The Last Bazaar (15 page)

“I realize that now.” Kinimaka nodded then winced as the steel cut a little deeper.

Dahl stepped forward and tried his luck. “Can we talk about this?”

“Yeah,” Drake said. “He’d like to see your swing again. For that matter I’d like to see it again too. Maybe take a few photos.”

Kenzie blinked a little despairingly. “Shit, if you were both my men I’d have shot you by now.”

Alicia couldn’t hide a grin. “The gun is pointed at your head. Otherwise . . .”

Now the woman dropped her eyes. “They work for you?”

“They do as they’re told,” Alicia said with a straight face. “When they’re told to.”

Kenzie eyed Dahl. “I bet.”

“We can talk more about that,” Alicia said. “When you put the bloody katana down.”

“And my terms of surrender?”

Dahl took that one. “You live. You stick with us until we can safely remove you from the bazaar. You play along.”

Drake didn’t like it, but saw the Swede’s reasoning. The bazaar was entering its final stages. They couldn’t risk not capturing their primary targets by hauling Kenzie to the boat. Like it or not this was their very last chance.

Kenzie appeared to weigh her options. “I choose to fight then. I have nothing to lose.”

“You’re looking to die?” Alicia snarled. “Then put the blade down and let me shoot you in the head.”

A heavy stillness descended, a blanket that spread the entire scale of the human conscience. Alicia looked ready to commit murder whereas Dahl held both hands out in a placating manner. Kenzie simply walked her body around whilst holding the blade tip in place to stare Alicia right in the eyes.

“You’re gonna shoot me right here? Then do it. Leave no enemies at your back, eh?”

Alicia stared. “You said it.”

She fired.

Kenzie, battle-hardened, jaded, cynical and dangerous as she was, flinched when the gun went off. She recoiled even further when the bullet, traveling at 2500 feet per second, flashed across the side of her skull, leaving a blood trail in its wake. Kinimaka turned as Kenzie dropped the sword in shock and then stared, open-mouthed, at Alicia, nothing but a mixture of hatred and respect in her eyes.

“Fucking bitch. I’ll pay you back for that one day.”

Alicia shrugged. “But not today. Makes you look more appealing anyway.”

“It does?”

“A bit of character does a lot for a stupid face.”

Dahl moved in, but this time Kinimaka retained his wits and was already scooping up the long, single-edged sword. The Swede’s eyes were a little crazy as he took the shoulder-holster from Kenzie and then motioned toward Kinimaka.

“I’ll take the sword.”

Drake sighed. “Shit, you’re crazier than she is.”

Kenzie flicked a glance at them. “He is? I knew we shared something. Or perhaps we will do later.”

Drake laughed. “Now, don’t hurt my feelings, love. I guess you like ’em dumb, huh?”

Alicia glowered.

Kenzie almost smiled. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

Of course, Dahl hadn’t heard the conversation, so enamored was he of his new weapon. He made a show of sheathing the sword and then re-joined planet earth. “So? What’s next?”

“Back to camp.” Kinimaka rubbed his throat a little daintily. “It’s getting dark and the revels will have started already. Hayden will be hopping up and down.”

Drake eyed the jungle. “Let’s make it quick and cautious. I don’t think Ramses’ guards will venture so far away from camp, but they just might.”

“Unlikely,” Kenzie put in. “This area of the Amazon is a hive for the drug and gun running cartels. That’s why I chose the abandoned base. Honestly, it’s almost expected that there will be trouble around here.”

Alicia prodded her with the gun. “Honestly? From you? I think you need to take the soap outta your dirty mouth and start again.”

“Like I said—you’ll get yours.”

“Oh, I hope so.”

Drake made a point of taking charge of Kenzie, separating the two women. They vacated the boulder mound area and made their way back to Kenzie’s camp, where the bus still shouldered and tearing metal emitted screeching sounds. Past that, they returned to the vicinity of the bazaar and the place they had first entered the jungle.

