Hitman: Enemy Within h-1

by William C. Dietz

  The restaurant was called The Pacific Rim, and it boasted a sweeping view of Seattle’s Elliott Bay and the snowcapped Olympic Mountains beyond. A prissy maître d’ was there to greet her and lead her to what was unarguably the best table in the restaurant. That’s where Kaberov sat, gazing out over the sparkling bay, as she spoke on her cell phone. A cruise ship was pulling away from a nearby dock as it departed for Alaska and a green and white ferryboat was about to dock as Marla stopped just short of the table.

  Her supervisor’s white hair was pulled back into a tight bun and she looked stylish in a simple blue knit dress from St. Johns. Tasteful gold jewelry and the Hermès handbag completed the outfit. Marla, who was dressed in a two-piece gray business suit and wearing a pair of colorful Pikilino shoes felt dowdy by comparison.

  Finally, having ignored Marla for at least two minutes, the older woman closed the flip-phone and eyed her guest with glacier-cold blue eyes.

  “You may sit down.”

  It had been awkward, standing there like a child waiting for permission to sit, and it was a relief to take the other chair.

  “I was speaking on the phone with Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani,” the Russian said, in a voice pitched so low that only Marla could hear her. “In spite of ample evidence to the contrary, he insists that you are normally quite competent, and should be given a second chance. I’m not so sure… Perhaps you will find the means to convince me.”

  Marla would have answered, but a formally attired waiter chose that moment to intervene, and Kaberov ordered for both of them. Something Marla would have taken exception to, had her hostess been anyone else. But in this case she was willing to tolerate just about any indignity in order to escape what could be a death sentence. Because while the Puissance Treize could be generous to its more reliable employees, it had a very low tolerance for failure.

  “So,” Kaberov began. Her English was quite good, in spite of a slight Russian accent. “I read the report you filed, and was impressed by how objective it was. You made no attempt to conceal your incompetence or evade responsibility for what can only be categorized as a disaster. You had been told who was coming, when he would arrive, and what he planned to do. Yet you managed to take what should have been a routine hit and turn it into a major debacle. Now, having had time to reflect on what took place, tell me where you went wrong.”

  Marla felt an obstruction block the back of her throat, and struggled to swallow it.

  “In retrospect I realize that I should have warned the Big Kahuna, and enlisted his aid before The Agency’s assassin arrived.”

  Kaberov nodded her agreement.

  “You were grandstanding. Trying to impress everyone with how omnipotent you were. And it cost you… Worse yet, it cost us. Fortunately the witnesses are dead. With one notable exception. And someone took the surveillance tape. Was that you?”

  “Yes,” Marla lied smoothly. “I destroyed it.”

  “Good,” Kaberov replied grudgingly. “That, at least, was the competent thing to do. Although it should have been included in the report. In any case, based on the number of bodies that were found, it’s clear that Agent 47 escaped. And eliminating him was the true purpose of sending you there.”

  There might have been more, except that the waiter arrived with what turned out to be excellent chicken salad, hard rolls, and iced tea. And rather than continue the conversation, the Russian launched into an analysis of fall fashions. A subject Marla knew very little about, but greatly preferred to a further discussion of the “Yakima Massacre,” as CNN now referred to it.

  But talk of clothing came to an end when the dishes were taken away, and Kaberov removed a small, carefully wrapped gold box from her purse.

  “Here,” the Sector Chief said, as she offered the object to Marla. “A present for you.”

  The gesture was entirely unexpected, and Marla didn’t know what to say, as she accepted the gift.

  “Go ahead,” Kaberov urged. “Open it.”

  So Marla removed the red ribbon, broke the seals that held both halves of the box together, and lifted the lid. There, lying within a perfectly formed velvet-lined recess, was a single, hand-loaded, 230-grain,.45 caliber bullet. The round had been polished, and seemed to glow as if lit from within.

  The Russian was waiting when Marla looked up.

