Hitman: Enemy Within

by William C. Dietz

  Not for murder, which he deserved, but for tax evasion. An offense so pedestrian as to be ridiculous.

  Prisoners and guards seemed to simply melt away as the Puissance Treize chief and his entourage turned into a main corridor and made their way toward the security checkpoint where Legard would be searched prior to being released into the visitor center that lay beyond. The screening process was something not even Legard could avoid, although the normally arrogant guards were careful to preserve the prisoner’s sense of dignity, knowing what could happen to them if they didn’t.

  In fact, it had been less than a year since a new staff member had referred to Legard as an estropié repugnant. The guard, his wife, and both of their children had been mysteriously murdered three days later. No one had been arrested for the crime as yet, but the message was clear, and Legard had been treated with the utmost delicacy ever since.

  Having been cleared through the security checkpoint, he was left to lurch across an open area to the row of narrow cubicles where prisoners could talk to visitors through sheets of cloudy Plexiglas. Consistent with the prepaid bribes that he had received, the guard responsible for regulating the flow of inmates took care to slot Legard into a booth between two empties; a seemingly trivial favor, but one that would serve to protect the man’s privacy—something that was very important to him.

  Pierre Douay had come to dread his visits with Legard. Both because of the unpleasant surroundings and the Managing Director’s ceaseless demands for a new trial, better medical care, and more fresh fruit. As Legard entered the cubicle on the other side of the Plexiglas and laid the crutches on the floor, Douay dipped a hand into a coat pocket and activated a scrambler that resembled a popular brand of MP3 player.

  The Managing Director had always been a small man, but had lost quite a bit of weight since the failed assassination attempt, and was about the size of an average teenaged boy. He had thick white hair, a face that could only be described as gaunt, and lips so thin his mouth resembled a horizontal slash. A chromed metal grille was mounted in the Plexiglas, but given how loud the background sound was, both men were forced to lean in close in order to hear each other without being overheard by others.

  “Good morning, sir,” Douay began politely. “How are you?”

  “How the hell do you think I am?” Legard demanded sourly. “I feel like shit! When are you going to get me out of this stinking cesspool?”

  “Soon,” Douay promised soothingly. “Very soon.”

  “That’s what you said last time,” the older man complained bitterly. “Yet I’m still here.”

  “These things take time,” Douay replied. “The wheels of government grind slowly. But the lawyers tell me that in four months, six at the most, our request for an appeal will be granted. Once we know which judge and prosecutor have been assigned to the case, we’ll bring them around. But until that time, we simply don’t know who to target.”

  Everything Douay said was true, and Legard knew it, but the crime boss was rightfully suspicious.

  “So you say, Pierre…so you say. But I’m no fool! The longer I remain locked up in prison—the longer you remain in charge of the Puissance Treize.”

  Douay had been on the receiving end of that accusation many times before, and his answer was ready.

  “But I’m not in charge, sir. You are. All I do is pass your instructions along to the partners. And, because you have sources of information other than myself, you know that I continue to serve you well.”

  “The profits are good,” Legard admitted grudgingly. “But what about the Sinon Project? How is that going?”

  Sinon was the ancient Greek spy who, if the legends were correct, was the person who convinced the Trojans to open the gates and allow the wooden horse to enter Troy.

  “It’s going well,” Douay answered honestly. “By planting large amounts of money on one of The Agency’s most trusted employees, we were able to divert attention away from the real traitor. And he continues to provide us with a continual flow of useful information. Some of which must be ignored, if we are to preserve the source.”

  “I understand that,” Legard grated as he stared through the Plexiglas. “But remember this: It’s my intent to crush The Agency. Not just nibble it to death! And one of the best ways to accomplish this is to destroy their most effective operatives. You missed Agent 47 the first time. Don’t make the same mistake again.”

