Travis and Jade exchanged a look, and then he continued. “I’ll get to that. I want to assure you that what Jade told you is true. Yes, we wanted to find you. Yes, we would have paid a lot of money to get you back, and we did. Yes, Roget worked for us, in a way. As an informer and sometimes contractor. I’m sorry the flight didn’t go as we planned.”
“Where’s Diana?” the hitman asked again, with a little more insistence in his voice.
“Very well.” Travis took a chair and sat in it. Jade continued to stand. “Diana Burnwood betrayed the Agency. She irreparably damaged the organization by compromising a classified project that top management was working on. And … she abandoned you during a crucial mission. The Himalayan assignment would not have gone wrong had she not bailed. She left you in a vulnerable position. I suppose you remember that?”
He did. Agent 47’s eyes narrowed as he searched Travis’s face for artifice.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I can’t go into the classified details, but suffice it to say that she meant for you to die. Diana felt you were the only one who might possibly be sent to come after her when we discovered her betrayal. And she’s right. As soon as we find out where she’s hiding, we will send you after her. After all, you know her better than anyone.”
“I don’t work for the Agency anymore.”
“I was hoping we could discuss that.”
“I don’t work for the Agency anymore.”
“Hear me out, 47. Will you do that?”
The assassin kept silent.
“We know you’ve been working freelance. We know you’re being paid much less than what you’re worth. It’s beneath you, 47. You were the Agency’s greatest asset. We want you back. We’re prepared to double your fees.”
“I don’t care about the money.”
“We know you don’t. You never have. But you care about your reputation. You care about the quality of your work. You care about what you do best.”
“I am nowhere near one hundred percent operational.”
“We think you are,” Travis said. “The fact that you survived that jump from the plane and the subsequent hours in the sea proves that you are. Did you know you were floating in impossibly rough waters for seven hours before we picked you up? That’s extraordinary. Any other human being, even one with your, uh, special genetic structure, would never have endured the ordeal. You did, 47. We’re all astonished and … humbled.”
47 didn’t respond.
“Look, why don’t you rest? Think about it overnight. You’ve been through a tough twenty-four hours. But, frankly, we need you. There’s a pressing assignment that is quite suited to you. We don’t need the verification, but you could prove to yourself that you’re, as you call it, one hundred percent operational. And don’t you want to get back at Burnwood? She abandoned you, left you like a piece of meat for dogs to devour.”
The assassin didn’t know what to think about Diana. All the facts weren’t in. But Travis was right. If she had indeed intentionally caused the Himalayan task to fail, then she deserved every bit of his … attention.
“What’s the assignment?” he asked.
Travis stood. “It may very well be the most difficult mission of your career. Consider it a challenge. But why don’t you rest for a day? We can talk about it tomorrow. It can wait that long.” He pointed to two different call buttons on 47’s bed. “If you need anything, press one of those buttons. The red one is for the nurse. The blue one is for us.”
“Where are my things? Did you recover my briefcase?”
Travis grinned. “It’s unbelievable, 47. Even in your unconscious state, being tossed around like flotsam on that rough sea, you held on to that damned briefcase. We have it.” He nodded to a locker on the other side of the cabin. “It’s all there. Your clothes, everything. We dry-cleaned your suit. It’s fresh and like new, hanging right in there. We opened the briefcase to check on your weapons, and they’re fine. You’ll want to clean them, oil them, do all the things you do to get them back to shipshape condition, but, miraculously, all of your stuff survived with you. You’re one in a million, 47. The Agency will be very grateful, and make it worth your while, if you decide to rejoin us.”
With that, the man jerked his head at Jade, and the two left the room.
47 waited a few minutes and then threw back the sheets. He swung his legs around and put his bare feet on the floor. He grabbed the IV pole, which was on wheels, and dragged it across the floor as he unsteadily walked to the locker. He opened it, revealing the black suit hanging in pristine condition. The briefcase sat on the locker bottom. 47 pulled it out and took it back to the bed. He opened it, examined the two Silverballers, and then felt for the hidden latch that unlocked the hidden compartment beneath the handguns. His various passports, currency from several countries, and Fiberwire were all there.
