I even did a quick reconnaissance of the lavatory. Nada.
No more ideas.
The plane veered a little but was still losing altitude. There was nothing else to do but buckle myself into my seat. I tried to recall where was the best place to be when a plane crashes. But the Lear was so small, I didn’t think it would make any difference where I was.
I was going to die.
Oddly, I wasn’t afraid. I was prepared to accept my fate. My whole life, I had expected Death to come calling. The way things had been going the last year, I welcomed his visit.
I closed my eyes. A wave of peace flowed through my body.
But then—that ball of angst bubbled up in my chest. That could mean only one thing, so I opened my eyes and looked out the window.
Rain battered the Plexiglas. In the black clouds—a face. No, not a face. The shape of a face. A familiar one.
Death. The same shadowy faceless figure from my dreams. Watching the plane go down.
I braced myself for the impact. Would the plane survive hitting the water? Would it float or sink?
I was going to die. The last time that thought crossed my mind, I was in Nepal. In the Himalayas.
A year ago …
SIX
Agent 47 tapped his earpiece.
“Diana? Are you there?”
If he wasn’t mistaken, the line had been cut off. Why would she leave him like that? She gives him some vague instruction, tells him that two hostiles are making their way toward his position on the mountain, and then disappears? Perhaps it was a technical malfunction. Surely she would be back online in a moment.
In the meantime, 47 removed the boomer from his backpack. It was a device that resembled a twelve-inch flashlight, its exterior made of metal. Inside, however, was a complex transmitter that emitted powerful sonic waves. Human ears couldn’t hear them, but they would drive any dog within miles completely mad. More important, the sound waves would upset natural faults within rock, ice, or snow. Placed vertically in the snow on the Kangchenjunga cliff where the hitman now crouched, it could cause an avalanche after a minute or two. The trick was to plant it on the precise geological flaw. Only Diana’s computer could calculate the right spot.
He had made it to the snow-packed cliff she had indicated, but he had no clue where to stick the boomer. By now the two Chinese bodyguards would be closer. How fast could they move down the face of the mountain? 47 was no expert at mountain climbing, but he could travel ten feet per five minutes. If they were that good or better, it would take them a little while to reach him.
47 dared to lie facedown on the cliff and inch to the edge. It was a long way down, but he could see Nam Vo and his party moving along. They were in the perfect position. He needed to set off the boomer now.
Where was Diana?
The assassin rolled to his side so that he could look up. The sun was terribly bright, but the Uvex pocket goggles blocked out the worst of the dangerous rays. Unfortunately, the sun was almost straight above him. The glare prevented him from seeing the two guards that were headed his way.
47 carefully wormed back to the cliff face so they wouldn’t see him. Once again he tapped the earpiece. It was still working, because he heard static. No, something was definitely wrong on Diana’s end.
It had been a perilous mission. The Chinese general known as Nam Vo had come to Nepal so that he would be in close proximity to Tibet. Nam Vo got his kicks by sending a small force of military sadists across the border to terrorize Tibetan villages. They raped women, tortured men, and left children starving. Whether or not Vo was under orders from the Chinese government, or if he had simply gone rogue, was unclear. All 47 knew was that a “concerned party” had hired the Agency to assassinate the monster. Perhaps it was a Tibetan resistance group. Maybe it was a wealthy activist in America or Britain. Perhaps it was the Dalai Lama himself. Unlikely, but 47 didn’t really care. Sometimes the Agency told him who the customer was and sometimes they didn’t. More often the client was anonymous.
Formulating the plan to assassinate Nam Vo on Kangchenjunga was another dangerous component. Mountain climbing was hazardous enough when it was done for sport. Throw in deadly weapons and a scheme to kill people, and it was madness. Agent 47 wanted to figure out another way to get to Vo, but Diana had insisted the man was unreachable. She had found out he liked to climb, so she kept her eyes and ears to the ground in Nepal and eventually learned about the expedition up the “Kanch,” as locals called the peak.
