Hitman: Enemy Within h-1

by William C. Dietz

  They sat there for a while, Al-Fulani, the assassin, and the children, and the silence was maddening. The heat seeped into his every pore, but he withstood it, and refused to give in. Finally his captor stood, and walked over to the group of slaves.

  “Here,” the assassin said without emotion, as he issued each child a knife. “Keep these handy.”

  Al-Fulani’s face paled as he saw the knives, understood their purpose, and quickly lost his resolve. Before long, he began to blubber.

  “Please!” he said piteously. “I implore you! Don’t let them cut me.”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t,” 47 lied reassuringly. “As long as you answer my questions, I promise that you will come to no harm.

  “There are two things I want to know,” the assassin added intently as he returned to his seat on an upturned bucket. “First, what is the name of the organization that is attacking The Agency?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” the Moroccan insisted. “They would kill me! Surely you can understand that.”

  “I do understand that,” Agent 47 responded soothingly. “The problem is that I don’t care. You,” the assassin said, as he turned toward the little girl with big brown eyes. “What’s your name?”

  “Kola,” the Dinka answered shyly, as she attempted to wipe the tears away.

  “Well, Kola,” the operative said. “Come over here and bring your knife. The truth is hidden somewhere inside this man—and your job is to cut it out. Don’t kill him though. Not until we have what we need. Here, I’ll help you get started.”

  The little girl’s expression showed that she remembered what had been done to her the night before, knew what that meant within the context of her Dinka culture, and hate filled her eyes. She stood, and was halfway to the chair when Al-Fulani began to rock back and forth.

  “No!” he screeched. “Don’t let the little bitch touch me! I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  Agent 47 held up his hand and Kola stopped, but she stood there glaring at the Moroccan.

  “All right,” the assassin said, “enlighten me. Which one of The Agency’s competitors are we dealing with?”

  “The Puissance Treize!” Al-Fulani answered eagerly. “I swear it!”

  “Now we’re getting somewhere,” the assassin said approvingly. “That’s consistent with what we already know. So tell me something I don’t know. Who did they turn?”

  “His name is Aristotle Thorakis,” the businessman said.

  The operative frowned. “The Greek shipping magnate?”

  “Yes!” Al-Fulani replied. “He sits on the board…and he owns a number of shipping lines. Big ones. But there were problems with his holdings. Lots of problems, until the Puissance Treize loaned him 500 million euros.”

  “In return for information about The Agency’s operations,” 47 said, his voice thick with disgust. “But how can I be sure that you’re telling me the truth? How do I know you’re not setting him up as a patsy?”

  “I swear it before Allah,” Al-Fulani said sanctimoniously.

  Agent 47 nodded. There was no way to be absolutely sure, of course, but the accusation had the ring of truth to it. So the agent turned to face the children.

  “Okay, boys and girls, he belongs to you. You can set the bastard free, if you want—or slice him into a hundred pieces. Whichever you prefer.”

  At that point he motioned to Numo, and they headed for the stairs.

  “Nooooo!” Al-Fulani protested. “You gave me your word!” But the two men were soon lost to sight.

  The Moroccan began to scream. It lasted for a long time.

  The plane was half an hour late.

  It was little more than a dot at first, but gradually grew larger, and eventually turned into a war-weary C-27/G222 Spartan that, judging from its camouflage paint job and blacked-out markings, had once been the property of Italy’s air force. The twin-engined turboprop circled Quadi Doum twice as if the pilot were looking for signs of danger.

  The lookout’s body had been replaced by a white towel that flapped in the breeze, and functioned as a wind sock. All three of the bodies had been removed from the maintenance building’s roof, Al-Fulani’s vehicles had been driven out onto the taxiway, and the children were instructed to wave as the transport roared over them.

  Finally, satisfied that things were as they should be, the pilot turned back toward the north.

