The Last Bazaar (3 page)

Matt Drake sat with one foot pressed hard down on the Porsche’s gas pedal, the other hard down on the brake. Torsten Dahl’s voice came through the two-way radio.

“Stop revving the bloody nuts off it!”

“It’s called launch control,” Drake said a little huffily. “Something ole Aunty Aston probably never heard of.”

“Bollocks.”

Alicia stood to the left of the start-line, having borrowed a checkered flag from one of the track day organizers. She raised it up until it fluttered high in the air and then waited until all eyes were on her.

“Ready?”

Drake nodded. Dahl revved his engine.

Alicia mouthed:
“Three, two, one . . .”
and then brought the flag down swiftly.

Drake released the brake pedal, allowing the Porsche free rein of its howling engine, and felt his head pushed back into the seat as the vehicle surged forward. Black asphalt stretched away ahead, rising slightly, and he was aware only of the racing line that would take him to the first corner and the speeding car to his right. The Porsche was already ahead, but barely. Dahl had drawn the inside line, which would give him the advantage for the first corner. Drake flicked at the paddle-shift, gaining another gear and another few inches on the Swede. Alicia was already a speck in the distance, waving at their rearviews.

The first corner hit and Drake swung in hard, making it a few widths ahead of Dahl and almost cutting him off. Dahl veered to the right, huge in the Porsche’s sloping rear window. Drake knew a badly timed gear here would result in an accident, but more importantly a race loss. Corners two and three materialized fast and seemed to merge together. Drake felt the Porsche’s back end twitch as he accelerated out of the third and toward the fourth, but caught it as it slewed back into line. Dahl’s Aston used the slight mistake to gain ground, its front grill now sneaking back into Drake’s eye line.

“Fucking English,” Drake growled.

“Through and through,” Dahl said. “Made in Warwickshire.”

“I meant you, ya knob.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Both cars drifted around the final corner together, Drake concentrating hard to ensure he didn’t miss a beat coming out of the last bend and crossing the line a meter ahead. His great cheer was lost as Alicia’s voice blasted through the two-way.

“Get your asses back to the start line, boys. Some nice old man just leant me his brand new . . .” there was a pause as she reaffirmed the make of car. “Umm, Bugatti?”

Drake swore loudly. Trust bloody Alicia to get her hands on one of the best cars in the world. And trust Alicia to really start rubbing it in. He negotiated the turn-off and headed back to the start line, already dreading the sight of Alicia perched primly above the hypercar’s imposing front grille. Dahl motored up behind, the Aston’s exhaust note as intimidating as any starving predator.

Alicia waved as sweetly as she was able. The older man at her side looked decidedly uncomfortable.

“Hey guys, wanna race?”

“Always.” Drake grinned up at her through the lowered window. “But does your new friend know what he’s getting into?”

“Oh, Bob? He’s cool.”

“Umm, my name’s George.”

“Bob. George. Whatever. It all looks the same after fifty, right? Well, maybe fifty five in your case. C’mon, Bob, take me for a ride in your, um . . . Bugatti.” Alicia’s eyes flashed.

Drake could only smile and nod as the older man gave him a desperate, pleading look. Dahl thought even faster on his feet and stepped out of his rental.

“I’ll lend you my Aston if you like,” he addressed the older man. “I’ll risk taking her round.”

George grinned and jumped at the chance. Drake cursed his Swedish friend. “Nicely done, mate. Nicely done.”

“Alligator,” Dahl said, which Drake knew meant
see you later.

“Not if I see you first, pal.”

Drake lined up first, wondering which of his friends would end up driving. It would actually be an interesting contest to listen to, in particular now that George was questioning whether either of them should drive his two-million dollar car. He leaned over toward the passenger window just as his cellphone chirped into life.

X Ambassadors: Jungle.

This week that meant Hayden, and probably trouble.

With half an ear listening to his friends he punched the “answer” button. “Yep?”

“Matt? You guys really need to get back here.”

Drake caught Hayden’s urgent tone and tuned everything else out. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. But we need to get to the Amazon rainforest double time.”