Drake whispered in Kenzie’s ear. “Just so you know—we’d rather not do it right now but we intend to raze this place to the ground. Respect us and you live. Reveal us, and you’ll be the first to die. Are we clear?”

“As moonshine,” Kenzie muttered.

Drake thought that was probably an affirmative and pushed her forward. Together, the team emerged from the foliage, glancing surreptitiously at the guards who picked up on them. Yorgi, remaining in the background until now, immediately emerged at the head of the group and brushed himself down.

“Spot of fun,” he said, his accent seeming strange when forced, but receiving little attention from the guards. Drake reasoned their directive was no doubt to stop and prevent any trouble inside the bazaar. What happened beyond its confines was up to the guests themselves.

“Go,” he muttered to the Russian. “Back to the tent. A little regroup first and a chat to Hayden. Make sure nothing’s happened and then back to it.”

As if with perfect timing, the rain began to fall.

*

If Drake had thought the tent a little cramped before, the addition of Kenzie and her ego practically filled it. Though a prisoner, the woman acted as if in charge. Drake listened to Kinimaka making his quick call to Hayden, heard the expected insistences, and then watched darkness fall through a slit in the front of the tent. It took a long time for the rain to stop, and when it did the bazaar’s entertainments had become muted. Dahl and Alicia took a walk and returned fifteen minutes later with glum looks on their faces.

“No go,” Alicia said. “Everyone’s hunkered down for the night. Guess even hardened terrorists don’t like to get wet.”

Dahl nodded along. “The few specimens who are out barely warrant a second glance. I remember one of them from my days with the Swedish Special Forces. Elusive old boy; looks a thousand years old now.”

“I had to drag ole Torsty away,” Alicia said with a frown. “Almost blew our cover.”

Kenzie eyed the Swede. “Now I am jealous.”

Drake ignored the antiquities smuggler though watched carefully as she began to pace. “We stay on mission,” he said. “No exceptions.”

Alicia glared at Kenzie. “Can I gag her?”

“Not without a hell of a fight,” Kenzie shot back. “But Torsty can, just for fun.”

Drake rose, hands out, feeling a little like a parent trying to calm squabbling kids. “Tomorrow is our last day. Let’s grab a little rest. Doing this thing in daylight will only make it more dangerous, but we can’t go creeping around every single tent at night. One way or another, tomorrow, there’ll be a hell of a fight.”

The mood turned somber, the pitch of conversation quieter. Drake plonked himself down beside Alicia and Dahl at the front of the tent, peeling back one half of the flap and staring into the black, seeping jungle, counting down the hours. They talked quietly, murmuring of their exploits, their past and their better times together. After a while, as moonshine appeared over the heights of the trees, Kenzie crawled over to join them.

“I’ve been listening to you guys,” she said quietly. “You’re real heroes, huh?”

“Nope,” Drake said shortly. “Just soldiers doing our jobs.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dahl said. “I’ve been more than heroic on several occasions.”

“I was heroic once,” Kenzie said unexpectedly, staring straight ahead. “An agent with Mossad. We took people like this—” she waved a hand outside. “Down every day. And every day more rose. What is it they say? Kill one of us and a thousand more shall arise? I don’t know . . . but it is true.”

“So you became dispirited?” Dahl asked.

“No,” Kenzie said quietly. “I became a victim.”

They fell silent for a time, and then Kenzie shuffled a few inches closer. “One time I stopped a firebomb attack from two thousand meters.” She clicked her tongue. “Two shots. Two kills.”

Drake wanted to believe her. “I killed Dmitry Kovalenko, the Blood King, up close. Put an end to his savagery.”

“I think you’ll find that was me,” Alicia said.

“Nah, you put down the guy in the bullet-proof kill-suit. With a knife.”

“True. I did both.”

“Another time,” Kenzie said. “During a stakeout, the cell we had under surveillance received a tip-off. They torched the entire floor of the apartment block to escape, but we caught them and pulled everyone to safety. No casualties that night.”