  “It’s part of a matched set,” the older woman explained sweetly. “And, if you fuck up again, you’ll get the second one right between the eyes.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  YAKIMA, WASHINGTON, USA

  Agent 47 awoke with a jerk, eyed his wristwatch, and saw that it was 5:58 a.m.

  Waking without an alarm clock was one of the many skills he’d been required to master as a child. And the only way to avoid a blow from one of the “memory sticks” that the asylum’s staff members carried was to wake up a couple of seconds early, and clearly signal that fact.

  So 47 sat up, placed both Silverballers on the bed beside him, and stood. Early morning light filtered in around the curtains, and a car door slammed in the parking lot. A few steps carried him around the foot of the bed to the far side, where there was barely enough space for him to complete his morning exercises. The carpet was worn and far from clean, but he’d seen worse.

  After a hundred push-ups, two-hundred sit-ups, and the rest of his regimen he entered the bathroom, pistol in hand. The automatic went on top of the toilet tank where it would be easy to reach.

  Having brushed his teeth and taken a shower, 47 prepared to shave. He removed the DOVO from his kit. The straight razor was made of stainless steel, equipped with a French point, and could also be employed as a weapon should the need arise.

  The gel felt cool as 47 smeared it over his cheeks, and the DOVO made a rasping noise as it carved a path through his whiskers. The task was complete five minutes later.

  Next he set about the extremely difficult job of removing all of the forensic evidence from the hotel room; if someone was tracking him, he saw no reason to make their task easier. That was why he routinely wiped everything down, double-flushed any items that might carry his DNA, and kept a sharp eye out for stray socks, telltale receipts, and loose cartridges. Once the room was clean he put on a fresh white shirt, his signature red necktie, the two-gun harness, and a black suit with matching shoes.

  One was scuffed. A quick buff put it right.

  Then, having eyed the parking lot through the window, Agent 47 carried the matching suitcases out to the Volvo and placed them in the trunk. Having paid for his room in advance, he had no need to check out prior to breakfast, which he generally regarded as the most important meal of the day.

  In France, that meant coffee, tea, or hot chocolate with a baguette or croissant. A meal that might lack substance, but certainly made more sense than the eggs, sausage, and mushrooms that were sometimes served in Great Britain.

  Which was why 47 preferred to eat breakfast in the United States, where he could choose from a wide array of items, including regional specialties like biscuits and gravy or huevos rancheros.

  So, having no interest in the fast-food crap put out by the restaurant chains, Agent 47 was eternally on the lookout for the one-of-a-kind restaurants that locals frequented. It was a somewhat risky strategy, since he was more noticeable in such eateries than he would have been at a McDonald’s. But that reality had to be weighed against the fact that most fast-food franchises have antitheft surveillance systems.

  All of which led 47 to the Copper Kitchen. It was located on a busy street, and the parking lot was nearly full, which he considered a good sign.

  As was his habit, Agent 47 backed the Volvo into a slot where it would be positioned for a quick departure, and took a moment to identify the restaurant’s rear exit before crossing the parking lot to the front door. A newspaper rack was positioned next to the entrance, so he paused to buy a copy of the Yakima Herald-Republic, then followed a man wearing overalls into the restaurant. The farmer took a seat at the well-worn counter, while 47 e
yed the booths off to the left, the most distant of which was located next to the kitchen door. That was the sort of spot most diners tried to avoid, but he actually preferred.

  “A booth, please,” he said, as a woman with gray hair arrived to seat him. “The one in the back looks nice.”

  The woman nodded mechanically, grabbed a plastic-covered menu from the rack next to the cash register, and led the assassin back to a Formica-covered table that was flanked by two Naugahyde-covered benches. Agent 47 chose the one that put his back to the wall and provided a good view of the front door. The kitchen door, which could be used as an alternate exit, was immediately to his left. True to its name, the eatery was decorated with all manner of copper cooking implements that sat on shelves, dangled from the ceiling, and had been screwed to the walls.

