Suddenly the agent tripped on a loose paving-stone, which brought his opponent rushing forward in an instant. But it was a ruse, and before 47’s opponent could react, the shovel was in motion. It made an audible clang as it came into contact with the African’s left knee.
His eyes went wide, and both the hook and the man’s remaining hand went to where the pain was, as he fell backward onto the pavement. Then Agent 47 was there, with the shovel blade pressing down on the man’s throat, as the amputee whimpered in pain.
“Who are you?” the assassin demanded. “And why were you following me?”
“Jamal,” the man on the ground choked out, as he tried to push the shovel away from his throat. “My name is Jamal. Please! I can’t breathe.”
“Okay, Jamal,” the assassin said unsympathetically, as he put his right foot on the shovel. “Why were you following me?”
The response was little more than an inarticulate gurgling noise, so 47 was forced to remove his foot, and thereby relieve the pressure on Jamal’s tortured windpipe.
“Now, try again.”
“Money,” came the raspy response. “I was going to take your money.”
“That’s one possibility,” the agent allowed darkly. “But there are others. How can I be sure that you’re just a thief?”
“My hand,” Jamal said piteously, as he held up the hook for inspection. “They cut it off.”
It had long been the Muslim practice to amputate hands, arms, and in some cases legs, as a punishment for thievery. While this approach was gradually falling out of favor in many Middle Eastern countries, it was still considered an effective deterrent in others. A fact that seemed to support Jamal’s claim. So, having completed a quick pat down, Agent 47 backed out of reach.
“I suggest that you find a new line of work. You aren’t very good at this one.”
Jamal continued to hug his knee and moan softly as 47 put the shovel back where he had found it.
“I’ll leave the gate ajar,” the assassin promised, as he bent over to retrieve the Krugerrand. “And don’t bother to get up. I’ll see myself out.”
Having left the little courtyard behind, Agent 47 paused at the point where the side passage met the main thoroughfare, and took a moment to adjust his red silk tie. Then, having assured himself there weren’t any additional Jamals waiting to attack him, he resumed his journey.
A right-hand turn took him down a short flight of stairs, under an arch, and past a group of boys who were playing with a soccer ball. It soon became clear that what had once been a residential area had gradually transitioned into a small souk with specialized stores slotted along both sides of the street. The establishment 47 was looking for lay about a hundred feet farther on, just around a gentle curve and opposite a family-run grocery. The sign out front read MEN’S CLOTHING, in both English and Arabic, followed by ABAZA TIRK, PROPRIETOR, in smaller letters, carved out and painted in gold.
Having stopped to inspect the overly ripe fruit displayed on the other side of the thoroughfare, and to make sure that he hadn’t acquired a new tail, Agent 47 was forced to wait for a group of black-clad women to pass before crossing over to the store. Like the shops located to either side, the clothing store was quite narrow, which made it necessary to hang clothes in tiers, the highest of which were suspended just below the ceiling, and only accessible with a long pole. It was hot and musty, and there wasn’t much light, but what there was came from ceiling fixtures that were at least seventy-five years old.
A well-worn aisle led straight back to where a man with generally even features, slightly bulging eyes, and a servile manner stood waiting. He was dressed in a red fez, a well-tailored gray suit, and a pair of black Moroccan slippers. A young man sat behind the counter seemingly half-asleep.
“Good afternoon, effendi,” the well-dressed man said, as he dry-washed his hands. “My name is Abaza Tirk. Welcome to my humble store. I can see that you are a man of taste and discernment. How can my family and I be of assistance?”
“Abd-el-Kader said, ‘Death is a black camel, which kneels at the gates of all,’” 47 replied matter-of-factly.
“And Ben Sira said, ‘Fear not death, for it is your destiny,’” the diminutive store owner replied, as the servile manner dropped away. “Welcome Agent 47-I was told to expect you. Please come this way.”
The assassin followed Tirk past a small counter, and as he passed he noticed that the young man seated behind the till was cradling a mini-Uzi in his lap.
