The Last Bazaar (9 page)

Tyler Webb rather enjoyed wandering anonymously from tent to tent, pavilion to pavilion by way of several cut-back jungle trails. Yes, the persistent showers were annoying and, in truth, they were a little more than that but Webb began to welcome the heavy downpours because they actually brought a little relief from the incessant heat. Of course, their aftermath brought even more humidity as the jungle dried out, but most of these tents were air-conditioned anyway. How else could you attract so many wealthy people to Purgatory?

Webb sensed Beauregard at his side the entire time, except for twice when the lithe Frenchman was forced into action. The conflict didn’t last long, though the one time Webb noticed his adversary was a woman several words were passed along with wry smiles. As darkness fell on that first day, Webb found himself enjoying the diversities. Wealthy, privileged men like himself craved uniqueness and Ramses’ bazaar was as unusual as it got.

Guards moved aside, their weapons pointed upward, as Webb ambled by. This pavilion extended up to a point, white fabric stretched and adorned with lights, bathing the key area in a golden glow. Webb’s interest centered on a long, low sturdy table where sat three familiar items.

Julian Marsh’s plan of using a so-called suitcase nuke to force the US to capitulate to the Pythians’ demands—as China previously had over the Z-Boxes—had forced both Webb and Marsh to become doyens of what was once simply Cold War tech. The only nations with enough expertise and money to successfully develop a tactical nuclear weapon small enough to fit into a backpack or large suitcase were the US, the Russians, and the Israelis. None of these three had acknowledged the existence of a weapon compact enough to be able to fit into a small suitcase, but the original technology was now at least thirty years old. It was also claimed—but never proven—that a dummy suitcase nuke was regularly carried on internal airline flights in the 1980s. For training purposes naturally. Webb allowed a little smile of disdain to creep across his features. How many times per day did a government lie to its people? And how many of those lies were for the people’s own good, rather than the politicians’?

He moved closer to the table in question, studying the item it held. The backpack was large and shapely enough so that it would stand out in a crowd, even scream for a closer inspection. The coloring was distinctly military, the strapping old and worn. It actually looked to Webb like half an oil drum wrapped in canvas.

The surprise must have registered on his face, for a man stepped forward out of a discreet shadow. “Is this not to your liking, sir?”

Webb scowled. “When I heard the term ‘suitcase nuke’ I imagined something smaller.”

“These three items are overlarge for your purposes?”

“They were overlarge for Hussein. How the hell am I supposed to utilize them?”

“Might I point you this way then, sir?”

The salesman, a young African who sported a name badge with the code word: Clay, which Webb really didn’t understand, waved him toward a set of curtains on the far side of the tent. Though the screen was merely fabric, the way it was hung and with two more beyond, it formed the perfect barrier. Webb passed through all three to find himself in a much smaller area bordered by two exterior sides of the tent. Clay left him and Beauregard to face a man whose face and demeanor was much more in keeping with the nature of the bazaar.

“You want buy? Buy these?”

Webb looked away from the pockmarked, scarred face, the dead eyes, the lank hair and filthy clothing, to the merchandise on the table. Surprisingly, it was the opposite of the man—clean, new, advanced.

The man coughed harshly. “It cream of crop, yes? Those others they too big. Old. Dangerous. This new and only one left. Yes?”

Webb tried to keep his face blank. What the hell was he looking at? Assuming the nuke was already inside then the delivery system was everything he’d dreamed about. “How did you get it so small? If an employee presented me with a suitcase nuke the size of those I’ve just seen I’d terminate his contract with excessive prejudice.”

Rat Breath, as Webb now designated him, just shrugged. “New,” he said. “Best.”

Webb nodded. What he found of most interest about suitcase nukes was that, according to several high-ranking Russian defectors, since the Cold War many of these devices had gone missing. It turned out that the number of “missing” nukes was almost identical to the number of targets on which they might be deployed. Might it be possible then, that they may already be deployed on US soil? Wired to batteries with several redundant backups. Just waiting . . .

