The Last Bazaar

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

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.”