Hitman: Enemy Within (20 page)

“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.

Chapter Thirteen

SOUTHEAST OFOUM-CHALOUBA,CHAD

Darkness had fallen over the desert, leaving only half a dozen small fires to hold back the night, as the ragged children ate what little bit of food they had been given. The air was starting to cool, making travel possible once again, so it was time to move.

Allah willing, Mahamat Dagash and his men would deliver the children to the market in Oum-Chalouba just before dawn. Even though the ambush had gone extremely well, there had been problems ever since. First with one of the Land Cruisers, which took a full day to repair, and then with the children, because their legs were short, and they were suffering from malnutrition, which made them unbearably slow. Whipping the little beggars was always good for a momentary increase in speed, but the orphans soon began to slow once again, forever testing the slaver’s patience. Yet now, with only hours to go, Dagash felt his spirits begin to rise.

“Extinguish the fires!” he ordered brusquely as he made the rounds. “Load the trucks! And give each child a drink. We’re almost there.”

That announcement was sufficient to elicit a cheer from the slavers, all of whom were looking forward to a good meal, hot baths, and a rich payday.Money with which to support their families, purchase a vehicle, and to possibly open a business.

They went to work with enthusiasm.

Kola was ten years old. Both she and her seven-year-old brother Baka had survived the slaver attack, but had been orphaned in the process. Now, as Dagash shouted orders and his men hurried to obey, the little girl knew what to do. It was pointless to resist, and punishments could be painful, so she ordered Baka to stand and take his place in line.

“I won’t!” the boy said rebelliously. “I’m hungry…and tired.”

“We all are,” Kola replied patiently. “Now do as I say, or one of the men will hit you.”

“So what?”Baka demanded sullenly. “I’ve been hit before. They’re just going to sell us.”

“That’s true,” the little girl acknowledged calmly. “But we will live. More importantly,
you
will live. And so long as you live, all of our ancestors live.”

Having no written records to rely on, each Dinka child was required to memorize his or her entire lineage at a very early age. It often went back for hundreds of years.Because to remember one’s ancestors was to keep them alive.

And since females took their husbands’ names, and Baka was the last male in their immediate family, the weight of the entire ancestral line rested on his narrow shoulders.A heavy responsibility indeed. Having been reminded of his place in the world, Baka stood.

“I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “You’re right.”

The two children held hands as they made their way over to where the lead Land Cruiser was waiting, and took their places in line. The 4X4’s engine rumbled, andits parking lights served as beacons as the children trekked across the desert.

Somewhere, out beyond the curtain of darkness, millions of people slept.

Chapter Fourteen

ABÉCHÉ,CHAD

Agent 47 was exhausted by the time the Mog pulled into Abéché, so much so that he skipped dinner and went straight to bed, which consisted of a narrow section of concrete located adjacent to a thin mattress on a latticework of creaky springs. The rock-solid floor seemed to move at first, as if he were still in the truck, but the sensation vanished as sleep pulled him down. And that’s where 47 was—dreaming about a game that had no rules—when Gazeau touched his shoulder.

“Wake up Alex. We need to get out of here.” If the fact that his client had chosen to sleep on the hard floor rather than in the bed struck the Libyan as strange, he gave no sign of it. Agent 47 squinted at the dial of his watch.

“Give me a break…it’s two in the morning.”

“That’s right,” Gazeau agreed, “which is why this is the perfect time to leave! Remember the helicopter?

The one parked next to the police station in Mongo? It put down ten minutes ago. And guess who went out to meet it…Mr. Citroën.”

The assassin swore, threw the blanket off, and stood. An old Citroën had been following them ever since Mongo. Gazeau saw light glint off one of the stainless steel pistols thatTaylor habitually carried, and realized that the weapon had probably been pointing at him moments earlier.

“How do you know this stuff?” the assassin inquired.

“Numo followed Mr. Citroën to the airstrip,” the Libyan answered simply. “But that’s not the worst of it…Al-Sharr was on board the helicopter. I think it’s safe to assume that Mr. Citroën works for him.”

The agent’s pants were draped over the back of a rickety chair. He hurried to pull them on.

“Al-Sharr?The cop?”

“One and the same.”

“We can’t outrun a chopper,” Agent 47 observed, as his shaving kit went into a suitcase.

“No,” Gazeau agreed, “but the helicopter isn’t armed. Sure, they can hose us down with an AK-47, but that’s all.”

The assassin smiled thinly. “Isn’t that enough?”

“It could be a tad uncomfortable,” Gazeau admitted wryly. “But we can shoot back! Choppers are delicate machines. I doubt the pilot will linger.”

“But what about the authorities?Won’t Al-Sharr call for help?”

