A number of full-color photographs had been taped to a tiled wall. They were of good quality, and showed Rollet having breakfast with Agent 47 at the Paris Café.
“Tell us about the meeting you had with the man in those photographs,” Marla instructed. “And leave nothing out.”
Rollet complied, so that ten minutes later both Marla and her protector knew what the Frenchman knew, which was that 47 was extremely interested in Al-Fulani’s activities. And given the match between the professor’s story and recent events, there was no reason to doubt him. Al-Fulani was satisfied.
“I think we have it all,” the Moroccan said. He turned to Marla. “Kill him.”
“But you agreed to let me go!” Rollet protested.
“No,” Marla countered reasonably. “We agreed to let you live. But we didn’t say for how long.”
The Walther spoke twice, two bullet holes appeared at the very center of Rollet’s lightly haired chest, and his chin fell forward. Doctor Habib was left to clean up after the killing as Marla and Al-Fulani left the room.
Marla was the first to speak as they climbed the stairs.
“So, I have the job.”
“Yes,” Al-Fulani agreed soberly. “My men aren’t used to taking orders from a woman, but Ammar was a fool to ignore your advice, and paid the price. So, from this point forward, you will be in charge of my personal safety, although responsibility for overall security will continue to rest with my cousin Rashid. Are we agreed?”
Marla didn’t like Rashid, or the fact that he was still in the picture, but knew better than to overreach.
“Yes, and thank you,” Marla said sincerely, as they reentered the study. “While we’re on the subject of your safety, I would like to suggest that you stay away from the orphanage until we find 47. Rollet told him about it, and how you go there on Fridays. That means he could find a place to hide, lie in wait, and pick you off with a rifle.”
Al-Fulani made a face.
“But the children will miss me!”
Marla had serious doubts about that but kept them to herself.
“Perhaps the staff could bring some of them here—but promise me you won’t go there.”
The Moroccan’s face lit up.
“Yes! It shall be as you say. I will organize a party. And you will come.”
Marla experienced a wave of revulsion, and could only hope that it wasn’t visible on her face.
“Of course. Nothing would please me more.”
Chapter Eight
FEZ, MOROCCO
Though slightly taller than the average Moroccan, there was nothing else to distinguish the man wearing the red fez, dilapidated business suit, and dusty black shoes from thousands of low-level bureaucrats and sales clerks as he made his way up the busy street, entered the run-down residential hotel located across from the Al-Fulani Orphanage, and carried two plastic bags bulging with groceries up three flights of stairs to apartment 301, where he paused to eye the thread that had been spit-welded across the doorjamb. It was intact.
Mindful of the fact that a truly dangerous adversary would not only notice the thread, but have an accomplice replace it once he was inside, the man in the red fez lowered his groceries to the floor. Then having eyeballed the other doors that opened onto the landing, the tenant drew a Silverballer with one hand, while he unlocked the door with the other. There was a soft click.
The man gave the door a nudge, saw it swing open, and backed away. But rather than a volley of gunshots, the only sounds to be heard were the muted babble from a television in 302 and the insistent bleat of a distant siren.
Having satisfied himself that it was safe to enter, the man in the red fez did so, weapon at the ready. But with the exception of the six flies that were chasing one another around the light fixture in the middle of the ceiling, the dingy apartment was empty of life.
The Silverballer slid back into its holster, the groceries were brought in from the hall, and the door was relocked.
The ceiling fan was broken, and there was no air conditioning other than that produced by the three vertical windows that opened onto the street, so he went over to open them. Outside air entered the room, but so did the acrid stench of exhaust fumes and the roar of traffic below.
Once the cold items were stowed in the gently wheezing fridge, Agent 47 removed both the fez and the suit that Mr. Tirk had given him. It would have been nice to remove the pencil-thin mustache, and the paste-on mole. But dangerous, because now that the move from the Sofitel Palais Jamai Fes was complete, it was important to stay in character as he kept Al-Fulani’s orphanage under observation.