  His name was Bob Preston. He was wearing a faded New York Yankees baseball cap over military-short black hair, and sported a stylish pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses. The ex-air force officer’s brown skin had proven to be an asset in Africa, as was his ability to speak French, Arabic, and a trade language called Lingala. But even with those advantages, running a one-plane transport service was a financial challenge.

  Which was why Preston had been forced to supplement his regular income with jobs he and the copilot Evan Franks referred to as “specials.” Meaning the sort of low-altitude, terrain-hugging flights that were required in order to deliver—or retrieve—shipments of weapons or other cargo to airstrips that barely deserved the title, often under trying circumstances, with people shooting at them.

  But this trip looked like a piece of cake as Preston put the starboard wing down and turned into the wind. According to information available on the Internet, the original airstrip was nearly 10,000 feet long, which was a whole lot more than the Spartan would require, since the plane was designed to take off and land on short 1,500-foot runways.

  No, the problem—if any—would stem from the condition of the strip. Many years had passed since maintenance had been performed on the metal mesh the Libyans had laid down. Which meant a lot of sand had been blown over the top of it, and that raised the very real possibility that the C-27’s nose gear would hit a drift, bringing the plane to a calamitous halt.

  Still, that was why they paid him the big bucks. And it was the chance Preston would have to take if he wanted to collect the rest of the $10,000 that Al-Fulani had promised to pay. Plus, there were the orphans to consider.

  Mercenary though he was, the pilot had a soft spot in his heart for children. And despite his other, more questionable dealings, Mr. Al-Fulani still took the time to remove refugee children from truly horrible situations, and place them in his orphanage in Fez. Where, based on what the Moroccan had told him, they were well cared for.

  So the key was to land in the shortest distance possible, thereby reducing the odds of hitting deep sand.

  The gear went down with a palpable thump, the ground came up fast, and Franks began to pray out loud-a practice Preston found objectionable back during the early days of their relationship. He had since come to not only accept it, but take a certain amount of comfort from it. They were alive, in spite of the many forces that had conspired to kill them. He figured that meant help was coming from somewhere.

  In any case, the prayer worked. Or perhaps it was Preston’s skill that brought the plane in for a perfect landing in spite of the sand that billowed up around them. The engines roared in protest as the props went into reverse, the hull rattled as if it were about to come apart, and the C-27 screeched to a shuddering stop. Then, happy to have kept his livelihood in one piece, Preston guided the plane over toward the point where his passengers were waiting.

  Agent 47 stood, briefcase in hand, as the transport taxied up to a point about a hundred feet away and came to a stop. The engines made a loud whining sound as they wound down, a door opened just aft of the cockpit on the port side of the fuselage, and a set of fold-down steps appeared.

  The assassin took that as his cue to approach the plane. Numo was right behind him. The cargo plane had been chartered by Al-Fulani, which might present a problem. But thanks to the briefcase full of money that 47 had recovered from the businessman’s Land Rover, there was a reasonably good chance that the person in charge would be willing to switch employers.

  If not, they would be forced to cooperate, or, if absolutely necessary, the assassin could make an attempt to fl
y the C-27 himself. Although he hadn’t logged any hours on a Spartan, and really didn’t want to push his luck.

  He had tried to contact The Agency to tell them what he had learned, but something was interfering with his transmission. Gazeau explained that it was a problem most travelers experienced in this part of the desert, but regardless of the reason, it lent new urgency to their trip back to civilization.

  So the operative had a smile on his face as he approached the stairs and boarded the plane.

  “Hello!” he said engagingly, as he arrived on the flight deck. “My name’s Taylor—and this is Numo. There’s been a change of plans. I hope that’s okay.”

  Preston frowned. There was something different about the man who was standing in front of him. Something dangerous. And whenever he heard the words “change of plans” come out of a client’s mouth, trouble usually followed. Still, it’s often better to go with the flow, so the pilot would wait and see.