“Possibly,” Gazeau allowed calmly, as he led his client out through the hotel’s grubby back door. “But I doubt it. Remember, this may beChad , but bribes are still illegal. The fat man can’t let his superiors know what he’s up to.”

Agent 47 hoped the Libyan was correct, but still had plenty of misgivings as he took his place in the backseat, and Numo guided the Unimog out into the cold Saharan night. It was about a hundred miles to Oum-Chalouba. Where, if The Agency was correct, Al-Fulani had already checked into a hotel and was probably enjoying a good night’s sleep. Would the fat policeman give chase? And would the Moroccan stay in Oum-Chalouba long enough for the assassin to catch up?

There was only one way to find out.

It would have been dangerous to drive very fast, since many traps lay beneath the shifting sands, so hours were spent driving through the tunnel created by the truck’s headlights while waiting for the Eurocopter EC 135 to roar overhead. But nothing happened, and thanks to their early-morning departure—likely coupled with Al-Sharr’s apparent unwillingness to pursue them during the hours of darkness—47, Gazeau, and Numo were able to make good progress. When the sun rose they were on a flat
piste,
or track, traveling at about 30 mph, as they followed the road toward a clutch of basalt towers that were the only things worth looking at.

Distances could be and often were deceptive, which meant that even though the rocky spires appeared to be relatively close, they were actually many miles away.

The better part of half an hour passed before the outcroppings grew appreciably larger, and the track swung out to the west of them. That was when something appeared in the sky, circled behind the rock columns, and emerged to race straight at them. The EC 135 was no more than fifty feet off the deck and growing larger with each passing second.

“There it is!” Gazeau said grimly. “It looks like the fat bastard finally rolled out of bed.”

Agent 47 tried to watch as the helicopter passed over them, but the cab’s roof blocked his view. His mind went to the weapons stashed in the back, but he knew that neither one of the long guns would be very effective against the chopper.

Then, having turned back, the Eurocopter pulled up next to the left side of the truck and sped along, not 60 feet away from the driver’s-side window. Dust blew backward and boiled into the air.
Sous-Prefet
Al-Sharr was clearly visible beyond the Plexiglas, and gestured for Gazeau to stop. The Libyan offered a rude gesture by way of a reply, which caused the chopper to pull ahead and enter a wide turn.

“Uh-oh,” Gazeau said. “How much do you want to bet Al-Sharr brought one of his cops along?”

Agent 47 never had an opportunity to reply as the helicopter passed along the truck’s right side and a man opened fire with an AK-47. It took practice to fire an automatic weapon from a moving platform, especially when shooting at a speeding target. And it soon became apparent that the policeman knew what he was doing.

The assassin heard a series of
pings
as half a dozen 7.62 mm slugs hit the Mog. Then the EC 135 was gone, giving the gunner time to slam a fresh thirty-round magazine into the weapon’s receiver, and prepare for the next pass. Agent 47 was thrown against his shoulder restraint as Gazeau hit the brakes.

“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “They’ll shoot the hell out of us!”

“No they won’t,” the Libyan replied. “They
expect
us to stop.”

Agent 47 heard a familiar clacking sound and turned to discover that Numo had assembled an AK-47

of his own. The Libyan grinned as the Mog skidded to a halt.First the rifle…now this. It seemed that Gazeau kept a small arsenal aboard his truck. Which, given the way things were unfolding, was a pretty good idea.

The chopper’s dual Pratt & Whitney PW 206B2 turbine engines howled wildly as the pilot put the ship into a wide turn, blew sand across the now-stationary truck, and hovered just off the
piste.
The helicopter had an
Avionique Nouvelle
cockpit, and the large glass canopy allowed Al-Sharr to see the truck in front of him, but it also meant that the occupants could see him as well. That, plus the fact that the aircraft’s nose-in position made it impossible for the AK-47-wielding corporal to make use of his weapon. It was a fatal error.

However, just as the
Sous-Prefet
was about to say something over the chopper’s PA system, Numo jumped down from the Unimog and fired a three-round burst. Thanks to the fact that the aircraft was square in his sights, two of Numo’s slugs struck their intended target. A hole appeared just over Al-Sharr’s head, the pilot panicked, and that led to a second mistake. Rather than back away and protect his engines, the chopper jockey turned to starboard. That gave Numo the opportunity he’d been waiting for—a clear shot at the port engine. The AK-47 rattled as the Libyan emptied his clip into the exposed turbine. It coughed, burped smoke, and the chopper started to spool down.

The EC 135 rocked as the pilot shut off the fuel supply to the port engine and goosed its twin. The nose dropped, the remaining turbine screamed, and the aircraft began to move away. But Agent 47 had exited the Mog by that time, drawn both of his Silverballers, and was striding toward the helicopter, firing as he went. Empty shell casings arced away from the assassin and a tight grouping of holes appeared around the chopper jockey’s head as he slumped forward.