There had been a relationship with another living being once. Not with a human, but with the mouse that had lived in the wall near his bed and emerged each night to collect the crumbs the little boy brought him from the asylum’s spartan dining room. Though never really tame, the rodent would stare up at its benefactor through beady black eyes as it ate whatever treat it had been given.
The relationship lasted for about a month, but came to an abrupt end when 47 returned one evening to find the dead mouse lying across his pillow. Its head was matted with dried blood, and its eyes were glassy. That was when one of his clone brothers erupted into laughter, the rest of them followed suit, and the bond between 47 and his pet ended the way all relationships must. In death.
“Here’s your salmon, sir,” a female voice said, and 47 snapped back into the present as his food arrived. The meal was better than he had expected.
The night in the motel wasn’t.
* * *
It was raining when the assassin arose the next morning.
Seattle was known for its rain, which often manifested as little more than an intermittent mist, but this was the real thing. The Volvo’s wipers made a soft slapping sound as he drove to the local Denny’s restaurant, which in the absence of a mom-and-pop option, would have to do. After a “grand-slam” breakfast, it was time to return to the Center for Wooden Boats, park the sedan, and make his way down onto the floating dock.
Classic wooden boats were moored to the right and the left. Many had rainwater sloshing around under the floorboards. A seaplane roared as it passed overhead and made a neat two-point landing on the steel-gray lake beyond, one of a fleet of such planes that ferried people to and from the San Juan Islands, about 80 miles to the north.
A left, a right, and a short walk carried 47 out to a cedar-sheathed structure labeled BOAT HOUSE. The door to the office stood open, and with the exception of a single attendant, the room was empty. A fact that wasn’t all that surprising, given the time of day and the nature of the weather.
“Good morning!” the man said cheerfully. The attendant standing next to the counter was sixty or so and was wearing a blue baseball cap with the words USS PONCE LPD 15 stitched across the front. The rest of his outfit consisted of a paint-smeared sweatshirt and a pair of baggy khaki pants. “My name’s Hal,” he continued genially. “What can I do for you?”
“I’d like to rent a boat,” Agent 47 replied.
“Well, there’s plenty to pick from,” the attendant said. “What’s your fancy?”
“Something light,” the assassin answered. “Something easy to row.”
“Then I have just the thing,” Hal replied confidently. “Follow me.”
The attendant showed a keen knowledge of the wooden boats, and by the time 47 had been issued a pair of oars and a life jacket, he knew all about the vessel he was about to rent. Twelve-foot-long Whitehalls had originally been designed for use as water taxis in New York harbor, and first put into service about 1840. Because they were faster than the other harbor taxis of their day, Whitehalls were favored by the boardinghouse “crimps,” or runners, who went out to meet incoming ships and bring seamen ashore.
Hal watched Agent 47 as he rowed away, waved once he was comfortable that his customer was competent, and went back to the office.
Though far from an expert, 47 knew how to row, and was pleased with the way the boat cut through the water as he pulled on the oars. And in spite of the cool air and the persistent rain, it wasn’t long before the assassin began to feel warm. So he brought the oars inboard and allowed the Whitehall to coast while he stripped the rain jacket off. That left him in a blue nylon top, matching pants, and running shoes. The Silverballers were invisible beneath the loose zip-up top. His garrote, plus a hypo loaded with an extremely effective sedative, were stashed in a waterproof knapsack that sat beside him.
It felt better without the jacket, and Agent 47 soon found that he was enjoying the exercise as he sent the rowboat north in a series of long, smooth spurts. The wind ruffled the surface of the lake, and the bow made a gentle smacking sound as it cut through the occasional wavelet. Gradually the Whitehall passed a marina, a dry dock, and the pier at which three NOAA ships were moored.