There was a momentary pause as Tirk entered a code into a keypad located at the back of the crowded store. It was concealed by a small scrap of cloth tacked to the wall. The metal door made no sound as it swung open. A motion detector activated two rows of lights, and Agent 47 felt the temperature drop as Tirk pulled the door closed behind them.
Unlike the dark, slightly musty clothing store, The Agency’s armory in Fez was sleekly modern. Closely spaced racks of weapons took up both walls, all grouped by category, and labeled appropriately. Ammunition, accessories, and cleaning gear were stored below the firearms in stainless steel cabinets.
“So,” the clothier said engagingly, “what will it be? A Steyr AUG perhaps? Very stylish. An FR-F1 sniper’s rifle? Or maybe you’re in the market for something with more heft. I have a nice RAI Model 500.50 caliber sniper’s rifle. Agent Orbov made good use of it just two months ago.”
“No,” 47 replied simply. “The RAI is almost fifty inches long-which makes it very difficult to hide. Not to mention the fact that it’s single action, and.50 caliber ammo is damned heavy. I’ll take a Walther WA 2000, plus a Mossberg model 500 with a pistol grip, and two Silverballers. One short, and one long, with silencers for both. Plus a double holster rig, a dual-use drug kit, and a throwing knife.”
“Of course,” Tirk said approvingly. “A weapon for every occasion.”
After they had collected the weapons, they moved through another door at the rear of the long, narrow room to a soundproofed range that lay beyond. Once he was satisfied that all of the guns were in good working order, 47 loaded them into a pair of lockboxes that looked like travel-worn suitcases. Each had its own alarm and self-destruct system.
“The cases are rather heavy, so my number four son will accompany you,” Tirk said, as the containers were loaded onto a hand cart. “Not to mention the fact that we have our share of thieves in Fes El Bali.”
“That’s what I hear,” the assassin commented soberly.
“Will there be anything else?” Tirk wanted to know.
“Yes,” 47 said, as he eyed the store owner. “I want your hat.”
Rather than allow Tirk’s son to accompany him all the way to the hotel, Agent 47 opted to have the young man take him to a point where a major street cut through Fes El Bali, where it became possible to hail a cab. Even though Tirk and his family were presumably trustworthy, there was no need for them to know where the assassin was staying. Furthermore, it would be unusual for a guest to bring luggage into the hotel on a hand cart.
As it happened, there was barely room to squeeze him, the gun cases, and a suitcase full of clothes into the little Peugeot 205. But after much pushing and shoving, the task was accomplished. Traffic was horrendous, and in spite of the cabdriver’s best efforts to bully his way through the city’s eternal gridlock, the sun was low in the western sky by the time 47 arrived at the Sofitel Palais Jamai Fes, paid the fare, and had his bags taken up to his room.
As was his practice, the assassin allowed the bellman to enter the room first. Once it was clear that he wasn’t about to walk into an ambush, 47 followed.
A quick glance told him that everything was just as he had left it, so he gave the bellman a tip and closed the door. A subsequent thorough inspection confirmed that the room was free of threats. Having had to deal with surveillance devices, explosives, and poisonous reptiles at various times in the past, he was understandably cautious.
Thus satisfied, Agent 47 ordered a meal from room service, and requested th
at the waiter leave the cart outside the door. Having watched the hotel employee depart through the peephole, the agent opened the door and brought the tray inside. His dinner, which consisted of roasted lamb and cooked vegetables on a bed of flavored couscous, was delicious. Especially when paired with a sip of hearty burgundy.
Then it was time to strip down to his underwear and take the Silverballers apart while watching the BBC World News. He carefully examined each oil-slicked part for flaws, and automatically fingered for burrs prior to reassembling the weapons. This was a task he could perform blindfolded. Each nine-round clip made a comforting click as it slid home. With that accomplished, he found it a simple matter to pump a round into each chamber, set the safeties, and prepare the two-gun holster rig for the next day.
Then it was time to brush his teeth, push a chair in front of the door, and make a bed on the floor.
