“Come, my dear,” Al-Fulani said playfully, as he offered his arm. “My limousine awaits!”
“But I don’t have the appropriate clothes!” Marla objected.
“Ah, but you will,” Al-Fulani assured her soothingly. “We’ll stop by your apartment on the way to the airport.”
There were other things to worry about, including her team’s readiness for such a journey, but Marla knew her sponsor well, and he wouldn’t want to wait, so she’d have to make arrangements on the fly.
The twosome were gone a few seconds later, which left 47 with no choice but to retrace his steps, and escape the mansion as quickly as he could. Fortunately the stir caused by Al-Fulani’s sudden departure was such that the assassin was able to exit the basement undetected, and make his way to the south side of the property where Abadati was normally stationed. What could have been a tricky moment was eased by the fact that the other guard was tired, and eager to go home. He said something in Arabic, then laughed at his own joke, as he turned to leave.
The assassin waited for a full minute before he slipped out through the very gate he was supposed to guard, and faded into the foot traffic beyond.
He had been forced to abandon the Jammer identity in the wake of the truck explosion. His new base of operations, which consisted of a room in a seedy hotel, was about a mile away.
The real Waleed Abadati called in shortly after 47’s departure, which triggered a full-scale search of the property. But having found nothing amiss, the way in which Abadati had been waylaid was ascribed to thieves, and the hapless guard was ordered to pay for both the uniform and the stolen weapon.
It was a significant setback that meant the car would have to wait. But Abadati was a good man, a righteous man, who knew that Allah promised those with patience a reward without measure.
A reward that, with the passage of time, would eventually be his.
EAST OF N’DJAMENA, CHAD
There was no direct air service to the city of N’Djamena—not from Fez—so unlike Al-Fulani, who had a private plane to call upon, Agent 47 had been forced to travel via a number of commercial connections, thereby losing quite a bit of time in the process. But thanks to some assistance from The Agency, a driver and a vehicle were there waiting when he landed.
And now, some six spine-jarring hours later, the operative and his paid companions were closing in on the spot where Al-Fulani and his party had probably spent the previous night. Would the Moroccan still be there? That seemed unlikely, but 47 hoped to confirm that he was on the right trail. Especially since the desert was a big place, and The Agency’s spy sats had lost Al-Fulani’s convoy during a dust storm.
The sub-Saharan landscape was divided between the bright, almost searing blue of the sky and the khaki colored landscape that lay sprawled below. The growl of the Unimog’s engine dropped a full octave as Pierre Gazeau shifted down, released the clutch, and guided the truck up the sand-drifted track toward the next rise.
The Libyan freelancer had thick black hair, a hooked nose, and a three-day growth of beard. He wore wraparound sunglasses, a sleeveless khaki shirt, and a pair of matching slacks. Black hair crawled down his arms and darkly tanned legs to a pair of beat-up desert boots. Though born in Tripoli to an ex-legionnaire and a Tuareg mother, Gazeau had been educated in France, and spoke English with only a slight accent.
“There are tracks, my friend. Someone else has passed through the area, and recently, too.”
The snub-nosed U90 Mercedes Unimog lurched as the right front tire mounted a large chunk of rock, the vehicle tilted to the left, and an avalanche of junk slid across the dashboard, ran out of room, and tumbled into Gazeau’s lap. Only the statue of St. Francis remained where it was, his feet anchored by a dollop of glue, his eyes firmly on the track ahead.
The Libyan rescued one of his many pairs of sunglasses from his lap, placed them on the center console, and brushed the rest of the mess onto the already littered floor.
Agent 47 held on to a grab bar, and waited for the right tire to pass over the obstacle, before making his reply.
“I’m glad to hear it. That’s a good sign.”
“So,” Gazeau said out of the side of his mouth, “how close are we?”
Agent 47 consulted the Garmin eTrex Vista GPS receiver, checked the readout against a map, and eyed the dry, rocky landscape ahead.
“The village should be about half a kilometer away.”
Gazeau took his foot off the accelerator, engaged the clutch, and stepped on the brake. The truck came to an abrupt stop. Dust swirled up and drifted to the east.
The Mog was equipped with a crew cab. The assassin heard one of the rear doors close and turned to discover that Gazeau’s assistant was no longer in the vehicle.
“Where did he go?”
Gazeau shook his head and laughed.
“You’ve seen him…Numo goes wherever he wants to go.” And with that, the Libyan let out the clutch, fed fuel to the 5-cylinder diesel, and guided the big 4X4 up past the skeletal remains of an ancient VW bus. The path rose, turned toward the right, and disappeared over a rise.
Mahmoud heard the chatter of the big diesel engine and spotted the plume of blue-black exhaust long before he actually saw the blocky-looking Mercedes truck lurch up out of the ravine. It was white with a chromed star over the radiator, a tow rope that was looped back and forth across the front bumper, and the usual roof rack loaded with gear.
His own vehicle, an ancient Toyota Land Cruiser, was hidden a half klick to the east, well out of sight behind a chunk of weathered sandstone. Now, lying on his stomach, he felt the full force of the North African sun. It was uncomfortable-very uncomfortable-but would be well worth it if he and his men came away with a nearly new Unimog and whatever the vehicle was carrying.
The bandit had been tempted to attack the caravan that had camped in the abandoned village the night before, and steal all three of their vehicles, but there had been more than a dozen guards. So it had been necessary to let the group pass. But now, as a reward for his patience, Allah was about to deliver a different bounty.
What remained of the village became a blur as the Arab swept his binoculars from left to right. Many years before, previous to the Sahara’s latest incursion into the semiarid grassland called the sahel, the guelta, or waterhole, had been the heart of the village. Trees, long since cut down, had served to shade the depression and protect the water from the sun. But the guelta depended on rainfall for its sustenance, and with even less precipitation than before, the waterhole dried up.
Having no water for themselves or for their animals, the villagers had been forced to leave. It was an old story, and a painful one, since it was unlikely that the displaced population had been welcome anywhere else. Not that it mattered to Mahmoud, who had other things to worry about, as the diesel died and a couple of doors slammed.
A thick layer of windblown sand gave way under the soles of 47’s boots. It parted occasionally to reveal the rocks that lay below, as well as the detritus of human habitation. The assassin saw a well-rusted wheel, what looked like the remains of an old hand-cranked washing machine, and a partially exposed camel skeleton. All of which had been there for a long time.
But there were more recent signs of habitation, as well. Including a lot of tire tracks, what remained of footprints, and three fire pits from which wisps of gray smoke still issued.
“It looks like they were here,” Gazeau commented, as he bent to examine an empty Coke can.
Agent 47 was about to reply when he heard gravel crunch, and turned to see a man with an AK-47 standing not ten meters away. He wore a billed cap with a French Foreign Legion-style flap that hung down the back of his neck, a white short-sleeved shirt, a pair of khaki slacks, and lace-up boots. His skin was nearly black, a pair of pink shoelaces had been tied around his left arm just above a powerful bicep, and the sun glinted off his Rolex Submariner watch.
There was no doubt as to the familiar way in which the man held the assault rifle or the hardness of his eyes. His French was quite good.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Please place all of your personal items on the hood of the truck, and take three steps back.”
Gazeau made as if to move, but stopped when the gun barrel jerked in his direction.
“There are worse things than being robbed, monsieur. Look to your left.”
Both 47 and the Libyan turned. Two additional men had appeared-Tuaregs by the look of them-both dressed in indigo robes. They, too, were armed with assault rifles and appeared ready to use them. When the bandit saw how surprised his victims were, he laughed.