The priest released the latches, took a peek inside, and closed the lid.
“That looks like a lot of money, my son.”
“It is,” 47 agreed. “And it’s tax free.”
The conversation was interrupted as the pilot arrived with the children in tow. The man was about to introduce himself when the orphans rushed Father Vittorio and quickly surrounded him.
“My name’s Preston,” the pilot said, as he extended his hand. “The children went to a mission school, before the priest was murdered and all of the villagers were forced to flee. So they know what a clerical collar means.”
The copilot joined the group at that point. He had a briefcase tucked under one arm and was toting the two suitcases. “I don’t know what you have in these things,” he complained to 47, “but they’re damned heavy!”
“That makes them harder to steal,” 47 said lightly as he accepted the briefcase. The situation appeared to make the agent uncomfortable, and he seemed eager not to linger.
Before the operative could make his escape, one girl detached herself from the rest of the children and came to stand directly in front of him. Her big brown eyes were solemn, and her voice was clear as she spoke.
“Thank you, Mr. Taylor. All of us will remember your name.”
That was probably the highest honor the Dinka children knew how to bestow. But as Father Vittorio looked at 47, he saw genuine consternation on the assassin’s face. He suspected that it had never been the man’s intention to help the children, and he wasn’t sure how to respond.
The agent just nodded awkwardly, and mumbled, “You’re welcome,” as he slung the briefcase over a shoulder and took a grip on both of the suitcases.
There was a long moment of silence as three men and a little girl watched 47 walk away. Finally, having given a shake of his head, Father Vittorio spoke.
“The ways of God are mysterious, my friends…very mysterious indeed.”
ROME, ITALY
It was early the next morning by the time Agent 47 arrived in Rome, took the train in from the airport, and checked into a nice but low-key hotel not far from the Spanish Steps. Then it was time to take a shower, brush his teeth, and grab some sleep.
Before he had left for Rome, he had tried again to contact Diana, and an unfamiliar voice had responded, claiming to be her replacement. That had been so out of the ordinary that 47 had decided not to trust his important information to a stranger, and had cut the connection immediately.
It was now light outside, but the heavy drapes served to keep most of the dawn sunshine out, and some of the traffic noise, as well. The carpet was equipped with a good pad, which meant the assassin was more comfortable than usual, and had little difficulty falling asleep.
Strangely-from 47’s perspective at least-it was raining when he awoke. Dark clouds obscured the sun, and raindrops pattered against his window as he carried out his morning routines. Except that it was midafternoon by then, which meant it was going to be very difficult to find a decent breakfast, especially in a country where the first meal of the day normally consisted of coffee and a roll. A meal so nonexistent that they might as well not have bothered, insofar as 47 was concerned.
The solution was to eat at a hotel that not only catered to Americans, but boasted its own restaurant, because such an establishment was likely to offer eggs, pancakes, and bacon. Finding one involved a three-block walk without benefit of an umbrella, so 47 was soaking wet by the time he was shown into an over-decorated dining room and escorted to a table. The good news was that the restaurant did, indeed, serve American-style breakfasts.
The bad news was that they were serving lunch. Yet as always, money worked wonders, and having slipped a fifty-dollar bill to the waiter, the assassin was soon dining on a breakfast of waffles, bacon, and sausage, with hot coffee to wash it down.
With a full stomach, and a newly purchased umbrella to protect his head, the assassin made his way back to his hotel. His room had been cleaned, and his luggage was secure, so it was time to get back to work.
The first order of business was to call in again and try to speak with Diana, who, he hoped, would be back on duty. Since she hadn’t heard from the agent in days, she could be counted on to chew him out, especially since he had hung up on her “replacement.”
But having activated the satellite phone and entered the appropriate code, Agent 47 again found himself talking to a stranger. Not unheard of, but rare, since Diana was something of a workaholic, so he didn’t cut the connection this time.