  “Glad to meet you,” the pilot responded warily. “My name is Preston. Bob Preston. And the man who’s sitting in the cockpit, when he should be outside inspecting the landing gear, is my copilot, Evan Franks.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Franks said, as he pushed by. He had reddish hair, lots of freckles, and a farm-boy grin. “Don’t worry-his bark is worse than his bite.”

  Agent 47 smiled as the copilot exited the ship.

  “What sort of changes did you have in mind?” Preston inquired suspiciously. “And where is Mr. Fulani?”

  “He was…delayed,” 47 responded noncommittally, as he eyed the Browning 9 mm that dangled under the pilot’s left arm, “and won’t be able to join us. But I need transportation to Sicily, which, if I’m not mistaken, is well within the range of your plane.”

  “Yeah, but that wasn’t part of the deal,” Preston objected sourly. “We were hired to fly to Fez. Six up front-with six on delivery.” That was two-thousand more than Al-Fulani had agreed to, but Preston saw no harm in amping the amount, just in case the man named Taylor was good for it.

  “So we owe you six,” the assassin said agreeably, as he turned to place the briefcase on a fold-down table. The latches made serial clicking sounds as they were released. “Here’s six large,” he said, as he turned to offer the pilot a sheaf of currency. “And if you’ll fly me to Sicily, I’ll pay you six more on top of it. Agreed?”

  Preston accepted the money, thumbed the stack to make sure there weren’t any blanks in the middle, and tucked the wad away.

  “What about the children?” the pilot wanted to know. “Surely you don’t plan to leave them here?”

  In all truth, the question of what would become of the children hadn’t even crossed 47’s mind. But seeing the look of concern on Preston’s face, the operative was quick to respond.

  “No, of course not,” the assassin replied glibly. “That’s the whole point of going to Sicily. There’s an orphanage that’s ready to take them.”

  Preston smiled. He had very white teeth.

  “All right then!” the American said enthusiastically. “What are we waiting for? Let’s load the kids and get the hell out of here! Chances are my lazy copilot forgot to file a flight plan. So it would be best if we weren’t caught on the ground.”

  With his transportation in place, Agent 47 left Gazeau and Numo to herd the children onto the plane while he went to check on Marla. Having been knocked unconscious during the battle with Al-Fulani’s security team, the Puissance Treize agent had been duct-taped into a sleeping bag, tied hand and foot.

  But when the agent went to visit her, Marla was gone.

  Judging from the way the restraints had been cut, it appeared that Marla was carrying a blade of some sort-one that had been small enough and so well hidden that they had missed it in their initial, cursory search. Once she came to, it would have been relatively easy for the woman to feign unconsciousness, wait for the rest of them to leave, and cut herself free.

  Now, armed with any of the weapons that had been left lying about, Marla was hiding in the ruins. The assassin could go out and hunt her down, of course. But to what end? He had what he’d been sent to get—and there wasn’t any price on her head. So it made sense to let her go.

  That didn’t mean Marla would be as understanding, however. So rather than risk a long-range rifle shot, Agent 47 loaded his luggage into Al-Fulani’s Land Rover and drove it out to the plane. Even though he parked the four-wheeler in a spot that would shield the bottom of the fold-down stairs, he would be exposed as he stepped onto the flight deck, but only briefly.

  Even though 47 knew Gazeau and Numo would loot Al-Fulani’s vehicles prior to submitting a final bill to The Agency, he gave each man five thousand dollars anyway. Both as a bonus, and because he might have need of them in the future.

  “Take care of yourself,” Gazeau said, as the two shook hands.

  “Watch your back,” 47 responded. “Especially on the way out. Marla’s on the loose. And she’s armed.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” the Libyan said, as he hooked a pair of aviator-style sunglasses over his ears. “Maybe I can buy her off with the Land Rover. Unless you object, that is.”

  “No,” 47 replied, “That’s entirely up to you.”

  Then, with a wave to Numo, the assassin mounted the stairs.

