This was the Sahara, after all, where death lay only meters away.
By the time a long, thin crack appeared along the eastern horizon, and pink light washed the sky, Agent 47 was ready to make his first kill.
The Mog had been left at the bottom of a dry wadi and covered with the camo netting that Gazeau always carried. Now, having made it all the way to the air base’s perimeter without blowing themselves up, all 47 and his companions had to do was neutralize a combined force of something like eighteen bodyguards and police officers in order to have a nice, productive chat with Al-Fulani. It was no small task, but one the operative thought the three of them could accomplish, so long as they played it smart.
In order to gain every possible advantage, Agent 47 had Gazeau draw three identical maps of the base, and divide each into sectors. Then, having checked to make sure their radios were operational, the men low-crawled into position roughly three hundred feet out from the perimeter of the base. The assassin estimated that the old radio mast was approximately one hundred feet tall. That made it the perfect watchtower-a place from which a sharp-eyed lookout could monitor activity for miles around. Had he been the one playing defense, 47 would have stationed one of his very best people up there.
But would Marla do likewise? It was an important question, because if she had, then it would be necessary to kill the lookout in order to maintain the element of surprise. But it was still too dark to be sure.
He found it frustrating, lying there as the sun continued to rise, knowing full well that valuable time was slipping away. But Agent 47 forced himself to remain where he was and gradually, bit by bit, the early morning light began to illuminate the tower. There, about halfway to the top, a platform could be seen. The image wobbled as the assassin brought the Walther WA 2000 to bear. It was difficult to hold the weapon steady because of the steep angle, but there was no mistaking the lookout who was crouched on the tiny triangle of metal, or the sticklike rifle that was slung across his back. A safety rope secured the sentry to the tower and he was looking toward the north. The assassin turned to Gazeau.
“There’s a lookout all right. But I need something to rest my rifle on. Get up on your hands and knees.”
The Libyan made a face, but crawled into position, and felt the gun barrel come to rest on his back. It was a rather undignified pose, and something the sentry was sure to notice if he turned toward the south. And Gazeau knew that he, rather than “Taylor,” would be targeted first.
In the meantime, Agent 47 found that even with the improvised gun rest, the elevation was such that the shot would be difficult to make. Yet there wasn’t any choice. So the assassin worked a cartridge into the chamber, slid the crosshairs over the lookout’s torso, and made a slight adjustment to allow for the westerly breeze. Then, having taken a deep breath and forced it out again, he took all of the slack out of the trigger.
The Walther nudged his shoulder, there was a soft phut as the bullet left the barrel, and the man on the tower seemed to sag.
The lookout couldn’t fall-given the safety rope-but his binoculars did. Agent 47 held his breath as the glasses plummeted toward the ground, disappeared behind one of the intervening buildings, and presumably smashed themselves into a hundred pieces on the concrete below. Would someone hear?
It seemed all too likely, but twenty seconds, then a minute, then five minutes passed without producing any sign of an alarm. The assassin allowed himself to breathe normally.
Gazeau was back at his side by then and ready for the next step.
“Okay, Pierre, work your way over to the tower. Climb it if you can, eyeball the base, and tell me where they are.” The operative turned to his left. “Numo, circle around to the west. Find a good position and get ready to fire on targets of opportunity.”
Both men nodded and scuttled away as 47 elbowed his way toward the sand-drifted remains of a much-abused security fence. There were plenty of holes, so he chose the closest.
Once inside he found himself at the edge of what had been a military parade ground. The concrete was cracked in places and partially covered with windblown sand, but still recognizable as what it had been. The problem was that all of the buildings were located on the far side of the hardscape. Agent 47 didn’t want to cross that much open ground, but there wasn’t any choice unless he wanted to take a long detour, the length of which would pose its own risks.
So the operative got up and began to run.
The Mossberg pump gun bounced against his back, and the weight of the spare ammo slowed the assassin down as he ran toward the three aluminum flagpoles that marked the front of what had once been the facility’s administration building. The prefab box was made of corrugated metal, and was riddled with hundreds of bullet holes. There was no way to know whether the shots had been fired by the Chadians as the base was overrun, or by vandals later on.
Three steps led 47 up to shattered double doors that sagged inward. The assassin slipped between them and instantly found himself in a murky reception area. A quick reconnaissance revealed half a dozen offices that lay beyond, one of which was larger than all the rest, and probably had belonged to the commanding officer. Agent 47 could imagine the feckless Colonel Uadi sitting behind his desk, trying to understand what was happening as his command disintegrated around him.
The building had been looted more than once, which meant that anything of value had been taken, but a few symbols of the past remained. Among the items that caught 47’s eye was a cloth jacket, still hanging from its hook; a photo of a pretty woman, on the filthy floor; and a plaque celebrating some sort of achievement, still bolted to the wall. None of which mattered to the operative as long as he had the place to himself.
Marla didn’t have enough people to secure the entire base, so she would do the next best thing, which was to choose a defensible area within the complex, establish a perimeter, and sit tight until the plane arrived. As the assassin took another look at Gazeau’s hand-drawn map, he thought he knew which area she had chosen. The area he would choose, if the decision were up to him.
The likely candidate was what had been the air base’s maintenance facility, which consisted of a large prefab building that fronted the main taxiway, but was at least a hundred feet away from the neighboring hangars. That structure would allow Marla to bring the vehicles inside where they couldn’t be spotted from the air, keep all of the slaves in one place, and maintain good fields of fire all around.
So, assuming that his assumptions were correct, it would be important to close with the maintenance facility before the opposition tried to make contact with the dead lookout, or the plane came in for a landing. It could be on its way already.
With that in mind the assassin slipped outside, made his way along the front of the building, and vanished into the ruins of Quadi Doum.
It was still cold enough for Marla to see her breath as she sipped hot tea and stared out across the sand-strewn runway toward the quickly rising sun.
The security chief was nervous, which seemed stupid, given the size of the force at her disposal. But even though the Puissance Treize agent had sixteen men on hand, six were policemen who weren’t about to take orders from a woman. And while the other ten knew better than to defy her, Marla estimated that only seven of them could be counted on in a firefight. The rest were relatives of Al-Fulani’s who were a lot better at carrying weapons than actually firing them.
So, counting herself, the Moroccan had roughly eight people who could be relied upon to protect him.
Still, Marla thought, our lookout will spot trouble long before it arrives and give us plenty of warning. It was a comforting thought, and having finished her tea, the Puissance Treize agent turned to go back inside the building.
A child started to cry, a man barked an order, and the noise stopped.
Had it not been for the broken glass that made a crunching sound as Agent 47’s boot came down on it, the policeman might never have learned of his impending demise.
In spite of orders from Al-Fulani’s European whore, he had gone out to take a look around, just in case several generations of looters had missed something of value. Nothing major, he was too realistic to expect that, but an adjustable wrench perhaps. Or a good clasp knife, or-
But that was when he heard a crunch, felt the bottom fall out of his stomach, and made a grab for the big revolver that hung on his hip. Unfortunately the fiber-wire loop was tightening around his throat by then, which caused him to pluck at the relentless ligature in a vain attempt to loosen it.