Equally unusual, however, was the fact that the man who answered the phone immediately routed the call to Mr. Nu, who 47 had last seen in Yakima. There was a thirty-second wait, but once the executive came on, he was clearly anxious to take the call.
“Agent 47? Is that you? We’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
“I was kind of busy,” the assassin replied honestly. “Where’s Diana?”
The executive knew how attached field agents could become to their controllers and was ready for the question.
“We need to talk, 47. Face-to-face. Where are you?”
“In Rome,” the assassin answered cautiously.
“Okay, Rome it is,” the executive replied. “I can be there in time for a late dinner. We’ll eat, I’ll bring you up to date on Diana, and you can tell me about Africa. How did it go, by the way? Were you able to catch up with Al-Fulani?”
The question hung between them as the assassin considered his options. He could—and probably should—tell Mr. Nu what he had learned, but something felt wrong. Something having to do with Diana.
So rather than answer the question, the agent chose to end the conversation.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but there’s someone at the door. Let’s catch up tonight. Where should we meet?”
Nu sensed the agent’s hesitancy, but thought it best to let the matter slide, confident that he would learn whatever there was to know later in the day. So instead, he gave the name of his favorite restaurant.
“I’ll see you at nine,” he said, and he waited for 47 to be the one who broke the circuit.
He opened another channel, and a quick conversation with a technician in the Danjou’s control room was sufficient to confirm that, based on the tracker built into 47’s phone, the agent really was in Rome. It wasn’t that the executive didn’t trust the assassin. But still…
Diana had been above suspicion until recently and now nothing seemed certain. Suspicion was like a communicable disease, and once contracted, it was almost impossible to beat.
“Call the airport,” Nu said. “Tell our pilot to file a flight plan for Rome. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Now that he thought about it, maybe he didn’t trust the assassin. In fact, maybe he didn’t trust anyone.
It was still raining, and Agent 47 had been watching the restaurant for more than an hour when a cab pulled up and Mr. Nu got out. The assassin had no reason to expect a trap, but it always paid to be careful, so he waited for a full five minutes to see if anyone else showed up. He scanned the nearby buildings, as well, but saw nothing that appeared to be suspicious. Finally, satisfied that the restaurant was reasonably safe, he stepped out into a cold drizzle.
Five minutes later he was seated across a linen-covered table from his superior. A small oil-fed lamp had been placed at the center of the surface and it lit the executive’s face from below.
“All of the food here is excellent,” Nu said, as he gestured toward a waiting menu, “but I’m especially fond of the chicken risotto. The chef uses the Carnaroli grain, which holds its shape better than the Arborio, yet absorbs the stock extremely well. Or, you might like the Pasta Rustico, which generally appeals to those with hearty appetites.”
In the end 47 ordered the pasta dish, which turned out to be delicious and went perfectly with the house red. Once they had eaten the main course, Nu got down to business.
“You inquired about Diana,” the executive said somberly,
“and I put you off. That’s because it looks as though she’s the person we’ve been looking for.”
Agent 47 opened his mouth to protest, but Nu raised a hand.
“The two of you have a close working relationship. I know that. But hear me out.”
So 47 listened as the executive laid out the evidence against Diana, and their dessert arrived.
“So, that’s it,” Mr. Nu concluded gloomily. “It would appear that Diana sold us out—except that she claims the payments are part of an elaborate trick. An effort to direct attention away from the true culprit. Personally, I hope she’s correct—but it doesn’t look likely. Not unless you have information to the contrary.”
Agent 47 met the other man’s eyes. “Yes, I believe I do, although I need more proof. According to Al-Fulani the man we’re looking for is Aristotle Thorakis. Al-Fulani claimed that Thorakis is—or was—in serious financial trouble. Such deep trouble that it was necessary to accept a loan from the Puissance Treize to remain in business. And they’ve been draining him dry ever since.”
Nu frowned. “Are you sure? We knew he was having problems, but when our accountants went over his finances, he came up clean. All the money he borrowed seemed to come from legitimate sources.”