Water dripped off the tips of 47’s oars, and left circles spinning in the boat’s wake, as the skiff began to close with the houseboats ahead. It was perfectly natural for those who passed to eyeball the floating homes, so there was no need to be secretive, as the assassin took an occasional glance over his left shoulder. The first thing he noticed was that the waterborne structures came in a variety of shapes and sizes. Some were only one-story tall, while others had a second level, and were more spacious inside. Almost all of them were well maintained, and many boasted baskets filled with flowers.
One such home was of special interest to the agent because it was located at the end of the dock, directly across from the unit the target lived in. An elderly woman was kneeling on the front deck, tending a flower box full of bright red geraniums, as 47 directed the boat in toward her one-story houseboat.
“Your flowers are very healthy,” he said, as the gap between the two of them closed. “What do you feed them?” The entire time he spoke, he remained aware of the target’s houseboat, but saw no sign of activity.
Even with the weather, there were several rowers out on the lake, and the woman must have been accustomed to such compliments, because she registered no sense of alarm as the stranger allowed one of his oars to rest on her wooden deck. Her name was Grace Beasley, and wisps of gray hair stuck out from under the blue rain hat her dead husband liked to wear while golfing. Her eyes were like chips of turquoise mounted in sockets of wrinkled skin. A plaid shirt and a pair of black pants completed her outfit.
“I use regular fertilizer,” Mrs. Beasley admitted. “But the key is to pinch off the spent blooms. That makes them flower again.”
“Well, it certainly works,” 47 said, admiringly. “By the way, might I have a drink of water? I should have brought some, but I forgot, and it’s a long ways back to the dock.”
The request seemed innocent enough, so Mrs. Beasley said, “Yes, of course. I’ll be right back.” She stepped through a sliding glass door that led into a comfortably furnished living room and the small galley-style kitchen beyond.
A moment later he found her there, removing a bottle of chilled water from her refrigerator. A large hand closed over mouth. Mrs. Beasley tried to scream, felt something bite her neck, and instantly began to fall.
Agent 47 caught the unconscious woman and carried her into the single bedroom, where he laid her out on the neatly made bed. To make doubly sure that she would remain immobilized for the necessary length of time, he bound her wrists and ankles with some of her own nylons. Confident that the elderly woman wasn’t about to go anywhere, he set about his real task, which was to enter the neighboring houseboat and have a chat with its owner.
A task that would be easier said than done, he thought, since his target was an assassin herself, and was sure to have a variety of security measures in place. Just as he would.
So 47 turned out the lights in the living room, but left everything else as it was, knowing that the slightest deviation from the way the old lady normally did things could attract attention.
First, he subtly adjusted the position of what had once been Mr. Beasley’s favorite chair, placing it where someone would have to actually press their nose against the glass in order to see him as he settled back to wait.
Finally, after an hour had passed, the assassin was reasonably certain of two things. The first was that the target didn’t have any security guards to protect her. His position allowed him a reasonably clear view of the houseboat and the surrounding area, and even the most skilled surveillance would have given some sign of their presence, particularly within the small, close-knit floating community. There were no cameras, either. And that made sense, given her relatively low status within the Puissance Treize organization.
; Second, based on the time of day and the complete lack of movement across the way, the assassin felt sure that the target wasn’t home. This was something he could have confirmed simply by venturing out to check the parking lot, but he didn’t want to take the chance, since one of the residents might see him exiting the old lady’s home.
So all he could do was wait for the target to return, and make his move during the brief moment when her front door would be unlocked and she would least expect an attack. Having locked the gate behind her, and being on her own home ground, the target would feel safe.
Having formulated his plan, he checked to ensure that the houseboat’s front door would open smoothly. The Whitehall was safely stashed behind Mrs. Beasley’s boat, out of sight.
All that was left was the waiting.
The payoff came forty-five minutes later, when the target appeared on the dock, carrying two bags of groceries. She placed one of them on the bench next to the front door, slid the key into the lock, and gave it a turn to the right. There was a snicking sound as the deadbolt slid to one side; she turned the knob, and gave the door a gentle push. The telltale beep of a burglar alarm could be heard from the kitchen. That meant she had only a few moments in which to enter a PIN number, or the security company would call to check on her.