  Whether it was true or not, Legard expressed the belief that the mysterious Agent 47 had fired the 7.62×51 mm bullet that was responsible for his useless leg. This was one reason why a trap had been laid for the operative during the earliest phase of Project Sinon. But every attempt to eliminate 47 had failed, and the assassin was still on the loose.

  “Yes, sir,” Douay said humbly. “If we see an opportunity to kill him, we will.”

  Blood rose to suffuse Legard’s otherwise pallid face, his eyes seemed to glow as if lit from within, and spittle flew from his lips as he spoke.

  “Make an opportunity, goddamn you! Or I’ll put you on crutches—or worse—and see how you like it!”

  This time the crime boss’s voice had been loud enough to turn heads, and Douay was conscious of the fact that people were staring at him as he lifted a fruit basket up off the floor.

  “I brought some apples, sir. Plus bananas and grapes. I’ll pass them to the guards on my way out.”

  “I’m sorry,” Legard said contritely, and sighed as he looked away. “I’m an old man, and I say foolish things. I know you’ll do your best.”

  “It’s very difficult in here,” Douay said sympathetically. “I realize that—and I’m sorry.”

  The visit came to an end shortly after that. Douay gave the basket of fruit to one of the guards, followed a young woman and her little girl out onto the busy street, and paused to reacclimate himself. That was when he took a deep breath, gave thanks for everything he had, and all he was going to have.

  Because it would be a cold day in hell when Louis Legard left Santé prison and felt warm sunshine on his ugly face.

  Chapter Eighteen

  LISBON, PORTUGAL

  The Portela airport had been opened in October of 1942 at the height of World War II. Because it was used by both the Germans and the British, the airfield had been the nexus of all sorts of espionage. And as Agent 47 entered the large, rather institutional terminal building, it was as if some of that history still lingered in the air.

  A large group of tourists had just come off a British Airways flight from London. Many were cranky, having just learned that their luggage was back in Heathrow, and wouldn’t arrive until the following day. The newly created paparazzo Tazio Scaparelli had no such difficulties, however, as the photographer went to retrieve his cheap vinyl suitcase, and hauled the bag out toward the front of the terminal. Thanks to the fact that he was traveling from one member of the European union to another, he wasn’t required to show a passport. A change for the better, insofar as lawbreakers such as himself were concerned.

  As the operative walked, his Nikon D2x digital camera had a tendency to bounce off his potbelly. Rather than walk around with a new camera, which might give him away, 47 had been careful to buy one that had already seen plenty of hard use, and showed it. Consistent with the Scaparelli persona, the Nikon was hanging at the ready, should some unsuspecting starlet cross his path. A little thing, it was true, but important, especially to the knowledgeable eye.

  As the assassin made his way through the terminal, he could feel dozens of eyes slide across him as a multitude of policemen, con artists, spies, drug dealers, thieves, gun runners, and other players compared his countenance to the ones they were looking for, then moved on. If any of the onlookers were employed by the Puissance Treize, none took notice of the fat man.

  The terminal building had been remodeled more than once over the years, and the current iteration consisted of a gently curved façade made out of glass, flanked by two rectangular columns. A row of tall, spindly evergreen
s stood guard between the main building and the parking lot. There were plenty of taxis, and having flagged one of them down, 47 was careful to negotiate the fee in advance. Just as he fancied Scaparelli would do.

  The town of Sintra was located eighteen miles northwest of Lisbon. The first part of the drive took the cab through Lisbon’s not very distinguished suburbs, but once clear of the urban blight 47 found himself in one of the most beautiful places in Portugal, if not the world. An area known for its cool summer air and lush vegetation, it was so pleasant that Portuguese kings and aristocrats once spent their summers there.

  Later, as word of Sintra’s beauty continued to spread, a steady stream of travelers visited the area. And they were still coming. Agent 47 knew that many tourists use Sintra as a base from which to explore the coast, while others take in local attractions like the Palacio Nacional de Sintra (Sintra Palace), the Regional Museum, and the Moorish Castle.