  He spent the next few minutes assembling a rather unhealthy breakfast from the long list of à la carte items the Copper Kitchen had to offer. Then, having placed an order for two fried eggs, country-style hash brown potatoes, and a side of crisp bacon, he proceeded to scan the paper. The headline proclaimed BARNYARD SLAUGHTER in big, bold letters. A description that seemed accurate enough, all things considered. Not that society had any reason to mourn the thieves, drug dealers, and murderers who had been killed at the farm.

  Agent 47 had just begun to read the accompanying text when the front door opened, and the man who entered the room caught his attention. The man had carefully combed black hair, Eurasian features, and stood about five-ten or-eleven. His clothes weren’t all that different from those the assassin wore, except that his suit was dark blue, with gray pinstripes. Though 47 had never seen him before-just as he had never seen Marla prior to the meeting at the barn-he instinctively recognized the newcomer as a player.

  He already had one hand inside his coat, and was preparing to exit the booth, when the stranger saw him and…

  Waved.

  At that moment, the assassin could stay, and run the risk that the man in the pinstriped suit had been sent by the Big Kahuna’s associates, or he could duck out the back. And run into what? An ambush in the parking lot? There was no way to know.

  Finally, as was so often the case, the decision came down to a gut feeling. So 47 remained where he was as the other man slid into the seat across from him. The stranger had yellowish-brown eyes, a straight nose, and extremely white teeth. They gleamed when he smiled.

  “Good morning!” the man said heartily. “I notice only one of your hands is visible. Does that mean what I think it means?”

  “Of course,” 47 replied cautiously. “What did you expect?”

  “Nothing less,” the other man replied evenly.

  Agent 47’s waitress appeared at that point, placed his order on the table, and agreed to bring a cup of coffee for the man with the yellowish-brown eyes.

  “So,” the assassin said as the woman walked away. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Nu,” the man with the perfect teeth responded. “Mr. Nu. We work for the same organization. The difference is that I’m management, and you’re labor.”

  “Really?” 47 inquired skeptically. “And why should I believe you?”

  “Because I know how important the number 640509040147 is to you,” Nu replied confidently. “Go ahead and eat. Your food is getting cold.”

  The revelation came as a shock. Only someone from The Agency would be privy to the serial number-the one that had been issued to the assassin on September 5, 1964. But even though Nu appeared to be who he said he was, Agent 47 kept a Silverballer aimed at the other man’s stomach. That left one hand with which he could eat his breakfast.

  “All right,” the assassin allowed, “Let’s say you are who you claim to be. What brings you to Yakima?”

  “Your most recent report brought me,” the other man replied, as the waitress arrived with his coffee. Waiting for her to depart, he continued. “Having reviewed the surveillance footage, the entire management team came to the same conclusion. The woman who calls herself Marla not only knew you were coming, but was aware of the contract on the Big Kahuna, and the way you were supposed to take him out.”

  Agent 47 chased a mouthful of food with some of the Copper Kitchen’s lukewarm coffee before putting the cup down.

  “Which means?”

  “Which means that someone has found a way to penetrate our organization,” Nu replied darkly. “The personnel department will look at the most recent hires first, and if that strategy fails, we’ll expand the scope of our investigation.”

  “That makes sense,” the assassin allowed cautiously, as he wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “But what about the larger question? Assuming a mole exists…who is behind him?”

  “That’s what we want you to find out,” the executive replied grimly. “We know who the Marla woman works for, so that’s where you’ll start. Everything we have is on this,” Nu finished, as he pushed a USB memory stick across the table’s surface.

  “All right,” Agent 47 replied flatly, as he palmed the device. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “We knew you would,” the executive said, as he got up to leave. “We need to find this person, and find him—or her—fast.”

  “One last thing,” 47 put in. “Where is the GPS tracker located? In my car? Or in my computer?”

  “That’s for me to know,” Nu answered with a grin, “and for you to find out!” With that he was gone.

