Hitman: Enemy Within

CHAPTER TWELVE

Waleed Abadati was a true believer, a dedicated husband, and a good father. Virtues built on a foundation of good habits that began with a regimen of personal hygiene before breakfast, followed by early morning prayer, and a brisk three-mile walk to work.

That journey began deep within the Fes El Bali, and took him to the Ville Nouvelle district, where thanks to four years spent in the army, he worked as a low-ranking security guard at Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani’s mansion.

It was a boring job for the most part, but a relatively well-paid one, and Abadati felt fortunate to have it. The security guard was in a good mood as his feet followed the same path they walked every day and his mind contemplated the purchase of a secondhand car. It was a big step, but the money had been saved and was waiting in the bank. But what kind to buy? There were so many possibilities. Perhaps that was why the Moroccan didn’t pay any attention to the scrape of shoe leather behind him, and was completely unprepared when a hand covered his mouth, and a strong arm jerked him into a heavily shadowed passageway.

That was when the needle bit his neck, the sedative entered his bloodstream, and the arms of darkness opened to receive him.

Having followed Abadati the previous day, Agent 47 had chosen the spot with care, and knew that the sloppily constructed lean—to that half—blocked the walkway would provide cover while he stripped the security guard of his belongings, including his photo ID, access card, and a U.S.-made Colt Python revolver, complete with gun belt and twelve extra rounds of.357 Magnum ammunition.

The clothes fit fairly well, which wasn’t too surprising, since Abadati had been chosen for his height and build. Once the transformation was complete, 47 took time to bind and gag the security guard before piling musty burlap sacks on top of him.

Then, having assumed Abadati’s persona, including the guard’s peaked hat and sunglasses, the assassin continued the walk to work. The henna tattoos had started to fade by then, and were covered over with makeup that served to darken 47’s skin. The impersonation was so good that merchants waved to the familiar figure, and one of Abadati’s second cousins shouted a greeting from a second floor window as the guard passed below.

Fifteen minutes later Agent 47 entered the Ville Nouvelle. From there it was a short walk to the Al-Fulani mansion, where 47 made his way to the main gate, and waved Abadati’s ID card as he passed the guardhouse. The operative waited for what seemed like an inevitable challenge, but the gate guard had seen what he expected to see. Which was the eternally dependable Waleed Abadati, showing up early for work.

Now that he had successfully penetrated the outermost layer of Al-Fulani’s security, a single swipe of Abadati’s key card opened the basement door. That provided 47 with access to the locker room where staff stored their personal belongings, and ultimately the subsurface corridor that would take the assassin to his real objective-a stairway that led from the basement up to Al-Fulani’s study. The passageway, which was intended to function as an emergency escape route should the mansion come under attack, was to see on the diagrams downloaded from The Agency.

Which meant the assassin should be able to enter Al-Fulani’s private office, overpower the businessman, inject him with Sodium Pentothal, and ask two extremely important questions: Who had penetrated The Agency—and who were they working for? It would be awkward, since time would be limited, but with Marla running Al-Fulani’s personal security detail, 47 had given up all hope of spiriting the Moroccan away. Ever since the incident with the fuel truck her precautions had been extremely thorough.

Since Abadati was habitually early for work, Agent 47 had a full thirty minutes to enjoy before anyone would question his whereabouts, and perhaps another fifteen minutes before a search began. With that in mind, he entered the employee lounge, gave thanks for the fact that it was empty, and proceeded out into the hallway. An elderly janitor was swabbing the floor, but he didn’t bother to look up as the uniformed guard passed and slipped around a corner.

Agent 47 knew where the hidden door was supposed to be, but when he arrived there, it was to discover a wall covered with panels of gold fabric. After a quick scan to ensure he wasn’t being observed, 47 began to push and prod at the panel where the door was supposed to be.

There was no response at first, and the agent had begun to worry when he heard a click followed by a whir as the door swiveled open. That released a rush of air laden with the faint odor of incense. He stepped through the portal, and was about to turn and close the door when a sensor took care of that task for him. Pleased with his progress so far, Agent 47 paused to remove his shoes before climbing a flight of narrow wooden stairs to the floor above.

Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani was seated behind his desk, with his back to three arched windows, as Marla stood in front of him.

“There’s no doubt about it,” the Puissance Treize agent said earnestly. “The Otero brothers were sent to kill you. Not one of the other VIPs who occupied the stage.”