Drake found that one hard to compute. “The Amazon
what? Why?”

“Because we just found out that’s where the terrorist prince, Ramses, is holding his last great arms bazaar, in two days, and anyone who’s
anyone
in the murder for gain game is gonna be there.”

Drake was momentarily lost for words. “That’s bloody huge.”

“Damn right. So get your asses back here.”

Drake cut her off and shouted out the window. “Oy! You two! Time to go!”

Alicia looked up from where she had George in a playful headlock. “What? He’s enjoying it.”

“Work called,” Drake said. “We have a job to do.”

Dahl immediately focused. “Something big?”

“Something mega.”

Dahl headed for his Aston and Alicia climbed into the Porsche. “We’re taking the track day cars?”

Drake burned rubber as he swung the car’s tail around toward the exit. “The world’s safety is at stake,” he said. “And may depend on our speed. I think we owe it to ourselves, don’t you?”

Ramses entered the bespoke elevator that would take him to the penthouse suite of his castle, barely noticing the gold-paneled interior, gilt buttons and plushy carpeted floor. The whoosh of the ascent was soundless and took only five seconds, the slowdown so smooth it went practically unnoticed. Ramses was a big man, almost seven foot tall and wider than some entrances, raw muscle upon raw muscle, with hands as big and deadly as a bird-eating tarantula and neck muscles that could crush Brazil nuts.

When the outer doors opened a guard greeted him with a nod which Ramses returned. He was an unassuming, quietly-spoken man for the most part, the menace, reputation and fear associated with him derived from what he had the power to do rather than what he actually
did.
It took very few examples to accrue that reputation. Ramses had initially cultivated a wide notoriety for violent fits of temper, though this was fabricated on purpose, or at least he thought so. All this said, Ramses hadn’t gone soft in his thirty years as the Prince of Terrorism. He would order mass murder at the drop of a hat, sacrifice one of his sons if need be, and then turn to watch the big soccer match with a beer, a burger and a hearty laugh.

He entered his office, which was empty. He was under no illusions. Ramses was a man alone—at the top of this game there were no comrades. But the return was worth it. For thirty years he had been exacting nothing but cold revenge, and would continue for thirty more.

The castle—his home—sat high in the Peruvian mountains, perched halfway up a cliff face and overlooking a wide valley. Its foundations were as old as time, its stones weathered through centuries. Ramses had scoured the world for a fortress he might reside in, one where he felt secure and well-defended, one that had seen much in the way of history, one where he might live undetected. The drug dealers that had owned this gave it up without too much of a fight and now added to its rich history, part of the foundations.

Ramses turned his thoughts to today’s itinerary. His schedule was quite full. Planning the world’s greatest black-market arms bazaar wasn’t easy and he refused to be dependent on any kind of help. Of course, it didn’t help that the venue was in the heart of the Amazon jungle—coincidentally an area where he’d had to clear even more drug dealers and other undesirables out to make any headway. The local authorities had been a big help though . . .

Ramses rushed past the fact that he’d also had to uproot two indigenous tribes to utilize the area he wanted, not knowing nor caring in the least about their final fate. For six months he had been laying plans—now the final days were upon them. It wasn’t the money or the notoriety he would gain from hosting the bazaar—it was mostly the small and large deals that resulted from it—many of which were made whilst it was underway and which otherwise might never have seen the light of day. When people came together, agreements and even detailed covenants were often made. The problem he faced, rather ironically, was the same problem posed by his enemies—security. The dark web was good for many things but even that was no longer perfectly safe. Email dropboxes were also out these days. Ramses found himself more and more frequently returning to the old fashioned ways.

Word of mouth, in particular. Face to face meetings in ancient rooms which were constantly swept and monitored for bugs. Underground caverns, impermeable to even the most sophisticated listening devices the Americans had. And here . . . the few places in the world where men like Ramses lived in anonymity. The logistics were awkward, but worth every discomfort.

