Then, somewhat refreshed, he continued his vigil. Finally, when the shadows cast by the tombstones had grown into long, thin fingers, and the sun was hanging low in the western sky, the Otero brothers returned.
But not in the fashion 47 expected them to. Hundreds of trucks had passed his vantage point during the day, rumbling along the highway, so the fuel tanker was of little interest until the rig began to slow.
It turned onto the pull-through driveway that fronted the church, where it produced a loud blat of sound as the driver braked to a stop.
That was the moment when 47 understood why there weren’t any bomb-making materials in the church. And why José and Carlos had been gone for so long. They had been sent to buy—or steal—a tanker truck loaded with petrol. Which, when delivered in the proper manner, would have enough explosive power to kill Al-Fulani and everyone else in his vicinity! Unfortunately for the Colombians, the process of acquiring the tanker must have taken longer than expected and left them with barely enough time to carry out the hit.
Had José and Carlos been trying to raise their dead brothers by phone? Most likely, and having failed to do so, they were probably hoping that Pedro and Manuel would come running out. Speed would be of the essence, if they were to enter Fez on time.
But as José stepped on the clutch and threw the big rig into neutral, 47 fired. Though dead-on, insofar as the assassin could tell, the true purpose of the first bullet was to blow the truck’s windshield out, thereby exposing the man behind the wheel to a follow-up shot. And the strategy worked perfectly, because the avalanche of safety glass was still falling when the second 7.62 mm slug struck José square in the face. The Colombian probably was already dead, but it paid to make sure, especially at long range.
The sole surviving Otero reacted instantly. Rather than bail out of the truck and expose himself to fire the way the assassin wanted him to, Carlos threw himself across his dead brother’s body and opened the door. That decision saved the Colombian’s life as a bullet thumped into the passenger seat.
Then, with a strength born of desperation, Carlos shoved José out onto the gravel driveway. It took some effort to clamber over the gearshift, but the Colombian made it, and was already behind the wheel by the time the inside rearview mirror shattered. Carlos swore bitterly, as he slammed the truck into gear, and put his foot on the accelerator.
Agent 47 frowned as the tanker began to pull away. Was the Colombian simply trying to escape? Or head into Fez and complete the contract? He took a shot at one of the truck’s tires, and had the satisfaction of seeing it go flat. But the rig had more tires, plenty of them, and kept right on going as Carlos sounded the horn and bullied his way out onto the two-lane highway.
Plumes of dark blue smoke jetted up out of the tanker’s twin stacks, and the engine roared as 47 put a bullet into the silvery fuel tank. But, rather than the massive explosion the assassin was hoping for, there was no visible reaction as the double-hulled safety tank managed to absorb the 7.62 mm round.
So Agent 47 still had to prevent the assassination, and he could score an additional quarter-million, so he threw the rifle into the open guitar case, snapped it closed, and slipped the strap over his head.
Then, rather than descend the ladder normally used to reach the top of the tower, 47 slid down the bell rope into the vestibule below. That caused the bell to toll, and it was still ringing as the assassin entered the nave. He hopped on to the BMW, which was parked just inside the main entrance. He didn’t want to waste the time it would take to don the helmet, which clattered as it hit the floor. The engine roared as it came to life, and there was a solid thump as the front wheel made contact with the partially opened door.
Then the way was clear as 47 opened the throttle and stood on the pegs while the BMW flew through the air. The big bike hit the pathway hard, but kept right on going, as the agent skidded onto the driveway and sent a wave of gravel flying toward the wall. There was a momentary screech as the Beemer hit the pavement, followed by a loud roar as the assassin twisted the throttle.
Off in the distance, the fueler vanished into a dip, so 47 put his head down and took up the chase.
He eyed the road ahead, swerved into the left lane in order to pass a heavily loaded flatbed truck, and went back again to avoid a head-on collision with a red sedan. Then he was in the dip-with the wind pressing against his face. By that time the assassin was sorry he had left the helmet behind. But there was nothing he could do but let the tears stream back along both sides of his face and tough it out.