“Yet they failed because this Agent 47 person managed to stop them,” the businessman mused. “Why would he want to do that?”

Six intricately carved Moorish screens served to partition off the east end of the office. Beyond them, in the alcove where Al-Fulani took his naps, one of the richly polished antique doors that decorated the back wall opened on silent hinges as Agent 47 entered the room. The assassin’s feet were silent as he padded over to the screens and peered through one of them onto the scene that lay beyond.

Damn it! Al-Fulani was present, all right, but so was Marla, and the clock was ticking. Still, there was always the possibility that she would leave, so it made sense for the operative to wait.

“There’s no way to know for sure,” Marla replied gravely. “But it’s my opinion that he wants to capture you, perhaps to interrogate you. And that would be difficult if you were dead.”

“Yes,” the Moroccan agreed bleakly. “It would. But I have news for you. Good news. We’re about to leave Fez, which will make your job much easier!”

Marla wasn’t sure whether leaving Fez would make her job easier, but she could hope. So she forced a smile.

“Really?” she responded. “Where are we going? Somewhere cool, I hope.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Al-Fulani answered sympathetically. “It’s pretty warm in N’Djamena this time of year. But the desert in Chad has its own kind of beauty—and Agent 47 will have no idea where I am.”

Having said that, the Moroccan businessman rose and circled the desk.

“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.

Numo liked working for Pierre Gazeau, especially since the pay was good, and the long trips into the desert meant he could escape from the friendly chaos that surrounded his steadily growing family. And the work brought him simple pleasures. The way that the sun beat down on his back, the shadows pointed away from the rocks, and a hamada[4] seemed to float at the very edge of the sky. It was during moments such as this that his mind, spirit, and jesm[5] were all in one place.

Numo snuggled the rifle up against his shoulder, allowed the barrel to rest on the jacket-wrapped rock, and poured the sum of his intelligence into the telescopic sight. The targets—and there were three to choose from—were approximately 600 meters to the east of his position, well within the rifle’s 800-meter range, and two of them were facing in his direction. The third, the AK-47 man, was looking toward Gazeau and the man who called himself Taylor.

The situation presented a number of technical difficulties, none of which were insurmountable. First were the capabilities of the weapon itself. Having first learned to fire it during his time with the Libyan army, Numo knew that the Mauser 7.62 mm SP 66 sniper’s rifle was a fine weapon, especially against a single target. The problem was that the bolt-action rifle came equipped with a three-shot magazine.

Yes, he might be able to work the action quickly enough to hit all three targets, but what were the odds? The first target would fall, that was a given, but the others would immediately spring into motion. Would he be able to work the bolt, acquire the second target, and achieve another kill?

And what about target number three?

No, the best thing to do was prioritize the targets, and count on them to react in the manner he thought they would. Kill the leader first, then the man wearing the bush hat, and trust to luck after that. Satisfied that he had a plan, and that it stood a good chance of success, Numo drew a deep breath and let it out.

Agent 47 heard the flat whip-crack of the rifle shot, knew it was Numo, and turned in time to see the explosion of blood and brains.

Then came a second shot. And as the Tuareg who was wearing the bush hat fell, the other brought his AK-47 up. He was about to spray the foreigners with bullets when the agent shot him in the head.

The Silverballer was on its way back to the shoulder holster hidden beneath a safari-style vest even as the thief went down. Gazeau had seen his share of violence in North Africa, yet he was clearly impressed by the speed and accuracy demonstrated by his newly acquired client, and allowed his eyebrows to rise.

“You travel armed.”

The assassin nodded. “So do you.”

The Libyan laughed. “Yes, and it’s a good thing too! Come…we have work to do.”

It took the better part of an hour to dump the bodies into a gully and cover them with soil. The beat-up Toyota Land Cruiser would be impossible to hide, however, so Gazeau did the next best thing: he left the key in the ignition.

“It will be gone by tomorrow morning,” the Libyan predicted. “And I can assure you that the new owner won’t file any reports with the local police!”

Confident that he was less than a day behind Al-Fulani, Agent 47 instructed Gazeau to drive him to Mongo, the next logical destination for Al-Fulani and his party. The trip required another six-hour journey, then an overnight stay in a convenient wadi, and a two-hour drive the following morning. But finally they were there.

Gazeau downshifted, and the diesel belched black smoke as the Mog eased its way down Mongo’s main street. It was cool in the cab, thanks to the air conditioning, but Mongo shimmered in the midmorning heat.

