Hitman: Enemy Within

by William C. Dietz

  “Of course!” Thorakis said, as he offered his arm. “Especially if I will be free to feast my eyes upon you!”

  Diana smiled as she took his arm.

  “No wonder you have so many women. You’re not only handsome, but charming, as well.”

  The truth was that there were only two women in the shipping magnate’s life. His wife, who was currently at home in Athens, and an Ethiopian mistress, who lived in Portugal. But the businessman always enjoyed compliments, especially from beautiful women, and took pleasure in being the one who got to escort Diana into the well-appointed boardroom.

  A huge chunk of black coral sat next to the entry, where it was supported by a pedestal made of turned granadilla wood. Beyond that a bar stood to the right, the table occupied the center of the room, and a huge picture window filled the wall opposite the door. It was perfectly positioned to frame the well-watered green lawn, the picturesque bay, and the surf beyond.

  There were all the usual greetings, as the twosome was absorbed by the gathering of international movers and shakers, all of whom knew each other well. Most of the conversation was centered on money, but other topics were under discussion as well, including the results of a hard-fought cricket match between India and South Africa.

  The group included Mr. Nu, who was there to represent management; Aheem Shbot, the onetime Iraqi minister who was sitting on more than $25 million stolen during the early days of the war; José Sosa, a Venezuelan oil minister whose enemies had a marked tendency to die in car accidents; Frank Tang, a senior member of a successful Chinese tong; Lalu Khan, who was known as “The King of Whores” in his native India; Dr. Natalia Luka, who ran a profitable business peddling Russian nuclear technology to third-world countries; Hans Beck, a German industrialist with lofty political ambitions; Mary Minnarr, a South African whose fortune had been made selling blood diamonds; Mustapha Nour, an Egyptian arms merchant with valuable contacts inside the Tamil Tigres, the PKK, and other terrorist organizations; and Goto Osami, a member of the Japanese yakuza.

  Thorakis watched their eyes, as the various board members turned to greet him, but found no signs of suspicion. So the gut-wrenching fear the shipping magnate had experienced on the plane had begun to abate by the time he and his peers took their respective places around the long, glass-topped table. Mr. Nu sat at the west end, with his back to the window, five members on his right, five on his left, and an empty chair opposite him. That was the seat traditionally reserved for the mysterious Chairman, whose identity was unknown, but was very much in attendance via a one-way video hookup.

  It was he who called the meeting to order.

  “Thank you for coming,” the deep melodious voice said. There were speakers in the ceiling, walls, and floor, so the words seemed to originate from everywhere and nowhere, all at once.

  “I know how busy you all are,” the voice continued smoothly. “And because of that, I was hesitant to add another meeting to your already demanding schedules. However, I’m sorry to announce that the efforts to identify the traitor within our organization have been unsuccessful thus far. All of our lower-ranking administrative personnel and field agents were rescreened,” the Chairman added soberly. “And, while three individuals appear to have been engaged in various types of theft, the effort to find the leak has been fruitless, evidence of which can be seen on the screen.”

  A huge flat-panel screen was mounted on the inner wall over the sleek mahogany bar. Nu and the other board members turned to look as a professionally edited video montage began to roll. There was no narration, other than that provided by television reporters in a variety of countries. Subtitles had been added where necessary, and each clip was different from the others, except for the one element that tied all of them together.

  There was an unsolved murder at the core of each story. Three individuals had been shot, two had been knifed, and the last victim had been pushed into the path of a train. An especially gruesome affair that dominated two news cycles in the United States.

  When the five-minute-long compilation came to a close, the Chairman picked up where he had left off. There was anger in his voice now.

  “Each of those people worked for us, each was a valuable asset, and each left a hole that will be difficult to fill. Some were field agents, but three were technical experts, who weren’t even armed.