Meanwhile, half a mile up the highway, Carlos Otero was experiencing a similar problem, as a wall of wind pushed in through the shattered windshield. Fortunately both of the truck’s front tires were intact, but one of the right-side duals had been punctured. By a bullet? Yes, the Colombian thought so. Which meant the tire was tearing itself apart, and the Colombian was forced to grip the huge ivory-colored steering wheel with both hands in order to keep the rig on the road.
That was when Carlos glanced at the outside rearview mirror, saw the motorcycle appear out of the dip behind him, and knew someone was after him. Not the police, who would have converged on the fueler in force, but by a lobo solitario, who—for reasons unknown—was determined to stop him.
But what about Pedro and Manuel? Where were they?
Dead, the Colombian concluded soberly, just like José.
Carlos downshifted to take some speed off the juggernaut, gave the van in front of him a blast from the air horn, and pulled out to pass. The tanker truck’s right flank barely brushed the smaller vehicle, but that alone was enough to send the van flying off the road and into the ditch, as Carlos jerked the wheel to the right.
Agent 47 blew past the wreck as the distance between the BMW and the tanker began to close. It was his intention to pull up alongside, shoot the surviving Otero brother in the head, and let the big rig go wherever it wanted. But that plan was easy for his prey to anticipate.
As 47 pulled out onto the centerline and opened the BMW’s throttle, the Colombian countered by swinging left. The trailer came within inches of swatting the bike off the road as a bus appeared up ahead and the assassin was forced to drop back behind the smoke-belching behemoth.
Carlos smiled thinly as the pursuer was forced to eat exhaust, and he took a moment to consider his options.
Originally, back at the church, his only motivation had been to escape what seemed like certain death. But now, as darkness began to fall, another possibility occurred to him.
The music festival would begin soon, and the motorcyclist was powerless to stop him from entering Fez. He would be even more powerless as they approached the city, and the roads narrowed.
So why not complete the hit, avenge his brothers, and collect the second half of the fee that the Tumaco cartel had promised them?
It was a good plan, a macho plan, and the thought pleased him.
The air horn blared, a car veered onto the shoulder in order to escape the oncoming monster, and the outskirts of Fez appeared ahead.
Agent 47 felt a grim sense of satisfaction as city lights appeared in the distance. The tanker was about to hit the usual traffic jam. Once it did, the assassin would be able to pull up alongside the truck and empty the Silverballer into the cab.
That would leave plenty of time for a hot shower, a decent dinner, and a full night’s sleep.
But to his astonishment, there was no traffic jam, because that particular access road had been set aside for official use during the music festival. A fact that Manuel Otero must have been aware of when he chose the route.
There were wooden barricades, however, which shattered into a thousand pieces as the truck’s massive bumper struck them, and half a dozen uniformed policemen sprinted to get out of the way.
Pieces of debris were still falling as 47 roared through what had been a checkpoint, and a chunk of wood struck his shoulder a glancing blow. The impact hurt, but the leather jacket offered some protection as the Colombian upshift
ed, and the truck accelerated. But if the oncoming traffic along the open road had provided Carlos with an advantage, Agent 47 benefited here, since there was no traffic to worry about. That allowed the assassin to pull out, twist the throttle, and surge forward.
The Colombian saw the move in the truck’s huge side-view mirror and swerved to block it. But with no traffic to worry about, and a nimble bike, 47 had plenty of room to maneuver.
So he guided the BMW to the left, and was just about to reach for the Silverballer with his right hand when he realized he couldn’t do so without releasing the throttle! And having left the long-slide back in the apartment, there was no other weapon at his disposal. That forced Agent 47 to drop back and release the throttle long enough to pull the.45 and transfer the weapon to his left hand before resuming the chase, a task made more difficult by the fact that he could no longer operate the clutch or shift gears.
