But while such contemplations were interesting, his true reason for eating at the Bon Appétit was nowhere to be seen. So 47 paid the bill, took his camera, and left the establishment.
Once outside, the assassin retraced his steps from earlier in the day, except that this time he went uphill when the street split, rather than follow it down as he had before. It was dark by now, but the soft night air, the spill of light from the old-fashioned street lamps, and the buttery glow that emanated from the surrounding windows combined to create a surreal sense of peace and quiet.
It wasn’t long before he arrived at a point directly above and behind the stone house. Others were out and about as well, so it was necessary for him to bend over awkwardly, and retie a shoelace while a German couple walked past. Then, once the tourists were a good fifty feet down the street, it was time to swing a leg up over the iron railing and lower himself into the inky blackness beyond.
The hillside was steep, and 47 very nearly lost his balance as his street shoes sent a small avalanche of dirt and gravel down the slope, but he was able to prevent what could have been a disastrous fall by grabbing on to a sturdy branch.
Most of the mansion’s lights were on, but there was a good deal of foliage in the way, so the agent knew it would be necessary to work his way farther downhill before there would be any possibility of seeing in. And that was unfortunate, because while it had been merely annoying up on the street, the potbelly was a real encumbrance on the hillside, and made it difficult for him to move.
Nevertheless, he got a better grip on the shopping bag, chose his footholds with care, and gradually worked his way down until he was standing on top of an ancient retaining wall. It was some fifteen feet higher than the stone wall that surrounded the property, and but a single glance was sufficient to confirm that he could see into at least some of the windows, including what appeared to be a well-lit master bedroom.
He lowered the shopping bag to the ground, fumbled for the Nikon, and was in the process of removing the lens cap when the German shepherd began to bark. The assassin froze as a security guard passed through the pool of illumination generated by a spotlight mounted under the eaves. The man said something unintelligible to the animal, which came over to collect a pat on the head before following the human around a corner.
The agent waited a full ten seconds before bringing the camera up and turning it on. He could see that there was someone in the bedroom, and once he brought the image into focus, everything came clear. A beautiful black woman was seated in front of a mirror, brushing her hair, and staring at her own reflection. The Nikon made its characteristic click-whir as Agent 47 began to take pictures. Not so much of her as of the room—reconnaissance that could be of value later on.
And he was still at it when he heard a rock rattle down the slope, and went for a Silverballer.
Except that his pistols were back in Rome.
That meant that his best defense would be to react the way Scaparelli would, which was with an aggressive attitude, and a certain amount of bluster.
“Who’s there?” he demanded with a hiss. “I have mace!”
“Save it for someone else,” Fazio said sotto voce, as he skidded into the shadow 47 currently occupied. “I never should have told you about the back-shot. So, is she naked?”
“No,” 47 said lightly. “But one can hope!”
“One sure can,” the American replied, as he brought a camera up to his eye. “Wait a minute. Who do we have here? Thorakis, that’s who! Okay, boys and girls, give me the money shot.”
Satisfied that he wasn’t about to be attacked by a counterassassin, Agent 47 turned back toward the house, and discovered that the paparazzo was correct. Thorakis had entered the bedroom, and judging from the towel that was wrapped around his waist, he was fresh from a shower. His broad shoulders were thick with curly black hair. The woman said something as the shipping magnate bent over to kiss her.
“Here we go!” Fazio enthused, as his camera clicked away. “Screw the bitch! Take her standing up!”
But as newsworthy as such an act might have been, it wasn’t going to happen. The window was open to let the night air enter the room, which meant both men could hear the phone ring. Fazio swore as Thorakis went to answer it, and his mistress left the room a few moments later.
The two lurkers waited, hoping for something more, but other than a few brief sightings, nothing particularly exciting happened. And once the upstairs lights went out, it was obviously time to adjourn.
“Looks like it’s time for a nightcap,” Fazio said glumly. “Want to join me?”
Agent 47 had absolutely no desire for a drink, but knew Scaparelli would accept the offer, which meant he had to as well. So the assassin followed the American through the trees, up the steep hillside, and onto the street above. From there it was a short walk to a bar where Fazio was greeted by his first name.
After a round of beers and a game of darts, 47 was able to excuse himself and return to the hotel. Once in his room he pushed the dresser in front of the door, made a place for himself on the floor, and promptly fell asleep.
There were dreams, however. Strange dreams that centered around a house that contained many rooms, a very elusive woman, and a clock that continued to tick even after the assassin fired six bullets into it.
Even though the back door was propped open, and a floor-mounted fan was positioned just inside, the kitchen’s interior was hot and steamy. Conditions Agent 47 was still in the process of getting used to, even though he’d been the Bon Appétit’s dishwasher for more than six hours by then. A job he had obtained by the simple expedient of showing up and asking for it. Not as Scaparelli, foam belly and all, but as a British drifter looking for a day’s pay on his way to the French Riviera.
Originally the ploy had seemed like a good idea, since it would put him inside the restaurant where Thorakis preferred to eat, but now he wasn’t so sure. What if the Greek failed to show? He would be trapped in this disgusting place, all those hours of hard work would be wasted, the better part of another day would have passed, and he would be no closer to his objective.
