Hitman: Enemy Within

by William C. Dietz

  Pruter’s suit was a little too large, but otherwise satisfactory, even if it was gray rather than black.

  The room had been paid for in advance, so there was no need to check out. Agent 47 carried Scaparelli’s heavily laden suitcase and Pruter’s black leather briefcase down the fire escape and out through the door he had used the night before. Someone was bound to discover the woman’s body before long—and the assassin wanted to be clear of the hotel when they did.

  Rather than dump the suitcase near the hotel where the police might find it, the operative towed the bag to the Bon Appétit. The restaurant wasn’t open for business yet, but the Dumpster was, and given how much the big metal box reeked, there was very little chance that anyone would want to climb inside it. The suitcase went in, the lid closed with a clang, and the task was complete.

  From there it was a short walk to a busy bakery, where the assassin had a long, leisurely breakfast. Though not up to his standards, it was a lot better than nothing. Then, at precisely 10:30 a.m., he entered a cab. By no means was he too lazy to walk, but the person he was about to become would arrive by taxi, and such details were important. If the cabdriver thought the short trip was strange, he gave no sign of it as the operative handed over a five and told him to keep the change.

  Three members of the paparazzi were present as 47 got out of the cab, including Tony Fazio, and all of them watched intently as the man with the black briefcase exited the car and approached the front gate. The additional security was plain to see, and the activity within indicated that Thorakis might be getting ready to leave Sintra. Though this was not world-shaking news, it would be worth a few shots, and provide the paparazzi with something to feed their voracious editors.

  As Agent 47 arrived in front of the gate, a uniformed security officer was there to greet him.

  “Yes?” the man said suspiciously. “What do you want?”

  The operative noticed that the security officer’s right hand had already come to rest on the butt of a huge revolver.

  “My name is Gerrard,” 47 lied. “I believe you’re expecting me.”

  As it happened, the security guard had been told to expect a Mr. Gerrard, so the hand came off the pistol, and the assassin was allowed to pass through the gate. From there the security officer escorted the agent to the front door, where a man in a blue blazer and khaki trousers was waiting. He had hard eyes, a no-nonsense manner, and appeared to be in his early forties. Ex-military perhaps? Yes, 47 thought so.

  The entryway was half-blocked by an oak table. Beyond that the operative could see the ornate flight of stairs that led up to the second floor, along with the entry to the dining room on the left, and the door to an old-fashioned sitting room on the right. He knew from previous experience that the hall, which paralleled the stairs, led back to the kitchen.

  “Good morning, sir,” the man with the hard eyes said. “Are you armed?”

  “Yes, I am,” the assassin replied, as he placed the briefcase on the table. “I’m carrying a Glock, a razor, and a garrote.”

  If the ex-paratrooper was surprised, he gave no sign of it.

  “And in the briefcase?”

  “A satellite phone, a laptop, and some other odds and ends.”

  “Thank you,” the man said matter-of-factly. “Please remove all of your weapons and place them on the table. Once that process is complete, I’m going to search you. Or you can leave the property, if you prefer. The choice is up to you.”

  “I have no objection to being searched,” 47 said, as he placed each weapon on the table in front of him. “In fact, I would like to commend you on your professionalism.”

  The man nodded politely, but clearly didn’t care what the visitor thought, as he came around to run his hands over 47’s body. That was the point he came across the atomizer.

  “What’s this?” the man wanted to know, as he held the bottle up for inspection.

  “Sunblock,” the agent answered expressionlessly. “I have a tendency to burn.”

  The ex-paratrooper nodded, spritzed a bit of the liquid on his wrist, sniffed and—apparently satisfied—put the atomizer back where he had found it.

  “Okay,” the man with the hard eyes said. “You can retrieve your briefcase and weapons on the way out. Please step under the light.”

  A stand-mounted spot had been set up in the hallway. Agent 47 could feel the heat from the lamp as he took his place beneath it. The man opened a folder, withdrew a sheet of paper, and held it up for a side-by-side comparison. The fax was modeled on a similar document The Agency had recovered during a raid on a Puissance Treize safe house in Moscow three days earlier. The first paragraph, which had been authored by Diana, was the equivalent of an introduction.

