The most important component of the trap, however, was a “retired” Royal Marine named Ted Cooper, who was a graduate of the British Army’s famous Joint Sniper Training Establishment, and was officially credited with six confirmed kills in Iraq. An accomplishment Cooper had been advised to keep to himself, lest the Islamic militants catch wind of it, and decide to even the score.
Of course, Al-Fulani’s chief of security-a man named Ammar-had other assets in place as well, three of whom were walking along the busy boulevard with him. Thus, if Cooper failed to spot Agent 47 from above, Ammar and his men would nail him down below.
That was the plan, but there were still dozens of people to screen as they came and went, and it was Marla’s opinion that the members of Al-Fulani’s security staff were far too cavalier where 47 was concerned. In spite of her repeated warnings, they clearly considered themselves to be superior to the European abruti[3] that the silly female was so frightened of.
And maybe they were right.
In the wake of the disastrous shoot-out in Yakima, her unsettling meeting with Mrs. Kaberov, and the loss of her home, Marla’s self-confidence was at an all-time low. And now, having fled Kaberov’s predictable rage, Marla found herself dependent on Al-Fulani’s goodwill, which, predictably enough, was based on her willingness to serve him both professionally and personally. Regardless of her own desires.
This had been the case the night before, when Marla was “invited” to participate in a ménage à trois with the Moroccan and a teenaged girl who had been snatched off the streets of Johannesburg a week earlier. It hadn’t been an especially enjoyable experience, but far better than one of Mrs. Kaberov’s.45 caliber “gifts.”
The thought was sufficient to drive the young woman back to the powerful scope that had been set up next to Cooper’s tripod-mounted 7.62 mm L96 sniper’s rifle. The marksman seemed patient, very patient, which was good. As well he should be, since a single kill like this one could net him more money in a few seconds than the Royal-bloody-Marines would pay in a year.
Marla stared through the scope at the mostly young, upper-class men and women who continued to stream past Al-Fulani’s home on their way to fashionably late dinners or one of the alcohol-free nightclubs that had sprung up within the Ville Nouvelle. Spotting one particular individual in such a crowd would be hard enough, but her target’s tendency to use disguises would make the task that much more difficult, since each face had to be examined thoroughly before Marla could move on to the next.
As the hours dragged on, having examined and rejected hundreds of faces, Marla was beginning to wonder if 47 would ever appear when a man matching 47’s height and build casually strolled into her field of view. A German tourist, judging from his clothing. But that meant nothing. When Marla put the spotting scope on the man’s face her suspicions were confirmed! Beard or no beard, that was the man she’d seen in Yakima and Seattle! The very sight of him caused her heart to pound with excitement as her quarry turned to eye the mansion.
That was the moment when a second German tourist-dressed in identical fashion-arrived from the other direction.
Now, with two look-alikes on the street below, and both in motion, it would have been nearly impossible to tell Cooper how to distinguish between them. And to do so quickly enough to ensure the results she wanted. So Marla gave the only order she could logically give.
“The German tourists! The ones wearing the loud shirts! Kill both of them!”
Cooper’s rifle was silenced, and there was plenty of background noise, so no one heard the subsonic 7.62 mm NATO round as it sped through the space that the first German tourist’s head had occupied a fraction of a second earlier, and slammed into the second one.
The force of the impact threw the tourist to the ground and people ran every which way. Marla came unglued as the first man disappeared.
“You were too slow!” she shouted angrily. “You were supposed to kill both of them and you let one get away!”
“Don’t be stupid,” Cooper countered crossly as he continued to sweep the street below. “There wasn’t enough time to acquire both targets.”
“Well, acquire this,” the furious Puissance Treize agent declared as she drew the Walther and began to fire.
The first shot wasn’t fatal, so Cooper began to turn toward his attacker, but it was too late as four additional 9 mm rounds tore into his body. Finally, having put a final slug into the sniper’s head, Marla provided the only epitaph the Brit was likely to receive: “Bloody idiot.”