It seemed foolish to quit at that point, however, since the dinner crowd was filtering in, and the pace had started to quicken. The waiters shouted orders, the chefs swore at each other, and the fan roared as snatches of music came over the greasy boom box that rested on a shelf. Taken together, the noise, heat, and cooking odors made for a hellish environment.
Thankfully part of his job involved leaving the chaos of the kitchen for the relative calm of the dining room, where it was his job to retrieve plastic bins filled with dirty dishes. And even though it seemed as if time had slowed to a crawl, the room continued to fill.
And the moment the assassin had been hoping for finally arrived.
He had just left the kitchen to pick up the latest load of dishes when there was a commotion near the front entrance, and 47 turned to watch Thorakis and his entourage enter the restaurant. They were followed by a series of bright flashes as Fazio and a second member of the paparazzi tried to follow the party in, and the maître d’ forced them back. There was a sudden buzz of conversation as everyone turned to watch the newly arrived guests make their way back to the tables that had been reserved for them.
Most of those who were present had no idea who the couple were, but a few recognized them, and word began to spread. There was a rumble of approval as Thorakis held a chair for his mistress—followed by more conversation as the businessman’s two bodyguards were shown to an adjoining table. They looked tough, and judging from the way they handled themselves, they knew what they were doing.
Still another reason to come at Thorakis sideways, rather than head-on.
But there was a fifth member of the entourage, a sleek man with slicked-back hair, who was making his way back toward the kitchen door. That struck 47 as interesting, so he carried his bin full of dishes back into the kitchen, and placed them next to the sink. It was easy to listen in because the s
leek man had already entered into a shouting match with the senior chef.
“Mr. Thorakis eats here all the time!” the cook proclaimed indignantly. “So I am well aware of his allergy—and I can assure you that nothing harmful will be served to him. Perhaps you should get a real job, assuming you are qualified to cook a meal, which I doubt.”
“Are you insane?” the sleek man demanded, as he waved a piece of paper under the other man’s nose. “Look at this menu! What’s the third special from the top? Monga, which is a recipe from French Guinea. And what is the primary ingredient of Monga? Two pounds of roasted peanut butter, plus two tablespoons of peanut oil, which is enough to kill Mr. Thorakis a thousand times over!”
“But only if we were to serve it to him,” the chef countered angrily, “which we won’t!”
“Not intentionally, no,” the sleek man agreed. “But who knows how many of your cooking implements and surfaces have been contaminated? The choice is simple. You can prepare my client’s food under my supervision, or the entire party will leave, and never come back.”
That was a potent threat, since Thorakis was known as a big spender, and a draw for other customers, as well. So the chef knew how the restaurant’s owner would respond—and was forced to back off.
Agent 47 was ordered to clean a work area under the sleek man’s supervision—even as the necessary cooking utensils were scrubbed and dipped in boiling water. Then—and only then—was the restaurant’s head chef allowed to prepare the chicken breasts stuffed with goat cheese that Thorakis doted on.
Three additional hours passed before Agent 47 washed the last dish, collected his pay, and departed the restaurant. It had been a long, hard day, but a profitable one. One part of the puzzle had been filled in. Thorakis had a weakness, a potentially fatal weakness, and all 47 needed to do was find a way to take advantage of it.
It was late afternoon, and the air was still warm as the domestic made her way down the street and stopped at the corner. There wasn’t all that much traffic, but Maria was careful to look both ways before she crossed to the other side. She was tired, very tired, as were all the staff whenever Mr. Thorakis was in residence.
Miss Desta could be trying, especially when she spent too much time looking at herself in the mirror, but the Ethiopian model had been born into poverty, and knew what it was like to serve others. That made her more understanding.
Not Mr. Thorakis, though…
The Greek was often irritable, especially when his business was doing poorly, which seemed to be all of the time these days. That was when he threw things, like the Gucci loafer that had hit her earlier that day, and the magazine the day before. Such acts were almost always followed by a twenty-euro bill a few hours later. But like most of the staff members, Maria would have preferred an apology.
She could quit, of course, but to do what? Lacking the sort of good looks that would attract a man, or the skills that businesses were looking for, Maria knew her only other choice would be to work in one of Sintra’s hotels. The sort of job that would not only pay less, but force her to endure a year-round grind as an endless procession of tourists came and went. Even though things were difficult at the moment, Thorakis typically spent most of his time elsewhere, which made for relatively easy days when he was gone.
Such were the maid’s thoughts as a man carrying a complicated-looking camera stepped out to bar the way.
“Hello!” he said cheerfully. “May I speak to you for a moment?”
Maria had heard about men who did horrible things to young women, but this man, with his big potbelly, looked harmless enough, and there were plenty of tourists in the vicinity, so she paused.
“You want to speak with me?” she responded. “Why?”
“Because you’re an important member of the Thorakis household, that’s why,” the man responded. “And I work for Le Monde. It’s a newspaper. We’re doing a profile on Mr. Thorakis, and would like to learn more about his home life.”
Maria was intrigued. No one ever asked her opinion on anything—not even her parents—and here was a man who thought she was “important.”