“Tell the bean counters to take another look,” Agent 47 suggested dryly. “It’s my guess that those ‘legitimate sources’ are actually fronts. Or firms that are beholden to the Puissance Treize in some way.”
“What you say makes sense,” Nu acknowledged. “But even you admit that we lack proof. What if the bean counters don’t find anything?”
“Then hopefully I will,” 47 responded. “I plan to track Thorakis down and see what I can learn. But don’t tell the board. If Thorakis gets wind of what we’re doing, he’ll take additional steps to cover his tracks or run.”
“Understood,” the executive said. “But until such time as we can prove that Thorakis is guilty, Diane will remain under lock and key. And there’s a lot of pressure to punish her now.”
“From whom?” 47 wanted to know. “From Thorakis?”
“Yes,” Nu confirmed. “But from others as well. They want blood.”
“I need time,” 47 responded.
“How much?”
“Two weeks.”
“Okay,” the executive said reluctantly. “That’s a lot, but I’ll do my best. It won’t be easy, though.”
“No,” Agent 47 agreed soberly. “It won’t be easy.”
When Agent 47 awoke the next morning he could feel the clock ticking.
Not for himself, but for Diana, which was strange, because he barely knew her. And how could it be otherwise? Given the fact that most of their relationship consisted of five-minute phone conversations.
But with the exception of extremely rare face-to-face meetings like the one with Nu, Diana was his only genuine link with The Agency. And his only hope for help when a mission went awry. So that made the controller important to 47’s survival, which, all things considered, made her very important indeed.
Such were the assassin’s thoughts as he downed a quick breakfast at the American hotel, and went back to his room to conduct some online research. The sort of thing The Agency normally took care of for him, but he would need to handle himself, lest he reveal his interest in Aristotle Thorakis.
The first and most pressing problem was where to find the shipping magnate. The Greek was very well known, so having entered the name “Aristotle Thorakis” into a popular search engine, the agent came up with 1,918,000 hits.
Most of them had to do with the shipping tycoon’s business dealings. And it was then-while sampling some of the stories about the way Aristotle had improved the family-owned company-that 47 came across an article regarding one of the Greek’s competitors. A Mexican businessman named José Alvarez, who had just been starting to take business away from a Thorakis-owned cruise line when he had the misfortune to drown in his own swimming pool. It was a terrible accident. Or that’s what the stories claimed.
The assassin already knew about the incident, because he’d been there that night. Instead of using scuba gear, which would produce bubbles, 47 had been equipped with a military-style rebreather, and was already submerged at the deep end of the pool when Alvarez dove in. Pulling the entrepreneur under had been relatively easy. Keeping him down had been a little more difficult.
By continually refining his search terms, 47 was able to find dozens of newspaper and magazine articles about Thorakis, his family, and the lifestyle they enjoyed. And after skimming a number of those stories, the assassin came to the conclusion that when not attending a business meeting in London, New York, Hong Kong, or some other center of international finance, the shipping magnate spent most of his time on the family estate near Kalomata, Greece, at his high-rise condo in Athens, aboard the sleek superyacht Perseus, or in a relatively modest mansion located in Sintra, Portugal.
Which, the operative soon learned from the tabloids, was rumored to be the house where the businessman kept his Ethiopian mistress. A relationship his wife was said to be aware of, but chose to ignore.
Having determined the places where Thorakis was most likely to be found, the assassin’s next step was to zero in on the shipping magnate’s current location. It had begun to seem hopeless, until the agent discovered that there were weekly papers that made it their business to keep track of Hollywood starlets, spoiled aristocrats, and yes, wealthy businessmen like Thorakis. Especially when they were being naughty, which according to the very latest edition of La Dolce Vita, the Greek definitely was.
According to the breathless text that accompanied a much-magnified shot of the shipping magnate nibbling on a woman’s bare foot, Thorakis was currently lying low in Sintra with his mistress. And judging from the six suitcases that had been unloaded from his limo, the businessman was planning to stay for a while.
