Hitman: Enemy Within h-1

by William C. Dietz

  That was when she smelled smoke, heard her ceiling-mounted fire alarm go off, and saw flames in the kitchen. The fire immediately began to lick at the drapes before spreading across the ceiling, and there was barely enough time for her to slip into the raincoat, grab her purse off the floor, and exit the houseboat—gun in hand—as the flames continued to spread.

  Marla had no desire to stay and explain everything to the authorities, so all she could do was shove the Walther into a pocket as she ran toward shore. Her bare feet made a slapping sound as they hit wet wood, and some of her neighbors emerged to shout instructions at one another as Marla entered the parking lot. Sirens could be heard as she fumbled for the remote and took refuge in the Mercedes.

  Not knowing where 47 was, nor when he would return, she started the car and sped away. He might be following, but she would have to take that chance. She really had no alternative.

  Her mind raced. The Agency knew where she was. That much was obvious, as was the fact that they were out to identify any of their employees who had leaked information to the Puissance Treize and put a stop to it. So, would they continue to come after her?

  Yes, they almost certainly would. Except that the next attempt might be made by a specially equipped interrogation team that would use psychology, environmental conditioning, and drugs to break her.

  That raised the obvious and most pressing question of what to do next. Would Kaberov provide support? Or punish her for incompetence? There was no way to be sure. But the odds weren’t very good. Suddenly-through no fault of her own-Cassandra Murphy, aka Marla Norton, was on the run.

  And whether she wanted to admit it or not, Agent 47 may have just flushed his prey.

  PATRAS, GREECE

  Though technically classified as a yacht, the 250-foot-long Jean Danjou had originally been designed to serve as a salvage tug, which was why she had none of the sleek grace that the other megayachts possessed as they lay at anchor on the sparkling waters of Patras.

  But then, unlike her peers, the Danjou was expected to work for a living. Which was why she carried two armored SUVs, four BMW motorcycles, two snowmobiles, six personal watercraft, a four-place helicopter, scuba gear, a decompression chamber, a bulletproof Mercedes S500, and two forty-foot gunboats. Not to mention a great deal of very sophisticated communications and tracking equipment intended to support Agency activities worldwide.

  The heart of the ship, and the place where Diana spent most of her time, was the communications and control room located deep within the Danjou’s armored hull. Her high-backed chair was located at the center of a U-shaped desk from which she could monitor twenty-four wall-mounted video screens, two side-by-side computer displays, and take satellite phone calls from all over the world.

  Diana had a high forehead and eyes that were a tiny bit smaller than she would have preferred. Still, having been gifted with a straight nose, high cheekbones, and sensual lips, her face would have been considered beautiful had it not been for a certain hardness that was resident there.

  “Say again,” she said, as static rattled in her earphones. “You’re breaking up.”

  “I have a message for Mr. Nu,” Agent 47 replied. “Tell him I made contact with Marla Norton. And although I wasn’t able to pry any information out of her, she’s on the run. I placed micro-trackers in both her raincoat and her purse. With any luck at all, she’ll lead us up the food chain, and to the person who has the answers we’re looking for.”

  Diana glanced at one of the monitors to her right. Mr. Nu was taking part in a board meeting in Houston, where shipping magnate Aristotle Thorakis was halfway through a report.

  “I’ll tell him,” the controller promised. “Take care of yourself.”

  “I will,” 47 promised, and he returned the phone to his pocket.

  That was when the crackling flames found the explosives that Marla Norton kept hidden in the crawl space above her living room, and the houseboat exploded.

  There was a loud boom, followed by a spectacular fireworks display as chunks of fiery debris flew up into the gray sky and rained down onto the surface of the lake, where they made a hissing sound before bobbing on the surface. Mrs. Beasley’s home was largely untouched, except for her geraniums, which were destroyed when a piece of wreckage fell on them.

  The oarlocks creaked as the assassin pulled away. More sirens joined the already strident chorus, and the rain fell gently around him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  The more than 7,000-square-foot suite took up the entire 16th floor of the Hotel France and had a sweeping view of Central Park. The reception area was dominated by a huge stained-glass window and the walls were covered with hand-painted depictions of the French countryside. All of which was quite familiar to Aristotle Thorakis, as he and his family had spent the Christmas holidays in the hotel just two years before, back when the $15,000-per-night price tag seemed reasonable.

  But even with the 500-million-euro loan from the Puissance Treize in his pocket, equaling nearly 700 million U.S. dollars, the businessman was struggling to keep his shipping empire afloat, and he had come to view such expenditures as an indulgence. Especially when perfectly good accommodations could be had for $5,000 a night.

  The cost of the suite included the services of a very proper English butler who was present to greet Thorakis as he stepped off the elevator. The man’s hair was combed straight back, his long face was solemn, and the immaculate business suit fit his body to a tee. Judging from the way he greeted the shipping magnate, he was blessed with an excellent memory—or a very good set of files.

  “Good afternoon, sir. Welcome back,” he said smoothly. “My name is Bradley. Mr. Douay has asked me to direct you to the sitting room.”

  “Thank you,” Thorakis said brusquely. “I know the way.”