If the first tourist had truly been 47, Marla was convinced that she’d lost her only real shot at him. But then a voice crackled over the walkie-talkie clipped to her belt. The words came in short bursts—and were accompanied by the sound of heavy breathing.
“This is Ammar. He’s on the run. But we’re right behind him.”
That was when Marla knew 47 was still alive. A real tourist might have taken cover, but wouldn’t be on the run. “That’s brilliant!” she said excitedly. “Don’t lose him. Where are you?”
“We’re heading in the direction of the souk Dabbaghin,” came the confident reply. “He’s running like a rabbit!”
“A very dangerous rabbit,” Marla cautioned. “I’m on my way.”
Idiot!
As he took a right, followed by a left, Agent 47 was angry. Not at the men who were following him. But at himself. He’d been stupid enough to walk right into their trap. Rather than prepare for the reconnaissance the way he normally would have, the assassin had gone for an after-dinner walk, and chosen to stroll past Al-Fulani’s mansion on the way back to the hotel. A stupid impulse that had very nearly gotten him killed.
But how had she known he was coming? Had Marla caught a glimpse of him during the last few days? Had Rollet sold him out? Or was this latest fiasco the work of the very traitor he was looking for? There was no way to know, and no more time to think about it, as a bullet pinged off the wall to his left and forced him to concentrate on the business at hand. The assassin pushed a man out of the way and ran even faster. A woman went down as he slammed into her, a man swore at him in Arabic, and another gunshot sent people fleeing for cover.
Sirens had begun to bleat, but they were back in the Ville Nouvelle, where the real German tourist was being tended to and the police were trying to sort out the situation. The man he had modeled himself after-the one he’d previously seen in the lobby of his hotel-had unwittingly paid for 47’s life with his own. The agent knew that he had to lose this particular disguise at the first possible opportunity.
Even though he was outnumbered, 47 still had some advantages, not the least of which was the fact that his pursuers had allowed themselves to become strung out. This provided the assassin with an opportunity to lay a quick trap of his own, as one fellow rounded a corner and came to a momentary stop directly beneath a streetlight. The long-barreled Silverballer barked twice. The target staggered and went down.
That was 47’s cue to take off again, conscious of the fact that reinforcements were on the way and might cut off his line of retreat.
Ammar began to round the corner, spotted the crumpled body, and pulled back again.
“He shot Dabir,” the security operative said into the radio. “So be careful.”
“Keep after him!” Marla’s voice insisted through Ammar’s radio. “Don’t let him out of your sight!”
“You stay off the radio!” Ammar snapped arrogantly, as another man, Jumah, caught up with him. “We’ll take care of this. Return to the mansion.”
“What’s going on?” Jumah wanted to know, his brown eyes alight with excitement. “Did you take a shot at him?”
“No, he was gone by the time I arrived,” Ammar temporized. “You take the lead. I need to catch my breath.”
Jumah, who was the youngest man on the team, and, Ammar knew, eager to establish his own reputation, took off at a sprint. Ammar waited for the telltale sound of a gunshot, and when none was forthcoming, followed in Jumah’s footstep
s.
As he did he glanced back at the body and watched as a pair of preteen boys materialized from the gloom, beginning to rifle through Dabir’s pockets.
He swore bitterly. Dabir was his brother-in-law, and there would be hell to pay once he got home.
Fez was home to many derbs, or districts, each having its own epicenter with a mosque, bakery, and public fountain. And that’s where Jumah found himself as the street he had been following delivered him into a square that boasted a large fountain.
But his quarry was nowhere to be seen, and since there were at least four other passageways that led out of the open area, he had no choice but to stop and look around. The security agent turned a full circle, noticed that the square was deserted, and wondered why.
Jumah was still pondering this when a voice came from behind him. The words were in French.
“Are you looking for me?”
