So he made his decision.

“Up!” Garang commanded sternly, striding through the group. “Get up and walk. For he who walks, strives, and he who strives shall be rewarded. So saith the Lord.”

There was no such passage in the tattered Bible that Garang carried with him, but only ten members of the group could read, and even they took comfort from the possibility that something good would come of their efforts.

Slowly, like reanimated skeletons, the Dinkas stood. And then, without giving the matter any conscious thought, they followed Garang out onto the savannah in exactly the same order as they had arrived. None of the refugees bothered to look back because there was nothing to look back at, except a painful past and the solitary acacia tree.

And the tree, like all of its kind, was content to remain where it was and worship the sun.

Mahamat Dagash lowered the powerful 10©42 HG L DCF Nikon binoculars, and brushed a fly off the bridge of his nose, the only part of his face not concealed by the ten-foot-long strip of white cloth that was wrapped around his head.

The refugees were a long way off, but his eyes were good, and the glasses made them better. So Dagash had seen everything he needed to see, and that knowledge brought a smile to his thin lips. Because there were many wonders of the world, including Toyota Land Cruisers, AK-47 assault rifles, and the fact that even the poorest people have something worth stealing: themselves. Flesh, muscle, and bone that could be put to work, or in the case of the younger ones, sold, sometimes for a great deal of money.

Satisfied that the Dinkas were on the move, and that he would be able to circle around and intercept them before they could reach the border, Dagash was careful to replace the lens caps on the expensive binoculars before pushing himself back off the ridge where he lay. Then, comfortable in the certainty that he wouldn’t be seen, the Tuareg made his way down the reverse side of the dune using a series of well-timed leaps.

Two battered 4X4s and six robed men waited below. All were heavily armed, and with good reason. Even though the refugees lived at the very bottom of the North African food chain, Dagash and his slavers were only a few rungs higher up, and vulnerable to the government-supported Janjaweed, a group that was not only extremely jealous of their God-given right to kill, torture, and rape the peoples of the south, but could call upon helicopters and planes to attack anyone foolish enough to compete with them.

Which meant that as the Toyotas roared back to life and the sun continued to arc across the sky, there was no peace, or prospect of peace, except for that which was granted to the dead.

It had been a long hard day, but Garang and the refugees had covered nearly ten miles of barren ground since leaving the acacia tree’s shade, and taken refuge at the foot of a rocky outcropping that promised to shelter them from the wind. There was a dry riverbed nearby, where by dint of considerable digging, the men had been able to coax a puddle of muddy water out of the reluctant ground. Small as it was, that was a blessing, as were the tiny fires the women had built and the vast wealth of stars that lay like grains of sand on the night sky.

Dinner consisted of lentil soup followed by cups of cinnamon tea, neither of which had much substance, but served to quell the worst of the hunger pangs and quiet the children. The little ones would fall asleep soon, the adults would talk for a while, and then they, too, would go to sleep.

Such were Garang’s thoughts as he sat on a rock and stared up into the night sky. The moment of peace was shattered as engines roared, powerful headlights swept across the rocky ground, and the shooting began.

Judging from their targets, the slavers were only interested in children over the age of four and under the age of fifteen. For them, it was easier to shoot the rest rather than take them prisoner and be forced to feed them.

Garang and some of the other men grouped together and charged the attackers, hoping to overwhelm one of the evil men, and take possession of a gun. But it didn’t work. Garang managed to get within five feet of the man who appeared to be the leader, before a burst of bullets cut him down.

By the time the shooting stopped, more than ninety Dinkas had been slaughtered. As soon as all resistance had been overcome, the more comely women were raped, often in front of their children, and then put to death.

With that out of the way, all the slavers had to do was corral the sobbing children and march them off to the town of Oum-Chalouba across the border in Chad. Where, Allah willing, Dagash would be able to eat a decent meal and take a bath.

The thought cheered him as the Land Cruiser’s right front tire rolled over one of the dead bodies. Life was good.

Several more days of surveillance from the apartment across the street from the orphanage led to the conclusion that Marla was keeping Al-Fulani away from the place. So Agent 47 had assumed a new persona and taken up residence in the ultramodern Hôtel de Nouvelle Vague located only two blocks from the Moroccan’s mansion.

The “New Wave Hotel” was a small but exclusive hostelry that normally catered to young, well-heeled Europeans, and was currently jam-packed with musicians of many nationalities who were in Fez to perform in the week-long Festival de la Musique slated to begin the following evening. An event of special interest to the assassin because Al-Fulani was sponsoring it, as just one of many good deeds that kept local authorities happy and the orphanage in business.

So there the “record producer” was, lying in a chaise longue and soaking up the warm Moroccan sun when his phone began to beep. The assassin flipped the device open and brought it to his ear.

“Yeah? Talk to me.”

Hundreds of miles away, deep within the Jean Danjou’s hull, Diana looked up at one of the twenty-four monitors arrayed around her. The shot was being relayed to her from a spy sat, and, thanks to lots of magnification, she could see 47 and the scantily clad young people sprawled all around him. Groupies, for the most part, who, having followed their favorite bands to Fez, were in need of a place to stay. Having been taken in by a free-spending producer known as “The Jammer,” they had unwittingly become an important part of 47’s cover.

“You look comfortable,” Diana commented. “Too comfortable for someone who is supposed to be at work.”

The assassin said, “Screw you,” and directed a one-fingered salute up at the sky. If any of the young things sunbathing all around the agent thought that was strange, they gave no sign of it.

Diana chuckled.

“Sorry to bother you, 47, but it looks like you’ll have to postpone the exercise scheduled for tomorrow, in order to deal with something more urgent.”

The operative swore silently. Al-Fulani was scheduled to be present as the event got under way the next evening. He planned to kill the businessman’s bodyguards as the Moroccan left the stage, hustle Al-Fulani into a stolen limo, and drive him out into the countryside. A workable plan with a decent chance of success.

“Whatever it is, it can wait,” the assassin said evenly. “Opportunities like this one don’t come along every day.”

“No,” Diana replied patiently, “they don’t. And we’re sorry, but there won’t be much point to snatching Al-Fulani if he’s dead. Which will almost certainly be the case if the Otero brothers come after him.”

Agent 47 took a sip of iced tea as one of his well-endowed guests stood long enough to drop her thong. Then, having straddled a long-haired musician, she began to lick his face.