The Last Bazaar

CHAPTER NINE

Tyler Webb was as unhappy as he’d ever been in his life. He sat alongside Beauregard in the back of a luxury chopper, minutes away from landing at Ramses’ ridiculous flea market, compelled to attend by the one thing he desired most of all in this world.

The scroll. The final piece of the puzzle on the path to Saint Germain.

Call it a life-revolution, a game-changer, a world-ender. It was all of those and yet didn’t matter. It was the last thing he needed to lead him to the treasures of Saint Germain. It was a much-deserved redemption.

For now though he needed to temper those desires, almost impossible though that was. Their unstoppable itch ran in his blood. But even this close the scroll still stood a world away. Just a little while longer, went the mantra inside his head. I’m almost there…

The chopper descended. Webb clung on as the canopy rose toward them — a seemingly impenetrable bed of green. Beauregard sat like a statue beside him, unreadable. Webb choked and hyperventilated as the pilot deftly inserted them into the canopy, veering through stepped gaps and then deposited them with a bump onto terra firma.

Beauregard yawned. “Ready?”

Webb gulped hard. “Sure. Of course. Yes.”

The Frenchman led the way, straight into an atmosphere of cloying heat. Webb stopped to stare into the surrounding jungle, a ruthless force barely held at bay, and tried not to hear the sounds of predators lurking and screeching within. The tents nearby were overhung with mosquito netting and other accoutrements but Webb dreaded to think what Ramses might have set up for him. The Pythian network was almost dead, their mercenaries unpaid and deserted, its leaders isolated and unable to communicate with their leader. Zoe Sheers? He hadn’t heard from that woman in over a week. Webb’s only requirement now was that Julian Marsh performed. The rest would be his to discover. Beauregard followed a safe but makeshift path cut through the underbrush, passing by overhanging trees and through lines of old trunks.

“What is this?” Webb grumbled. “The goddamn scenic route?”

“Just be thankful you remembered to apply the insect repellent,” Beauregard returned petulantly. “And that I reminded you.”

Webb knew the man had a point. He didn’t deign to reply, but eyeballed several unmistakably obvious guards as he passed them by, oddly reassured by their presence. The path wavered for a while, eventually leading to a large clearing at the center of which stood a high podium. Arranged around the outside were a series of tall tents. Webb spied lines of sturdy wooden tables and more tents, even what looked like a pavilion further away near the bend of a quick-flowing river. More people were coming from that way, all shapes and sizes and wearing everything from cut-off jeans and leather jackets to turbans and sandals, from dark-skinned men to platinum blond women, and from several traveling alone to those who were surrounded by thick-necked bodyguards. The sound of quiet chatter filled the nearby trees.

Sunlight filtered down from between torn clouds, but Webb had been told to expect regular cloudbursts followed by baking heat. Apparently, Ramses had installed what he called a cool canopy, where you could relax whilst being sprayed by gentle mists, but Webb hadn’t bothered to check the emailed guide to find its location.

Possibly a mistake.

The sound of another chopper landing made him peer into the trees. The place was filling up rapidly. Right then, the sound of loud music reached his ears, spreading through the forest and he saw a chain-gang of twelve half-naked slaves being led among the revelers. None of them looked happy, but that fact only made Webb take a longer look. Perhaps this bazaar wouldn’t be so tedious after all. He wondered what other diversions might be available, wishing again that he’d studied the guide and read the itinerary. Beauregard stayed alert at his side.

“Let’s wander,” Webb said. “See what else is on offer.”

Beauregard led the way along the path, circuiting the clearing and starting along another route. As they walked, they passed tents to left and right, their doors pinned open so the curious could peer within. Webb halted as a man with too much testosterone tried to barge Beauregard aside into the undergrowth, a jest for his companions’ appreciation, only to find himself unceremoniously dumped on the tail-end of his spine.

“What the—”

“Stay down,” Beauregard intoned. “Or it will be worse.”

