52

I was afraid the plastic chair I was in was going to break, which would definitely draw attention to me. That would be fine if I was trying to win some money on a reality television show, but it was decidedly the last thing I needed here. I hopped one chair over and scooted my bowl of gruel to me. Something called “bunny chow,” it was basically a hollowed-out piece of bread full of bean curry and mutton. It looked as gross as hell but was actually pretty tasty.

I heard Brett on the radio: “Gaining a little weight there, commando?”

“No. The chair was split on one side. Anyone heavier than a five-year-old is risking an adventure.”

Shoshana broke in: “Maybe you should skip the bowl of fat.”

I said, “Enough about the food. Do we have three-sixty coverage of this place now?”

The café itself had no walls but was situated in the middle of the market, with tables and chairs like a food court in an American mall or airport.

Brett said, “I’ve got the entrance and the northern side.”

Shoshana said, “Koko and I have the south blocked and can see clean through to the northern entrance.”

I said, “Okay, I’ve got the west and can also see through to the east, so the surveillance is good. All that’s open is an east exit.”

Shoshana said, “You want Koko and me to split up?”

“No. Not with the threat readout Koko gave us. Stay in place together. Someone accosting either of you will only bring trouble. We’ll sort it out with what we’ve got.”

We’d caught a nine A.M. flight out of Cape Town to Durban, packing everything we had and hastily finding hotel rooms in the new city. We knew Stanko was flying as well but had no idea how. He could have beaten us using a private aircraft—which Tyler was more than able to pay for—or he could have ended up on our flight.

He wasn’t, but with upward of seven flights a day, it could have been at any time.

We’d landed, rented a couple of Land Rovers, checked in to our hotel, and contacted the Taskforce—and they had news.

Stanko had talked to Eshan and had set up a meeting with him at four P.M. today, at a restaurant called the Queen Victoria Gourmet Café, in the heart of something called the Victoria Street Market.

The conversation was strained, even reading it in black-and-white from a transcript, with Eshan wanting a public meeting and Stanko demanding privacy. It told me Eshan wasn’t as stupid as the other target Stanko had killed. This one knew the danger of working his side of the fence.

Stanko had threatened withholding payment, and Eshan had countered by questioning why he was afraid to meet publicly, which deflated Stanko’s argument. There was no reason not to, if all you were going to do was pay for services rendered. Stanko had relented and said he was on the way, landing at three, which meant he left after us, because it was only a two-hour flight.

Jennifer had done her due diligence with research, something she was a little bit of a freak at, and had learned that the Victoria Street Market was an enormous rat warren of Indian immigrants selling everything from spices to African masks, all under one gigantic roof. It turned out that Durban had the largest Indian population of any city on earth—outside of India—and way back when, they’d built this market when they’d been excluded from the city center because of their heritage.

In the modern world it had blossomed into no less than nine different markets, spanning city blocks, at a place called Warwick Junction, and had become both a local place to shop and a tourist stop—if you were in a group with a guide.

According to Jennifer, crime was rampant, and single females were easy prey. Jennifer said predators loved the place and it was routinely rated as unsafe, with pickpockets and worse prowling around, which was why I’d had Jennifer and Shoshana pair up.

Our females weren’t, of course, easy prey, but I couldn’t afford either of them becoming involved with teaching a pickpocket that his chosen choice of employment held significant risks, which meant I either paired them up with Brett and me, leaving me a team short, or I paired them together.

I opted for the latter, figuring Shoshana’s glare would scare the hell out of anyone thinking of attempting anything.

We’d entered the market at 1530, giving us thirty minutes of leeway, and found it just as advertised: narrow alleys lined with stalls, all selling seemingly the same cheap-ass tourist knickknacks.

We’d split up, searching for the café, and Brett had found it, then vectored us in. Now I was eating a bowl of bunny food as we waited, checking out everyone who entered.

I’d almost finished my bread bowl when Brett came on, saying, “Ivan’s in the net, I say again, Ivan’s in the net. Northern entrance. Just went by me.”

Stanko was the only target we had whom we could recognize, so he was key to locating the contact. I casually turned my head and saw him enter, still dressed uncomfortably like a shady businessman, although with that usual Eastern European “Boris” vibe. The only thing he needed to complete the vision was a fedora and an overcoat with the collar turned up.

He sat in the center of the café, not bothering to order anything from the counter, his head constantly swiveling around. Eventually, a man who had been at the café before we’d entered stood up, surprising me. An Indian guy, tall and thin, with a gangly walk that reminded me of a stork. I’d assumed the contact would be African.

He settled in to the table, and I clicked on the net, saying, “Target seated. Acknowledge.”

I got a couple of “Rogers” and said, “Anyone with a camera angle?”

Jennifer said, “I got it. Clean view.”

I kept my eye on the meeting, saying, “Okay, when this breaks up, we follow Mowgli. Let Ivan go.”

Brett said, “This naming convention is becoming borderline inappropriate.”

I said, “Well, we’re in the business of being inappropriate.”

I watched them talk, then saw the conversation get animated, with Mowgli leaning forward and waving his arms around. Clearly, he wasn’t happy.

Shoshana came on, saying, “I think Ivan’s trying to get him to leave. He didn’t bring the money.”

I said, “I think you’re right. Get ready.”

Eventually, Mowgli nodded, and Stanko leaned back, saying something. They both rose and left. To the fucking east.

I said, “Get on them. Get on them. I can’t get there.”

Shoshana said, “We have them. They’re entering the market.”

Brett said, “I’m one row over.”

I stood and ran to the far side, saying, “He isn’t going to pay; he’s looking for a place to kill that guy. Don’t give him any space.”

I heard Shoshana say, “I’ve lost him. I’ve lost him,” then: “Pike, this is Koko. I’m breaking off. Going parallel.”

I said, “Roger that. Everyone, we’re okay, we’re okay. He isn’t going to murder him in the mall.”

Brett said, “Pike, there are plenty of places in here to kill the guy.”

Which was true. I said, “Anyone have eyes on?”

I got nothing back.