That was the moment when the Puissance Treize agent heard a series of quick footsteps behind her and began to turn. In one fluid motion 47 shut the door and gave her a violent shove. She tripped, lost the bag of groceries, and fell forward. The Walther was holstered under her left arm, but she had no opportunity to use it as she thrust out her hands in order to break her fall.
As the target went down, the assassin knew the situation was iffy at best. He had seconds, maybe a minute, in which to subdue an armed opponent and force her compliance before the alarm company reacted. The insistent beep, beep, beep served to emphasize that fact. So 47 was already moving forward, seeking to get a grip on her, when she rolled over onto her back. A can of soup was at hand so Marla threw it. The cylinder hit the assassin on the right cheek and caused him to stagger backward.
Marla instantly recognized 47 and felt a sudden stab of fear. The Puissance Treize agent had no doubt about her ability to deal with either a burglar or would-be rapist, but she’d seen this man in action, and knew his capabilities.
Which begged the question: Why was she still alive?
The answer was obvious. He wanted it that way!
The realization brought a new sense of hope.
Marla kicked with her feet in an attempt to put more distance between them, and thanks to the smooth wood floor of the living room, was able to push herself backward. A box of pasta lay within reach, so she threw it with her left hand and went for the Walther with her right.
But the spaghetti bounced off 47’s left thigh. His right foot made contact with her gun hand, and the pistol went flying. There was a loud clatter as the weapon landed on the hardwood floor and slid away.
The maddening beep, beep, beep continued unabated.
Marla thought of herself as fast, but was shocked by the speed with which the man grabbed the front of her raincoat and jerked her up off the floor. A trickle of blood ran down from the point where the can had broken the assassin’s skin, and she could see the cold determination in his eyes.
The phone began to ring.
“That’s the alarm company,” the agent said grimly. “Give them the code—and do it now.”
“Or?” Marla demanded defiantly. “If you were going to kill me, you would have done so by now.”
Agent 47 bared his teeth as the phone rang again. How long would the person on the other end of the line wait? For three rings? Perhaps four?
The ringing stopped.
There was a metallic whisper as the DOVO opened. Light rippled along the razor’s stainless steel blade, and 47 brought the cold metal up to touch the side of the Puissance Treize agent’s softly rounded cheek.
“Answer the phone or I’ll cut your face.”
When Marla looked into the hitman’s eyes, it was like looking into a mirror. Here was someone just as ruthless as she was. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her face, and the coiled strength of his body.
The phone rang again.
“Let go and I’ll answer it,” she said, the tension causing her to reveal a faint Irish accent.
“Use the phone in the kitchen,” 47 ordered, and drew a Silverballer as the woman crossed the room. Just because the Walther was lying on the floor didn’t mean the woman wasn’t carrying a second weapon, or even a third.
As Marla answered the phone in the kitchen he lifted the receiver off the extension on her desk.
“Hello?” the Puissance Treize agent said, and the ringing stopped.
“Ms. Norton?” a male voice inquired. “This is John at the AJAX Alarm Company. Is everything okay?”
“I tripped and dropped my groceries, that’s all.” Marla replied as she watched Agent 47 screw a silencer onto his pistol. “But I’m fine.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” the man said cautiously. “So you don’t need medical assistance?”
“No,” Marla said. And she hoped it would be true.
“Good,” John replied. “Could I have your security code, please?”
Marla turned her head toward the assassin and saw that the silenced weapon was aimed at her right knee.
“My code is Indigo378.”
“Thank you,” John said politely. “Have a nice day.”
She could have been lying, of course, but based on the speed with which the man on the other end of the line had accepted the code, 47 didn’t think so.
He lowered the gun.
“Remove your clothes.”
Marla raised a well-plucked eyebrow.
“Are you planning to rape me?”