Usually she left the method and means to Agent 47, but this time she worked out the plot. 47 would get a head start up the mountain so that he could be in position to drop tons of snow and ice on the man. Making Nam Vo’s death appear to be an accident—better yet, a natural disaster—was the key to the mission’s success. Corrupt or not, the Chinese government wouldn’t take kindly to one of their top military men being murdered. They would seek revenge. They could take it out on Tibet or even Nepal. 47 hadn’t had a problem with it until now.
Where was Diana?
After he set off the boomer, 47 was to move laterally across the mountain face to a designated outcrop of stone. There, a helicopter from Kathmandu would appear, hover above him, and lower a rope ladder. They’d be gone before authorities had time to investigate the avalanche.
Had the chopper left Kathmandu? Surely not. Diana was to give the pilot the green light after 47 had successfully placed the boomer and set off the sonic explosion.
Maybe the satellite failed. That was it. Diana wouldn’t abandon him like that. She was the only person on the planet that he almost trusted, and he had a serious problem with trust. He had confidence in only one human being, and that was himself.
His inner clock told him it was nearly a quarter after one. He was late. If he didn’t act soon, the mission would have to be aborted. Agent 47 never aborted assignments. The concept was anathema to his soul.
Once more the assassin crawled to the edge of the cliff. Nam Vo was probably a hundred fifty feet below but still in the target range.
Where was Diana?
The sound of rapid gunfire jolted him. A string of powerful kicks punctured the snow six inches from his head. 47 rolled to his side, and this time he saw them. One man was dangling on a rope at such an angle that he had full view of the ice cliff. The other guy was spotting him. The hanging man held an assault rifle, probably a QBZ-95. 47 was a sitting duck.
The assassin scrambled back to the cliff wall, but the Chinese bodyguard still had a bead on him. The man fired again; bullets dotted the rock face as 47 hit the snow and flattened his body as much as he could. There was no question—he had to get out of there.
The assault weapon’s noise would surely alert Nam Vo and his party. They would move for cover and 47 would lose his chance. There was only one thing to do. Blindly place the boomer and hope for the best.
Which is exactly what he did.
47 armed the device to start pulsing, and then he plunged it hard into the snow. The tiny beacon resembled a metal stake. How long would it take before the cliff gave way? The hitman didn’t want to stay and find out.
More gunshots.
47 froze and backed up. He pulled a Silverballer from his backpack, aimed at the suspended shooter, and fired.
A hit. But not a kill. The sun was simply too strong. It was like trying to aim into a fireball and strike a dot. Nevertheless, 47 heard the man yelp in pain. But the guy held on to the QBZ-95 and started firing again. 47 decided to go in the opposite direction from which he was supposed to climb. It was the only way to avoid getting perforated. He had no idea what the route would be like or where it would take him, but he had to move.
Then he felt a tremor.
Where was Diana?
The cliff rumbled beneath his legs.
Move! Move! Now! Now!
But the Chinese shooter blocked his way with a barrage of death.…
SEVEN
… just as the Learjet jerked hard, continuing its plumm
et toward the sea.
Agent 47 broke out of his reverie and returned to the here and now. He was still strapped to the seat in the plane’s cabin, utterly helpless. He considered opening the emergency hatch and jumping out right before the aircraft hit the water. Would he survive? Possibly. It was worth a try. He had the life vest. If the fall didn’t kill him, he could inflate the vest in the water. Better than sitting there with a useless seat belt across his waist.
He unbuckled it and stood. The assassin clutched the back of the seats as he made his way to the door, located just behind the cockpit. The plane lunged brutally, throwing 47 to the floor. He pulled himself up to continue what might be his final act, but then he remembered the briefcase. If he was going to die, he wanted to perish with his beloved tools of the trade. The hitman retraced his steps, clumsily moving through the cabin as the jet jerked and tilted erratically. When he reached his seat, 47 leaned over and grabbed the case with his adopted insignia, similar to a fleur-de-lis, stamped on the outside.