A quick phone call to a small paper in Sintra was sufficient to confirm the Greek’s presence.
But rather than travel to Sintra, and improvise some sort of cover subsequent to his arrival, 47 wanted to do it the right way. Which was to construct an alternate identity before he boarded a plane. It was the sort of thing Diana normally took care of for him, yet now, having been forced to do his own research, the operative already knew the unsavory sort of person he wanted to impersonate.
As a member of the freewheeling, hypercompetitive, and often unethical band of photographers frequently referred to as the paparazzi, he could hang around the Thorakis mansion at all hours of the day and night, carry a variety of cameras, and openly follow the Greek wherever he went. All without eliciting any suspicion.
Of course first, before assuming his new identity, Agent 47 knew it would be necessary to change his appearance. Not just a little bit, but a lot, because Thorakis knew very well what he looked like, and if he really was a turncoat, the Puissance Treize would want to protect him.
So the assassin made some phone calls, took down an address, and set the alarms on his luggage.
Agent 47 had learned a lot about makeup and theatrical appliances over the years. So much so that when he entered the Portello Dell Fase he was able to successfully pass himself off as a British actor who had unexpectedly been called upon to play Shakespeare’s Falstaff. There was much bustling about as the proprietress, a onetime stage actress herself, went in search of the perfect strap-on foam belly. An appliance that, when combined with a half-halo of black hair and some cheek inserts, would transform her customer into the shameless, lying tub of lard that was Falstaff.
The woman was equipped with costumes as well, and though of the opinion that 47 was too tall to play Falstaff, she said that she was willing to make the necessary alterations anyway.
Agent 47 demurred, however, insisting that the theater company would provide his costume, so he was able to exit gracefully after spending what seemed like an exorbitant amount of money in the shop.
With those purchases made it was time to visit a men’s clothing store, where the
assassin insisted on looking after himself, and eventually left with a wardrobe that the cashier knew was too large for him.
Satisfied with his new look, and confident that it would fool just about anyone, 47 went back to the hotel, where he returned to his room. And it was there that Tazio Scaparelli was born. The paparazzo was a homely man, with a bald pate surrounded by unruly black hair, fat cheeks, a mole on his upper lip, and a substantial gut that not only hung out over his belt, but threatened to split his cheap sports shirt wide open. A pair of baggy pants and some thick-soled shoes completed the outfit.
He wasn’t going to take the Silverballers, the Walther, or the shotgun into Portugal. Nor did he want to take his regular clothes, since Scaparelli couldn’t wear them. So the assassin only took what he needed, packed all of it into his briefcase, and left the hotel via an emergency exit.
Ten minutes later the agent stepped up to a pay phone, dialed a long series of digits, and waited for the inevitable answer. When it came he cut the controller off. “This is 47. Please send someone to get my luggage. Oh, and one other thing, tell whoever you send to leave the locks alone. Otherwise something could go boom!”
The controller started to respond-but the conversation was over.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
PARIS, FRANCE
Conditions inside the Prison de la Santé in the XIVe arrondissement of Paris could only be described as a living hell. The cells were filthy, the noise was deafening, drug use was rampant, communicable diseases took a constant toll, rapes were a common occurrence, and the only way to escape was to commit suicide. Which inmates frequently did.
All of which made Santé a very dangerous place to be for any person other than Louis Legard, who as Managing Director of the Puissance Treize, had the benefit of bodyguards, specially prepared food, and a host of other privileges that most inmates could only dream of.
Still, privileged or not, the last place Legard wanted to be was in Santé. So as one of the Frenchman’s muscular bodyguards cleared a path for the crime boss, who had been forced to use crutches since the most recent attempt on his life, Legard was anything but happy. In spite of more than two million euros spent on lawyers, bribes, and appeals, he had yet to find a way out of the festering hole that the French government had put him in.
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