  But for people like Aristotle Thorakis, who could afford a three-hundred-year-old home situated on a half acre of very valuable real estate, the town was a quiet retreat. A place to escape the media that prowled the streets of London, Paris, and Rome. Or that’s what the glitterati were hoping for, although it was becoming increasingly difficult to escape the long lenses of men like Tazio Scaparelli.

  For his own quarters, Agent 47 had chosen the Hotel Central, which had been the place to stay back in the early 1900s, but had long since been overtaken by generations of newer establishments. Yet as the operative paid his fare, and towed his shabby bag into the dated lobby, some of the hotel’s original charm could still be seen in the richly polished wood, Portuguese tiles, and sturdy furniture that surrounded him.

  All of which served to confirm that the Central was the sort of slightly seedy hostelry where a man on a limited expense account would choose to stay. Not to mention the fact that it was located across from the Sintra Palace, which put the hotel right at the center of all the tourist activity, and not far from the sort of restaurants that a man like Thorakis was likely to frequent.

  As it turned out, Agent 47’s small, somewhat threadbare room was on the second floor, facing a rather noisy square. But that was okay with the assassin, since he didn’t plan to spend much time in it, and rarely had trouble falling asleep regardless of the din.

  Consistent with the part he was playing, Agent 47 made no attempt to secure his belongings. With the exception of the seemingly innocuous fiber-wire garrote, and what appeared to be an insulin kit, all of the assassin’s weapons were back in Rome. The whole idea was to let people search his luggage if they chose—knowing full well that everything they found would support his cover rather than blow it.

  Even the password-protected laptop and the satellite phone were consistent with the requirements of Scaparelli’s profession.

  Pleased with the way things had gone so far, and with plenty of daylight left, the operative took the Nikon and went down into the street. As he followed a gently curving street toward the area where most of the mansions were located, he noticed that the houses along the way had red-tiled roofs, all manner of wrought iron balconies, and generally looked sturdy rather than graceful. Peaked roofs were common, as were lots of evenly spaced windows and narrow passageways that ran between the buildings.

  But as the street took him down into what felt like a canyon, the architecture became increasingly diverse, and in many cases more elegant. A significant number of the homes built in this area over the last hundred years had been inspired by the architecture their owners were already familiar with or the rampant romanticism of the late eighteenth century. And the house Thorakis had chosen for his mistress fell into the latter category. It was three stories tall, and capped by all manner of interlocking pitched roofs. The walls were made of well-fitted gray stone, pierced here and there by windows that seemed too small for a building of that size, and were adorned with sculptural panels clearly imported from Germany or Bavaria.

  Consistent with both its size and importance, the house was set well back from the street, surrounded by deciduous trees that were hundreds of years old, and separated from its neighbors by a largely ornamental stone wall. Some rather obvious surveillance cameras could be seen here and there, which when combined with at least two uniformed security guards, would be sufficient to keep the Scaparellis of the world out.

  Conscious of the need to both establish his cover, and capture photographs of the mansion, 47 was careful to remove the lens cap before he brought the Nikon up and began to snap pictures. The long lens couldn’t reach through the curtained windows into the rooms beyond, but the assassin was able to obtain valuable close-ups of what appeared to be a card reader mounted next to the front door, both of the security guards, and the German shepherd that followed the men around.

  The operative had captured thirty-four exposures by the time a stranger appeared at his elbow. The newcomer was American, judging from his accent, and no more than five foot six. His clothes were black, as if that might make him look slimmer, and the soles of his shoes were at least an inch-and-a-half thick. He was armed with two cameras, one for long shots and the other for close-ups. Bright inquisitive eyes peered out from under thick eyebrows—and a two-day growth of black stubble covered his cheeks.

  “The Greek ain’t home,” the little man said laconically. “He went to Lisbon. He’ll probably be back for dinner, though. But you never know when Miss Desta will make an appearance.”