  “So,” the disembodied voice continued ominously, “it seems that someone—or something—has declared war on our organization. The attacking entity could be a criminal organization out to get revenge, a competitor that wants to level the playing field, or a disgruntled former client. All of which can be dealt with. But it’s extremely difficult to fight back without knowing who the enemy is. So Mr. Nu and his staff have been authorized to rescreen both senior management and the board in an attempt to find the traitor.

  “That means your movements, phone calls, and email will be subject to expert analysis. Of course, all of you utilize multiple layers of encryption, some of which may be good enough to keep even our experts at bay. If so, please provide our people with full access. Failure to do so will be interpreted as a hostile act. Especially since you specifically agreed to such transparency when you joined the board. You have my word that any and all proprietary information related to your affairs, having nothing to do with The Agency, will not be altered, copied, or shared.

  “Are there any questions?”

  Heads swiveled as board members turned to look at one another, but no one chose to respond, so the Chairman brought the meeting to a close.

  “Unfortunately, it’s quite likely that the traitor is right here in this room. If so, then know this. When we identify you, and we will, The Agency will kill you, eliminate your entire family, and all of your friends.

  “Have a nice day.”

  There was a click as the line went dead, and Aristotle Thorakis battled the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him, as he visualized various members of his family being gunned down. I did it to protect you, he thought forlornly. To preserve what is rightfully yours.

  But it isn’t over yet, the shipping magnate told himself. You have the Puissance Treize to protect you, and they are powerful, as well! So powerful that The Agency may be a thing of the past within a matter of months.

  But such thoughts offered cold comfort, as fear trickled into the shipping magnate’s belly, and the vetting process began.

  Chapter Twelve

  FEZ, MOROCCO

  Waleed Abadati was a true believer, a dedicated husband, and a good father. Virtues built on a foundation of good habits that began with a regimen of personal hygiene before breakfast, followed by early morning prayer, and a brisk three-mile walk to work.

  That journey began deep within the Fes El Bali, and took him to the Ville Nouvelle district, where thanks to four years spent in the army, he worked as a low-ranking security guard at Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani’s mansion.

  It was a boring job for the most part, but a relatively well-paid one, and Abadati felt fortunate to have it. The security guard was in a good mood as his feet followed the same path they walked every day and his mind contemplated the purchase of a secondhand car. It was a big step, but the money had been saved and was waiting in the bank. But what kind to buy? There were so many possibilities. Perhaps that was why the Moroccan didn’t pay any attention to the scrape of shoe leather behind him, and was completely unprepared when a hand covered his mouth, and a strong arm jerked him into a heavily shadowed passageway.

  That was when the needle bit his neck, the sedative entered his bloodstream, and the arms of darkness opened to receive him.

  Having followed Abadati the previous day, Agent 47 had chosen the spot with care, and knew that the sloppily constructed lean-to that half-blocked the walkway would provide cover while he stripped the security guard of his belongings, including his photo ID, access card, and a U.S.-made Colt Python revolver, complete with gun belt and twelve extra rounds of .357 Magnum ammunition.

  The clo
thes fit fairly well, which wasn’t too surprising, since Abadati had been chosen for his height and build. Once the transformation was complete, 47 took time to bind and gag the security guard before piling musty burlap sacks on top of him.

  Then, having assumed Abadati’s persona, including the guard’s peaked hat and sunglasses, the assassin continued the walk to work. The henna tattoos had started to fade by then, and were covered over with makeup that served to darken 47’s skin. The impersonation was so good that merchants waved to the familiar figure, and one of Abadati’s second cousins shouted a greeting from a second floor window as the guard passed below.

  Fifteen minutes later Agent 47 entered the Ville Nouvelle. From there it was a short walk to the Al-Fulani mansion, where 47 made his way to the main gate, and waved Abadati’s ID card as he passed the guardhouse. The operative waited for what seemed like an inevitable challenge, but the gate guard had seen what he expected to see. Which was the eternally dependable Waleed Abadati, showing up early for work.

