None of which seemed to bother the men of Mongo, most of whom appeared to be unemployed and stood in doorways, sat on stoops, or perched on the hoods of half-stripped vehicles. They watched the Mog pass with the same alert intelligence possessed by scavengers everywhere, as they listened for early signs of mechanical distress, and calculated what such a handsome vehicle would fetch on the black market.

In the meantime their women, busy in the way third-world women are always busy, struggled to cope with hordes of quarreling children, tons of filthy clothes, and an endless succession of meals. Some were Arabic, commonly referred to as “northerners,” and wore conservative clothing. Others-those dressed in more colorful attire, and commonly referred to as “southerners”—were generally non—Islamic.

But regardless of their origins, all were locked in a battle with poverty, ignorance, and disease and went about their chores with downcast eyes, as if fully aware of the forces that opposed them, having already conceded defeat.

Gazeau glanced at the man seated next to him.

“It’s depressing, isn’t it?”

The operative shrugged.

“I’ve seen worse.” Again the Libyan’s eyebrows rose.

“There’s the police station,” Gazeau said, and he pointed through the dirt-smeared windscreen.

Agent 47 looked. The police station was a squat-looking affair, set apart from the other buildings, and surrounded by a nine-foot-tall cyclone fence topped by coils of razor wire. Three desert-equipped 80-series Land Cruisers sat by the gate. Two appeared to be operable, and the third was up on concrete blocks. Judging from the scattering of mismatched tools that lay about, not to mention the scrawny legs that protruded from under the vehicle, it appeared that one of the local mechanics was hard at work trying to repair it.

Of more interest was the police model Eurocopter EC 135 that sat on a pad within the enclosure. The aircraft was so new, so valuable, that it rated its own sentry.

Gazeau braked, pulled into the parking area, and killed the Mog’s engine.

“You’re sure this is a good idea,” 47 said doubtfully.

“No,” Gazeau answered cheerfully, “I’m not. But real geologists would stop and pay for a permit to take samples out of the country. And if Al-Fulani passed through here, the police will know about it. The problem, if we run into one, will relate to the size of the bribe. If the fee is reasonable, which many are, we pay and go. But, if the Sous-Prefet is greedy, we’ll make some sort of excuse, and take our chances with the locals. Unfortunately, whatever information they give us may be a pack of lies.”

“Okay,” the assassin agreed. “You’re the expert. Let’s do it.”

Gazeau nodded, ordered Numo to guard the truck, and opened the driver-side door. Heat flooded in, along with the choking smell of sewage and bright sunlight. The Libyan jumped to the ground, slammed the door, and hooked a pair of aviator-style sunglasses over his ears. Then, with the shades in place, Gazeau led 47 up to the gate.

The sentry, who looked as if he had only recently graduated from the police academy, was proud of his new khaki uniform and the huge revolver strapped to his hip. He spoke serviceable French.

“Good morning, how can I help you?”

Agent 47 listened absently as Gazeau answered in the same language, wondered why the front of the pale blue police station was pocked with what looked like bullet holes, then followed the Libyan inside.

The interior was only a few degrees cooler, but it still felt good to step out of the sun, even if the ancient ceiling fan was turning too slowly to do much good. There were benches on either side of the room, both filled with pitiful-looking supplicants, many of whom had brought food with them, as if expecting a long wait.

The counter, which was manned by a flat-eyed corporal, was made of plywood. The front had been decorated with a carefully rendered likeness of the blue, yellow, and red national flag. A Michelin map covered most of the desk’s surface and was protected by a sheet of scratched glass. The Libyan leaned his arms on it and inquired as to the availability of export permits for the worthless rocks that occupied the back of the Mog. The corporal countered by demanding to see a valid Autorisation de Circuler, which Gazeau pushed across the counter.

Then, having examined the document for what seemed like an extraordinary length of time, the policeman issued what might have been a grunt of approval, whispered something to a grubby little boy, and sent him scurrying away.

“You will wait,” the corporal said, gesturing to the already packed benches. “The Sous-Prefet will be available shortly.”

“Shortly” turned out to last for the better part of an hour as the corporal worked his way through a large stack of forms, hitting each one with a decisive thump from his poorly inked stamp. In the meantime, the fan turned in meaningless circles, the flies searched for new territory to conquer, and the locals waited to learn what fate had in store for them. Finally, just as 47 was about to suggest that they pull out, the grubby little boy scampered up to the corporal, whispered in his ear, and eyed the foreigners as he did so.

The corporal nodded gravely, cleared his throat pretentiously, and relayed the message.

“The Sous-Prefet will see you now.”

Omar Al-Sharr was an intelligent, if not very energetic, man. That was why he had chosen a career in the public sector, rather than try to eke out a living by running his own small business. Even so, having applied to the police, Al-Sharr had used what savings he had to grease the correct palms, and was accepted onto the force.

After that the ambitious young man had spent many years bribing, blackmailing, and charming his way up through the ranks until finally achieving the rank of Sous-Prefet of Mongo. Not the final prize-but within a few steps of where he wanted to end up.

He had been extremely thin back in the early days, malnourished even, but not anymore. Now Al-Sharr weighed in at a hefty 160 kilos, which meant that his body was a good deal less agile than it had been.

There was nothing wrong with his mind, however, which was why he had stalled the foreigners long enough to have the boys he often referred to as his “operatives” perform a little research. The results were curious, to say the least.

After swarming around the foreigners’ truck, a rather fine specimen that would fetch a hefty price on the black market, and peppering the Libyan guard with dozens of seemingly innocent questions, the operatives had learned that the Unimog was loaded with mineral samples that the foreigners wanted to take home and analyze.

A seemingly plausible story, and one that Al-Sharr would have been inclined to believe, except for one thing: Outside of sodium carbonate and the Doba oil field, Chad had no natural resources to speak of. So, if the foreigners weren’t geologists, as they claimed to be, then what were they?

Smugglers? Quite possibly. But there were other possibilities, as well. And it would be interesting to see what he could learn from them.

Agent 47 followed Gazeau into the police official’s office, and was struck by how dim it was. What little bit of light there was emanated from a narrow, window located high over the Sous-Prefet’s head, and the lamp on his well-polished oak desk. The massive piece of furniture was an antique, something salvaged from the French Colonial government, most likely, and preserved by a succession of proud civil servants.

The man who sat behind the desk was huge, a fact which even his baggy XXXL jogging outfit couldn’t conceal. It was blue, with white stripes that ran down the arms, and decorated with so many Nike swooshes that it couldn’t possibly be genuine.

The official gestured toward two orange injection-molded chairs. His words were spoken in slightly fractured English.