Back to the door.
He didn’t dare look out the window as he moved. How many seconds did he have left? A minute or two? Less?
It took a near-superhuman effort to reach the hatch. The instructions for emergency opening were printed on the interior. It wasn’t rocket science. Push this lever and pull that one.
So do it. What are you waiting for?
Push. Pull.
The hatch broke away from the fuselage and soared into space. A huge gush of wet air nearly sucked Agent 47 out with it, but he held on to a safety handle on the side and braced himself with his shoes against the frame.
Now he could see the well of death below. A thousand feet? Less? With the storm battering the doorway, it was difficult to know for certain.
But it was obvious he had only a few seconds left.
Jump!
If he was going to do it, he had to do it now.
Jump!
Agent 47 thrust himself through the hatchway and was hit with a sledgehammer of rain and wind. For a moment he didn’t think he was falling; he was aware only of being suspended in the maelstrom. Incongruously, he sensed that he was still clutching the briefcase in one hand. The assassin thought he saw the jet veer off into the darkness above and beyond him, but he wasn’t sure. He was blind and deaf from the raging hell around him.
For no logical reason, he started to count to himself.
One … two …
Was he even moving? Was the frenetic, cold whirlwind spinning him around and around?
Three … four …
The noise was unbearable. It was as if he were inside the roars of a thousand beasts.
Five … six … sev—
A wall of freeze slammed into his body, and the cacophony abruptly ended. The powerful wind ceased and was replaced by an envelope of frigid liquid.
For a moment he might have lost consciousness. He wasn’t sure.
Relax. Don’t fight it. Go limp.
Years of training had conditioned Agent 47 to completely surrender to the sea. To fight it would be disastrous. The only way to surface and catch the precious oxygen above was to become a lifeless, weightless particle of ocean trash.
And it worked.
Agent 47’s bald head broke the surface, and he gasped for breath. It was only then that he kicked and moved his arms in an effort to tread. The ocean was indeed rough and extremely dangerous.
Incredibly, he still gripped the briefcase. It was as if the thing was in actuality an outgrowth of his arm.
The life jacket!
He had almost forgotten it.
With his free hand, he pulled the tube up and into his mouth. Blowing was extremely difficult. It was hard enough to breathe normally in such conditions, and yet he managed to do it. It took an eternity, but slowly the vest inflated and did its job to keep the assassin afloat.
Completely spent, Agent 47 allowed the roiling waves to carry him wherever they might, yielding to a blanket of black unawareness.
Voices and noises murkily drifted in and out of his brain. As his eyelids blinked open, blurry bright lights pierced his retinas like spears. He felt the urge to cough, but the effort was a gurgling gasp. Hands were on him, pushing, pulling …
He heard the distinct words, “He’s alive!”
And then he sank back into a cocoon of nothingness.
* * *
When next he opened his eyes, his vision was less blurry. The bright lights were still above him, and he realized he was no longer floating helplessly in the ocean. However, the rocking sensation of being tossed around by the waves was still present.
Agent 47 lay in a bed. He was dressed in a hospital gown and was covered with warm sheets and blankets. An IV was attached to the back of his right hand. A drip on a stand stood next to the bed. Turning his head, he saw a nurse with her back to him.
He coughed, but it came out in an unintelligible croak.
She turned. Dark hair, in her thirties. “Oh, you’re awake! I’ll get the doctor.”
Where am I?
The assassin studied his surroundings. It was no ordinary hospital room. Too small. The windows were round. Portholes.
He was on a boat.
No wonder he still felt the rocking of the sea.
A black man in a white lab coat entered the cabin, followed by the nurse. He was in his fifties, wore glasses, and had a kind face.
“Good morning,” he said in a British accent. “I’m Dr. Chalmers. How are you feeling?”
Agent 47 didn’t answer.
“You’ve had a rough time. You were lucky we were nearby. We picked you up out of the water. You’d almost drowned.”