As well as his painkillers.
47 opened the pill bottle, took two tablets, and downed them with the remains of his juice.
He carefully put everything in place, shut the case in the locker, and went back to bed.
Sleep came quickly. The figure of Death mercifully stayed away.
EIGHT
The night passed peacefully, and Agent 47 slept better than he had in months. Perhaps the gentle rocking of the ship helped. By the middle of the second day on the ship, he felt rejuvenated. Travis sent word that they would have dinner together and talk that evening—in the meantime, he was to feel free to make himself at home aboard the Jean Danjou II.
Although he was a man of fierce independence, 47 allowed Nurse Parkins to pamper him. It was gratifying to be waited upon. Both Parkins and Dr. Chalmers quickly learned that the assassin spoke very little, so they gave up attempting to engage him in conversation. They did, however, encourage him to get out of bed, dress, and take walks.
The yacht was huge. 47 strolled the deck from bow to stern and back, then explored the ship’s bowels. No guards prevented him from entering any restricted areas. He spent time in the control center, observing the various operations and personnel. The hitman figured Travis was attempting to instill confidence. The man wanted 47 to consider himself part of the team again.
The woman known as Jade seemed to be very competent. She managed the control room with admirable patience and efficiency. Travis moved in and out of the space, delivering orders and listening to reports. At one point he acknowledged 47 and asked how he felt. 47 replied that he was fine, and Travis said that he looked forward to their meeting later. Otherwise, everyone on the ship ignored the assassin. He was allowed to stand behind the various workstations and study the computer monitors, maps, and data coming in from all parts of the globe. The Agency was busy. It appeared that the business of killing was in no danger of a recession.
Dinner that evening was served in the yacht’s executive dining room, which was designed in luxurious Louis XIV décor, as if the place were a high-end French restaurant. Waiters wore formal uniforms with white gloves. Travis, Jade, and 47 were the only diners.
The food was of exceptional quality. They started with a bottle of Dom Pérignon ’57, which the hitman had to admit was smooth on the palate. Never a heavy drinker, Agent 47 did appreciate fine wine and champagne. He had expensive tastes, and over the last year he had not been able to indulge in the kinds of meals to which he was accustomed. He knew full well it was yet another ploy on Travis’s part to lure the assassin back to the Agency, so he figured he might as well enjoy it.
A bottle of Château Pétrus, among the priciest and best wine on the planet, was served with dinner, which was a selection of Kobe beef filet mignon, lobster thermidor, and a variety of steamed vegetables. A recently baked challah bread made from an orthodox recipe in Jerusalem was incongruously served with the meal, but it was a surprisingly fitting addition.
Agent 47 declined an after-dinner drink of fino sherry but heartily accepted the crème brûlée.
It was the best meal he’d had in over twelve month
s.
Travis unsuccessfully attempted to engage 47 in conversation while the trio ate, but the assassin didn’t utter much. During the awkward silence, 47 was intent on gauging what Travis had to say and how he said it. The assassin could never fully trust him or his attractive assistant, but at least 47 would give them the benefit of the doubt—for now. The story he’d been told about Diana Burnwood still disturbed him. Could she have really betrayed him and the Agency? 47 thought he knew his former handler better than that. He also accepted the fact that any hitman working for the Agency would be disavowed if anything went wrong during a mission. Could Diana have been compromised in some way? It was possible she didn’t have a choice in abandoning him.
The only thing 47 could do was to play out the game. If rejoining the Agency would eventually lead him to Diana—if she was still alive—and to the answers he sought, then so be it.
“I have decided to accept your offer,” the assassin unexpectedly announced as Travis lit a cigar.