  The formal reception area gave way to a hall that led past a formal bar, then a richly paneled dining room, into the large sitting area beyond. Picture windows opened out onto the park, a grand piano stood next to a tiny dance floor, and pieces of formal furniture were grouped to form discrete conversation areas, one of which was occupied by a pair of nattily dressed bodyguards. Both held magazines, but kept their eyes fixed on Thorakis.

  Douay was seated behind a handsome replica of a French provincial desk. He was talking on the phone, and nodded as Thorakis dropped into one of the upholstered chairs that faced him.

  The Greek couldn’t help but take note of the fact that the Frenchman allowed what was clearly a routine business conversation to continue for a good five minutes before finally bringing the call to an end. Was Douay sending him a message? Seeking to emphasize the extent to which he was in control? Yes, the Greek decided, that was exactly what he was doing. And it served to amplify the anger Thorakis felt when Douay finally saw fit to acknowledge him.

  “It was reckless of you to come here,” Douay said sternly.

  “Really?” Thorakis replied heatedly. “That’s amusing, coming from you! Are you and your people insane? I just came from a board meeting where I learned that you and the rest of your morons sent a female operative to eliminate Agent 47, and she failed! That led to a very well-publicized massacre in Yakima, followed by an explosion in Seattle, and a great deal of unfortunate news coverage.

  “So, how dare you lecture me on what is and isn’t reckless!” he said, standing and placing his fists on the desk.

  Both of Douay’s security people were on their feet by that time, but the Frenchman waved them off. When he spoke, his voice was calm.

  “The attempt to eliminate Agent 47 was a failure,” the Frenchman acknowledged soothingly. “However, I assure you that the mistake will be rectified. And I want you to know that the decision to kill 47 wasn’t made lightly. Comparative analysis shows that while he accounted for a mere three percent of the hits carried out by The Agency during the last fiscal year, those sanctions were the most difficult contracts the organization took on, and therefore constituted 37.2 percent of the
organization’s gross profit.

  “That makes 47 the most valuable asset The Agency has. So, were the Puissance Treize to eliminate him, it would better position our company to compete for the lucrative upmarket jobs-those exhibiting a difficulty quotient of seven or better. That’s where the serious money is. Do you follow our reasoning?”

  Not only did Thorakis follow the man’s cold-blooded logic, he found that he admired the audacity of it, if not the ham-handed manner in which the plan had been carried out. And given the Frenchman’s conciliatory tone, the shipping magnate felt his anger begin to melt away. But that left the fear, which, since he had just come from The Agency’s board meeting, was considerable.

  “Yes,” he said gravely, “I follow your reasoning. And I apologize if my comments came across as being intemperate. But there is tremendous reason for concern. After the attempt on Agent 47’s life, The Agency immediately went to work trying to find the leak. They’re busy conducting an exhaustive review of the lower echelon people right now, but it’s only a matter of time before they begin to look at senior management.”

  Douay started to say something at that point, but Thorakis threw up a hand.

  “Wait. There’s more. The decision has been made to send Agent 47 after your assassin…in the hope that she will lead him to a person who can reveal the traitor’s identity. And that’s why I’m here. According to the briefing they gave to the board, Agent 47 followed Marla Norton to Fez, Morocco, where she’s living under the protection of a man named Al-Fulani. Does he know about our agreement? Because if he does, and if 47 were to gain control of him, then I’m a dead man.”

  “No, he does not,” Douay lied smoothly. “Your identity is a closely guarded secret. Only three people know who you are, and Al-Fulani isn’t one of them.”

  That was exactly what Thorakis wanted to hear, so the magnate felt a tremendous sense of relief, and even managed a smile.

  “Good. None of us are immortal…I know that,” he said. “But I’m not ready to go—not yet!”

  “Nor am I!” Douay agreed jovially, as he rose to come around the desk. “So, now that you’re here, will you join me for lunch?”

  “Thank you, but no,” Thorakis replied. “I have allergies, you know, and my chef is back at the hotel. Perhaps next time, though.”

  “Yes, next time,” the Frenchman agreed politely. “Although it’s important to be circumspect. And with that in mind, perhaps you would allow my security people to take you out through the basement garage.”

  “That would be perfect,” Thorakis said gratefully. They shook hands vigorously, and moments later he was gone.

  Douay waited until the elevator had closed on the Greek before opening an attaché case, activating a satellite phone, and entering a two-digit code that triggered a much longer sequence of numbers.

  The truth was that Al-Fulani was fully aware of the shipping magnate’s identity, which meant Marla Norton had an important job to do. She would have to protect Al-Fulani, or die with him.

  CHAPTER SIX

  FEZ, MOROCCO

  The French called Fez—or Fes—la Mysterieuse, and as Agent 47 pushed deeper into the oldest—and some said most dangerous—part of the city, he discovered what they meant.

  About a quarter-million people were crammed into a maze of narrow cobblestone streets, busy souks, stately mosques, brooding blank-faced homes, and hidden gardens. And given the local propensity to not only change street names, but post them in a variety of languages, it was easy to understand why Fes El Bali, the old town, was sometimes referred to as “the most complicated square mile on Earth.”