They claimed to have hidden untold caches of weapons, sleeper agents and bomb-making materials. Of course, these days it was getting harder to smuggle anything into the States, but most of the stuff was already there. Webb snapped his thoughts back to the present, focusing on the wheeled suitcase that lay on the table.

“Is it wired to the case?” he asked, then sighed. “Remove?” he asked. “Can weapon be removed?”

“Oh, no.” Rat Breath looked terrified. “All one. Only detonate.”

“Nobody ever admitted to building one smaller than a foot-locker,” Webb breathed to Beauregard. “And yet here we are. Imagine if governments, for the last thirty years, had poured as many resources into disease control, famine prevention and catastrophe awareness as they have weapons. The world would be a far different place, my friend.”

Beauregard inclined his head. “Shocked to hear you say it but also pleased.”

Webb shrugged. “Hey, not that I give a fuck, right? They make their own beds, these war mongers. Tie them to what they reap. Let them burn.”

“Is that really you, sir?”

Webb laughed. “Oh, perhaps the wine has gone to my head. Or whatever that concoction was. Rice vodka? Who cares, right? Anyway, back to work. Julian should have arrived about an hour ago and will be fretting. How much for this new weapon, Mr. Rat—” Webb coughed to cover his error, then finished lamely. “Mr. Man?”

“One million dollars. The larger ones are half that.” Rat Breath shrugged.

Webb threw his arms in the air. “Then we celebrate!” He reeled off an account number and then privately entered a pin that allowed these dealers to extricate funds the potential buyers had deposited earlier.

“Transaction good.” Ratty showed his rodent-like teeth at Webb. “You take.”

“That I will,” Webb smiled. “That I will. Oh, and what guarantee do I have that this thing actually works?”

Rat Breath looked understandably nonplussed. “Can’t test,” he said with a verminous smile. “That would be problem. Have clever man check wiring.”

Webb leaned forward, grinning too. “But carefully, eh? Super careful?”

“Oh, very careful!” Rat Breath cried.

“It will be checked,” Webb said seriously. “And any problems will be taken up by my associate here.”

Beauregard hefted the suitcase at arm’s length.

Rat Breath said nothing, but grinned.

Webb exited the tent, still smiling and feeling good about himself. With all prospects of even the lightest, mildest forms of stalking currently on hold he had expected this trip to be more than depressing. But on the contrary, it had injected a feisty little spirit into him that he quite liked. The path outside twisted among dark boughs and Webb took a moment to lean against one as he checked his cell. To hell with the creepy-crawlies. To hell with anything else. Tonight was for living . . .

Marsh was here. Webb felt instant depression. Marsh was a frigging oddball, one part of him normal the other part, well,
odd.
The man’s message said to meet near the caiman pit so Webb took some bearings, headed off, and then switched to the opposite direction at Beauregard’s wry insistence. He’d never been particularly good at finding his way around.

Not exactly right,
he thought.
I’ve always been good at finding my way around people’s homes. And lives.

Water dripped without end, a constant accompaniment to whatever revelries were happening tonight. Webb trudged through wet leaves and piles of mud, passing the slave tent once again and the sports pavilion. Many were inside catching up on live matches and results they were missing, but Webb had never cared for games of any kind. Beyond the pavilion lay the caiman pit, bordered by a high fence and still well-lit, but now patronized only by one man—Julian Marsh.

Webb blinked twice as he saw Marsh climbing the fence to peer over the top, face pressed firmly between wrought-iron barbs, as if he couldn’t see straight through the gaps between the uprights. This was not a good man to send out into the world with a nuclear weapon. Not a good man at all.

Webb coughed loudly. “Julian?”

“Yessss?” Marsh turned, still clinging to the uprights.

“Come down from there. I have our merchandise.”

Marsh leapt from the railings, arms and legs out in a star-shape, landing awkwardly but without injury. Webb stared openly at the contrast of sheepskin jacket and tailored pants, the luminous green gloves and purple rain boots. The doubts in his mind suddenly gelled.

