The bark was already starting to form itself in the German shepherd’s throat when 47 squeezed the trigger. There was a soft phut as the dart flew straight and true, followed by a startled yelp as the needle entered flesh and delivered a 5:1 combination of ketamine and xylazine into the dog’s circulatory system. The animal took three staggering steps, wobbled as it tried to remain upright, and collapsed. Which was perfect.
But had anyone heard?
Agent 47 hesitated for a moment, blood pounding in his ears, before vaulting over the wall. The guards would find the dog—that was a given—but how soon? The challenge was to recover the dart and enter the house before the animal was discovered.
One of many things the operative had learned from Maria was that the security cameras went unmonitored during the day, on the theory that there was no need for electronic surveillance as long as the guards were patrolling the grounds. Was the same true at night? Agent 47 would find out soon enough as he raced across the yard to the point where the semiconscious dog lay, plucked the yellow-feather dart out of the animal’s side, and slipped it into a pocket. This small detail was crucial. With nothing else to go on, the guards would conclude that the animal was sick, and hopefully focus on him rather than search for an intruder.
Moments later a male voice was heard calling for the German shepherd and it became steadily louder. The assassin felt something heavy land in the pit of his stomach as he made for the back door. Would there be sufficient time to pick the lock? No, 47 was pretty sure that there wouldn’t be, as he put his hand on the doorknob and twisted.
The knob turned, the door opened, and he was inside!
What about the alarm? Surely Thorakis would have one. But no, the house was as quiet as a tomb, with only the ticking of a grandfather clock to break the otherwise perfect silence. This suggested that the person who was in charge of security was entirely too reliant on the human factor.
Worried lest he make noise, or track telltale dirt through what Maria claimed was a spotlessly clean house, 47 removed his shoes, tied the shoelaces together so he could hang them around his neck, and ghosted from room to room.
After a short time, confident that he knew the layout by heart, he followed the dimly lit back stairs all the way up to the unfinished attic, where—according to Maria—the senior housekeeper had occasional trysts with the shipping magnate’s chef, who was something of a ladies’ man.
Having attained his goal, Agent 47 shrugged his way out of the day pack, reloaded the air pistol, and zipped the weapon away. Maybe, if he had gauged the dosage correctly, he would be able to escape without having to sedate the dog again. Especially if the guards took the animal to a vet and left it there overnight. In the meantime there was plenty of food and water in the pack along with an MP3 player to see him through the boring hours ahead.
Moving with extreme caution, he made his way over to a jumble of boxes, and crawled behind several of them. The floor was hard, but he was used to that, and found a spot that was both comfortable and defensible.
Meanwhile, one floor below, the man Agent 47 was planning to kill was wide awake and staring at the ceiling.
Even though things were going well for him, and he had every reason to be happy, it felt as if ice-cold fingers were clutching his intestines.
Why?
There was no way to know—and the hours seemed to crawl by.
PATRAS, GREECE
Sunlight sparkled on the surface of the bay, and a powerful speedboat carved a long white line through the blue water as it towed a bikini-clad teenager past the Jean Danjou’s lofty stern. The young woman waved, and although Mr. Nu waved back, Diana didn’t.
Which wasn’t too surprising, given the controller’s official status as a prisoner, and the chrome bracelet that encircled one of her shapely ankles. The leg iron was connected to a stanchion by a six-foot length of stainless steel chain intended to keep the woman from diving off the ship and swimming ashore. A long pull, but a feat that Diana thought she was probably capable of.
However, the bracelet and chain were really a kindness, a way to let Diana up on the deck, rather than keep her confined in the brig below. More than that, a sign that Mr. Nu was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, even if many of The Agency’s board members were already convinced of her guilt and eager to see her punished.
But Diana found it difficult to sit at the linen-covered table and soak up the Mediterranean sun knowing that the last days of her life might be ticking away. Even though Agent 47 claimed to have knowledge of who the real turncoat was, the assassin was in Sintra, Portugal, and hadn’t been heard from since his meeting with Nu.
Was that because he had followed the wrong lead?
Because he was dead?
There was no way to know. So as Diana surveyed the harbor and took a sip of chilled wine, death was very much on her mind. The controller wanted to live, but knew that she, like every other member of the human race, was one day going to die.
The only question was: When?
A uniformed crew member approached the table. He was dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt, matching shorts, and deck shoes. As with all of the other crew members he was careful to ignore the ankle bracelet and chain.
“There’s a phone call for you, sir,” the crew member said respectfully. “Should we put it through?”
Everyone was aware that Nu coveted the hour between five and six. It was when he liked to sit on the stern and enjoy an uninterrupted cocktail. So, given the fact that the people in the control room had seen fit to send a messenger, the call was probably important. Mr. Nu sighed. “Who is it?”
“Agent 47, sir,” the crewman answered.
Diana felt her heart leap, and saw her companion’s eyebrows rise.
“Patch him through,” Nu instructed. “I’ll take the call.”
“They already have,” the messenger said expressionlessly. “He’s on line two.”
The phone was already on the table. All the executive had to do was to push the appropriate button. Diana was grateful he put the call on speaker.
