The long-slide went back into its holster. The act of slipping a fresh magazine into the shorter weapon was as natural as breathing, but there was no need. The fat man was still alive, struggling to free himself by then, but it was too late, and 47 caught one last glimpse of the policeman’s desperate face as the 135 blew. There were three explosions in all, and even though he was about seventy-five yards away, it was still necessary to go facedown in the sand as a wall of heat rolled past and pieces of flaming debris fell all around.

Finally, once the explosions were over, the assassin stood. Gazeau appeared at his side.

“It will take days for the government to sort this out…assuming they ever do. Still, there’s bound to be a whole bunch of gendarmes running about. So it would be a good idea to get in and out of Oum-Chalouba as quickly as we can.”

Agent 47 nodded.

“That works for me. Let’s get out of here.”

The town of Oum-Chalouba had the one thing that no desert traveler can do without and that was water. Evidence of it could be seen in groves of lush date palms, private gardens that could be glimpsed through partially opened gates, and a tiled fountain located in the public square.

Unfortunately the fountain was dry at the moment, and had been for the better part of two years, ever since its sixty-year-old pump had broken down. A new one was on order, or so the maire[6] claimed, but none of the local residents expected to see water flowing into the big bowl anytime soon.

The city’s architecture included a lonely Catholic church, three mosques, a French Colonial administration building, and a poorly maintained military base. There were also three truly fine nineteenth-century houses, dozens of flat-roofed structures of the sort seen throughout the Middle East, and a sprawling metal-roofed souk that had been in business for more than a thousand years.

And that was where Al-Fulani and his entourage were, as shop owners hawked their wares, loud music blared from ubiquitous radios, and a silversmith hammered ornate patterns into a large platter. The air around them was hot and heavy with the odors of spices, broiled goat meat, and tanned leather.

People claimed that one could buy anything in the souk, and based on what Marla had seen, they were correct. In addition to food, clothing, and household goods the Puissance Treize agent had seen shops filled with military uniforms, used auto parts, artificial limbs, exotic animals, hashish, and all manner of weapons. Which was to say, something for everyone.

But the souk had another category of merchandise for sale. Something that had once been trafficked in the main square, as hard-eyed Tuaregs stood all around and camel caravans plodded through town. That was human flesh, which was what Al-Fulani had traveled all the way from Fez to buy. Children, specifically, who could be put to work in his so-called “orphanage,” where they would service wealthy pedophiles until they were too old to be considered young.

At that point the slaves would be resold. Such was the market that the Moroccan and his bodyguards sought-but only after pausing to inspect all manner of merchandise, chatting up the shop owners, and buying a variety of trinkets. It was a process Al-Fulani clearly enjoyed.

Marla had a different perspective, since she saw the labyrinthine market as the perfect place for an ambush. Yet it was a concern Al-Fulani was unwilling to take seriously.

“I have faith in you, my dear,” the businessman said, when reminded of the dangers. “Besides, who would come after me here?”

So what could have been a ten-minute walk through the souk was transformed into an hour-long shopping expedition that eventually delivered the group into the shattered remains of what had once been a small palace. Artillery shells had destroyed the structure’s dome during the war with Libya in the early ’80s. Having been artificially opened to the azure sky, the mostly intact walls embraced an arena in which a myriad of animals were bought and sold each day. The smell of their feces was so strong that Marla found it necessary to breathe through her mouth as she followed Al-Fulani into the circular enclosure.

Women were a seldom-seen sight in the arena, and men turned to stare as the Moroccan and his entourage entered. Three of the onlookers were dressed in keffiyeh, and ankle-length black thawbs, slit open at the sides so the wearers could access their guns. And, thanks to the sunglasses and goatee he was wearing, Agent 47 felt confident that he wouldn’t be recognized.

Finding the house that Al-Fulani was staying in had been easy, thanks to Numo’s scouting skills, and everyone in the souk seemed to be aware of why the Moroccan had come to town. So, rather than follow the businessman and almost certainly be spotted, the assassin had chosen to anticipate his movements instead. And now, as Marla paused to wrap a scarf around her face, 47 knew he’d been right.

There were other potential buyers as well, some of whom were known to Al-Fulani and greeted the Moroccan respectfully as he made his way to a section of seats reserved for wealthy VIPs. Once the businessman was seated, a tray bearing a tiny cup of very strong coffee and a selection of sweetmeats was summoned, and Al-Fulani took full advantage of it as he chatted with the man seated to his right.

Marla stood immediately behind her client, where she could protect his back as her eyes inventoried the huge enclosure. Buyers and sellers formed a circle, interrupted by two lanes through which merchandise could be herded in and out of the open area. But her eyes were elsewhere, sweeping the cheap seats, looking for any sign of a threat.

Suddenly a force of ten uniformed policemen filed into the arena. A vision of the burning helicopter popped into 47’s mind. The assassin swore silently, and was sliding one of his hands into his voluminous thawb, when Gazeau nudged his shoulder.

“Look!” the Libyan said. “They’re on the take.”

And sure enough, rather than put a stop to the slave auction, it soon became apparent that the police were there to protect it. The first thing they did was to secure both entryways, before spreading out to control the entire room. And it was a good thing too, since many of those present were carrying large amounts of cash.

The assassin released his grip on the short-slide, pulled his hand back into the open, and ordered his body to relax. He’d been hoping for an opportunity to snatch Al-Fulani right out from under Marla, but the police presence put paid to that idea, so all he could do was wait.

The slave auction got under way shortly thereafter, as a man who was wearing a linen skull cap and dressed in an immaculate white suit appeared. He addressed the crowd in French and, judging from the matter-of-fact cadences involved, it was a speech he had delivered many times before. The essence of it was that the market was in no way responsible for the mental, emotional, or physical health of the human beings who were about to be bought and sold. All transactions would be conducted in euros, all merchandise would be collected immediately after the auction, and all sales were final.

With that preamble out of the way, the first batch of slaves was herded into the room. They were exclusively male and, judging from appearances, all from the same geographical area. The Sudan probably, or the Central African Republic, where there was very little enforcement in place to protect them. A rough-looking, white South African purchased the entire lot, to work in an illegal diamond mine perhaps, or to harvest crops on some remote farm.

The next group of slaves was female, all of whom had been stripped naked before being forced out into the open, and there were multiple bidders. There was no way to know for sure, but it seemed likely that the more comely women were destined for the sex trade in any of a dozen possible countries, while the rest would be incorporated into wealthy households where they would live lives of forced servitude.