Both the tractor-trailer and the motorcycle had passed through the open gate, and were well within Fez by that time. As another checkpoint appeared up ahead, the police opened fire. They had been warned by radio and had realized what could happen if 8,000 gallons of gasoline were detonated within the city’s walls. But their puny service pistols and a few assault rifles weren’t enough to stop more than 90,000 pounds of rolling metal. Thanks to the mirror, 47 could see Carlos laughing into the wind as bullets pinged around him.
The laugh was cut short as the BMW appeared next to the cab; the tattooed man pointed his semiautomatic pistol upward and began to fire. Both vehicles were still in motion, so precision was impossible, but there were nine rounds in the extended clip and 47 planned to use all of them.
Carlos uttered an involuntary grunt of pain as a.45 caliber slug punched a hole in the driver’s side door and buried itself in his left thigh. But the motorcycle rider was forced to back off as the Colombian stuck his 9 mm Beretta out through the window and triggered three rounds.
The truck was becoming increasingly hard to control, especially with the missing tire, and the street was beginning to narrow as it wound its way toward the plaza. It was time for him to downshift.
That forced the Colombian to bring his arm back inside and park the pistol on his lap. There were people now, lots of people, all streaming toward the public square. There were screams and curses as they scattered. Or tried to, but there was a sickening thump as one man fell, and the big wheels rolled him under.
Agent 47 dropped back, and brought the Beemer up next to the passenger side door, where he stood on the BMW’s pegs. Then, by bringing his right foot up onto the seat and pushing off, he was able to launch himself at the tanker.
The BMW fell away, hit a curb, and flipped end-over-end before crashing onto the pavement and sliding for another thirty feet.
Meanwhile, with both feet on the step, and having secured a grip on an external grab bar, Agent 47 fired through the open window.
Carlos jerked his head back as the bullet removed most of his nose, blood sprayed the steering wheel, and blew back into his face. Having heard the unsilenced report, the Colombian realized that the man with the gun was off to the right, and was fumbling for the Beretta as he turned to look.
Most of the Colombian’s face was obscured by a bloody mask, but his eyes were visible, and it was during the brief moment that they were looking at each other when 47 pulled the trigger. Then, certain that the job was done, he jumped clear.
Having been left to its own devices, the driverless tractor-trailer rig missed an important curve and sent music lovers running for their lives as the Colombian’s lifeless hands and heavy foot sent the fueler racing toward a spot where a block of substandard apartments had been torn down to make way for what the government promised would be something better.
There was a loud crash as the truck broke through the plywood panels erected to protect the construction site, followed by a brief moment of silence as the tractor-trailer rig sailed out over the pit, and a resounding BOOM! as the big gas tank finally exploded.
* * *
The opening ceremonies had just gotten under way, and Marla was on the stage with Al-Fulani when they heard the explosion and saw a huge fireball rise over the buildings to the north.
A chorus of discordant sirens began to bleat a few moments later, the music festival came to an abrupt end, and Al-Fulani was still alive.
It wasn’t until the next morning, when some of the facts surrounding the explosion appeared in the news, that the true nature of what had occurred became clear. A group of Colombians, all of whom were wanted for murder, had stolen a tanker filled with petrol. And given their histories—not to mention the fact that they were in the country illegally—it was clear that they had been planning an attack on the music festival. A political act, according to some accounts, but Marla and Al-Fulani knew better. The Otero brothers were well known to the Puissance Treize.
Of more interest to Marla was the man on the motorcycle who, according to most reports, was heavily tattooed. She had seen such a man the day before, had passed within a few feet of him, and never suspected a thing.
The air was warm out on Al-Fulani’s well-screened terrace, but the Puissance Treize agent felt a chill run down her spine, and knew why. It appeared that Agent 47 had orders to take Al-Fulani alive. It was her job to stop him, and she wasn’t certain she could.
“It’s time to come inside,” Al-Fulani called, as he appeared in the doorway of his darkened bedroom. “We’re ready!” A child could be heard sobbing somewhere behind him.