  “Mr. François Gerrard will arrive prior to 12:00 p.m., and should be given full access to the premises so that he can make plans for a Class III extraction. Please grant him your full cooperation.”

  And, because both the photo and the description of Gerrard matched the man standing in front of him, the former soldier began to relax.

  “Could I have your identity code please?”

  “It’s BXY-892,” Agent 47 replied.

  The code was correct, so the security officer slid the fax back into its folder, and rang a bell.

  The woman who responded was none other than a harried looking Maria. With the departure imminent, Thorakis had probably been very difficult that morning—and 47 imagined that the last thing she needed was a visitor to take care of. And because the man in front of her looked very different from the photographer Tazio Scaparelli, she never appeared to make the connection.

  Fortunately for Maria, the man in the gray suit had no need of her services, and having said as much, he began to prowl the premises after she took her leave.

  Agent 47 eyed his watch. Based on the information he had obtained from Maria earlier, he knew that the kitchen staff were required to prepare a green salad for Miss Desta each morning, and leave it outside the master bedroom at precisely 11:30. With rare exceptions, it was the ex-model’s practice to remain incommunicado until 1:00 p.m., when she was ready to greet the world.

  Assuming the salad rule was still in force, the assassin had five minutes to get upstairs and position himself in the vicinity of the master bedroom. With that in mind, he produced a small notebook, made some meaningless notes in it, and returned to the main hallway. From there he climbed the stairs and was standing on the landing above when a girl appeared at the other end of the hall. Having made use of the back stairs himself, Agent 47 knew they led up from the kitchen, which was consistent with the tray the youngster held in her hands.

  The operative saw a teapot, a matching cup, and a plate with a silver dome over it. The teenager placed the offering on a table, paused to make sure the tray was square with the edge of the table, and turned back toward the stairs.

  Agent 47 took a quick look around to make sure no one was visible, hurried down the hall, and lifted the domed lid. Then, still holding the cover aloft, he aimed the atomizer at the perfectly tossed salad. The bottle made a gentle wheezing sound as peanut oil misted the air and drifted down to coat the greens below.

  Having replaced the lid, the operative turned back toward the front of the house. He was halfway down the front stairs, on his way to retrieve his belongings, when he heard the door open and Miss Desta emerge to get her salad.

  The assassin was more than a mile away when Aristotle Thorakis took Miss Desta in his arms, nuzzled her hair, and began to kiss her.

  A few minutes later, as they were just starting to make love, the Greek’s throat started to constrict. His face turned red, it was no longer possible for him to breathe, and he struggled to speak.

  But Thorakis couldn’t get the necessary words out. He made gasping noises, clawed at his throat, and began to thrash about.

  Miss Desta, frightened, rolled out of bed and ran to the intercom. Unfortunately the former model didn’t know enough Portuguese to effectively communicate with
the staff in the kitchen. Valuable time was lost while half a dozen members of the shipping magnate’s domestic staff rushed upstairs to see why Miss Desta was screaming hysterically.

  The chef was among them, and even though he couldn’t imagine how such a thing could have happened, he recognized the symptoms for what they were. Fortunately an injector preloaded with epinephrine was sitting on top of the dresser next to the businessman’s wallet.

  Maria watched in open-mouthed horror as the chef removed the locking cap from the EpiPen and rammed the exposed needle into his employer’s meaty thigh. There was an audible click as the spring-loaded device delivered the correct dose of medication into muscle.

  But unfortunately for Aristotle Thorakis, his mistress, his family, and the Puissance Treize, the shipping magnate was already dead.

  Fazio and his peers were present to witness the moment when the medics arrived, after which the famous businessman’s body was removed from the house.

  As for the proximate cause of the Greek’s death, that was clear, although no one could figure out how a small amount of peanut oil had found its way onto Miss Desta’s salad, in spite of all the precautions taken in the kitchen.

  At the exact moment when CPR was suspended, and then while Thorakis was being loaded onto a stretcher, Agent 47 was standing on the ramparts of Pena Palace, a fairy tale–like keep that sat atop a peak not far from the remains of the Moorish castle where Hans Pruter’s body was beginning to rot.

  The sun was out, the air was clean, and a hawk could be seen circling in the distance.

  The killer was at rest.