Then, having examined the document for what seemed like an extraordinary length of time, the policeman issued what might have been a grunt of approval, whispered something to a grubby little boy, and sent him scurrying away.
“You will wait,” the corporal said, gesturing to the already packed benches. “The Sous-Prefet will be available shortly.”
“Shortly” turned out to last for the better part of an hour as the corporal worked his way through a large stack of forms, hitting each one with a decisive thump from his poorly inked stamp. In the meantime, the fan turned in meaningless circles, the flies searched for new territory to conquer, and the locals waited to learn what fate had in store for them. Finally, just as 47 was about to suggest that they pull out, the grubby little boy scampered up to the corporal, whispered in his ear, and eyed the foreigners as he did so.
The corporal nodded gravely, cleared his throat pretentiously, and relayed the message.
“The Sous-Prefet will see you now.”
Omar Al-Sharr was an intelligent, if not very energetic, man. That was why he had chosen a career in the public sector, rather than try to eke out a living by running his own small business. Even so, having applied to the police, Al-Sharr had used what savings he had to grease the correct palms, and was accepted onto the force.
After that the ambitious young man had spent many years bribing, blackmailing, and charming his way up through the ranks until finally achieving the rank of Sous-Prefet of Mongo. Not the final prize-but within a few steps of where he wanted to end up.
He had been extremely thin back in the early days, malnourished even, but not anymore. Now Al-Sharr weighed in at a hefty 160 kilos, which meant that his body was a good deal less agile than it had been.
There was nothing wrong with his mind, however, which was why he had stalled the foreigners long enough to have the boys he often referred to as his “operatives” perform a little research. The results were curious, to say the least.
After swarming around the foreigners’ truck, a rather fine specimen that would fetch a hefty price on the black market, and peppering the Libyan guard with dozens of seemingly innocent questions, the operatives had learned that the Unimog was loaded with mineral samples that the foreigners wanted to take home and analyze.
A seemingly plausible story, and one that Al-Sharr would have been inclined to believe, except for one thing: Outside of sodium carbonate and the Doba oil field, Chad had no natural resources to speak of. So, if the foreigners weren’t geologists, as they claimed to be, then what were they?
Smugglers? Quite possibly. But there were other possibilities, as well. And it would be interesting to see what he could learn from them.
Agent 47 followed Gazeau into the police official’s office, and was struck by how dim it was. What little bit of light there was emanated from a narrow, window located high over the Sous-Prefet’s head, and the lamp on his well-polished oak desk. The massive piece of furniture was an antique, something salvaged from the French Colonial government, most likely, and preserved by a succession of proud civil servants.
The man who sat behind the desk was huge, a fact which even his baggy XXXL jogging outfit couldn’t conceal. It was blue, with white stripes that ran down the arms, and decorated with so many Nike swooshes that it couldn’t possibly be genuine.
The official gestured toward two orange injection-molded chairs. His words were spoken in slightly fractured English.
“Please to sit down. My name is Omar Al-Sharr. I would get up, but my knees offer trouble.”
“Taylor” and Gazeau introduced themselves, sat on the hard plastic seats, and waited to see where the conversation would go. It was warm in the office, very warm, in spite of the best efforts of an emaciated boy. He was too short to sit on the bicycle’s seat, so he stood as he pedaled. Each downward stroke turned a chain, which turned a series of old automobile belts, which powered a makeshift fan. Whether this was by way of job creation, or to compensate for Mongo’s iffy power grid, the rear wheel whirred, the chain rattled, and the fan squeaked as it pushed a steady stream of warm air toward the monumental desk.
“So,” Al-Sharr said as he picked up Gazeau’s Autorisation de Circuler and pretended to examine it, “tell me about these mineral samples.”
Agent 47 had expected the question, or one like it, and launched into a cover story that involved the possibility of commercial-grade iron ore deposits near Mongo. A fabrication that was consistent with the rusty red rocks in the back of the truck.
Al-Sharr’s expression said that he didn’t believe a word of it, but he nodded as if he did, and reached down into a galvanized tub that was located next to his oversized chair. It contained some reasonably cool water, plus a dozen cans of Diet Coke. He held one up for his visitors to see.
“Would you drink something? No? Please let me hear if you change your minds.”
So saying, the police chief popped the tab, took a long pull, and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. A gentle belch served as an exclamation point.
“Now, where were we? Ah, yes, the possibility of iron ore deposits. Once you confirm the presence of these deposits, and obtain permissions to exploit them, Chad will greatly benefit. In the meantime the government will have to rely on more modest sources of revenue, such as export fees. So, if you would be so kind as to submit 10,000 euros, or 9,165 U.S. dollars, we will fill out the necessary paperwork and get you on your way.”
It was an outrageous sum, much more than the government would require, or a legitimate business would be willing to pay. That being the case, 47 frowned. “Really? That’s a good deal more than we had anticipated. So much more that it will be necessary for us to contact our employer, and request instructions.”
Al-Sharr was surprised. Maybe his instincts had been wrong. Maybe the men were exactly what they claimed to be. Or maybe they were too greedy to pay a reasonable bribe. He took another sip of Coke, put the can down, and felt the first pangs of hunger. It was time for his lunch, followed by a nap and a cooling bath. “Here are your papers. Please let me know if there is anything else you need. Have a good day, gentlemen.”
“There is one other thing,” 47 said, as both he and Gazeau came to their feet. “Could you tell us if a party of three vehicles and about fifteen people passed through Mongo within the last twenty-four hours? They’re friends of ours, and we were hoping to catch up to them.”
Given the fact that Al-Sharr had hosted Al-Fulani and his party with an enormous feast the night before, and had been on the Moroccan’s payroll for the past three years, there was little doubt as to who the foreigner meant. But were the men in front of him friends of Al-Fulani’s? Or were they enemies? There was no way to know. Regardless, given that the information could be had in the local market, he thought it best to tell the truth.
“Yes, as a matter of fact there was. A Moroccan, if I’m not mistaken. He and his party left early this morning.”
Agent 47 thanked the policeman, and together with Gazeau, left the Sous-Prefet’s office.
The two men had just exited the building, and were halfway to the gate, when Al-Sharr summoned the corporal into his office. They were related, so there was no need for pretense.
“Have someone follow them. Someone reliable. And keep me informed. Maybe they are what they claim to be…and maybe they aren’t. Call me if you discover anything. I’m going to lunch.”
The corporal nodded, sent for his brother-in-law, and returned to his desk.
The fan turned, the flies buzzed, and the people who lined the benches continued to wait.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Darkness had fallen over the desert, leaving only half a dozen small fires to hold back the night, as the ragged children ate what little bit of food they had been given. The air was starting to cool, making travel possible once again, so it was time to move.
Allah willing, Mahamat Dagash and his men would deliver the children to the market in Oum-Chalouba just before dawn. Even though the ambush had gone extremely well, there had been problems ever since. First with one of the Land Cruisers, which took a full day to repair, and then with the children, because their legs were short, and they were suffering from malnutrition, which made them unbearably slow.