Jumah whirled and was in the process of bringing the Jordanian-manufactured 9 mm VIPER up into firing position when he saw that a man wearing a brightly colored shirt had risen from the waters of the fountain and was peering down at him. Even worse was the fact that the stranger was holding two semiautomatic pistols.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” the man said evenly, and he fired both weapons. The heavy slugs pounded Jumah to the ground as gunshots echoed between the surrounding buildings, and the VIPER skittered away.
“Jumah?” A male voice inquired from one of the dead man’s pockets. “What’s going on?”
Agent 47 returned one Silverballer to its holster, jumped down onto the cobblestones, and carried out a quick search of Jumah’s body. Having appropriated the walkie-talkie, the assassin fled.
More sirens had joined the chorus as Ammar entered the empty square. The Moroccan saw Jumah and felt a momentary pang of guilt, knowing it could have been his body lying there.
Then, having detected a flicker of movement on the far side of the square, Ammar ran over to the fountain. Careful to keep his head down, he began to circle it. Having lost two of his men, it was clear that Fulani’s sharmuta was correct. The European was dangerous.
“Ammar? Fahd? Answer me!” The whore’s voice came over the radio, thick with fear.
But Ammar knew the man they were chasing must have taken Jumah’s radio, so he sent one last message to Fahd, ordering him to maintain radio silence. A strategy that was likely to work both for and against them, to the extent that it kept Ammar and Fahd from coordinating their movements.
To hell with the woman.
Having followed his prey’s watery trail into a narrow passageway, Ammar felt cautiously hopeful. The ground was dry, and the infidel was wet, which meant Ammar had tracks that were easy to follow, at least temporarily. The wet prints led him up a long flight of stairs and under a two-hundred-year-old arch before they suddenly disappeared.
That brought the security agent to a cautious halt. He was examining the well-lit patch of ground in front of him when a fiber-wire noose dropped over his head and began to tighten around his neck.
Ammar dropped his gun and brought his hands up-but it was too late. He was jerked off his feet. The Moroccan attempted to scream, but discovered that he couldn’t.
His legs kicked uselessly in the air.
After a few moments, the kicking stopped.
* * *
Time was of the essence.
47’s sandals made a wet slapping sound as they hit the pavement, and his damp clothes began to rub his skin raw as the assassin followed a narrow street toward the tanner’s quarter-an ancient section of the city where animal skins were left to soak in vats of dye before being hung out to dry. Lights had been rigged so that tourists could view the scene at night, and the air was heavy with the foul odor of the pigeon droppings that were used to make the leather more pliable.
And that’s where Fahd was waiting.
While the operative was at least thirty pounds overweight, Fahd was smart and knew Fez like the back of his hand. Knowing which way Dabir’s killer was headed, and being well aware of his own physical limitations, the Moroccan had cut over to a main street, hailed a cab, and arrived outside the souk Dabbaghin a few minutes later.
Thus, the moment Agent 47 appeared on the far side of the craterlike vats, Fahd began to fire. One or two of his VIPER’s 9 mm slugs may have struck the assassin, but from what Fahd could tell neither did any real damage. Either way, Fahd had emptied his pistol and was busy fumbling for a second clip when the assassin fired in return.
What felt like a sledgehammer struck Fahd’s shoulder, snatched the fat man off his feet, and dumped him into a vat full of blue dye. The liquid felt cold as it closed over his head and set fire to his wounded shoulder.
He struggled to right himself, and the moment that the Moroccan’s feet made contact with the bottom of the vat, he pushed himself back up. Fahd spluttered as he broke the surface, opened his eyes, and immediately wished he hadn’t as he found himself looking into the barrel of a shiny gun. There was a flash of light, and Fahd was gone.
The police arrived a few minutes later, but the mysterious European had disappeared, leaving four bodies in his wake. All of whom were tied to Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani; a man who gave generously to police charities and was known to place a high value on his privacy. So the corpses were given over to their respective families, funerals were scheduled for the following day, and the deaths were ascribed to gang activity. Which, sadly enough, was on the upswing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FEZ, MOROCCO
Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani’s study was quite large. Complex geometric designs had been painted onto the ceiling, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered most of the wall space not occupied by the three arched windows behind his desk. A set of six intricately carved, hand-painted, Moorish screens served to partition off the east end of the room, where a prayer rug and a day bed were kept, and three richly polished antique doors had been used to decorate the wall. They were made of cedar and bound with strips of brass.