Sleep came quickly, as did morning, and the usual hunger pangs. But rather than seek out a good breakfast as he usually did, 47 was scheduled to break bread with a retired professor named Paul Rollet, who was said to be very familiar with Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani. The man Marla Norton was staying with—and might or might not be privy to the traitor’s identity.
But first it was necessary to put together a disguise. He chose something inspired by a German tourist he had seen in the hotel’s lobby. It took the better part of forty-five minutes to prepare, but the final “look” was quite convincing. It consisted of a bollehatte, a reddish beard, a loud shirt that Abaza Tirk had been happy to get rid of, a pair of knee-length shorts that matched the blue hat, and some sturdy sandals.
With his disguise in place the assassin went out on the street. The sun was up, but the air was still cool, and the city was still in the process of waking. All of which made for a pleasant walk as 47 left the hotel for the Paris Café, which was located six blocks away.
The agent had eaten in at least fifty “Paris Cafés” over the years, most of which were little more than parodies of the real thing, and to be avoided if at all possible. But when 47 arrived in front of the Paris Café Fez, and mounted the flight of stairs that led to a sun-splashed terrace, he was pleased to see what looked like an authentic Parisian restaurant, complete with awning-covered tables, white-shirted waiters, and a personable maître d’.
Having downloaded a photo of his contact the evening before, it was easy for Agent 47 to pick the Frenchman out of the crowd and saunter over to his linen-covered table. A straw hat shaded a long, narrow face, which was partially obscured by a bushy beard and the top half of a newspaper.
“Excuse me,” 47 said. “Are you Professor Rollet?” The words were in French, just one of many languages the assassin had been force-fed as a child.
The eyes that rose to meet 47’s were blue and bright with intelligence.
“Yes, I am,” the academic confirmed. “And you are?”
“I’m a friend of Bob Denard,” the assassin lied, referencing the infamous French mercenary.
“Ah, yes,” Rollet responded. “Welcome to Fez, monsieur. Please, have a seat. Would you care for some breakfast?”
“I certainly would,” 47 replied as he took a chair. “What would you recommend?”
“I like the gazelle horns,” the Frenchman replied equably. “They are shaped like a croissant, but filled with almond paste, and flavored with orange flower water.”
“I’ll take two,” Agent 47 said decisively, “and a cup of coffee.”
The two of them made small talk until a waiter appeared to take the newcomer’s order and refresh Rollet’s cup. Then, once they were alone, the conversation began in earnest.
“I’m looking for some information about Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani,” 47 stated, “and I hear you’re quite knowledgeable about the man.”
“I know what most people know,” the expatriate said cautiously. “Al-Fulani is a successful businessman, a well-known philanthropist, and a devout Muslim.”
“I think you’re far too modest about the extent of your knowledge,” the assassin said dryly, as he pushed an envelope across the surface of the table. “Because it’s my understanding that in addition to your work on behalf of the American Language Institute, you spent twenty years working for the French Directorate of External Security. Please accept a small gift, which if properly invested, will make your retirement that much more pleasant.”
The plain white envelope was thick with hundred-dollar bills, and without drawing any attention, the professor was quick to drop his newspaper on top of it.
“Both civil servants and educators are underpaid,” Rollet observed. “So your gift is welcome. And yes, even though the public Al-Fulani glitters like gold, another man dwells just below the surface.”
“How fascinating,” 47 said, as his breakfast arrived. “Please tell me more.”
So Rollet did, once the waiter had departed, and what followed was the story of a man who had inherited his father’s smuggling business and subsequently come of age while running hashish into Spain, where it was either sold or sent north to the Netherlands, Belgium, Germany, and other European countries.
Al-Fulani’s success soon caught the eye of competitors from as far away as Colombia, and it wasn’t long before some very unpleasant people began to call on the Moroccan, threatening to hijack his drug shipments unless he shared the profits with them. But, rather than cave in to the international cartels, Al-Fulani managed to maintain his independence.