“Julian,” he said carefully. “Are you okay?”

“Never been better!” the last of the Pythian generals squeaked. “And you and the French condom? Okay?”

Webb gave in. The end-game here was actually the scroll, not the damn nuke. “Well, here we are. As agreed. Smuggle this into the US and then New York City. Once you’re there, let me know and we will start the show.”

Marsh reached out both hands for the suitcase. “Looks a little small, boss. Some FBI agent gets a look at this he’ll pee himself laughing.”

Webb hadn’t had time to formulate a believable story. “It’s real, I’m sure. Get it checked before you reach the United States though. And be careful, Marsh. This is the Pythian swan song.”

“Cool, cool. So . . . what do I do with it when we’re done? Throw it in the Hudson?”

Webb winced. “Umm, no. Let me get back to you on that. Use the burner phone method. No dead drops anymore. They got that covered these days. Code words as we agreed. This is it now, Julian. You are a Pythian carrying out his duty. Possibly the last. Do not stray from the road, my friend.”

Webb needed the distraction. Ramses’ new ultimatum may have painted this picture with a wholly different brush, but Webb needed it to happen one way or another. Once the Saint Germain angle was in play Webb would be free, whole, able to live and stalk and destroy without restraint or restriction. Quickly, he sent Marsh on his way, marveled at how the man stayed upright in those rain boots, and then used a two-way radio to contact Ramses.

“The matter we spoke of? It is in play right now. My man is on his way to the final destination, but carefully. It will take some time.”

Ramses voice was deep and sonorous. “Not too long I hope.”

“Next week perhaps.”

“That is acceptable. So now I assume you require this scroll?”

Webb allowed the excited tingle to spread from his skull to his feet. “I do.”

“Tomorrow,” Ramses breathed. “Seven p.m. At the slavers’ tent.”

Webb barely refrained from letting out a frustrated sigh. “Seven p.m.? No sooner?”

“It is what it is, friend.”

“Very well.” Webb tried in vain to hang on to his feeling of wellbeing. “I will see you then.”

He glanced around at Beauregard. “Find my tent. I’ve had enough of this shit. I want a bottle of rice vodka, Cinnamon Buns ice cream and a DVD player with
Once Upon A Time
already loaded. Can you do that?”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“Make sure you do. Oh, and Beauregard?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Next week, tell any friends you have in New York to take a vacation. But for now, keep the rest of these murderers, betrayers and savages away from me. Okay?”

“Got it.”

“We have two days left to make this bazaar work for us,” Webb said. “Tomorrow, we’ll shop like we’re on Rodeo.”

In the heat of battle and the intense pressure of a soon-anticipated conflict the wisest person will always grab a little respite when he or she can, and Matt Drake’s came in the form of watching Alicia Myles play dress-up. It had now been decided that Yorgi would play the Albanian mafia boss and Alicia his wife, as they were the closest physical match team SPEAR could find at short notice.

Out in the Amazon,
Drake had said.
It’s you, Alicia, or a cougar.

That one earned him a bruise.

But there were more, so many more potential wisecracks, as Alicia and Yorgi donned the bespoke clothes of the wealthy terrorist couple and figured out a way to conceal their new, slimmer body armor and several weapons. Alicia in particular looked uncomfortable wearing civilian clothes, not to mention customized fabrics, and took some time to tug at the neckline, hemline and sides of her black dress.

“Is it me?” she asked. “Or is this a little inappropriate for the fucking Amazon?”

The Albanian terrorist’s wife shrugged, her blond locks bobbing. “I just dress nice. All places we go are same.”

Alicia stared. “Do you even know what the Amazon is?”

The wife shrugged again. “It is the next place we go. After that it is Cairo. Then the Atlantis Dubai. Then—”

Her husband cut her off with a hiss. Drake grunted. “Don’t count on it, love.”

Alicia gestured feverishly at the window. “Don’t you ever look out the window? There’s a jungle out there not a fucking shopping mall!”