  Tourists were well advised to hire a guide before setting foot in the area.

  But Agent 47 was equipped with something more reliable than a human guide. He had a small global positioning device that was preloaded with data provided by The Agency. The handheld GPS unit showed Marla Norton’s location, as well as that of The Agency’s local armory, where he could pick up any weapons he needed.

  The security measures put in place over the last few years as part of the worldwide effort to counter global terrorism made it nearly impossible to transport weapons on commercial flights like the ones 47 had been forced to use in order to keep up with Marla. So, with the exception of his undetectable fiber-wire garrote, the assassin was unarmed. A problem he would soon correct.

  Thanks to its location directly across the Strait of Gibraltar from Spain, as well as its reputation as the gateway to Africa, Morocco was a favorite with tourists from all over the world. Which was why none of the people who lived along the edge of the old city gave the assassin so much as a second glance as he strode through labyrinthine passageways lined with small stores.

  Further on the streets were lined with high walls, the iron-strapped gates that opened onto private courtyards, and the homes that embraced them.

  As the faithful were called to prayer, and the melodic sound of the adhan issued from the city’s minarets, the streets filled with locals and there were fewer and fewer European faces to be seen.

  Unlike the young women who frequented the stores in the French-built Ville Nouvelle[1], many of whom would have looked at home in New York City, most of Fes El Bali’s females wore the burka whenever they ventured forth to fetch food, buy clothes, or visit relatives. Men sat on white plastic chairs, stood in doorways, or congregated in open air cafés where many passed the time by playing cards.

  Everyone, regardless of age, gender, or station, was forced to share the narrow streets with the heavily burdened donkeys. In the absence of motor vehicles, these beasts were used to haul everything in and out of the medina[2]. And it was while he was taking refuge in a doorway, so that one of the sturdy animals could pass, that 47 noticed the scruffy-looking African.

  A furtive figure ducked into a side corridor when the assassin glanced his way. A thief most likely, eager to steal a tourist’s wallet, but the agent could imagine other scenarios as well, including the possibility that the Puissance Treize was somehow aware of his presence. The tail was a problem in either case, and would have to be dealt with before he could enter the armory.

  With that in mind Agent 47 quickened his pace, passed a tiny shop stuffed with consumer electronics, and took a sharp right-hand turn into a narrow passageway. Despite the heat of the day, some of the cobblestones were wet, and the passage smelled of urine, though it was empty except for an overflowing trash bin. At the end of the alley, all further progress was blocked by a door covered with peeling paint. The barrier appeared to be at least a hundred years old and was equipped with an equally venerable lock.

  The agent ventured a quick look over his shoulder before dropping to one knee and peering through the keyhole. The view was limited, but he couldn’t see any sign of movement in the courtyard beyond, so he was inclined to take the chance. The pick made quick work of the worn tumblers, and it was only a matter of seconds before he heard a click, and the lock opened.

  Another quick glance over his shoulder still showed no sign of pursuit.

  Hinges squeaked as the agent pushed the door open and slipped inside. From all appearances, the small courtyard was being used to store construction materials. Scrap lumber was stacked next to a wooden box full of ceramic tiles and a rusty wheelbarrow. A short flight of stairs led up to a small landing, a palm in a large pot, and a second door. But 47 had no interest in entering the residence, as he heard the patter of footsteps out in the passageway and tossed a South African Krugerrand toward the stairs. The gold coin made a ringing noise as it hit, bounced once, and rattled into place.

  The tail was at the door by that time, and having found it ajar, he gave the barrier a push. The African caught sight of the brightly glittering gold coin as the slab of wood swung out of the way, and he hurried to claim it.

  The man was of average height, a good deal darker than most of the local population, and dressed in the pan-African uniform of a T-shirt and ragged pants. But what made this young man different from most was the fact
that his right hand had been replaced by a rudimentary metal hook. The sort of prosthesis a village blacksmith might manufacture for a few dollars.

  The African had covered half the distance to the gleaming Krugerrand when the fiber-wire noose dropped over his head. The assassin’s plan was to choke the young man into submission, ask him some questions, and then decide what to do with him.

  But 47’s adversary brought the hook up so quickly that the prosthesis was inside the loop before the garrote could tighten. And because the inner surface of the hook had been honed until it was knife-sharp, the noose fell away.

  Reacting to this turn of events, 47 pushed the African away, dropped into a crouch, and prepared to defend himself with whatever he could lay his hands on. The only implement that happened to be available was a rusty shovel that was leaning against the courtyard wall. He held it diagonally across his body where it could be used to block the other man’s hook.

  But if the assassin’s opponent was intimidated, he showed no sign of it as the two men circled each other, looking for openings. A sheen of perspiration had appeared on the hook-man’s forehead, but judging from the steady look in his eyes, he was quite confident. His prosthesis was held low and back, and one well-placed arc could sink the hook into 47’s groin, where he would be able to jerk the blade upward, and thereby spill his victim’s intestines onto the pavement.

  But the hook-man would have to close with the assassin in order to accomplish such a move, and as long as 47 had the shovel, the African would be forced to keep his distance.