His own vehicle, an ancient Toyota Land Cruiser, was hidden a half klick to the east, well out of sight behind a chunk of weathered sandstone. Now, lying on his stomach, he felt the full force of the North African sun. It was uncomfortable-very uncomfortable-but would be well worth it if he and his men came away with a nearly new Unimog and whatever the vehicle was carrying.

The bandit had been tempted to attack the caravan that had camped in the abandoned village the night before, and steal all three of their vehicles, but there had been more than a dozen guards. So it had been necessary to let the group pass. But now, as a reward for his patience, Allah was about to deliver a different bounty.

What remained of the village became a blur as the Arab swept his binoculars from left to right. Many years before, previous to the Sahara’s latest incursion into the semiarid grassland called the sahel, the guelta, or waterhole, had been the heart of the village. Trees, long since cut down, had served to shade the depression and protect the water from the sun. But the guelta depended on rainfall for its sustenance, and with even less precipitation than before, the waterhole dried up.

Having no water for themselves or for their animals, the villagers had been forced to leave. It was an old story, and a painful one, since it was unlikely that the displaced population had been welcome anywhere else. Not that it mattered to Mahmoud, who had other things to worry about, as the diesel died and a couple of doors slammed.

A thick layer of windblown sand gave way under the soles of 47’s boots. It parted occasionally to reveal the rocks that lay below, as well as the detritus of human habitation. The assassin saw a well-rusted wheel, what looked like the remains of an old hand-cranked washing machine, and a partially exposed camel skeleton. All of which had been there for a long time.

But there were more recent signs of habitation, as well. Including a lot of tire tracks, what remained of footprints, and three fire pits from which wisps of gray smoke still issued.

“It looks like they were here,” Gazeau commented, as he bent to examine an empty Coke can.

Agent 47 was about to reply when he heard gravel crunch, and turned to see a man with an AK-47 standing not ten meters away. He wore a billed cap with a French Foreign Legion-style flap that hung down the back of his neck, a white short-sleeved shirt, a pair of khaki slacks, and lace-up boots. His skin was nearly black, a pair of pink shoelaces had been tied around his left arm just above a powerful bicep, and the sun glinted off his Rolex Submariner watch.

There was no doubt as to the familiar way in which the man held the assault rifle or the hardness of his eyes. His French was quite good.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Please place all of your personal items on the hood of the truck, and take three steps back.”

Gazeau made as if to move, but stopped when the gun barrel jerked in his direction.

“There are worse things than being robbed, monsieur. Look to your left.”

Both 47 and the Libyan turned. Two additional men had appeared-Tuaregs by the look of them-both dressed in indigo robes. They, too, were armed with assault rifles and appeared ready to use them. When the bandit saw how surprised his victims were, he laughed.

Numo liked working for Pierre Gazeau, especially since the pay was good, and the long trips into the desert meant he could escape from the friendly chaos that surrounded his steadily growing family. And the work brought him simple pleasures. The way that the sun beat down on his back, the shadows pointed away from the rocks, and a hamada[4] seemed to float at the very edge of the sky. It was during moments such as this that his mind, spirit, and jesm[5] were all in one place.

Numo snuggled the rifle up against his shoulder, allowed the barrel to rest on the jacket-wrapped rock, and poured the sum of his intelligence into the telescopic sight. The targets—and there were three to choose from—were approximately 600 meters to the east of his position, well within the rifle’s 800-meter range, and two of them were facing in his direction. The third, the AK-47 man, was looking toward Gazeau and the man who called himself Taylor.

The situation presented a number of technical difficulties, none of which were insurmountable. First were the capabilities of the weapon itself. Having first learned to fire it during his time with the Libyan army, Numo knew that the Mauser 7.62 mm SP 66 sniper’s rifle was a fine weapon, especially against a single target. The problem was that the bolt-action rifle came equipped with a three-shot magazine.

Yes, he might be able to work the action quickly enough to hit all three targets, but what were the odds? The first target would fall, that was a given, but the others would immediately spring into motion. Would he be able to work the bolt, acquire the second target, and achieve another kill?

And what about target number three?

No, the best thing to do was prioritize the targets, and count on them to react in the manner he thought they would. Kill the leader first, then the man wearing the bush hat, and trust to luck after that. Satisfied that he had a plan, and that it stood a good chance of success, Numo drew a deep breath and let it out.

Agent 47 heard the flat whip-crack of the rifle shot, knew it was Numo, and turned in time to see the explosion of blood and brains.

Then came a second shot. And as the Tuareg who was wearing the bush hat fell, the other brought his AK-47 up. He was about to spray the foreigners with bullets when the agent shot him in the head.

The Silverballer was on its way back to the shoulder holster hidden beneath a safari-style vest even as the thief went down. Gazeau had seen his share of violence in North Africa, yet he was clearly impressed by the speed and accuracy demonstrated by his newly acquired client, and allowed his eyebrows to rise.

“You travel armed.”

The assassin nodded. “So do you.”

The Libyan laughed. “Yes, and it’s a good thing too! Come…we have work to do.”

It took the better part of an hour to dump the bodies into a gully and cover them with soil. The beat-up Toyota Land Cruiser would be impossible to hide, however, so Gazeau did the next best thing: he left the key in the ignition.

“It will be gone by tomorrow morning,” the Libyan predicted. “And I can assure you that the new owner won’t file any reports with the local police!”

Confident that he was less than a day behind Al-Fulani, Agent 47 instructed Gazeau to drive him to Mongo, the next logical destination for Al-Fulani and his party. The trip required another six-hour journey, then an overnight stay in a convenient wadi, and a two-hour drive the following morning. But finally they were there.

Gazeau downshifted, and the diesel belched black smoke as the Mog eased its way down Mongo’s main street. It was cool in the cab, thanks to the air conditioning, but Mongo shimmered in the midmorning heat.

Agent 47 noticed that there were two styles of architecture in town. Some of the locals favored flattopped structures made from concrete blocks, while others preferred buildings with peaked roofs that were sheathed in rusty metal. None, with the exception of a single white mosque, exceeded two stories in height.

However, disparate as the two styles were, there was a common tendency toward garish paint, piles of festering trash, and brand-spanking-new Coke signs that not only served to advertise the product, but plugged otherwise gaping holes in the buildings.

The much abused structures stood shoulder to shoulder, like drunks who rely on each other in order to remain upright, and bled rivulets of brown wastewater into the unpaved street. The effluvium stank to high heaven, and merged into sluggishly flowing streams that followed the gentle gradient down toward the other end of town.