Marla swore silently as she stood, and let the white robe fall to the floor. There were moments when she would have been perfectly happy to shoot Al-Fulani herself. But he was the only person who stood between her and Mrs. Kaberov’s wrath. Which meant that the Puissance Treize had to do whatever the Moroccan wanted her to.
The screams lasted for a long time.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BLACK CORAL KEY, THE GULF OF MEXICO
The deHavilland Twin Otter DHC-6 circled the small, kidney-shaped island as the pilot sought clearance from the ground. Reefs of dark rock could be seen just below the surface of the gulf’s sparkling blue water, where they served to protect the tiny bay from intruders, all but guaranteeing the island’s privacy.
Most of the key was brown and desolate, but The Agency’s retreat was marked by an oasis of green, made possible by a state-of-the-art desalinization plant. Aristotle Thorakis, like all the members of The Agency’s board, had been a guest on previous occasions. Back during happier times, before he’d been forced to borrow money from the Puissance Treize.
Now, rather than enjoy the comforts to which he otherwise would have been entitled, the shipping magnate was a hostage to his own fear. A terrible gut-wrenching worry that seeped into his mind during the day, haunted his dreams at night, and had grown steadily worse with the passage of time. The Agency knew it had been betrayed and was determined to identify the person or persons who were responsible.
Hence the surprise summons to Black Coral Key.
Thorakis could have refused, of course, but to do so would have been to focus more attention on himself rather than reduce it, and potentially hasten exposure. Not to mention the fact that Pierre Douay had insisted that he attend, so that he could find out what The Agency was up to. It was a truly hellish cycle from which there could be no escape until he found the means to repay the Puissance Treize, they destroyed The Agency, or he was assassinated.
Which, all things considered, he richly deserved.
Such were the businessman’s morbid thoughts as the twin-engine plane banked, began a steep descent, and came in for a picture-perfect landing on the key’s pristine bay. There was a gentle thump as the aircraft put down, followed by a loud roar, as the pilot put both props into the reverse—or “beta”—position in order to slow the seaplane down.
No sooner had the deHavilland touched the surface than a sleek launch was dispatched to meet it. The boat’s bow split the gulf water into two creamy waves and the inboard
engine rumbled gently as the coxswain cut power and allowed the classic Chris-Craft to coast up to the plane. Cheerful greetings were exchanged between the copilot and the boat’s neatly attired crew as the businessman’s TUMI suitcase was transferred to the launch.
Then it was time for the shipping magnate to step across the narrow strip of water that separated the plane from the boat. Something he did without assistance, thanks to all the years he had spent on and near the water.
Once seated in the Chris-Craft, with the wind whipping through his hair, Thorakis was able to enjoy a brief interlude of worry-free pleasure as the boat cut across the bay and pulled up alongside a floating dock. A smartly uniformed member of the retreat’s staff was there to welcome him with a casual salute and an ice-cold glass of lemonade.
Three minutes later he was in an electric golf cart, with his bag in the back, being driven up a path paved with crushed seashells toward the ultramodern house above. The twenty-six-room mansion had been built for a Hollywood film actress and her husband before they were killed in a strange car crash. That was when The Agency had acquired the place for a bargain-basement price. Five-million had gone into improvements, many of which were invisible to all but the most discerning eye. They had to do with the murder-for-hire organization’s need for privacy, real-time global communications, and-if absolutely necessary-self-defense. Which was why the Hollywood House, as the staff commonly referred to it, was ringed with carefully concealed surface-to-air and surface-to-surface missile launchers.
More staff hustled out to greet Thorakis, including the lovely but somewhat enigmatic Diana, who was dressed in a crisp white halter top and sarong-style skirt. Her well-toned midriff was bare, as were her shapely legs and pedicured feet. It was an elegant yet slightly provocative look, which very few women could pull off.
“Aristotle!” the controller said warmly, as she came over to plant a kiss on his cheek. “It’s so good to see you. The rest of the board is already here, and we were just about to have some drinks. Will you join us?”
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