Dahl sighed. “Well, where do I start? Odin? North Korea? Earlier—”

“You defeated Odin?” Drake blustered. “Wow.”

Kenzie allowed a small smile. “I never had what you have. The companionship. My
team
was never that. We were always for ourselves and so were our superiors.” She shook her head sadly.

“Truth be told,” Drake said, also despondently. “It’s much the same everywhere. Our team? It’s different, but it works.”

“But you have lost people along the way?”

Drake nodded but said nothing.

Kenzie massaged her forehead as if to wipe away memories. “I lost everything. We were in the field, isolated, dependent upon our satellite office. Our superiors were sat on their fat behinds in Tel Aviv, feeding the bullshit that they wanted us to believe. My team were caught without hope; we were exposed, identified, our families laid bare.” Kenzie paused, swallowed and then went on. “They were slaughtered as our superiors rubbed their hands and accepted bribes. And then we were allowed to live as punishment, as warnings to others that law enforcement didn’t work.”

“You took your revenge?” Dahl asked, his eyes far away.

“Of course. Every one of them saw my face covered in
their
jetting blood before they died. And now I am a fugitive, a criminal, a terrorist,” she spat.

Alicia cleared her throat. “All that withstanding, you do smuggle artifacts, guns and drugs.”

“It is safer than being a Mossad agent.”

“So you are a criminal.”

“A girl’s gotta eat.” Kenzie jerked her head up, as if shaking off a terrible, old nightmare and fixed on Dahl. “Speaking of which . . .”

“He’s married,” Drake said.

“Oh. How about you?”

“I’m . . . umm . . . I’m—”

Alicia laid a hand on his arm. “He’s under offer, and you can’t match the highest bid, bitch.”

“Uww, snappy, snappy. And you said I had a dirty mouth.”

“I could match you for insults any day.”

“Really? Then let’s—”

“All right.” Dahl stepped in quickly. “Playtime’s over. We all need a little rest before it starts to get light.”

Kenzie looked away. “The last time I slept properly I was in my twenties.”

Drake made a motion to include the entire tent. “You won’t need to keep one eye open here, I guarantee it.”

“That’s not really the problem.”

“Yeah,” Drake agreed quietly. “I know.”

In the blackest, darkest watches of the night a great evil stirred. It stalked the narrow paths, watchful as it progressed, mindful to sneak a glance inside every open tent. It saw things it enjoyed and others it simply dismissed. It catalogued each spectacle and stored them for later. Perhaps it could make use of the pick of the bunch in its own delicious endeavors. But this night was not for distractions; this night was the culmination of a lifetime of investigation.

Beauregard went ahead, vetting the way. Tyler Webb paced in his wake, basking in his preeminent status, his untouchable prestige as the leader of an organization that had brought America to its knees, and knowing that its success had been dependent entirely upon him. This trip, this little journey, sealed his legend.

Webb was in such high spirits that he knew the trees would not drip on him; the rain would make way. The ground, though slippery, would not make him fall and the face of the moon had emerged primarily to light his way. Such were the perks and expectations of greatness. All he needed now were half a dozen men and women to lie along his path to stop his boots from getting muddy.

Something to work on.

Webb couldn’t remember a happier time. This was the allotted hour when Ramses had promised to offer up the scroll—the very document Webb had been working toward for over thirty years. The Pythians might have been formed to further his quest for Saint Germain, but the scroll was the answer to every riddle, the gate to eternity.

Goodbye Pythians, Julian Marsh and New York. Hello Tyler Webb and the entire meaning of my life.

Beauregard stopped and peeled apart two tent flaps, shaking the material first so that it wouldn’t drip on Webb’s bent head as he entered. Webb found himself inside a small place, lined and floored with padded quilting the color of blood, stitched with gold. A man dressed in a loin cloth sat cross-legged opposite him, arms covered with bracelets and wristlets, and ears pierced, his lobes pulled taut by tear-shaped weights. The man was dirty looking, and greasy as if smeared with oils. His lips were almost black and his eyes were pits where poisonous snakes and spiders fought for supremacy.

