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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.
The man that Gazeau knew as Alex Taylor quickly ran out of ammo, but by then there was a
fresh clip in the AK-47, and Numo was still firing when the Eurocopter hit the ground. The
remaining engine screamed as the aircraft did a nose-over, the main rotor shattered, and pieces
of blade scythed through the air.
The long-slide went back into its holster. The act of slipping a fresh magazine into the shorter
weapon was as natural as breathing, but there was no need. The fat man was still alive,
struggling to free himself by then, but it was too late, and 47 caught one last glimpse of the
policeman's desperate face as the 135 blew. There were three explosions in all, and even though
he was about seventy-five yards away, it was still necessary to go facedown in the sand as a wall
of heat rolled past and pieces of flaming debris fell all around.
Finally, once the explosions were over, the assassin stood. Gazeau appeared at his side.
 It will take days for the government to sort this out& assuming they ever do. Still, there's
bound to be a whole bunch of gendarmes running about. So it would be a good idea to get in
and out of Oum-Chalouba as quickly as we can.
Agent 47 nodded.
 That works for me. Let's get out of here.
OUM-CHALOUBA, CHAD
The town of Oum-Chalouba had the one thing that no desert traveler can do without and that
was water. Evidence of it could be seen in groves of lush date palms, private gardens that could
be glimpsed through partially opened gates, and a tiled fountain located in the public square.
Unfortunately the fountain was dry at the moment, and had been for the better part of two
years, ever since its sixty-year-old pump had broken down. A new one was on order, or so the
maire (mayor) claimed, but none of the local residents expected to see water flowing into the
big bowl anytime soon.
The city's architecture included a lonely Catholic church, three mosques, a French Colonial
administration building, and a poorly maintained military base. There were also three truly fine
nineteenth-century houses, dozens of flat-roofed structures of the sort seen throughout the
Middle East, and a sprawling metal-roofed souk that had been in business for more than a
thousand years.
And that was where Al-Fulani and his entourage were, as shop owners hawked their wares, loud
music blared from ubiquitous radios, and a silversmith hammered ornate patterns into a large
platter. The air around them was hot and heavy with the odors of spices, broiled goat meat, and
tanned leather.
People claimed that one could buy anything in the souk, and based on what Marla had seen, they
were correct. In addition to food, clothing, and household goods the Puissance Treize agent had
seen shops filled with military uniforms, used auto parts, artificial limbs, exotic animals, hashish,
and all manner of weapons. Which was to say, something for everyone.
But the souk had another category of merchandise for sale. Something that had once been
trafficked in the main square, as hard-eyed Tuaregs stood all around and camel caravans plodded
through town. That was human flesh, which was what Al-Fulani had traveled all the way from
Fez to buy. Children, specifically, who could be put to work in his so-called  orphanage, where
they would service wealthy pedophiles until they were too old to be considered young.
At that point the slaves would be resold. Such was the market that the Moroccan and his
bodyguards sought but only after pausing to inspect all manner of merchandise, chatting up the
shop owners, and buying a variety of trinkets. It was a process Al-Fulani clearly enjoyed.
Marla had a different perspective, since she saw the labyrinthine market as the perfect place for
an ambush. Yet it was a concern Al-Fulani was unwilling to take seriously.
 I have faith in you, my dear, the businessman said, when reminded of the dangers.  Besides,
who would come after me here?
So what could have been a ten-minute walk through the souk was transformed into an
hour-long shopping expedition that eventually delivered the group into the shattered remains of
what had once been a small palace. Artillery shells had destroyed the structure's dome during the
war with Libya in the early '80s. Having been artificially opened to the azure sky, the mostly
intact walls embraced an arena in which a myriad of animals were bought and sold each day.
The smell of their feces was so strong that Marla found it necessary to breathe through her
mouth as she followed Al-Fulani into the circular enclosure.
Women were a seldom-seen sight in the arena, and men turned to stare as the Moroccan and his [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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