“Agent 47?” Nu inquired. “I must say, it’s about time.”
The assassin kept his voice low, which led Diana to believe that he was in a position that could be compromised.
“Sorry, sir, but I’ve been busy.”
Nu glanced at Diana.
“Don’t keep me in suspense, 47. What, if anything, have you been able to learn?”
“I still believe Thorakis is the man that we’re looking for…but I haven’t been able to find proof. That’s where you come in.”
Nu frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Here’s what I want you to do,” 47 explained. “Tell all of the board members—including Thorakis—that I know who the traitor is, and that I’m on my way to kill that individual. But don’t identify anyone by name. And find an opportunity to let the name ‘Hotel Central’ slip out. It’s an establishment that Thorakis is bound to recognize.
“If our man is innocent, he won’t do anything at all. But I’m betting that he’ll phone his contact within the Puissance Treize and beg for help. When that help comes, I’ll be waiting. And that will constitute the proof we need.”
“And then?” Mr. Nu wanted to know.
“And then Mr. Thorakis is going to have an accident,” the assassin responded flatly.
The sun was on the edge of the horizon by then, and Diana felt a sudden chill. She lacked a sweater, so she wrapped her arms around her torso instead.
“I like it,” the executive replied coldly. “I like it very much. But be careful. Assuming things go the way you expect them to, the people the Puissance Treize send will be very, very good. Do you need help?”
“Thanks,” 47 replied. “But no thanks.”
“All right then,” Nu said. “Keep me informed.”
“I will,” the assassin assured him. “And I have a message for Diana….”
The executive looked from the phone to the controller an
d back again.
“Yes? What is it?”
“Tell her she owes me.”
Diana was about to reply when she heard a click, followed by a dial tone.
She deserved to die for some of things she had done. By most people’s standards anyway. But maybe, just maybe, a guardian angel was about to save her.
If so, he would be a dark angel, sent from a place other than heaven.
Chapter Nineteen
THE RHINE RIVER VALLEY, NEAR COLOGNE, GERMANY
A large banner had been strung between two of the weather-beaten columns that were evenly spaced along the front of the sun-splashed terrace. It read HAPPY BIRTHDAY NICOLE, in big blue letters. Colorful groupings of balloons bobbed here and there, a long narrow table occupied the center of the space, where dirty plates and the half-eaten remains of a very expensive birthday cake could still be seen.
Children squealed with excitement as they chased each other back and forth, completely unaware of the dark deeds that had been carried out within the castle during the last five hundred years, or the blood money required to purchase and maintain the fortress now. And even though some of the adults who were seated around well-set tables knew about such things, they too were lost in the moment.
Pierre Douay’s daughter, Nicole, had just turned seven, the children were enjoying themselves, and it was a lovely day.
Such was the scene when the phone in Douay’s pocket began to vibrate. The Frenchman didn’t want to answer it, but that particular number was known to less than thirty people, every one of whom was extremely important in one way or another. So Douay swore silently, went inside in order to get away from the noise, and eyed the incoming number.
The call was from Aristotle Thorakis, a man the executive had come to detest, but was still in a position to provide the Puissance Treize with valuable information. Which was the only reason Douay thumbed the device on.
It was like opening a floodgate.
“Pierre?” Thorakis demanded emotionally. “It’s a disaster, I tell you. An unmitigated disaster! A man named Agent 47 captured one of your people, a Moroccan I think, and found out about me!
“Agent 47 reported in and he’s on his way to kill me! I need protection, Pierre. Lots of protection—and I need it now.”
Douay had always been able to remain calm, even when those all about him were losing their nerve, and began his analysis by cross-checking the known facts.
Al-Fulani was missing, and had been for more than a week, which seemed to lend credence to the story. Couple that with the failed attempt on Agent 47’s life, and that individual’s reputation for tenaciousness, and there was the very real possibility that the Greek was correct.
But why protect him? Especially given how annoying the shipping magnate had become.
The answer was glaringly obvious. Thorakis was into the Puissance Treize for 500 million euros. A significant sum that might go unrecovered if the Greek was killed. And what then? the executive wondered. Who would the partners blame? That, too, was glaringly obvious.
Besides which, there still might be a great deal of valuable information to extract from the annoying man’s brain before they decided whether or not to kill him.
“Stay where you are,” Douay ordered. “I’ll send a team. A good team. They’ll kill 47. Then, with him out of the way, we’ll pull you out of Sintra. The Agency will be angry, but we’ll cut a deal with them.”
“Really?” Thorakis inquired hopefully. “You can do that?”
“Of course I can,” Douay replied confidently. “Don’t worry about it. Just stay where you are and wait for my people to arrive.”
The shipping magnate was grateful, almost too grateful, and the Frenchman felt a sense of disgust as the Greek told him where the assassin would be staying. Then the line went dead.
The next part was easy, as a two-person hunter-killer team was taken off an assignment in Prague and redirected to Sintra.