Ramses stared over the valley, filled with a crawling mist, the air patterned by aimless, floating droplets. Distant trees hung heavy, their boughs indistinct and ephemeral. And the mountains that kept his small castle safe sat all around, watching over it all. From his vantage point he could gaze down onto the battlements and watch his guards shiver as they patrolled. He could see into the small courtyard, which at this time was empty. Plans for the great bazaar filled his mind, turning his focus inside for a while and he saw nothing. An old memory flitted through his thoughts.

Ramses had convened three arms bazaars in the past. The last had ended somewhat unsuccessfully due to a rather unfortunate and extremely noisy interruption—the team he now knew were called SPEAR. Like the Charge of the Light Brigade they had stormed his superior positions and totally routed his until-then highly productive event. It had taken years of recovery but here he was again—ready to lead the dark world to victory.

And thinking of the new dark world that was coming, Ramses now remembered his guest—the wealthy idiot that had thought he could create a new shadow organization that would control entire governments. Of course, the principles were sound—it had been done before—but the execution of those principles left an awful lot to be desired.

Ramses turned to his desk and pressed a button. “Send in Tyler Webb.”

Before he had even taken his finger off the button an adjoining door opened and his elite bodyguard entered the room. Akatash was whippet thin, almost as tall as Ramses himself, and possessed of steel-cable like strength. His skills were unsurpassed, his worst deeds the stuff of dark legend, and quite fittingly his name the same as the demon that created evil.

Tyler Webb appeared through another door a few moments later, closely followed by his own bodyguard—Beauregard Alain. Ramses was very much aware of Alain’s abilities and barely resisted a quick reassuring nod at Akatash. Tyler Webb, dressed impeccably, made Ramses boil inside. Here was a privileged, puffed-up, wannabe autocrat that had never known a day of hardship in his life and thought he could walk the same lethal line as a true radical, a true believer, and for that matter a real soldier, and then wondered where everything went wrong.

Ramses suppressed his hatred. “Welcome, my friend.” His quiet voice, surprisingly for a man his size, was designed to put people at ease. A false promise if ever there was one.

“What do you have for me?” Webb offered no greeting, no good conduct and no etiquette.

Ramses sat back, distracted for a moment by the silent assessments passing between Akatash and Beauregard. It would be an understatement to say that the look between them bristled with daggers, more like ballistic missiles. Ramses could feel a sphere of tension blooming in the air.

“Remind me what it is that you need.” Ramses said, deciding to give this American devil no assistance other than that which he might benefit from.

Webb sighed. “The suitcase nuke,” he tapped a finger. “For starters. And, far more important to me, the scroll.” He twisted a second digit rather nervously.

“Ah, yes.” Ramses acted as if he’d just recalled an earlier conversation. “I have many clients. They want missiles or ammunition or chemical substances. They want body armor or even jet fighters. But never before have I been asked for a scroll?”

Webb tried to act coy in answer to the implied question. “Buyer’s prerogative. My reason is my own.”

“And you’re right, of course. Well, the scroll will be there once the bazaar begins, of that I am certain. Our terms though—they have changed.”

Webb allowed his entire body to puff up, it seemed, from his cheeks to his chest and probably to his toes. “I think not, Ramses. We
have
a deal, thrashed out many months ago. One suitcase nuke and one scroll. I am here, right now, prepared to take part and offer my support to this . . . this enterprise of yours, this
bazaar¸
but I will not be hoodwinked.”

Ramses sat back in his chair, then pressed a discreet button. “Coffee,” he said, thinking
hoodwinked? What a quaint old term.

Beside him he felt Akatash shift, the almost palpable fury coiled within him squirming to be set free. Akatash didn’t take it well when other men and women questioned his prince.

Ramses considered unleashing the demon right now, but was well aware of Beauregard’s fearsome reputation. So much so that he wasn’t entirely sure of the outcome, though the conflict would surely be epic. But not here, not inside his home.

“It is a small matter,” Ramses said evenly. “But an important one.”

Webb sighed, clearly torn. Ramses could feel how much the other man desired that scroll. The need washed off him like stale sweat. At that moment the door opened and a suited man appeared, carrying a tray with two small cups, spoons and sugars. With a deft skill he sidestepped Beauregard’s watchful bulk and left them in the center of the table. Ramses indicated that Webb could choose his own cup.