But Marla Norton had other things on her mind, and was only vaguely aware of her surroundings, as she entered her sponsor’s office and went to stand in front of his desk. There weren’t any guest chairs, and wouldn’t be, unless orders were issued to bring some in.
Al-Fulani was a big man with a broad forehead, heavy brows, and a prominent nose. He was at least fifty, and some said sixty, but his face was smooth and tight. He owned dozens of Western-style business suits, but it was rather warm that day, which was why he had chosen to wear a full-length, Gulf-style, white thawb instead. It made Al-Fulani look princely, which Marla suspected was one of the primary reasons why he wore it.
The Moroccan was genuinely fond of Marla, even if he considered her a Western whore, and smiled as he looked up from the report that he had been reading.
“Yes, my dear, what can I do for you?”
“Professor Rollet is ready for questioning,” Marla answered evenly.
“Then it would be rude to keep him waiting,” Al-Fulani replied cheerfully, as he rose from his executive-style chair. “Come, take my arm, and we will go down to greet him together.”
Marla knew that both of the Moroccan’s wives lived at his country estate, and were therefore blissfully unaware of what went on in Fez. So she allowed her protector to escort her down a flight of gently curving stairs and into the basement. Besides having six bedrooms, eight baths, a huge kitchen, large study, and sprawling living room, Al-Fulani’s mansion boasted something none of the surrounding residences had: Its own medical clinic—and adjacent torture chamber. Which, like a similar facility at police headquarters, was equipped with ceiling-mounted hooks and a central floor drain.
Nor was the seeming contradiction lost on Al-Fulani, who while not the recipient of a formal education, was well read, and therefore familiar with the ancient Chinese concept of polar opposites. Which was why he called one room yin—and the other yang.
As the twosome entered the scrupulously clean ya
ng room, the first thing they saw was Paul Rollet. The former spy and college professor hung spread-eagled at the very center of the chamber. Ropes connected his wrists to the hooks in the ceiling and his ankles to ring bolts sunk in beautifully tiled floor. The academic’s partially bald pate gleamed under the bright lights, the bushy beard made him look much older than he actually was, and his long, obscenely white body was reminiscent of a skinned rabbit. Rollet’s ribs were plainly visible, as was a shock of brown pubic hair, and a long wormlike penis. The bruises all over his body suggested that Rollet had put up a fight during his abduction, or been professionally beaten since.
Other than Rollet, Marla, and Al-Fulani, the only other person in the room was a man named Habib, who had been forced to drop out of medical school in Cairo because of his low grades, but had progressed far enough to learn a great deal about the human body, including portions that were particularly susceptible to pain. He liked to refer to himself as Doctor Habib, and affected a white lab coat, a pocketful of multicolored pens, and typically wore a stethoscope.
And, judging from the gleaming array of scalpels and hemostats laid out on a neatly draped Mayo stand, Habib was ready to both start and stop some bleeding, if ordered to do so. He was a sleek little man, with beady brown eyes and slightly protuberant ears.
“The patient is ready,” the torturer said evenly as his employer entered the room. “As am I.”
“Excellent,” Al-Fulani replied coldly as he took up a position directly in front of Rollet. “So, Professor, are you ready to metaphorically spill your guts, or must Doctor Habib actually remove them? It’s a process that won’t kill you, at least not right away, but is very unpleasant.”
The Frenchman’s eyes had been closed until that point, but suddenly they popped open. Ironically enough, there had been occasions during the last twenty years when he had stood in Al-Fulani’s position. Though for different reasons.
“So, if I tell you what you want to know, you’ll allow me to live?”
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