The Last Bazaar (6 page)

“And the Big Dog,” the Brazilian added. “He’s coming with them.”

Now Drake frowned. “Big Dog? What the hell are y’ blathering about?”

Almeida seemed confused. “What?”

“Explain,” Smyth growled.

“That’s all he said,” Almeida blurted. “My friend. The man I talked to who helped them with the choppering in. We spoke often,” he admitted. “Compared notes in case there was someone we—” he stopped abruptly.

“Could blackmail,” Dahl completed it for him. “Yeah, we know.”

“He told me about a guy the CIA were bringing to meet the man of myth—Ramses. Called him the Big Dog. That’s all.”

Hayden turned to Drake, shock embedded into her features. “Surely not the director? The assistant director? The—”

“It could be anyone,” Drake affirmed. “Let’s not jump to any conclusions.”

Alicia flung the towel at Almeida’s head, making him flinch. “We done with this bottom-feeder? Can we fling him back to the sewer now?”

Hayden nodded. “Take him back. Keep his wallet.”

As Alicia and Smyth led him away the SPEAR team leader regarded the rest of them. “That’s some roster,” she said. “And some target. Security will be absolute and top-notch. Are you guys ready for true jungle warfare?”

“Always,” Dahl said.

“I do like to enrich my resumé,” Drake said. “Bad ass is an easy label to achieve. But jungle bad ass? That’s special.”

“Then let’s move.”

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.

They came down through the low clouds, choppering in to around three-quarters of their journey’s end. They figured the bazaar would have close-in security as well as several outposts dotted around to build up a more long-reaching picture, so they would start from afar, but not so far that it would take hours to traverse a narrow, meandering river. They all wore their backpacks and carried an excess of weapons and thick rubber boots to help with the rainforest’s saturation levels. They left the chopper and approached the bank of a river where two large skiffs sat waiting, fishermen close by. Payment was made, the gas tanks filled, and then the team were putting out into the middle of the river. The sun was a haphazard affair, visible on occasion but always dappled and seldom welcome. The heat was like nothing Drake had experienced before.

It was late afternoon on the day before the bazaar was due to start. The team had chosen to depart today to allow all of the players time to depart and ensure Ramses’ security teams would have their hands full. They were hoping to determine its location tonight and do a proper scout tomorrow. Drake soon became bored of the twisting river and its earthy banks overhung with wide-leafed branches, every square foot seemingly teeming with life. The air smelled marshy, one moment offering the scent of fresh greenery, the next the stench of decay. The two fishermen piloted the long skiffs with skill, grins rarely off their faces. Hours passed, and soon a perennial darkness started to fall. Two natives watched them from a flattened bank as they passed, nets clasped in their hands.

Alicia perched beside Drake. “This is the life, eh?”

Drake gave a low whistle. “Despite your recent life change, I just know that’s a lie. Who you gonna piss off out here, Myles? A baboon?”

“Are you saying I live to upset everyone?”

“Nope. It just comes natural.”

“Ah, well, speaking of baboons, have you heard from your tiny girlfriend?”

Drake paused as movement inside the jungle caught his eye, but it was only a passing monkey. “Nothing meaningful. I think Mai is a little lost.”

“Any chance we’ll be seeing her soon?”

“Why? Missing the provocation?”

“Nah. The Sprite’s no match for me.”

“I’m not too sure, Alicia. No doubt Grace will have a say in that.”

“Did I hear a touch of bitterness there?”

Drake rolled his neck to ease the tension in his shoulders. “If you did I’m sorry. Grace deserves all the Mai-time she can get.”

Alicia smiled at that. “And the world moves on.”

The skiffs negotiated their way along the river, fanned by a blissful breeze. Drake dug into his rations and drank water. By the time the fishermen pulled onto a sandy slope and beached the craft it was full dark and the team were working by torch light. Dahl had kept hold of the GPS and assured them that the site of the bazaar was but a few miles of heavy slog away.

“This is a good place to stop,” he affirmed.

“We’re putting an awful lot of faith in a crooked official,” Lauren said.

“It’s a good lead,” Hayden said. “You know as well as I do the enhanced satellite pictures show heavy disturbance in the area and unknown comings and goings. And the Mingaloa cartel that held sway over the area haven’t been heard from in months. The CIA thought they’d been absorbed by the Cinigan family.”

“Ramses annihilated them,” Kinimaka said, not without a hint of satisfaction.

“Maybe. Or maybe they’re working for him now. It doesn’t matter. The world’s worst mass murderers are all about to arrive at the same place at the same time.”

“And we’re walking right into the middle of them.” Alicia grinned.