Again, the hitman said nothing.
“Don’t worry. You’re going to be fine. You have a strong constitution.”
47 already knew that.
“We’re giving you some fluids through an IV. You were dehydrated. Kind of ironic, isn’t it? Being dehydrated in the middle of the ocean?”
The assassin didn’t respond.
The doctor indicated the stethoscope around his neck. “May I check your vitals?” Not waiting for an answer, the man leaned in to listen to 47 breathe. The assassin didn’t protest.
“Your lungs are clear.” The doctor nodded to the nurse, who wrapped a cuff around 47’s left arm to take his blood pressure. She pumped it up and then let it deflate.
“One eighteen over seventy-eight,” she said.
“That’s very good,” the doctor commented. “I’ll bet you’re thirsty and hungry. Nurse Parkins here will get you some juice and something to eat. Get some rest. You’ve had a rough time.”
The nurse quickly left the cabin. The doctor waited for 47 to say something; when the patient didn’t, the man turned to leave. He paused at the curved hatch, turned, and replied to the unasked question.
“All will be explained shortly.”
And then he left.
It was only then that Agent 47 noticed the embossed insignia on the IV drip bag. It was triangular; a skull and crossbones topped by a crown was inside the pyramid, the Latin phrase Merces Letifer scrolled across the bottom.
“Lethal trade.”
The emblem of the ICA.
The Agency.
After a meal of scrambled eggs, toast, and orange juice, Agent 47 felt his strength returning. He wanted to jump out of bed and find out what was going on. Given that he was on a ship, he figured it was the Jean Danjou II, the Agency’s superyacht. What else could it be?
The prospect that the ICA had found him was disturbing. 47 had wanted to remain hidden. The assassin had hoped that, if he ever decided to reconnect with the Agency, it would be on his terms.
The familiar unpleasant fireball of anxiety suddenly grew in his chest. How long had it been since he’d taken an oxycodone pill? The withdrawal symptoms would soon hit him full force. Where was his briefcase? His clothes? His painkillers?
Before he could attempt to get out of bed, an attractive Asian woman, wearing a business suit
and carrying a notepad, entered the cabin.
“Good morning, Agent 47,” she said without a trace of an accent. “My name is Jade. I’m a senior assistant to the management team of ICA. I take it you’ve already discerned that’s who we are?”
47 stared at her for several seconds and then nodded.
“I suppose you have a lot of questions. Mr. Travis will be here shortly to talk to you. He will be your new handler.”
The assassin spoke for the first time since he’d been revived. “I don’t work for the Agency anymore.”
Jade acknowledged the remark with a bow of her head. “Mr. Travis will speak to you about that. In the meantime, I am authorized to tell you that you are on the Jean Danjou II, and we were—”
“I know that.”
“—we were sailing in the Atlantic, quite near the Caribbean. We have been searching for you for many months. Your last employer, the man you knew as Roget, alerted us—for a price—that his plane was leaving Jamaica with you on it.”
“There was no pilot aboard.”
“We had Roget install the remote so we could land the aircraft safely on the water. Unfortunately, the storm hit and an engine failed. Apparently you damaged the remote-control box, and we were unable to help you. Luckily, we were in your vicinity when the jet went down, but it still took us several hours to find you. You are a very lucky man.”
Was she telling the truth? Agent 47 supposed that it sounded plausible. He also knew that the Agency was capable of elaborate deceptions.
A middle-aged man in a suit appeared in the hatchway. He wore glasses, had a mustache, and was a bit overweight.
“How’s the patient?” he asked.
“Dr. Chalmers says he’s doing very well,” Jade answered. “Agent 47, this is Benjamin Travis.”
The man approached the bed and held out his hand. The hitman ignored it, so Travis shrugged. “I can imagine how you feel. Hiding from the Agency for a year and suddenly finding yourself on our ship. I’ll bet you think you were set up.”
“Where’s Diana?” 47 asked.
Raymond Benson Page 5