  “Thanks,” 47 said cautiously, as he lowered the camera. This was the situation he feared most. A one-on-one conversation with a genuine member of the paparazzi, in which he might give himself away. “I’m Tazio Scaparelli. I just flew in from Rome.”

  “My name’s Tony Fazio,” the other photographer said. “My family’s from Italy—but that was a long time ago. I grew up in New Jersey. Who are you shooting for?”

  Agent 47 had been waiting for that question, and had his answer ready. “I’m a freelancer. How ’bout you?”

  “Star Track sent me,” Fazio replied. “They want pictures of Thorakis humping his mistress. Shot from three feet away, if possible.”

  Agent 47 laughed. “Only three feet? You get the easy assignments.”

  The conversation lasted for another five minutes or so—and the operative had some valuable nuggets by the time he turned away. First, the master bedroom was best photographed from the hillside behind the house, the upper slopes of which were on public property. Second, the Greek’s Ethiopian mistress had once been a model, and was far from camera shy. Third, the couple ate out at least three times a week, often at the same French restaurant.

  It wasn’t clear which, if any, of those pieces of information would prove to be important, but 47 was more than satisfied with the results of his preliminary outing as he made his way back to the hotel. The next couple of hours were spent transferring the pictures he had taken to the laptop, going over them one by one, and learning as much as he could about the Greek’s security precautions.

  And it was during that process that 47 began to entertain new doubts. Not about his ability to penetrate the security cordon, and get close enough to kill Thorakis, but about the wisdom of doing so without more proof. The penalty for mistakenly assassinating a board member would be severe indeed.

  So, what to do? The answer—or so it seemed to Agent 47—was to make all the necessary preparations, but stop just short of killing Thorakis. Then, at the very last moment, he would call Nu and tell him to leak a lie, and wait to see what occurred.

  If the shipping magnate was the mole, he would immediately contact the Puissance Treize and ask for help. Thereby signaling his guilt.

  The plan was somewhat convoluted, but necessarily so, given the situation. More reconnaissance would be necessary, but thanks to the information he had gleaned earlier in the day, he felt reasonably sure that he would eventually find a way to enter the mansion.

  The killing itself—should it become necessary—couldn’t be done overtly. A homicide investigation mig
ht lead back to his employers. And it might alert the Puissance Treize that The Agency was onto them. Something best left until the reprisals were over, and the enemy was burying its dead.

  That suggested an “accident” of some sort. The kind everyone would accept. But how?

  That was a problem the assassin would have to work out on his own.

  * * *

  The Bon Appétit was everything 47 expected it to be, which was to say a Portuguese imitation of a French restaurant, complete with Eiffel Tower wallpaper, candlelit tables, and an imperious staff. According to the information provided by Fazio, Thorakis and his mistress typically ate dinner at 8:00, so Agent 47 arrived at 7:30. The Nikon was concealed in a shopping bag.

  Having been scrutinized by the maître d’, and clearly been found wanting, the man with the bald pate and protruding paunch was shown to a tiny table located right next to the kitchen. Which, ironically enough, was the sort of spot Agent 47 often chose for himself so he could escape out the back should the necessity arise.

  Indeed, it was a terrible table, since the heavily laden waiters had a tendency to brush it as they came and went, not to mention all the noise that emanated from the kitchen itself. However, 47 could hear snatches of conversation every once in a while, some of which were quite entertaining. The maître d’ was known as o porco (the pig), somebody named Joao was HIV-positive, and a person referred to as “the goddamned dishwasher” had quit without warning.

  Meanwhile, in between bits of culinary gossip, Agent 47 was served a hot hors d’oeuvre, yellow pepper soup, and a hearty boeuf Bourguignon, which left the assassin too full for dessert.

  At neighboring tables tourists from all over the world talked to one another about the castles they’d seen, what they were planning to do during their visit, and a variety of personal matters, all of which seemed to center around money, sex, and power. What 47 thought of as the “unholy trinity,” since those issues were at the heart of every murder he was hired to carry out.