Agent 47 noticed that there were two styles of architecture in town. Some of the locals favored flattopped structures made from concrete blocks, while others preferred buildings with peaked roofs that were sheathed in rusty metal. None, with the exception of a single white mosque, exceeded two stories in height.

However, disparate as the two styles were, there was a common tendency toward garish paint, piles of festering trash, and brand-spanking-new Coke signs that not only served to advertise the product, but plugged otherwise gaping holes in the buildings.

The much abused structures stood shoulder to shoulder, like drunks who rely on each other in order to remain upright, and bled rivulets of brown wastewater into the unpaved street. The effluvium stank to high heaven, and merged into sluggishly flowing streams that followed the gentle gradient down toward the other end of town.

None of which seemed to bother the men of Mongo, most of whom appeared to be unemployed and stood in doorways, sat on stoops, or perched on the hoods of half-stripped vehicles. They watched the Mog pass with the same alert intelligence possessed by scavengers everywhere, as they listened for early signs of mechanical distress, and calculated what such a handsome vehicle would fetch on the black market.

In the meantime their women, busy in the way third-world women are always busy, struggled to cope with hordes of quarreling children, tons of filthy clothes, and an endless succession of meals. Some were Arabic, commonly referred to as “northerners,” and wore conservative clothing. Others-those dressed in more colorful attire, and commonly referred to as “southerners”—were generally non—Islamic.

But regardless of their origins, all were locked in a battle with poverty, ignorance, and disease and went about their chores with downcast eyes, as if fully aware of the forces that opposed them, having already conceded defeat.

Gazeau glanced at the man seated next to him.

“It’s depressing, isn’t it?”

The operative shrugged.

“I’ve seen worse.” Again the Libyan’s eyebrows rose.

“There’s the police station,” Gazeau said, and he pointed through the dirt-smeared windscreen.

Agent 47 looked. The police station was a squat-looking affair, set apart from the other buildings, and surrounded by a nine-foot-tall cyclone fence topped by coils of razor wire. Three desert-equipped 80-series Land Cruisers sat by the gate. Two appeared to be operable, and the third was up on concrete blocks. Judging from the scattering of mismatched tools that lay about, not to mention the scrawny legs that protruded from under the vehicle, it appeared that one of the local mechanics was hard at work trying to repair it.

Of more interest was the police model Eurocopter EC 135 that sat on a pad within the enclosure. The aircraft was so new, so valuable, that it rated its own sentry.

Gazeau braked, pulled into the parking area, and killed the Mog’s engine.

“You’re sure this is a good idea,” 47 said doubtfully.

“No,” Gazeau answered cheerfully, “I’m not. But real geologists would stop and pay for a permit to take samples out of the country. And if Al-Fulani passed through here, the police will know about it. The problem, if we run into one, will relate to the size of the bribe. If the fee is reasonable, which many are, we pay and go. But, if the Sous-Prefet is greedy, we’ll make some sort of excuse, and take our chances with the locals. Unfortunately, whatever information they give us may be a pack of lies.”

“Okay,” the assassin agreed. “You’re the expert. Let’s do it.”

Gazeau nodded, ordered Numo to guard the truck, and opened the driver-side door. Heat flooded in, along with the choking smell of sewage and bright sunlight. The Libyan jumped to the ground, slammed the door, and hooked a pair of aviator-style sunglasses over his ears. Then, with the shades in place, Gazeau led 47 up to the gate.

The sentry, who looked as if he had only recently graduated from the police academy, was proud of his new khaki uniform and the huge revolver strapped to his hip. He spoke serviceable French.

“Good morning, how can I help you?”

Agent 47 listened absently as Gazeau answered in the same language, wondered why the front of the pale blue police station was pocked with what looked like bullet holes, then followed the Libyan inside.

The interior was only a few degrees cooler, but it still felt good to step out of the sun, even if the ancient ceiling fan was turning too slowly to do much good. There were benches on either side of the room, both filled with pitiful-looking supplicants, many of whom had brought food with them, as if expecting a long wait.

The counter, which was manned by a flat-eyed corporal, was made of plywood. The front had been decorated with a carefully rendered likeness of the blue, yellow, and red national flag. A Michelin map covered most of the desk’s surface and was protected by a sheet of scratched glass. The Libyan leaned his arms on it and inquired as to the availability of export permits for the worthless rocks that occupied the back of the Mog. The corporal countered by demanding to see a valid Autorisation de Circuler, which Gazeau pushed across the counter.

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.