According to Professor Rollet, the Moroccan would probably visit the building on the far side of the street the following day. Which was when the assassin planned to enter the orphanage, drug the businessman, and make off with his unconscious body. Then, having driven the Moroccan out into the country, he would have an opportunity to ask some very pointed questions. But before he made his move he wanted to observe the comings and goings of the place.
So 47 sat down to eat the cold couscous salad with lemon dressing and feta cheese that he had purchased from a mom-and-pop grocery store. That was followed by six lamb-skewers from a street vendor, plus a piece of coconut fudge cake, and three cups of piping hot tea.
Then, as daylight gradually surrendered to darkness, the surveillance began anew. Thanks to the information provided by Rollet, 47 knew that the building across the street had once been the property of a wealthy Jewish family, which had chosen to emigrate to Israel—or been forced to do so, in the years immediately after World War II. The old mansion was solidly built, stood three stories high, and would have been at home in the Steglitz district of Berlin.
During the two days that Agent 47 had been watching the orphanage, he had never once seen children outside playing. There were plenty of adults, however, including household staff, security guards, and the well-dressed visitors who arrived each evening, almost all of whom were male, mostly European, and generally older.
There was a good deal of turnover where the visitors were concerned, or that’s how it appeared, but there were regulars, too. Like the wheelchair-bound Mr. Wayne Bedo of Akron, Ohio, who had arrived in Fez three weeks earlier, and was delivered to the orphanage at exactly 7:00 each evening by a specially equipped van. All of which was information 47 had gathered by jumping into a taxi and following Bedo to his hotel the night before.
A breeze came up as the sun set, and the badly faded curtains began to stir, even as the lights came on across the street. Having darkened his apartment so that no one could see in, Agent 47 began the evening’s work, which consisted of memorizing everything that might be relevant to the coming mission.
That included taking note of the number of guards who were patrolling the grounds, where they were stationed, how frequently they were relieved, which ones had a tendency to goof off, where the surveillance cameras were located, how the floodlights were positioned, where the shadows fell, and much, much more. Each new observation was compared to the ones he had made during the past couple of days, in order to detect changes, variations, and patterns.
He noted the fact that at least three-quarters of the people who entered the orphanage were wearing masks, which seemed rather strange, unless the facility was being used to stage costume balls six nights a week. But, regardless of the reason, the practice might be beneficial to 47’s plan, which was all that mattered to him.
Most of the visitors had arrived by 8:00 p.m., and Al-Fulani wasn’t among them, so the assassin felt even more certain that the Moroccan would visit the orphanage on schedule the following evening. Later, about eleven or so, people began to leave. A process that continued into the wee hours of the morning before finally tailing off about 2:00 a.m. Which was when the agent put his binoculars away, took a tepid shower, and made a bed on the floor.
Then, with both Silverballers at hand, the assassin went to sleep.
* * *
The sun was lo
w in the western sky, and the city’s shadows were pointing toward the holy city of Mecca, as the man in the red fez made his way through the lobby of the Oasis Hotel, entered the elevator, and got off on the sixth floor.
Having checked his watch, he followed the blue and gold runner down the hallway toward the linen closet he had identified previously. After a quick look around to make sure that no one was watching, he dropped to one knee. The lock pick made quick work of the old tumblers, the door opened without protest, and 47 slipped inside.
Sturdy shelves took up most of the walls, all of which were loaded with clean towels, sheets, and blankets. There were a couple of carts, plus backup cleaning supplies, and a white plastic chair. The air was thick with the combined odors of soap, cleaning agents, and room deodorizer.
He was early, and intentionally so, lest something unexpected delay him. So there was nothing for 47 to do other than leave the door slightly ajar and wait. The second maid service of the day was complete, so there was no reason why members of the staff would bother him, but if they did, a syringe was ready and waiting.