Webb halted, surprised. “Where is Ramses?”

“He is . . . engaged.” The despicable individual’s voice was deceptively smooth, vowels rolling like well-lubricated cogs. “I am . . . the man whom you seek.”

“This is not what I was promised.”

“Is it not? How do you know? You have not yet seen what I offer.”

Webb remained tight-lipped. He wasn’t about to blurt out his life’s greatest secret to a stranger. To the man’s right, he now saw, lay a large, haphazard mound of Egyptian rugs and discarded furs, beneath which something moved very slowly. A human shaped mass if ever he’d seen one, and no doubt one of this man’s bought slaves.

Webb’s euphoria got the better of him. “All right, do you have it? The scroll? I mean—how could you? I can verify its authenticity so do not try to dupe me.”

The unusual figure studied him for such a long time Webb almost called on Beauregard’s assistance. Finally though, he began to speak. “Ramses did indeed tell me about what you seek. You know there is a prosperous trade in everything illicit—from scrolls and parchments to enormous bronzed statues, from Akkadian to Mongol and from the bones of gods to the skeletons of Alexander and Genghis Khan themselves. They are the prized possessions of the filthy rich, trophies with which to impress and control your peers, currency in which to trade. How many thousands, or hundreds of thousands, of scrolls are out there, my friend?”

“I only want one,” Webb snapped.

“And that is why you are still searching. It would have been easier to find an honest man on Wall Street.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Webb decided he’d gone off topic and a prompt might be in order. “Have you done it?”

“Wall Street? No. But I
do
have your scroll.”

“Prove it to me.”

Shifting a little, the peculiar man drew a long, deep breath. He took a moment to rearrange the rugs at his side, affording Webb the view of a pale, naked flank, before completely covering the slave, and then clucked what Webb could only assume was a black forked tongue.

“Well . . . well. To business. The German, Leopold—I am sure you know his name—was an addict. A man much like yourself—obsessed with this legendary figure they called Le Comte de Saint Germain. A wealthy explorer, he spent most of his life searching for clues. He was considered the world’s foremost authority on the Count.”

Webb knew everything there was to know about Leopold, but it helped to hear this man speak of him. He had been trying for decades to gain access to the man’s archives, his vaults, even his home, but had always failed to find a single shred regarding Saint Germain. Leopold’s craftiness was just too sharp even for Webb, it had seemed.

“This scroll fell into the wrong hands following Leopold’s death. As you know it forms part of the journal he took around the world, cataloguing every find, every quest, every single strand of evidence. From Stonehenge to Paris and Milan, it is a scruffy, well-used tome. Inside Leopold has used many pens, always hurriedly, a moment stolen in time as he continued his endless quest. It will need collating, but it is the real deal and it is worth more than the life of any normal man. What would you offer?”

Webb would offer the world, but kept his face neutral. He knew that with his additional knowledge and familiarity with Saint Germain, with his wealth of contacts and data, he stood the best chance of cracking history’s greatest secret . . .

Who—or what—was Saint Germain and where are his greatest treasures?

To believe in one acknowledged belief in the other.

“I offer . . .” he paused, mindful of the fact that the expected monetary accoutrements arising from Marsh’s New York escapade would now never materialize. However . . .

“Everything I have,” he said seriously, holding up his black pre-paid credit card. Material possessions did not matter anymore. He could find the man and the treasure on his own and with what little he had frittered away elsewhere.

“Then we have a deal,” the man said, taking the card and swiping it through some kind of reader. The numbers must have pleased him, for Webb saw his eyes widen. Quietly, he then issued an order.

The rugs and furs slithered away from a rising shape. Webb averted his eyes from the man a moment too late, leaving a lingering scar across his memory.

“Take it.”

Webb reached out and took a proffered pouch about the size of a small backpack, feeling the supple brown leather between his fingers and then turned to leave. It took a moment to remember to check the disorganized contents, but he did so briefly for he wanted to save the luscious pleasure of full revelation for a most intimate moment.