  Agent 47 waited until the executive had exited through the front door before he returned the Silverballer to its holster and finished the meal. Then it was time to pay the bill, exit the restaurant, and go looking for a woman named Marla.

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON, USA

  Thanks to its location on the water and proximity to both the Olympic and Cascade mountain ranges, Seattle was a beautiful city. Especially on a warm sunny day, when all manner of small boats were out on the lake, just north of downtown.

  It was late in the day by the time Agent 47 arrived and began to stalk his target. Always a challenge, but even more so when the target was armed, and had at least three kills to her credit. A record that-while not all that impressive by 47’s standards-still qualified the Puissance Treize agent as a worthy adversary.

  According to the information on the memory stick, in her role as a control-an agent assigned to direct a field assassin-the woman had been indirectly responsible for more than a dozen hits in the Med. The woman’s real name was Cassandra Murphy, and according to the data supplied by Mr. Nu, she’d been born in Belfast. She was thirty-six years old.

  Adding to the challenge was the fact that he would have to gain control of the woman in order to communicate with her, which would probably be more difficult than simply shooting her. According to the information he had been given, the target was currently living on a houseboat moored in Lake Union. Years ago, there had been more of the floating domiciles, but a variety of government regulations and economic pressures had reduced the waterborne community to a few hundred water-level homes located on the lake and in neighboring Portage Bay.

  It wasn’t clear how 47’s superiors had been tracking Marla’s movements prior to the massacre in Yakima, but there wasn’t any doubt as to why, since The Agency routinely kept track of anyone who had ever been employed by one of its competitors. Especially those having links with the Puissance Treize.

  As he followed a side street down to the waterfront and the small parking lot that served the houseboats, a couple of problems quickly became apparent. The first was the cyclone fence and gate that had been put in place to prevent thieves, sightseers, and other undesirables from making their way out onto the community dock. The second was the fact that the area was so open that there was no place from which the assassin could safely observe his target’s comings and goings prior to making a move.

  A red Mercedes was parked in the lot, though, and while there hadn’t been an opportunity for him to memorize the license plate, the assassin would have sworn that it was the same vehicle he’d seen parked outside t
he barn in Yakima. A thick patina of dust seemed to confirm that theory, as 47 executed a U-turn and left the area.

  It was nearly dark by that time, the streetlights were on, and the orange-red sun was in the process of dropping behind the Olympic Mountains as the assassin searched for a place to stay. There weren’t any mom-and-pop-style motels in the downtown area, but Agent 47 happened by a seedy motor inn on the west side of the lake. It met all of his requirements. According to a sign in the lobby, the proprietors were willing to let rooms by the hour, day, week, or month. So he registered as Mr. Metzger, paid for five days in advance, and carried his suitcases up to a second-floor room.

  The door opened into a claustrophobic space that was all too reminiscent of other hotel rooms he had stayed in over the years. The relatively early hour, along with the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of a bed hitting the wall next door, suggested that his neighbors were taking advantage of the motel’s hourly rate.

  The energetic couple was still at it when 47 left shortly thereafter to return to the Volvo.

  His first task for the evening was to find dinner down by the water. That was easy enough to do, since there were plenty of restaurants along the lake’s south shore. It was while he was looking for a place to park that Agent 47 stumbled across a nonprofit organization dedicated to the preservation and use of wooden boats. The organization also offered some boats for rent.

  That could come in handy, he mused.

  Having made a mental note of what time the center opened, 47 walked east, turned into a waterfront shopping complex, and entered an upscale restaurant. Predictably enough the interior boasted a nautical theme, the menu emphasized seafood, and the waitstaff wore blue polo shirts, white slacks, and deck shoes.

  The assassin ordered wild salmon and a glass of ice water, then settled back to wait. It was dark outside the windows, so there was nothing to do but watch the people seated around him; individuals whose existences focused on office politics, leaky roofs, and demanding children-all of them variables to be circumvented or exploited. Unpredictable objects that could block a shot, suddenly morph into a counterassassin, or be used for cover should it become necessary.