That precaution proved unnecessary, however, because the next person to come down the hallway wasn’t a member of the hotel’s staff, but Mr. Nathan Ghomara, the English-speaking aide Bedo had engaged to take him where he wanted to go. Which, for the most part, was the orphanage.
Ghomara was of average height, but a bit overweight, causing him to waddle as he approached the closet. The Moroccan was dressed in a sports jacket, white shirt, and black pants. There was nothing especially remarkable about his features except for bushy eyebrows, a slightly bulbous nose, and a heavy five-o’-clock shadow.
Agent 47 waited for Ghomara to pass, stepped out into the hall, and took three running steps. He clamped a hand over the Moroccan’s mouth and rammed the needle into his neck. Ghomara struggled weakly for a moment before becoming a dead weight as he collapsed.
The assassin was well aware of the fact that an elevator full of people could arrive at any moment, or one of the hotel’s guests might step out into the hall, which meant it was important to drag Ghomara into the storage room as quickly as possible. But the Moroccan was heavy, so it took quite a bit of effort to pull him through the door, and 47 felt a sense of relief once the chore was over.
The moment the door was closed he took a quick tour through Ghomara’s pockets. The effort produced a key card that would get him into the American’s suite, as well as the keys needed to operate the lift-equipped van parked in the hotel’s garage. The agent toyed with the idea of taking the Moroccan’s clothes, but couldn’t see any benefit to doing so, especially given the fact that everything would be at least one size too big.
So he used hand towels to bind and gag Ghomara in hopes that he would remain undiscovered until the following day.
Finally, after days of preparation, Agent 47 was ready.
The hotel suite consisted of a nicely furnished sitting room, a bedroom, and a bathroom. All decorated with the same beige Oasis-print wallpaper, beautifully framed black-and-white photos of the Sahara, and carefully set tiled floors. The room was equipped with air conditioning, which was set to a chilly 68 degrees, and blowing cold air into the room as the American readied himself for an evening out.
Wayne Bedo could walk, albeit with some difficulty, and was standing in front of the bathroom mirror buttoning his shirt when he heard a knock, followed by a familiar double-click as the door to his suite opened and closed.
“Nathan?” the American inquired. “Is that you?”
“No,” Agent 47 replied from the entryway. “Mr. Ghomara is ill, so they sent me to replace him. May I come in?”
Bedo swore, dropped into the wheelchair, and propelled it out into the sitting room, where a tall man in a red fez stood waiting.
“My name is Kufa,” the assassin lied solemnly. “Can I help with your shoes and socks?”
Bedo knew better than to trust strangers, but the man with the pencil-thin mustache was obviously acquainted with Ghomara, and in possession of the access card. That, plus the immediate offer to provide Bedo with some much-needed assistance, served to put the American’s fears to rest.
“Yes,” he replied. “They’re in the bedroom closet.”
It took the better part of an hour to get the rest of Bedo’s clothes on, strap the American into his wheelchair, and push him out into the hallway. And that’s where they were when Bedo ordered 47 to stop.
“My mask is in the bedroom closet,” he said flatly. “Go get it.”
So the assassin reentered the hotel room and went to the closet, where a Bacchus mask—complete with a wreath of stylized grapes—was waiting on the top shelf. Agent 47 was struck by the extent to which the heavily furrowed brow, the big staring eyes, and the prominent teeth resembled Bedo’s actual appearance.
He returned to the hallway, after which it was a relatively simple matter to take the American down into the underground garage, load him into the lift-equipped van, and drive the vehicle out of the hotel. But due to the usual heavy traffic, it took a full forty-five minutes to complete the journey from the Oasis Hotel to the Al-Fulani Orphanage, where staff members helped unload their wheelchair-bound guest. And being familiar with the American by that time, the security guards waved both men inside, without so much as a glance at Bedo’s ID card.
There was a loud beep as both the wheelchair and a pair of Silverballers rolled through the metal detector, but that was to be expected, given all the metal in the conveyance. So the two men were allowed to proceed without further inspection.