Once that chore was out of the way, Douay had to face something more difficult. He needed to activate the alternate identities that had been established for his wife and children, years before. Once that was accomplished he would send them to the retreat in French Polynesia and prepare for the reprisals that were sure to follow. Even if the Puissance Treize were able to eliminate 47 and protect Thorakis, The Agency would come looking for someone to kill. And Pierre Douay’s name would appear near the top of the list. While Legard, ironically enough, would be relatively safe in prison!
It felt as though the sunshine had lost all of its warmth as the Frenchman stepped out onto the terrace. The laughter sounded discordant, and the smiles looked false.
That was the moment when Douay realized how exposed the terrace was, how easy it would be for someone to shoot Nicole from a thousand yards away, and he called to his guests.
The party was over.
Chapter Twenty
SINTRA, PORTUGAL
Having successfully escaped from the Greek’s mansion during the hours of darkness, Agent 47 had returned to the hotel and was sitting in the lobby when the Puissance Treize hunter-killer team checked in. It was no accident that he’d been waiting for them. They were dressed like tourists, but the assassin knew them the same way that one animal knows another. They were towing their own luggage, so no one could tamper with their belongings, notice how heavy the suitcases were, or accidentally misplace them.
The man was about six-two, well built, and had fair skin. His hair was blond, too short to grab hold of, and worn in a flattop. He was dressed in a dark blue sport shirt that was one size too big so it would hang over the bulge high on his right hip.
And as Mr. Flattop took care of the check-in formalities, his female companion was facing the lobby, rather than the counter. That was the key to the hunter-killer concept. One person, the woman most likely, functioned as the hunter. Her job was to spot the prey, bring him in close if that were possible, and provide security while the killer took the target out.
Like her partner, the hunter was blond, with athletically short hair and the long lean body of a tennis player. Her clothing was very chic, except for the fanny pack she wore draped across her lower abdomen. The perfect place to keep a semiauto and some spare magazines. She had very blue eyes, and when they came to rest on the man with the big paunch, he was already snapping pictures of her.
It was just the sort of thing Tazio Scaparelli would do if he saw a pretty woman and didn’t know who she was. Who could possibly keep track of all the starlets, models, and aristocrats who were roaming Europe? The safest thing to do was take pictures, and establish their value later. Agent 47 could tell that the hunter didn’t like having her picture taken, but there wasn’t much she could do about it, and her eyes drifted away as the camera was lowered.
So Al-Fulani was right, Agent 47 mused. Thorakis is guilty—and Diana is innocent. Mr. Nu will be pleased, and all things considered, so am I.
With the basic assessment out of the way, the assassin took his armchair analysis to the next level. The hunter and the killer were professional partners, but were they lovers as well? If they were, then Mr. Flattop would feel protective toward her. Something 47 might use against him, and one of the reasons why the assassin preferred to work alone.
As the couple received their keys and turned to follow a bellman toward one of the Central’s ancient elevators, the operative came to the conclusion that the answer to his question was a definite “yes.” The two were lovers. His observation wasn’t based on anything obvious, like a wedding ring, but on more subtle factors. Like the failure to maintain enough space between their bodies, the familiar manner in which they touched each other, and the way Mr. Flattop allowed his partner to board the elevator first.
All of which meant that by the time the elevator doors closed on the couple, 47 had already decided how to kill them. Their strength stemmed from the hunter-killer concept and closeness of their relationship. So the first thing to do was divide and conquer.
But how?
>
The logical thing to do was eliminate the hunter first, because she would be easier to kill, and because her death would make Mr. Flattop angry. And it was 47’s intention to use the other man’s grief and rage against him.
The man known as Tazio Scaparelli fought his way up out of the armchair and waddled away. The war was about to begin—and it was time to prepare.
The woman’s name was Tova Holm, and it was her job to find the target so Hans Pruter could kill him. And thanks to the fact that The Agency assassin was already registered at the hotel, the task would be that much easier. Once they figured out who the man was.
The first step would be to gain access to the Central’s guest list by bribing one of the clerks, flirting with one of them, or hacking into the hotel’s computer system. An often tiresome process that Holm wanted to avoid if possible.
Having donned a skimpy tennis outfit, the shapely blonde went down to the front desk and approached a clerk, who clearly couldn’t take his eyes off her. Having smiled beguilingly, she launched into a story about having spotted an old friend as she entered the elevator, and wanting to contact her. The problem being that she had forgotten the woman’s married name. She would remember the name, however, if she could take a look at the guest list.
The clerk knew it was wrong, but wanted to please the pretty young woman, and agreed to provide the blonde with a printout, as long as she wouldn’t tell anyone. So ten minutes later, Holm and Pruter were sitting in their room, going over the registry, and highlighting the names they considered to be most promising.
“He’s an expert where disguises are concerned,” Pruter reminded her. “But there are certain things one can’t hide. Height being the most obvious.”
While Pruter remained in the room, so he could clean his weapons, Holm took the list and went to work. The obvious place to start was with the maids, all of whom were poorly paid and eager to make a few extra euros. It wasn’t long before the guest list had been reduced to three men. Alexandru Cosma, a Romanian who had arrived earlier that morning. Tazio Scaparelli, the Italian photographer who had taken her picture in the lobby, and George Fuller, an American tourist.
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