  Now that he had successfully penetrated the outermost layer of Al-Fulani’s security, a single swipe of Abadati’s key card opened the basement door. That provided 47 with access to the locker room where staff stored their personal belongings, and ultimately the subsurface corridor that would take the assassin to his real objective—a stairway that led from the basement up to Al-Fulani’s study. The passageway, which was intended to function as an emergency escape route should the mansion come under attack, was to see on the diagrams downloaded from The Agency.

  Which meant the assassin should be able to enter Al-Fulani’s private office, overpower the businessman, inject him with Sodium Pentothal, and ask two extremely important questions: Who had penetrated The Agency—and who were they working for? It would be awkward, since time would be limited, but with Marla running Al-Fulani’s personal security detail, 47 had given up all hope of spiriting the Moroccan away. Ever since the incident with the fuel truck her precautions had been extremely thorough.

  Since Abadati was habitually early for work, Agent 47 had a full thirty minutes to enjoy before anyone would question his whereabouts, and perhaps another fifteen minutes before a search began. With that in mind, he entered the employee lounge, gave thanks for the fact that it was empty, and proceeded out into the hallway. An elderly janitor was swabbing the floor, but he didn’t bother to look up as the uniformed guard passed and slipped around a corner.

  Agent 47 knew where the hidden door was supposed to be, but when he arrived there, it was to discover a wall covered with panels of gold fabric. After a quick scan to ensure he wasn’t being observed, 47 began to push and prod at the panel where the door was supposed to be.

  There was no response at first, and the agent had begun to worry when he heard a click followed by a whir as the door swiveled open. That released a rush of air laden with the faint odor of incense. He stepped through the portal, and was about to turn and close the door when a sensor took care of that task for him. Pleased with his progress so far, Agent 47 paused to remove his shoes before climbing a flight of narrow wooden stairs to the floor above.

  Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani was seated behind his desk, with his back to three arched windows, as Marla stood in front of him.

  “There’s no doubt about it,” the Puissance Treize agent said earnestly. “The Otero brothers were sent to kill you. Not one of the other VIPs who occupied the stage.”

  “Yet they failed because this Agent 47 person managed to stop them,” the businessman mused. “Why would he want to do that?”

  Six intricately carved Moorish screens served to partition off the east end of the office. Beyond them, in the alcove where Al-Fulani took his naps, one of the richly polished antique doors that decorated the back wall opened on silent hinges as Agent 47 entered the room. The assassin’s feet were silent as he padded over to the screens and peered through one of them onto the scene that lay beyond.

  Damn it! Al-Fulani was present, all right, but so was Marla, and the clock was ticking. Still, there was always the possibility that she would leave, so it made sense for the operative to wait.

  “There’s no way to know for sure,” Marla replied gravely. “But it’s my opinion that he wants to capture you, perhaps to interrogate you. And that would be difficult if you were dead.”

  “Yes,” the Moroccan agreed bleakly. “It would. But I have news for you. Good news. We’re about to leave Fez, which will make your job much easier!”

  Marla wasn’t sure whether leaving Fez would make her job easier, but she could hope. So she forced a smile.

  “Really?” she responded. “Where are we going? Somewhere cool, I hope.”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Al-Fulani answered sympathetically. “It’s pretty warm in N’Djamena this time of year. But the desert in Chad has its own kind of beauty—and Agent 47 will have no idea where I am.”

  Having said that, the Moroccan businessman rose and circled the desk.

  “Come, my dear,” Al-Fulani said playfully, as he offered his arm. “My limousine awaits!”

  “But I don’t have the appropriate clothes!” Marla objected.

  “Ah, but you will,” Al-Fulani assured her soothingly. “We’ll stop by your apartment on the way to the airport.”

  There were other things to worry about, including her team’s readiness for such a journey, but Marla knew her sponsor well, and he wouldn’t want to wait, so she’d have to make arrangements on the fly.

  The twosome were gone a few seconds later, which left 47 with no choice but to retrace his steps, and escape the mansion as quickly as he could. Fortunately the stir caused by Al-Fulani’s sudden departure was such that the assassin was able to exit the basement undetected, and make his way to the south side of the property where Abadati was normally stationed. What could have been a tricky moment was eased by the fact that the other guard was tired, and eager to go home. He said something in Arabic, then laughed at his own joke, as he turned to leave.

