Dahl crept low on his belly right up to the leading fabric at the back of the tent. It had been fastened to the earthy ground using pins at varying points and, as hoped, the material between the pins was loose. Dahl shuffled relentlessly closer and gently lifted a piece of fabric.
Again the voices were distorted. He couldn’t make one from the other. Surveying the area one more time, ensuring there were no footprints anywhere close that might attest to a guard patrol, he rearranged his body so that it lay lengthways to the tent and scooped up even more material, a half inch at a time. Eventually, he could lie with one ear flat to the wet floor, eyes peering into the tent to establish some bearings.
Robert Price traipsed up and down the side of the tent whilst the three CIA agents lounged on comfy chairs facing him. Of course, the agents still wore sunglasses and Price was puffing on a cigar. Probably Cuban. Dahl waited for somebody to speak.
“This is the last bazaar,” Price said finally. “You people need to get your heads around that. Unlimited offshore funds. Goodies that can’t possibly be traced back to the United States or even the CIA. We’re looking at an immense opportunity.”
“I think most people wandering around here have unlimited funds. Sir.” The agent deliberately paused before adding the title. “It’s being selective that counts. We know the jobs we have planned and the items we will need.”
“A little short-sighted don’t you think?”
“Black bag is by its very nature fast, fluid, and impossible to predict,” another agent said carefully. “Primary at the moment is the African deal.”
“Yes, yes, destabilize the Congo and some other third-world cesspit, I know, I know. Who cares really? Nothing changes, eh? We fight and fight, we plot and plot, we work with them, we kill them, we help them, we destroy them, and it’s all the same. Nobody wins except those who make the money. Well, it’s our time to be winners. Do you agree?”
“Off the books?” an agent asked.
Price snorted. “Did you just fall off a banana boat, son? Black bag means ‘off the books’ as far as I’m concerned.”
“There are always books,” someone said. “Always.”
“Not on my watch,” Price said a little theatrically. “Not on this watch. Am I understood?”
“Sir,” the most vocal of the three spoke up. “Considering where we are and what we’re doing I think we should be perfectly frank here. Are we talking treason?”
Price didn’t answer directly. “We will buy arms for our allies in Africa,” he said. “And we will cause chaos there. And we will become rich. I don’t see any government not currently employing that tactic in the third world, do you?”
“The chaos helps to fuel drug wars, inflates prices, causes wars and makes us money,” another said. “Same as it always is.”
“And stay out of the hot zone.” Price let out a laugh. “I hear Ebola’s bigger than Britney out there.”
Guffaws ensued. Dahl clenched both fists until the knuckles hurt. It took all his training and composure to remain aloof. Price and the CIA splinter team were planning the worst kind of genocide and all for their own gain. He listened closely for a few moments more but then it started to shower and the sound of raindrops overpowered all other sound. Dahl crept away into the jungle and made his way carefully back to the bazaar.
Turmoil raged through his thoughts, tearing them apart.
By the time he met up with Drake and Alicia he was fuming. “One more snake in this nest of vipers.” He spat. “One more poisonous mouth that needs closing forever.”
Drake frowned. “Mate, I’m all for the reptilian metaphors, especially out here, but what exactly did you hear?”
“I’ll explain. But now, it’s even more essential we act fast. We can’t let any of these power-mongers escape. Not one.”
Drake blinked. “That’s easier said than done.”
“But it’s the right thing to do,” Dahl said. “And believe me, we’re going to do it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
They returned to their tent, and explained all that had happened to the entire team with help of the sat-phone. It was getting on for lunchtime now on the middle day of the last bazaar, and the morning’s shower was descending in full force. Still, the security that surrounded them was first class and the attendance was high, which in itself provided many more capable enemies. Drake listened to the chatter, then nodded in approval as Kinimaka proposed a quick trip to buy some food.
“I’ll go with you,” Alicia said. “Get my shower for the day.”
Drake attacked what they brought back with gusto. Sausages, bacon and beans went down well at any time of the day and in any corner of the world. He listened to Kinimaka rave for a while about the choices on offer before being brought back to reality by Hayden’s tone.
“And where did Webb go?”
Drake ate slowly. “Haven’t caught up with him again yet.”
“Ramses?”
“Ditto.”
“There are too many players,” Dahl said. “What we need is to herd them all into one area.”
“Ain’t the bazaar an area?” Hayden drawled.
“Shit, not exactly. And it’s crawling with hostiles. You should see this place, Hay.” Kinimaka nibbled at a slice of bacon as he talked.
“Well, I see you guys’re running out of time. People are already leaving. We can’t follow all of them once they float or fly away so make a plan. And let’s do this.”
“She’s right,” Drake said. “Time is running out. We don’t want to be choosing between the Crown Prince of Terror, the leader of the Pythians and the treacherous American official now, do we? We want all of them, trussed, boxed, bagged and tagged. It’s time to make a play.”
“All right,” Alicia mumbled, her mouth full. “Soon as I’ve finished this bloody lovely bacon and brie sandwich I’ll go save the world, but not a moment before.”
The scene rasped on Drake as roughly as if a cheese-grater had been dragged down his skin. A diverse group of guests were gathered at the clearing where the caiman pit lay, and at their head, raised on a podium though he barely needed it, was Ramses. To Ramses’ right was the man who appeared to be his bodyguard and to his left stood a prisoner.
Restrained by two burly men, the prisoner stared, terrified, in all directions. His eyes were wide, his nostrils flaring. Panic etched his face, carved into every furrow. Ramses — or more likely his slaves — had dressed the man in beachwear: brand new Speedos, sandals and a classic vest, all in bright pastel colors. His hair was brushed, his skin glowing. Among the crowd were those who watched in silence, those who laughed out loud and those who shuffled eagerly from foot to foot.
Drake looked across at Dahl. “This isn’t gonna happen.”
The Swede nodded, grim-faced. “The fight starts with this man. Right now.”
Ramses’ voice boomed over the heads of the crowd. “And here we are, my good friends! As promised, one of the highlights of the weekend — a live hunt! The prey shall be loosed in one minute, and then yourselves in five. The person who brings me his head wins a free toaster!”
Laughter broke out in the face of the prisoner’s terror, but Ramses’ voice cut through it all. “No, no.” He turned and smiled at the prisoner. “Just a joke at your expense, I’m afraid. I think it would be fairer to offer a tank for your head. Yes, an Abrams tank, delivered anywhere, for this beach-bum’s head. Oh, and remember, both Akatash and I will be joining the hunt.”
Yorgi pulled himself upright as if in anticipation. The other four fixed their game faces. Drake counted eighteen other people in the huddle. This hunt was going to get intense, violent and bloody.