“No, thank you.”

Ramses shrugged, the gesture shaking the table that separated them. And of course, the cup looked tiny in his immense paw of a hand, something that was not entirely lost on Tyler Webb.

“What is it that you want to amend?”

“As I said, it is a small matter and related to the suitcase nuke. The one your colleague—I can’t remember his name—has a plan for.”

“Yes. His name is Julian Marsh and he’s as committed as I am.”

Ramses paused for one moment. “Really? The word is that the Pythians are dead.”

Webb stiffened. “
I
am the Pythians.
Me.
I will say when they die.”

“Very well, then. This man, Julian Marsh—he is well travelled?”

“Every week or so,” Webb said. “DC. Tokyo. Israel.”

“Good, then he will not be too obvious.”

“He’s not
flying
the nuke into the US.”

“I realize that. But still, there is much travel involved is there not?”

“Yes. I guess.”

“Your man’s plan is to travel by circuitous route to America’s greatest city and then ransom your puppet government for, umm, shall we say—precious goods? Eh?”

“You can say that if you like.”

“But the whole exercise is a bluff, nothing more. The nuke is real; it has to be real to make the whole plan work, but he will never detonate. If they
call
his bluff he walks away with his tail between his legs.”

Webb prickled a little. “They will never call the bluff of a man holding a nuclear weapon in the heart of New York City. Are you mad?”

“A little, yes. I find it makes life much more interesting. But listen—that small change I asked for?
I
want the nuke detonated. For real.”

Tyler Webb stared as if all the blood-soaked nightmares of hell had just risen before his eyes. “What . . . are you . . . are . . . you can’t
do that.”

Ramses enjoyed the spectacle for a minute, then sighed. “Then I’m afraid there will be no scroll. Not for you, at least.”

“But we made . . . we made a deal!”

Ramses was aware of both bodyguards shifting a little, most likely to achieve optimum attack positions.

“Marsh would never agree to it!”

Ramses allowed a sly smile to creep across his face. “But I thought
you
were the leader of the Pythians?”

Yes, yes, but we’re talking a
nuke.
In New York! Only a fucking monster would condone that! You could be starting Armageddon.”

The smile that then transformed Ramses’ face was entirely genuine. “I know. And thank you.”

“I need time . . .” Webb blustered.

“It’s easy,” Ramses said. “Do you want the scroll or not?”

“Of course!”

“Then it’s settled. Let’s shake on it.”

Ramses leaned forward, hand outstretched. Webb regarded it like he might a predator’s claw. At that moment Beauregard Alain coughed.

“I think it’s better that you two stay apart, don’t you think?”

Webb fought to think. Ramses could see multiple emotions warring inside the man’s deviant mind—from complete acceptance to hard persuasion and from pretend ignorance to actual deception. Ramses knew even now that, in the end, both Webb and Marsh would try to betray him.

But that was fine. They were merely the dupes he needed to get the weapon inside the US.

Webb ignored his bodyguard, clasping Ramses’ hand. “If I agree to this barbarity I get the scroll. No more changes?”

Ramses inclined his head. “In a few days after the bazaar has started. No more changes.”

Webb shook.

Ramses gripped the man’s pasty white, limp-wristed limb hard enough to grind bone. “You will not betray me, Tyler Webb.”

Beauregard moved but Ramses sat back quickly, leaving Webb gasping but no worse for wear. Tears stood out on the Pythian leader’s eyes but he waved Beauregard back. “No, no, I must have that scroll.
Must.
Do you hear? Everything depends on it.” Then he closed his mouth, aware that he’d spoken aloud. Ramses wondered about the scroll in that moment, wondered greatly, but quickly decided that a scrap of paper was a madman’s folly. Only power and force and immense weaponry could defeat the infidel and all its machinations.

“We are agreed?” he said.

“Yes, we are agreed. I will inform Marsh. But not too soon.”

“Then I would start—quietly—to withdraw any holdings or connections you might have down the east coast.” Ramses grinned. “Just a thought.”