“What would you like to know?” she inquired cautiously. “Will it get me in trouble?”
“Trivial things for the most part,” the fat man said reassuringly. “Quality of life things. Like what time does Mr. Thorakis go to bed? When does he eat? That sort of stuff. And don’t worry—I won’t use your name. Plus, if you join me for a cup of coffee at that café over there, I’ll pay you one hundred euros for your time.”
Maria glanced at the establishment in question and back at the man again. Coffee was safe, the café was safe, and a hundred euros was a lot of money. Plus, what was there to go home to? Her mother’s nagging? And her father’s endless demands?
“Okay,” she said slyly, “but I want fifty euros up front.”
The man smiled. “You’re a very smart young woman. Let’s adjourn to the café, where I can give you the first half of the payment without anyone taking notice.”
Maria liked that idea, because Sintra was a small town, and she didn’t want to be seen accepting cash from a foreigner, especially not out here on a main street. Even a whisper of scandal would cause Maria’s father to whip her with his belt. Because in his view, his daughter’s virginity was the only asset she had.
So the two of them went to the café, where the man slipped fifty euros to the maid under the table, and ordered coffee for both of them. The conversation lasted for more than an hour, because the reporter from Le Monde was not only fascinated by the most mundane details of Maria’s job, but by the people she worked with, as well as their interpersonal relationships.
Therefore she was exhausted by the time the interview finally came to a close—and the fellow passed another fifty-euro note under the table.
“Thank you, Maria,” he said sincerely. “You’ve been very helpful. Now remember, I won’t mention your name in the article—and you must remain silent, as well. Otherwise you could lose your job.”
Maria nodded, came to her feet, and glanced at her watch. It was dinnertime! And Maria wasn’t there to help. Her mother would be furious.
Still, the interview had been worth it, and the maid felt happy as she hurried away.
Having determined the internal layout of the house, along with the habits of those who lived there, 47 was that much closer to being ready. But one problem remained, and that was how to enter the mansion, and do so at the correct time. Which, based on information provided by Maria, would be during the day. The most difficult time of all.
The assassin drained the last of his coffee, left the café, and waddled up the street.
The assassin was worried—and had good reason to be, he knew—as the minutes and hours continued to tick away. More than half the time allotted to him by Mr. Nu had already come off the clock, and there was still a lot of work left to do. Finding a way to enter the mansion during the day was proving to be difficult. No, impossible, since none of the schemes he had considered proved feasible.
Take the “magazine” man, for example. His name was Pedro, and based on the research that the assassin had carried out, he was a retired carpenter who pulled in a few euros a day by driving his beat-up sedan into Lisbon at four in the morning, buying newspapers and magazines that wouldn’t arrive in Sintra until late that afternoon, then delivering them to the mansion so Thorakis could scan them while he ate his breakfast. That raised the possibility that 47 could bribe the man, pose as his son, and come along for the ride. Then, once the guards were used to seeing the new face, the rest would be easy. Except that Pedro never spent more than five minutes in the house, which meant his fake son wouldn’t be allowed to either, which left the assassin back at the starting point.
A couple of other possibilities were eliminated in the same fashion. That left the operative with growing frustration, and he was beginning to wonder if his whole plan was going down the drain.
Finally, he decided that the simple approach would be t
he best. Once most of Sintra’s citizens were asleep, he would enter the mansion during the hours of darkness, hide until daylight, and carry out the assassination. Then, rather than flee, he would return to his hiding place and remain there until the ensuing ruckus was over.
Assuming the plan was successful, the Greek’s death would look like an accident, which meant no one would come looking for him. Once nightfall returned, Agent 47 would sneak out of the house again, and slip over the wall.
From what the assassin had observed, Thorakis’s security had been allowed to lapse somewhat. Perhaps due to the cost and the business setbacks Maria had mentioned. According to her, the number of guards was one-third what it had once been, and the Greek had stopped monitoring the cameras twenty-four-seven. Perhaps he hoped their very presence would fool an intruder into thinking the place was secure.
He needed to find a way to neutralize the damned dog, though. Not kill it, because that would put the security guards on high alert, but incapacitate the animal for a while—long enough for him to get in and out.
The answer was the sedative that 47 had stolen from a local veterinarian’s office along with a variety of things meant to cover what the assassin really wanted. And, because the vet doubled as the local animal control officer, the assassin had been able to steal a dart gun as well.
Thus equipped, it was time for a dry run. This was one of the most important assignments of his career, and he wasn’t about to leave anything to chance.
Having left the Scaparelli outfit back at the hotel, Agent 47 eased his way down the hillside behind the house and bellied up to the stone wall. It was late, so most of the lights were off, and with the exception of the dog and two security guards, the entire household was clearly in bed.
The German shepherd was allowed to roam free, so it wasn’t long before the dog rounded a corner and paused to sample the night air. Agent 47 heard the animal growl deep in its throat, knew a bark would follow, and took careful aim. The air pistol could fire only one hypodermic dart at a time—which meant that the first shot would have to be dead-on. It was a lot to ask at night, especially since he was using an unfamiliar weapon.
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