A valet drove the van away as 47 pushed the wheelchair into a large reception area. Formal stairs led up to the second floor, the walls were covered with red wallpaper, and a table loaded with drinks and appetizers had been set up at the very center of the entry hall. The setting was more appropriate to a bordello than an orphanage. And a bordello it was.
However, judging from the heavily made-up, scantily clad boys and girls who came forward to greet the American, this wasn’t just any house of ill repute, but one designed to appeal to a clientele of pedophiles from all over the world, most of whom were wearing masks, lest they be recognized.
Bedo welcomed two little girls onto his lap as the assassin scanned the room. Having penetrated the orphanage, his plan was to take Bedo into the men’s room, fiber-wire him, and park him on a commode. With that accomplished, he would wait for Al-Fulani and ambush him as he approached a urinal. Having shot the Moroccan full of sedatives, 47 would belt him into Bedo’s wheelchair. Bodyguards, if any, would be invited into the restroom, and shot with the silencer-equipped Silverballers smuggled in along with the chair.
At that point, with the Bacchus mask covering Al-Fulani’s face, it would be relatively easy to take the unconscious businessman out through security, load him into the van, and drive him into the countryside.
But if he and Bedo disappeared into the restroom for too long, it might draw attention. So he wanted to make sure Al-Fulani was present. He felt sure he would be able to recognize the Moroccan even if he were wearing a mask—thanks to the deferential manner in which the staff would interact with him. But there was no sign of the man.
Not yet, anyway.
So 47 was forced to push Bedo into what once had been a ballroom, as the so-called “guests” were invited to watch a “talent show.” The walls were covered with mirrors that would multiply the images of whatever took place, and thereby intensify it. A lighting grid dangled above the low, circular platform at the center of the room, which served as a stage. Guests were invited to choose seats around the circumference of the platform, leaving two aisles via which the preteen performers could come and go.
Agent 47 felt his stomach lurch at the sight. The setup was reminiscent of the asylum’s gymnasium, and he recalled the performances that had been held there. Rather than perform sex with adults, however, as the orphanage’s children were clearly expected to do, the assassin and his clone brothers had been forced into brutal fights.
As the audience began to applaud, and a dozen half-naked boys and girls were sent out to engage in a highly sexualized parody of a beauty contest, the assassin found himself reliving a very different performance that took place many years before.
It was winter. The asylum’s heating system had never been that good, and the air inside the gymnasium was cold. So much so that the boy named 47 could see his breath as he followed his brothers through double doors and out onto the worn hardwood floor.
Once they had lined up in front of the boxing ring, the boys were introduced to an audience that consisted of Dr. Otto Wolfgang Ort-Meyer’s friends and associates. Ort-Meyer was the man who—along with four former legionnaires—was responsible for having created the clones. But even though the boys shared the same DNA, experience had exerted a profound impact on personality, granting each brother a decidedly different identity.
The visitors, some two dozen in all, wore ski parkas, expensive overcoats, and in some cases, furs. They were seated on padded bleachers, and each was equipped with a thermos filled with coffee, tea, or hot buttered rum. They clapped as each boy was introduced, took a step forward, and stood with his chest out and shoulders back while statistics regarding his past fights were read out loud. Each round of applause was followed by a rustle of activity as members of the audience placed bets on the various bouts.
47’s record was well above average, and he was rewarded with more applause than most.
Yet that was nothing compared to the standing ovation reserved for number 6. Not only was he the asylum’s most accomplished kickboxer, but 47’s personal nemesis. No matter what the boy did to avoid notice, 6 consistently sought him out, called him names like “my little bitch,” and constantly taunted him. Which was why 47, who was slated to battle 6 during the third round, felt a persistent emptiness in the pit of his stomach.
Once 6 had been introduced and collected his applause, he turned to wink at 47, as if to say, “Here it comes!” before taking a step back into line.
Some of the visitors laughed when they saw that, and the betting was brisk as they put even more money on 6.
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