But Al-Fulani had no interest in them. It wasn’t until all of the women had been accounted for that Mahamat Dagash led his band of emaciated children out into the arena. Then the Moroccan put his coffee cup down, and began to examine the slaves through a small pair of binoculars.

Kola and her brother Baka were frightened by the crowd, and clung to each other until Dagash forced them apart.

There was a flurry of activity as the auction resumed, and Al-Fulani found himself competing with a dark-skinned man from Nigeria. When the process was over, the Moroccan was well pleased with the eighteen children who would accompany him to Fez.

Kola burst into tears as Baka was taken from her and forced to join those the man had purchased.

“Remember my name!” the little girl shouted desperately as they took him away. “As I will remember yours!”

Baka tried to respond, but staggered as a backhanded blow struck him across the mouth, and a man armed with a whip shouted orders the youngster couldn’t understand.

“We’ll follow Al-Fulani’s slaves,” Agent 47 said. “Then, once he links up with them, we’ll make our move.”

Gazeau nodded agreement, but deep down he knew it wouldn’t be that easy, because nothing in North Africa ever was.

The auction was over, and as the crowd began to break up, Marla caught a glimpse of a man who at first looked familiar. But then, having taken a second look, the Puissance Treize agent realized she was wrong. Not only was the man wearing the wraparound sunglasses dressed in a thawb, he was clearly in the company of a couple of Arabs, and Agent 47 was known to work alone.

Then the moment was over, the arena began to clear, and life ground on.

A full day had passed since the auction in Oum-Chalouba, and things were not going well. Having watched Al-Fulani’s four-vehicle convoy depart the city, and having followed them out into the desert, Agent 47 and his companions had been about to close with the Moroccan when a truck loaded with police roared past them. A few miles later, having topped a plateau, the assassin was able to look to the northwest, and that was when he saw five columns of dust, all in close proximity to one another, indicating that Al-Fulani had a police escort. Which, when combined with Marla and her bodyguards, would be impossible to overcome-certainly out in the open.

So, frustrating though it was, all they could do was follow the Moroccan and wait for something to break his way.

Hour after tedious hour passed, until the red-orange sun hung low in the western sky, and the town of Faya appeared ahead. According to the map, it was bigger than Oum-Chalouba, and boasted its own airport, so Agent 47 was surprised when the distant columns of dust veered to the right and headed due north.

“What the hell is he up to?” the assassin muttered as the Mog bucked its way over a series of bumps, and Gazeau battled the big steering wheel.

“There’s no way to know for sure,” the Libyan said grimly. “But it’s my guess that the Sous-Prefet in Faya is a lot less accommodating than the one in Oum-Chalouba, and perhaps takes a dim view of slavery. That would force Al-Fulani to use the only other airfield around—and that’s the strip at Quadi Doum.”

Agent 47 frowned. “Quadi Doum?”

“Yeah,” the other man replied. “Back in the ’80s, when Muammar Gaddafi was trying to take over northern Chad, he built a military base about twenty miles north of here. But it was overrun.”

“So the airfield is still operational.”

“The metal runway is still there,” Gazeau replied darkly. “But first you have to find your way in through the minefield that surrounds the base.”

“And Al-Fulani can do that?”

“Lots of people can do that,” the Libyan responded. “Including me. My father showed me the way. But it’s extremely dangerous.”

“We don’t have a choice,” Agent 47 replied grimly. “Besides, if we can reach Al-Fulani before his plane lands, he won’t have any place to run. This may be the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.”

“I was afraid you’d say something like that,” Gazeau replied dryly. “That means we’ll have to transit the minefield tonight, so we’ll be in position come morning.”

“Sounds like fun,” 47 said as he stared out through the filthy windshield. “I can hardly wait.”

It had been necessary to pull over and wait for the fall of darkness, lest the column of dust that the Mog generated give the pursuers away. While vehicles were to be expected on the way to Faya, once Al-Fulani and his convoy left the piste, any sign of a tail would make them suspicious. And given the size of the Moroccan’s security force, Agent 47 knew he would need the advantage of surprise if he were to win any sort of engagement.

When night arrived, they began the final trek into Quadi Doum. With Numo walking ahead and Gazeau behind the wheel, 47 struggled to focus his sleep-deprived eyes on the GPS receiver that was duct-taped to the top of his left thigh. That left his hands free to deal with the much-creased map and a long list of directions provided by the Libyan. What light there was came from the headlamp Agent 47 wore as he gave instructions over the radio.

“Five, four, three, two, one…execute a hard left turn.”

Numo, who was equipped with a Motorola Talkabout 200 walkie-talkie, executed a neat turn and walked due west. He had a compass that glowed dimly in the palm of his hand and served to keep him on course. Gazeau waited for the Mog to reach the exact turning point, yanked the wheel to the left, and downshifted. The Mercedes jerked as the clutch was released, picked up a tiny bit of speed, and continued to roll forward.

The assassin, who hadn’t been aware that he was holding his breath, let it out slowly.

“Damn, why so many turns?”

“It may not look like it,” the Libyan replied, “but we’re on a road. When Gaddafi ordered his forces to build the airstrip, they laid mines in precise patterns that allowed anyone who was equipped with a watch and compass to access the base via four two-lane roads. One for each point of the compass. The turns were supposed to keep the bad guys out.”

“Did it work?”

“Hell, no. The base was under the command of one Colonel Khalifa Assa Uadi. In spite of the fact that he had 4,000 men, 20 aircraft, and some 200 tanks, the idiot allowed a ragtag force of Chadians to find their way through the minefield, chop holes in the security fence, and infiltrate the base. It fell within a matter of hours.”

“You seem to know a lot about the battle.”

Gazeau grinned. His teeth gleamed in the light provided by the instrument panel.

“During the years after my father left the French Foreign Legion, he accepted freelance contracts from time to time. He was with the Chadian forces when they entered the base.”

“So he mapped the roads?”

The Libyan shook his head.

“There was no need to. One of Uadi’s officers sold my father a map for the equivalent of twenty-five dollars U.S. Later, after Libyan forces left, the airstrip was abandoned. Papa always kept a stash of supplies there, and so do I. About two years ago I took his directions and converted them into latitude and longitude, in order to take advantage of the GPS system.”

Agent 47 made use of his right hand to trigger the handheld Motorola.

“Stand by. We have another turn coming up.”

Numo, whose job it was to look for any mines that might have migrated along with the constantly shifting sands, clicked the transmit button by way of acknowledgment.

The desert was surprisingly cold at night. Still, he seemed oblivious to any physical discomfort, and most likely he was ignoring it to focus on the task at hand.

This was the Sahara, after all, where death lay only meters away.

By the time a long, thin crack appeared along the eastern horizon, and pink light washed the sky, Agent 47 was ready to make his first kill.