She let the raincoat fall. The Puissance Treize agent had been forced to strip before. Once in Madrid, where it had been necessary to pose as an exotic dancer, so she could sit on her target’s lap. Then in Paris, where the only way to steal the key she needed was to have sex with a French gangster. And most recently in Yakima, where the Big Kahuna insisted on a “show” the evening prior to the meeting.
So Marla knew her body could be used as a weapon-but was the man with the gun susceptible? Looking at his face it was impossible to tell.
He watched impassively as Marla’s thong hit the floor.
“So,” Marla said provocatively, as she completed a quick turn. “Are you satisfied?”
The agent ignored the question. “Who hired you to protect the Big Kahuna?” he demanded.
“Don’t be absurd,” the Puissance Treize agent replied contemptuously. “You know the rules. My superiors would kill me if I told you that!”
The assassin eyed her coldly.
“I’ll kill you if you don’t.”
“No,” Marla countered firmly, “You won’t. Not as long as you need information, and there’s a chance you might get it from me.”
“True,” 47 agreed as the DOVO reappeared. “Then it looks like I’ll have to torture the information out of you…
“Which nipple should I remove first?”
Marla’s hands instinctively flew up to cover her breasts. It was a sign of weakness she immediately came to regret, as she forced her hands back down.
“Torture doesn’t work,” she replied firmly. “People will say anything to make the pain stop. You know that, and I know that.”
“That’s what the experts say,” 47 acknowledged darkly. “But I’ve had pretty good results. Perhaps that’s because I enjoy it. Go over and sit on one of those chairs.” Marla wasn’t sure whether he was telling the truth or just trying to unnerve her more. He motioned with the gun.
The houseboat’s interior featured a retro ’50s theme, complete with lots of primary colors, plastic, and chrome. The chairs he referred to sat around a pedestal-style, circular table.
Fear tingled at the base of Marla’s skull now, and with good reason
, given the possibility that the assassin was a self-confessed sadist.
“Put your hands behind your back,” he ordered sternly. He bound her wrists with phone cord. Her ankles came next, and by the time he was finished, Marla was helpless. Or nearly so, since the plastic-coated phone line was slippery, and difficult to knot.
“There,” the agent said, as he stood. “Can’t have any screaming…so all we need now is a gag. Or would you prefer to answer my questions?”
Marla remembered Mrs. Kaberov’s cold blue eyes, and the bullet in the velvet-lined box.
“Go screw yourself!” she responded defiantly.
“Fine, have it your way,” 47 said, and left the dining area.
The assassin returned a few moments later with a dish towel that he tied over Marla’s mouth, and a pillowcase that he pulled down over her head. Then, much to Marla’s relief, she heard a series of footfalls, followed by the sound of the front door opening and closing.
But the man with the gun would be back, and she knew her first opportunity to escape would most likely be the only opportunity to escape.
So rather than wait to see what would happen next, Marla went to work on freeing her hands. And thanks to the fact that the phone cord was slippery, it wasn’t long before her bonds started to come loose. Thus encouraged, she struggled to work her hands free before her assailant could return.
After what seemed like endless minutes, the cord came off, and she reached up to remove the pillowcase. Once she could see, it was relatively easy to remove the line wound around her ankles. Finally, just as it seemed as if her heart were going to beat its way out through her chest, Marla’s feet were free. She stood, got rid of the gag, and made for the door. The externally mounted slide-style bolt made a welcome snicking sound as it slid home.
The lock wouldn’t be enough to keep a really determined assailant out, but it would buy some additional time, and that’s all the Puissance Treize agent needed as she turned back into the room. The Walther was still there, lying on the floor, and never had the weapon’s weight felt more welcome than when she lifted the pistol and pointed it at the door. Holding the semiauto with both hands, Marla waited for the assassin to return. Was the safety on or off? She should have checked but hadn’t. A sure sign of how shaken she was, but an easy mistake to correct.
Hitman: Enemy Within h-1 Page 5