Drake waved the two fisherman off and watched as Dahl and Smyth set about the tents. The ground here was soft and damp but no worse than anywhere else in the jungle and perhaps a little safer nearer the river. Kinimaka offered to take first watch and Yorgi went with him. Lauren sat down on the bank and Hayden radioed in their progress. Drake knew this wasn’t the ideal scenario—preferably the tents would have been pitched before all light left the world, but the team were experts and he expected not a guy rope to be out of place. He moved off and kicked around for some dry tinder, then brought it back to camp.

“Figured we could afford a small fire,” he said.

“I hope that’s insect free.” Alicia eyed the wood pile.

“I wouldn’t worry. You’re probably sitting on worse.”

The blonde rose in a hurry, dusting herself off. “Right then, I’ll help with the tents. At least that way we’ll get a ground sheet between me and their tiny teeth.”

“Don’t forget the suckers . . .” Drake laughed as she moved off.

In less than twenty minutes the team were done with their chores and gathered for the night. They sat by the bank, in silence, watching the quiet waters flow by. Of course, there could never be silence in a place like this—the jungle was alive with sound from those that crept to those that climbed and prowled.

Drake leaned in close to Alicia. “So, how are you finding it?”

“The creepy-crawlies? I’ll let you know when I see one of the little buggers.”

“No. I meant the . . . new you. How are you finding it?”

Alicia inhaled. “Well, it’s a battle if you must know, Drakey. Every minute. Like a bloody tug of war and no oily, hard bodied men on either side. And now I find myself stuck in the middle of a jungle with seven other rebels and not a minute of privacy.”

Drake considered that. “Gives you more time to accept it.”

“Oh, thanks, wise one. That really helps.” Alicia drained her bottle of water. “You should go into religion.”

“Nah. Couldn’t do with all the fighting and feuding,” he said a little ironically.

Alicia shook her head. “Says a man who’s here now nursing bruises that haven’t healed from the last battle.”

“Bruises?” Drake winced. “More like raw scrapes from sliding down that friggin’ cliff and onto the galleon. Dahl’s bloody fault.”

“Maybe. But you can’t deny it was the best ride in North America.”

“Steady on. You haven’t ridden everything in North America. Have you?”

Alicia caught his eye. “Are we talking flumes, coasters, that sort of thing? Or things that wear Levis?” Her eyebrows rose suggestively.

Drake looked up in despair. “Part of you will never change, Alicia.”

“Thank God for that.”

“In any case,” he went on. “Most of the bruises I have were inflicted by
you.”

Alicia smiled sweetly. “You’re very welcome.”

Drake nodded as if he’d been expecting the reaction. “Once we end this maybe . . . we could take a break.” The pause and its significance was not lost on Alicia.

Her eyes bored into his. “Are you asking me to go away with you?”

“Well, Dahl keeps banging on about taking a family Caribbean vacation.”

“And you want to go with him?”

“No! I’m saying we also deserve a break. Stop busting my balls.”

Alicia didn’t let up. “Let me get this straight. You, Drake, Matt Drake, want to take me—the Tasmanian Devil—on a short break.” She shook her head. “Fuuuck.”

Drake frowned. “What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s weird. That’s all. Just weird.”

And despite himself Drake knew exactly what she meant. Their life was not the life of people that zipped off for short breaks to European hotels. Dahl could get away with it because he had a family and a totally separate life with them. But Drake? Alicia?

“I do know what you mean,” he said. “What the hell would we do with four days in Paris?”

“We wouldn’t go to Paris,” Alicia said. “Not us. If we went any-fucking-where it would involve a big room, a big bed and room service.”

Drake understood of course, and looked down. His relationship with Mai was barely cool, but it was over. She had made that perfectly clear. And now, with Alicia turning over a new leaf she was also uncovering a new possibility.

The jungle teemed around them. As a contrast to the more recent missions this was about as far as they could get. The next few days weren’t going to be easy. Drake took some time to acknowledge each member of the team, from those on watch to young Yorgi and Lauren Fox, the newest members who had earned their stripes. Dahl caught his gaze and smiled faintly as if accepting that the Yorkshireman was probably dreaming about being as good as the Swede, or maybe a step behind. Drake felt several moments of peace and happy acceptance. Even here, even tonight on the eve of what would surely be utter madness, his family were all around him, each man and woman content with their place in life. The watch changed and two more of the team headed into the darkness. A steady downpour then sent them all scurrying for manmade fabric cover, two to a tent and struggling to get comfortable. Rain drummed down for over an hour, drenching the forest and lending it life. Drake found it relatively easy to drift off, then woke himself up with a sudden feeling of satisfaction at that very thought. The years out of the service hadn’t turned him soft.

With a smile on his face he fell asleep.