At that point Professor Rollet paused to light a disreputable-looking pipe. A series of energetic puffs were required to get the moist, cherry-flavored tobacco going properly. But once the mix was alight, the academic took the fragrant smoke deep into his lungs, and smiled broadly.
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “It’s a dirty habit, but oh, how I enjoy it!”
Having finished his second pastry, 47 took another sip of coffee. “So, how did he do it?”
Rollet frowned. “Do what?”
“How did Al-Fulani manage to maintain his independence?” Agent 47 inquired patiently. The Frenchman took a long, slow look around, as if to make sure that none of the other diners were listening.
“People began to die,” the academic confided gravely. “People at the very top of the cartels, and it wasn’t long before the pressure came off Al-Fulani.”
“So, Fulani had them murdered?”
“Someone had them murdered,” Rollet said darkly. “But it wasn’t clear who. Though Al-Fulani clearly benefited, none of the acts could be traced to him.”
Perhaps Rollet didn’t know, or was reluctant to say the name out loud, but Agent 47 was pretty sure he knew which organization had been responsible for the deaths. Either the Puissance Treize had been paid to neutralize the Moroccan’s competition, or Al-Fulani had been co-opted by the organization. Not that it made much difference. All 47 cared about was the fact that Al-Fulani was in a position to know which one of The Agency’s employees was providing their rivals with proprietary information.
“I understand he has a house here,” the assassin said casually. “What else should I be aware of?”
Rollet’s pipe had gone out again by that time, and the professor took a moment to strike a wooden match and relight it.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, as a new cloud of smoke formed a halo around his head. “That all depends, doesn’t it? If you want to congratulate Al-Fulani on a life well lived, then you could walk up to his front door in the Ville Nouvelle, and deliver your message to one of the guards. But, assuming your intentions are a bit less straightforward than that, there’s the orphanage to consider. He visits every Friday night. Usually in the company of close friends or business associates-but occasionally by himself.”
Agent 47 raised an eyebrow. “He visits an orphanage?”
“Yes,” Rollet said cynically. “That’s what he calls it anyway. But some say the organization is a cover for other, less virtuous activities.”
“Such as?”
Rollet looked away, as
if reluctant to voice what he’d heard.
“I really couldn’t say. But if you’re interested…the orphanage is located in the Mellah.”
“Which means?”
“The Mellah is the old Jewish quarter,” the academic explained. “It dates back to 1438, when the Jews were forced to live in a section known as Al-Mallah, or saline area. A term that eventually became synonymous with salted earth, or cursed ground.
“Then, when Israel came into existence in 1948, most of the Jewish population left Fez,” Rollet continued. “That created a vacuum that rural Moroccans rushed to fill. But the Jews left some beautiful homes in the Mellah—and the orphanage is in one of them. Ask anyone-they’ll show you where it is.”
The conversation continued for a while, but it soon became apparent that 47 had gained everything he was likely to obtain from Rollet, so the assassin stood, bowed, and took his leave.
The interaction was observed by a man who, like 47, looked like a tourist enjoying a light breakfast, but was actually employed by Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani.
The Moroccan was well aware of 47’s presence—and the hunter was about to become the hunted.
Darkness had fallen on Fez, and Marla Norton felt frightened, as she looked out through the open window to the busy boulevard three stories below. The evening air was warm, heavy with the rich odors of the food that the street vendors were hawking, and busy with the sounds of the city.
While fear wasn’t something she was accustomed to feeling, it was an emotion that the Puissance Treize agent had experienced a lot lately. Which was absurd, given the fact that it was she who was lying in wait for the man called 47. Not the other way around.
The trap consisted of the three-hundred-foot stretch of sidewalk located in front of Al-Fulani’s brightly lit mansion. The twenty-six-room, eight-bath home boasted a Mediterranean-style ceramic tile roof, a white façade, and several ornate balconies. Clusters of bottom-lit palm trees bracketed both sides of the home, and provided the structure with a sense of glamour. They also lit the surroundings, making it more difficult for intruders to get past the guards.
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