Drake burst out laughing as Dahl grinned. The Yorkshireman said, “You’re perfect for the part, Alicia. A proper terrorist princess.”

“One more crack out of either of you and we’ll be a guard short. Believe
that.”

Yorgi stepped up, adjusting a tie and shrugging into a dinner jacket. The young thief also looked out of place, but Drake thought he carried it off quite well. Maybe it was the criminal in him—his life of wearing a disguise. Of course, Lauren would have been better for the job Alicia had been lumbered with but the team would not take her quite literally into the dragon’s den unless there was no other option.

Drake, Dahl and Kinimaka donned new jackets taken from the now trussed-up guards, the Hawaiian having most trouble and having to tear several ambiguous holes to get the right fit. “Next time,” he told the Albanian, “get some guards with a proper set of muscles on ’em. Not toothpicks.”

“Be careful you don’t rip that jacket in half,” Hayden fretted a little. “Just . . . be careful in there, okay? All of you.”

The five-person team nodded, ready to go. Smyth managed a grimace, still with his weapons trained on the Albanians, and Lauren manned the helm to guide them closer to the site of the bazaar. Very soon, Drake saw guards appear dotted at the top of the riverbank, all with weapons pointed at the skies but on full alert. Again he was reminded that these men weren’t the complacent mercs they had grown used to. Some stood in full view whilst others lurked in the dark, covering their colleagues. Dahl pointed out what appeared to be an anti-aircraft set-up and inhaled loudly without speaking. What was there to say?

Soon, a makeshift dock appeared ahead and Lauren guided the craft slowly in. Once they were docked and tied, the five-person team climbed up on deck, attitude and pass-keys at the ready. Drake stayed close to Alicia and Dahl to Yorgi whilst Kinimaka hung back a little to gauge reactions and study the area.

Drake took in as much as he could without appearing suspicious. The rickety dock led to a flat, muddy area that had clearly been cut out of the jungle and leveled off. He was lucky to be wearing boots but didn’t hold out much hope for the Albanian couple’s shoes. More fortunately it appeared Ramses had thought of everything—including his special guests underestimating the jungle’s hostility—and pairs of rain boots were provided as they came ashore. Drake glared at the bright lights that emanated through the densely packed trees and caught the sounds of laughter, shouting and music, but for now they were stopped at a polite but necessarily suspicious guard station. Here, Drake noticed, the gun barrels were much lower.

Without a word or barely a glance Yorgi handed five pass keys over. The inspector, suitably attired in a penguin suit and white gloves, plucked the pass keys from the Russian’s hand and placed them all, golden micro-chip up, on his table. With an emotionless smile he glanced past them toward the boat, then surveyed the rolling waters and silent banks. Drake said nothing, but prayed there wouldn’t be a series of questions.

Moments dragged on for hours. Drake eyed the guards and they eyed him back. His weapon was holstered but close at hand. The white-gloved concierge waved the first black plastic key onto a portable scanner and waited for a beep. Information must have flashed up on a hidden screen for the man then asked for names and nationality.

Yorgi spoke for the both of them, as haltingly as the Albanian, and trying to keep any Russian inflection from his voice. Drake saw the concierge’s eyes flick and a flex in his fingers, but the look was only a surreptitious one to take in Alicia’s form and soon passed. Drake however noticed Alicia’s sudden tension and prayed that she wouldn’t decide to teach him a lesson. Not here. Not now.

“All keys are good.” The man smiled. “As expected, of course. Please,” he stood aside and indicated a path of stones that had been inlaid into the jungle floor, “follow the . . . yellow brick road.” His polite laugh at the end was well rehearsed and clearly performed hundreds of times. Yorgi ignored him and pushed past, waving at Alicia to follow but not watching to see if she did. Drake thought the Russian had the terrorist’s mannerisms down to a T and followed Alicia across the unstable stones.