  The assassin waited for a full minute before he slipped out through the very gate he was supposed to guard, and faded into the foot traffic beyond.

  He had been forced to abandon the Jammer identity in the wake of the truck explosion. His new base of operations, which consisted of a room in a seedy hotel, was about a mile away.

  The real Waleed Abadati called in shortly after 47’s departure, which triggered a full-scale search of the property. But having found nothing amiss, the way in which Abadati had been waylaid was ascribed to thieves, and the hapless guard was ordered to pay for both the uniform and the stolen weapon.

  It was a significant setback that meant the car would have to wait. But Abadati was a good man, a righteous man, who knew that Allah promised those with patience a reward without measure.

  A reward that, with the passage of time, would eventually be his.

  EAST OF N’DJAMENA, CHAD

  There was no direct air service to the city of N’Djamena—not from Fez—so unlike Al-Fulani, who had a private plane to call upon, Agent 47 had been forced to travel via a number of commercial connections, thereby losing quite a bit of time in the process. But thanks to some assistance from The Agency, a driver and a vehicle were there waiting when he landed.

  And now, some six spine-jarring hours later, the operative and his paid companions were closing in on the spot where Al-Fulani and his party had probably spent the previous night. Would the Moroccan still be there? That seemed unlikely, but 47 hoped to confirm that he was on the right trail. Especially since the desert was a big place, and The Agency’s spy sats had lost Al-Fulani’s convoy during a dust storm.

  The sub-Saharan landscape was divided between the bright, almost searing blue of the sky and the khaki colored landscape that lay sprawled below. The growl of the Unimog’s engine dropped a full octave as Pierre Gazeau shifted down, released the clutch, and guided the truck up the sand-drifted track toward the next rise.

  The Libyan freelancer had thick black hair, a hooked nose, and a three-day g
rowth of beard. He wore wraparound sunglasses, a sleeveless khaki shirt, and a pair of matching slacks. Black hair crawled down his arms and darkly tanned legs to a pair of beat-up desert boots. Though born in Tripoli to an ex-legionnaire and a Tuareg mother, Gazeau had been educated in France, and spoke English with only a slight accent.

  “There are tracks, my friend. Someone else has passed through the area, and recently, too.”

  The snub-nosed U90 Mercedes Unimog lurched as the right front tire mounted a large chunk of rock, the vehicle tilted to the left, and an avalanche of junk slid across the dashboard, ran out of room, and tumbled into Gazeau’s lap. Only the statue of St. Francis remained where it was, his feet anchored by a dollop of glue, his eyes firmly on the track ahead.

  The Libyan rescued one of his many pairs of sunglasses from his lap, placed them on the center console, and brushed the rest of the mess onto the already littered floor.

  Agent 47 held on to a grab bar, and waited for the right tire to pass over the obstacle, before making his reply.

  “I’m glad to hear it. That’s a good sign.”

  “So,” Gazeau said out of the side of his mouth, “how close are we?”

  Agent 47 consulted the Garmin eTrex Vista GPS receiver, checked the readout against a map, and eyed the dry, rocky landscape ahead.

  “The village should be about half a kilometer away.”

  Gazeau took his foot off the accelerator, engaged the clutch, and stepped on the brake. The truck came to an abrupt stop. Dust swirled up and drifted to the east.

  The Mog was equipped with a crew cab. The assassin heard one of the rear doors close and turned to discover that Gazeau’s assistant was no longer in the vehicle.

  “Where did he go?”

  Gazeau shook his head and laughed.

  “You’ve seen him…Numo goes wherever he wants to go.” And with that, the Libyan let out the clutch, fed fuel to the 5-cylinder diesel, and guided the big 4X4 up past the skeletal remains of an ancient VW bus. The path rose, turned toward the right, and disappeared over a rise.