  No rifle shots were heard, but Gazeau saw a glint of reflected light coming from the direction of the water tower, as if someone were eyeing the airstrip through a pair of binoculars. With that possibility in mind, he went around to open the driver’s-side door, removed the keys from the Land Rover’s ignition, and held them up where they were plain to see.

  Then, having given the woman plenty of time to look, he slid the key ring down onto the vehicle’s antenna.

  The C-27 had taxied away by then, leaving a miniature dust storm in its wake, as it made the turn onto the runway. The General Electric T64-P4D engines roared as its pilot advanced both throttles, the transport jerked forward, and quickly gained speed.

  The plane took to the air a few seconds later.

  NEAR NOTO, SICILY

  The airstrip dated back to the days of World War II, when German planes had used it as a place to refuel before taking off for North Africa. And later, when things began to go poorly for Rommel, a squadron of fighters had been stationed there so they could attack allied shipping in the Mediterranean.

  But those days were long over, and the field was primarily dedicated to civilian aviation, plus the occasional emergency landing by commercial jets.

  As the sun was beginning to set, a lonely figure stood in front of the tiny terminal building and stared toward the south. Though not Agent 47’s friend in the conventional sense of the word, Father Vittorio was his spiritual adviser, to the extent that the assassin needed one. The operative believed he was headed for hell, and given all 47 had done, that was certainly possible.

  But God never gives up, nor can I, the priest told himself. Because there is a kernel of goodness buried deep within 47’s soul, even if he isn’t aware of it.

  And there was evidence to support the priest’s hypothesis. The assassin had once taken shelter at Vittorio’s church, where he worked as the gardener in an attempt to put his violent life behind him. But men with 47’s skills were hard to come by, and it wasn’t long before the past caught up with the assassin, forcing him to take up arms once again. Those had been bloody days, in a land already soaked with blood, and it was something of a miracle that both Vittorio and his former gardener were still alive.

  A cold breeze came up, as if somehow summoned by the priest’s dark thoughts, and tugged at his cloak as the plane appeared in the south. Its running lights were on, and it was gradually losing altitude.

  The phone call had come like a bolt out of the blue. Vittorio knew who it was the moment he heard 47’s voice. The agent was on a plane loaded with orphans, headed for Sicily, and in need of someone to care for the youngsters. Why was a hired killer flying north with a planeload of children? There was no way
to know.

  And it really didn’t matter. The orphans were in need of help, and Father Vittorio would do his best to provide it. No simple matter, given all of the legalities involved, but the local customs agent was a member of Vittorio’s parish. The Holy See could be counted on to help, and the Lord would take care of the rest.

  There was a brief screech of tires as the airplane put down, the engines roared, and it wasn’t long before the twin-engined transport turned off the runway and onto the taxiway in front of the terminal. It stopped a few minutes later, and the big props continued to turn for a few revolutions before finally coming to a halt.

  A door opened, stairs were lowered, and Agent 47 appeared. The assassin was wearing his usual black suit, white shirt, and red tie. When he was halfway down the stairs, he turned to accept two briefcases, then two suitcases. Three of the objects were left next to the plane as he crossed the tarmac.

  Vittorio noticed that 47’s skin was darker than usual, as if he’d been spending a great deal of time in the sun, and wondered how long the agent had been in Africa.

  “It’s good to see you, my son,” the priest said, as the two men embraced.

  “And you, Father,” Agent 47 replied. “Thank you for agreeing to help.”

  “Such is the Lord’s work,” Vittorio said, as he eyed the plane. The children were being unloaded by then, and the scrawny youngsters made for a pitiful sight as another man, who looked to be the pilot, led them toward the terminal. “What can you tell me about the little ones?” the cleric inquired. “What happened to their families?”

  “Their parents were killed by slavers. They were on their way to a whorehouse in Fez when something happened to the man who owned them,” 47 replied.

  Vittorio crossed himself. He could well imagine what the “something” was.

  “But unlike most orphans, they come with an endowment,” 47 added, as he presented Al-Fulani’s briefcase to the clergyman.