The man raised his eyebrows. “You have?” Travis exchanged a look with Jade. Then he smiled. “Well! All right, then. I thought Jade and I would have to ply you with promises of Italian sports cars, women, and points in the company’s profits!”
“I don’t care about any of that. I live for perfection. It appears that you’re offering me a fair deal to restore my name to its former glory. I welcome the challenge.” 47 thought this was a reasonable explanation that a shallow man like Travis would accept. It had a touch of truth to it, but in reality the assassin felt he could do nothing else but play along.
Travis offered 47 a cigar, but the hitman shook his head. “Upper management will be very pleased to hear that their prized asset is back on board. Thank you, 47. This means a great deal to us.” He held out his hand, but 47 didn’t take it. Travis awkwardly gave up and gestured for the tall, bald man to follow him into another room. “Let’s talk in here. Jade, could you please take notes?”
“Yes, sir.”
The three of them moved into a room that was not unlike an English manor study or library, complete with a roaring fireplace. If it hadn’t been for the easy rocking, 47 would never have known he was on a boat.
Travis pointed to a leather armchair. “Have a seat.” He sat in an identical piece of furniture across from 47, while Jade, notepad in lap, perched on the end of a sofa perpendicular to the men.
“Now, then. The mission,” Travis began. “Are you up to date with what’s going on with American politics these days?”
Agent 47 shrugged. “I don’t pay much attention to it.”
“America’s economy is in big trouble. They’re in the biggest depression since the 1930s, although the government won’t admit it. President Burdett has lost the support of the people. A Congress consisting of Democrats and Republicans is ridiculed as being incompetent and petty. In the last few years, a third party has risen to power. The America First Party is conservative, ultra right wing, and anti big government. In the last Congressional election, several AFP members were elected. There’s a presidential election coming up in a month. A female senator, Dana Shipley Linder, a member of the America First Party, is poised to be the winner.”
“Okay,” 47 said.
Jade spoke next. “Thrown into the mix is an uprising of militant terrorist groups around the country. The big one is the New Model Army, led by an individual—”
“A nut, if you ask me,” Travis interrupted.
“—called Cromwell. You might recall that Oliver Cromwell, who led a revolt against the English monarchy in the 1640s, called his troops the New Model Army. We suppose that’s where this Cromwell gets the name.”
“I’ve heard about the militant groups,” the assassin remarked.
“They’ve destroyed a lot of federal property. They’re inciting violence and urging the American public to rebel against the government. And they’re succeeding.”
Travis took over. “Now, have you heard of a man named Charlie Wilkins?”
“Yes.”
“Big, wealthy celebrity in the United States. Owns a chain of fast-food restaurants, has his own cable TV network, and he’s very popular as a television talk-show host. More important, he leads a so-called religion known as the Church of Will. Do you know of it?”
“A little.”
“It’s widespread, and it’s part of the America First Party movement. Dana Linder is a member of the Church of Will and a personal friend of Charlie Wilkins. The U.S. government believes that the Church of Will and the New Model Army are connected in some way. Maybe Wilkins funds them. We don’t know. They don’t know.”
“Wilkins doesn’t seem like the militant type,” 47 said.
“No, he doesn’t,” Jade agreed. “He is well loved by much of the American population, and the rest see him as a harmless entertainer who has managed to influence a couple of million people to join his religion.”
“Or whatever it is,” Travis said. “It’s a wacko cult, if you ask me. But that doesn’t enter into the assignment. Or maybe it does. You’ll have to find out.”
“What is the assignment?” 47 asked, growing impatient.
“It’s really a two-part mission. The first part is set in stone, the fee is very high, and there are special conditions attached to it. The second part is a ‘maybe,’ the execution of which depends on the fallout from the first hit.”
“Could you be more specific?”
Travis cleared his throat. “The first hit is on Dana Linder.”
Agent 47 showed no visible reaction. He’d heard and completed more-challenging operations. “A presidential candidate.”
“Right.”
