“Please to sit down. My name is Omar Al-Sharr. I would get up, but my knees offer trouble.”

“Taylor” and Gazeau introduced themselves, sat on the hard plastic seats, and waited to see where the conversation would go. It was warm in the office, very warm, in spite of the best efforts of an emaciated boy. He was too short to sit on the bicycle’s seat, so he stood as he pedaled. Each downward stroke turned a chain, which turned a series of old automobile belts, which powered a makeshift fan. Whether this was by way of job creation, or to compensate for Mongo’s iffy power grid, the rear wheel whirred, the chain rattled, and the fan squeaked as it pushed a steady stream of warm air toward the monumental desk.

“So,” Al-Sharr said as he picked up Gazeau’s Autorisation de Circuler and pretended to examine it, “tell me about these mineral samples.”

Agent 47 had expected the question, or one like it, and launched into a cover story that involved the possibility of commercial-grade iron ore deposits near Mongo. A fabrication that was consistent with the rusty red rocks in the back of the truck.

Al-Sharr’s expression said that he didn’t believe a word of it, but he nodded as if he did, and reached down into a galvanized tub that was located next to his oversized chair. It contained some reasonably cool water, plus a dozen cans of Diet Coke. He held one up for his visitors to see.

“Would you drink something? No? Please let me hear if you change your minds.”

So saying, the police chief popped the tab, took a long pull, and wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. A gentle belch served as an exclamation point.

“Now, where were we? Ah, yes, the possibility of iron ore deposits. Once you confirm the presence of these deposits, and obtain permissions to exploit them, Chad will greatly benefit. In the meantime the government will have to rely on more modest sources of revenue, such as export fees. So, if you would be so kind as to submit 10,000 euros, or 9,165 U.S. dollars, we will fill out the necessary paperwork and get you on your way.”

It was an outrageous sum, much more than the government would require, or a legitimate business would be willing to pay. That being the case, 47 frowned. “Really? That’s a good deal more than we had anticipated. So much more that it will be necessary for us to contact our employer, and request instructions.”

Al-Sharr was surprised. Maybe his instincts had been wrong. Maybe the men were exactly what they claimed to be. Or maybe they were too greedy to pay a reasonable bribe. He took another sip of Coke, put the can down, and felt the first pangs of hunger. It was time for his lunch, followed by a nap and a cooling bath. “Here are your papers. Please let me know if there is anything else you need. Have a good day, gentlemen.”

“There is one other thing,” 47 said, as both he and Gazeau came to their feet. “Could you tell us if a party of three vehicles and about fifteen people passed through Mongo within the last twenty-four hours? They’re friends of ours, and we were hoping to catch up to them.”

Given the fact that Al-Sharr had hosted Al-Fulani and his party with an enormous feast the night before, and had been on the Moroccan’s payroll for the past three years, there was little doubt as to who the foreigner meant. But were the men in front of him friends of Al-Fulani’s? Or were they enemies? There was no way to know. Regardless, given that the information could be had in the local market, he thought it best to tell the truth.

“Yes, as a matter of fact there was. A Moroccan, if I’m not mistaken. He and his party left early this morning.”

Agent 47 thanked the policeman, and together with Gazeau, left the Sous-Prefet’s office.

The two men had just exited the building, and were halfway to the gate, when Al-Sharr summoned the corporal into his office. They were related, so there was no need for pretense.

“Have someone follow them. Someone reliable. And keep me informed. Maybe they are what they claim to be…and maybe they aren’t. Call me if you discover anything. I’m going to lunch.”

The corporal nodded, sent for his brother-in-law, and returned to his desk.

The fan turned, the flies buzzed, and the people who lined the benches continued to wait.

Darkness had fallen over the desert, leaving only half a dozen small fires to hold back the night, as the ragged children ate what little bit of food they had been given. The air was starting to cool, making travel possible once again, so it was time to move.

Allah willing, Mahamat Dagash and his men would deliver the children to the market in Oum-Chalouba just before dawn. Even though the ambush had gone extremely well, there had been problems ever since. First with one of the Land Cruisers, which took a full day to repair, and then with the children, because their legs were short, and they were suffering from malnutrition, which made them unbearably slow.

Whipping the little beggars was always good for a momentary increase in speed, but the orphans soon began to slow once again, forever testing the slaver’s patience. Yet now, with only hours to go, Dagash felt his spirits begin to rise.

“Extinguish the fires!” he ordered brusquely as he made the rounds. “Load the trucks! And give each child a drink. We’re almost there.”

That announcement was sufficient to elicit a cheer from the slavers, all of whom were looking forward to a good meal, hot baths, and a rich payday. Money with which to support their families, purchase a vehicle, and to possibly open a business.

They went to work with enthusiasm.

Kola was ten years old. Both she and her seven-year-old brother Baka had survived the slaver attack, but had been orphaned in the process. Now, as Dagash shouted orders and his men hurried to obey, the little girl knew what to do. It was pointless to resist, and punishments could be painful, so she ordered Baka to stand and take his place in line.

“I won’t!” the boy said rebelliously. “I’m hungry…and tired.”

“We all are,” Kola replied patiently. “Now do as I say, or one of the men will hit you.”

“So what?” Baka demanded sullenly. “I’ve been hit before. They’re just going to sell us.”

“That’s true,” the little girl acknowledged calmly. “But we will live. More importantly, you will live. And so long as you live, all of our ancestors live.”

Having no written records to rely on, each Dinka child was required to memorize his or her entire lineage at a very early age. It often went back for hundreds of years. Because to remember one’s ancestors was to keep them alive.

And since females took their husbands’ names, and Baka was the last male in their immediate family, the weight of the entire ancestral line rested on his narrow shoulders. A heavy responsibility indeed. Having been reminded of his place in the world, Baka stood.

“I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “You’re right.”

The two children held hands as they made their way over to where the lead Land Cruiser was waiting, and took their places in line. The 4X4’s engine rumbled, and its parking lights served as beacons as the children trekked across the desert.

Somewhere, out beyond the curtain of darkness, millions of people slept.