we are and what we’re doing I think we should be perfectly frank here. Are we talking treason?”