The noise and light drew nearer. Drake saw more guards, their eyes roving the group and nearby shadows. Then they rounded a huddle of trees and entered the bazaar and paused for a moment, looks of shock on their faces. What could only be described as state-of-the-art market stalls lined a wide pathway, their supports and coverings wound among upstanding trees and foliage. Floodlights illuminated all, and helped keep unwanted insects at bay. Vendors hawked their wares, but their offerings were not ordinary merchandise. Drake saw compact sub-machine guns, boxes of grenades, rocket launchers and a missile battery at just a glance. Guards were stationed everywhere, and groups wandered the winding pathway, stopping to peruse stalls at their leisure. Rising at the end of the path Drake saw a pavilion, its opening framed by lights. An odor of cooked meats drifted on the wind. A mini-explosion in the jungle testified to the presence of interested predators.

“They don’t care,” Dahl said, nodding at the buyers. “It’s just another day on the road to them.”

Drake also whispered. “They buy and they buy and it funds more terror,” he said. “Many of them don’t see what they reap. These people are the money, not the zeal.”

Yorgi pretended some interest in a crate of missiles, pointing out the fact that they did possess the Albanian’s pre-paid credit card. More stalls offered knives, swords and military gear. More pavilions appeared ahead and, on quick inspection, presented every sort of deadly paraphernalia Drake could think of, and more besides. All in all, the bazaar was an extreme show of incredible excess, tailored toward the more mature lunatic and his doting wife.

Alicia spoke little as they walked, so far out of her comfort zone even she couldn’t poke fun at it. Banquets lay spread alfresco on tables covered in satin. Auctioneers sold men and women to left and right, so blatantly that the entire five-person team were forced to employ all of their self-restraint not to step in. By contrast the next cleared area along had been overlaid in some kind of thick fabric to allow men and women an area to dance slowly to quiet tunes.

The owner of a shooting range encouraged them to take a try, whispering that he would take any currency that they had. A quiet, domed tent required inspection by Yorgi and turned out to be a drugs boutique. Drake was surprised to see Italian and French designer stalls too, though who could say if the goods were genuine or fake? Certainly not him. None of this interested him too much, but what he did find noteworthy was that none of the guests spoke to or barely glanced at each other. He wasn’t sure if this was sheer snobbery or precautionary but, if pushed, would have bet on the former.

A small array of private tents passed and then they were nearing the end of the bazaar, a railed hole ahead. Drake briefly wondered what might lay inside when Dahl leaned in to Yorgi.

“Think we should buy something? For appearances sake?”

Drake took that one. “Let’s leave it tonight, it’s getting late. We’ve done the groundwork. Tomorrow the real work begins. We find Webb, Beau, and the bloody CIA. And whomever this main man may be.”

“And then Ramses,” Alicia breathed. “After all I’ve been through, I am so looking forward to putting that guy in his rightful place.”

“All you’ve been through?” Yorgi echoed, looking a little hurt. “Playing at being my wife, you mean?”

Alicia scowled. “You’re too young for me, Yogi. And too dainty.”

The thief’s expression was a study in hurt.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I like my men with a bit more meat on them. And more definition. Experience. Weathered. Been around the block a few times . . .”

Yorgi held up a hand. “Please don’t go on. I understand you.”

Drake still stared at the railing. “Not sure where you’re gonna find one of those around here, Princess.”

“Are you sure?”

Drake turned around to find Alicia considering him. Quickly, he coughed and gave Kinimaka a push. “C’mon, pal, let’s find our tents.”

“Maybe I don’t want to go to bed.” Alicia pouted. “The night is yet young.”

“Big day tomorrow. Huge day. This isn’t going to be easy.”

“Nothing worth doing ever is,” Dahl said.

The group took a last look around the meandering throng, the sparkling tables with their gritty, dirty commodities and the attentive, well-spaced guards. The main players, it seemed, had all retired for the night.

Tomorrow would be madness, Drake thought. Without a plan, backup, or up-to-the-minute intel they somehow had to take down and capture what amounted to a village full of high-class terrorists, a splinter of the CIA and the Pythian leader, not to mention the revolutionary myth himself—Ramses.

Dahl caught his eye, clearly thinking the same thing. “Let the games begin.”