“We shall see.” The man, a large olive-skinned individual, with golden teeth and fistfuls or rings rose and took a lunge at Beauregard. Webb barely saw the Frenchman move, but soon he was a lithe shadow across the path and the other man squirmed in his grip, blood already coating one half of his face. The man kicked. His comrades stepped to help but Beauregard twisted one more time.

“Any closer and it breaks. Is that what you want?”

Everyone paused. Webb was interested to see the security guards looking on — it seemed scuffles had been expected to break out at an event like this. Most likely they would only intervene if proceedings got really out of hand.

Beauregard loosened his grip. “Are you calm?”

The olive-skinned man nodded, tried to collect his dignity and then continued along his way. Beauregard watched until all was clear.

“Are we safe?” Webb asked.

“For now,” Beauregard said.

Webb snorted. “Don’t fill me with too much confidence, Alain, will you?”

He inspected tent after tent, spotting arrays of weapons, communications devices, rocket launchers and super-computers. Pure yellowcake, used to process uranium. One gaudy tent held two dozen easels, to each of which was pinned the photograph of a rare supercar or utility vehicle the customer might be interested in. Bids were being taken, the most of which Webb saw were currently attached to a six-wheeled, midnight black Mercedes G-Wagon. He moved on, uninterested in most kinds of transport, came to the end of the row of tents and then stopped dead in his tracks.

“What on earth is that?”

Beauregard shrugged, uninterested, but Webb strode right up to the spectacle. A high wrought iron fence ringed a deep pit, at the bottom of which caimans thrashed to and fro. People were holding onto the bars, staring down.

“Do they do anything?” Webb asked a man with a goatee after a minute’s perusal.

“Well, dude, I guess they might chew on ya a little if ya fall in. An’ I guess they might drown ya if they’re anything like crocs. But tricks? Illusions? Nah, I don’t think so.”

Webb shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

“The people they throw in every few hours do. They get it big time.”

“Ahhh.” Webb turned away, attracted by the intensifying dance music now and yet another large tent. Once inside, he was witness to what could only be described as a slaver’s auction. Men and women were dragged up to a podium, turned back and forth, prodded, displayed, and then subjected to a bidding war waged by members of the audience. All manner of depraved thugs shouted enthusiastic numbers at the auctioneer, who was only too happy to comply with their demands to show off the current lot in a number of reprehensible ways. Webb decided the bidding was a little too downbeat even for him, his own stalkings were so much more thrilling, dangerous and psychologically tormenting, when a twenty-something blond women struggled up to take center stage.

Webb stopped in his tracks. A thick, terrible desire for ownership filled his heart, making his blood run hot. “Oh, dear.”

Beauregard turned to see what had happened. “What is it?”

“I… I want her. I must have her.”

“Why? Isn’t your vice somewhat different?”

“Yes, of course. But I still must have her.”

“Why?”

“She reminds me of my mother.”

Some time later, after Webb identified several more potentials for new ownership, they went in search of food. Many mouth-watering meals were available, from fast-food stands to sit-down, seven-course banquets. Webb decided to kill some time by attending the more lavish set-up and got a little frisky with the whisky. Already, he had a feeling of wellbeing deep inside and he hadn’t even started searching for the nuke yet, never mind the scroll.

That thought though, sobered him more than a little. With a glance of regret he rose from the low table, settled the bill for his meal via pre-paid credit card, and exited the tent. Earlier, he had seen tents full of military hardware. Already, the vault above was starting to darken but he would not retire tonight without being in possession of a suitcase nuclear weapon. And there was so much more to explore. Webb decided it was going to be a very full and stimulating night.

And then tomorrow.

The culmination of all his days.

Beauregard dogged his trail, but Webb was feeling more and more confident by the moment. No Pythians to drag him back, no Matt Drake and Co. to thwart his plans. Not even an appearance of Ramses himself to drive home his terrible threat. So far.

No threats whatsoever.

Webb relaxed as he spotted a tent sporting a discreet nuclear waste symbol. That was a start. Happy, he moved among the hundreds of lethal people shopping, negotiating, plotting and playing at the last bazaar.