“Who’s the client?” he asked.
“Anonymous,” Travis answered. “We don’t know who it is, but he’s already paid a substantial down payment. That said, we suspect the client is the current U.S. administration. The CIA. Maybe President Burdett himself. Who else would want to eliminate the competition in the election? It makes sense. The America First Party and the Church of Will are in cahoots, so I’m sure the U.S. government doesn’t want to see them lead the people in a revolution that could change the face of the country. Washington quite understandably would consider them all dangerous.”
“What are the special conditions?”
“The client wants the hit on Linder performed within the week and in a public place, in front of witnesses. And, of course, you can’t be seen or caught.”
47 pursed his lips. “That’s not impossible. Who’s the second target?”
“Charlie Wilkins,” Travis said. “But you have to wait until the client gives the go-ahead on him. Once Linder is dead, Wilkins may step up and run for president himself. Or he may not. It depends on that. And because of the target’s high profile but well-protected status, the client thinks the only way to get to him is from the inside. Undercover.”
“You mean within the Church of Will?”
“That’s right.”
47 wrinkled his brow. “That sounds … strange.”
“It’s so a Church insider would appear to be responsible for the hit,” Jade said. “That’s important to the client. As you know, sometimes a client’s motives are not fully clear. It’s not our job to question why.”
“You’ll have to do your homework on both targets. You’re the expert, 47. You’ll know best how to play it. Jade and I will be your handlers. The Agency has set up new networks around the world for equipment drop-off and pickup. And while you have your own contacts in the field, we can supply you with new ones if you want. We want you to run the show, 47. That’s part of the new way. You’ll find the Agency to be a little different now. More accommodating to our contractors.”
“I’ve always ‘run the show,’ as you put it. Diana gave me full autonomy.”
“Then we want to continue that policy.” Travis leaned forward. “We want you to trust us, 47. We’re forging a new alliance here. The Agency is giving you a second chance. You remember what the ICA’s policy is on contrac
tors who go off the grid as you did?”
“I’m supposed to be eliminated,” 47 answered with a slight smile.
“That’s correct. But that’s not how it’s going to work this time. We need you. I can’t emphasize that enough. However …” Travis leaned back in his chair. “If you go off the grid again, I can’t be responsible for how upper management responds.”
Agent 47 stared at Travis with cold, piercing eyes, until the manager looked away and added, “Just saying.” There was silence in the room for a full minute. The assassin knew he should say something but didn’t.
“All right,” he finally announced. “I’m leaving for the States tomorrow.”
NINE
Park Slope, Brooklyn. A moderately affluent, relatively upscale neighborhood of New York City. Families. Schools. Brownstones and apartment buildings. Parks where folks walked dogs and watched their children play. Most would say it was an idyllic setting.
Agent 47, who had no reference for what he thought of as a “normal” family life, did not recognize the setting as tranquil. To him, it was just another landscape of conflicting morals, the pretension of happiness, and potential violence. The assassin had learned at a very early age that the world was not his friend. Traditional values and relationships were alien to him. Intellectually, he understood that he was not ordinary, that he was a freak of nature, and that what he practiced was not the standard of society. Despite his striking appearance, Agent 47 had the ability to become a chameleon, blend in with the masses, and play a role. If he had to be a typical American businessman for an hour or two, he could do it. Should he have the need to be a butcher, a baker, or a waiter, he could assume the identity with ease. If he had to exhibit tenderness or compassion, or pretend that he had faith in God, then he could do it. It was part of his tradecraft.
It didn’t mean he had to believe it.
The hitman stood at the corner of 3rd Street and 7th Avenue, watching the townhouse across the street, when the woman opened the door and escorted her two children outside. He figured the boy was probably seven. The little girl was younger, maybe five. They were bundled up for fall morning weather and off to school. First grade for the boy? Preschool or kindergarten for the girl? 47 wasn’t sure. He had never experienced that kind of public education or social integration.
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