Hitman: Enemy Within h-1

by William C. Dietz

  A child started to cry, a man barked an order, and the noise stopped.

  Had it not been for the broken glass that made a crunching sound as Agent 47’s boot came down on it, the policeman might never have learned of his impending demise.

  In spite of orders from Al-Fulani’s European whore, he had gone out to take a look around, just in case several generations of looters had missed something of value. Nothing major, he was too realistic to expect that, but an adjustable wrench perhaps. Or a good clasp knife, or-

  But that was when he heard a crunch, felt the bottom fall out of his stomach, and made a grab for the big revolver that hung on his hip. Unfortunately the fiber-wire loop was tightening around his throat by then, which caused him to pluck at the relentless ligature in a vain attempt to loosen it.

  The world went black.

  The policeman collapsed, and 47 was left to consider his next move. It was tempting to appropriate the dead man’s uniform, but that would burn time, and might set him up as a target for Numo. So the assassin towed the body into a shed, and was careful to close the door on it before he continued on his way.

  Gray buildings lined both sides of the street. What appeared to be barracks and warehouses were off to the left, with a long line of one-story hangars to his right. The numbers on them were still legible. Everywhere 47 looked he saw partially stripped vehicles, heaps of no longer identifiable machinery, and all manner of garbage. There was very little rust, thanks to the dry climate.

  Judging from the graffiti on many of the buildings, not to mention the remains of a recent campfire, the assassin got the impression that there were others who knew how to find their way in through the minefields. But those thoughts were interrupted as a bullet chipped the concrete directly in front of him, the flat whip-crack report of a rifle shot echoed between the buildings, and the element of surprise was forever lost.

  No sooner had the sound of the shot died away than Marla was on her radio, checking in turn with each of her troops. It took moments to establish the fact the man in the tower was dead, that one of the policemen was missing, and that it had been the second lookout who had had the good fortune to spot the intruder from his rooftop perch, and subsequently opened fire on him.

  Unfortunately the bastard missed. But at least he was awake and paying attention. As were all of her men by then.

  “Good morning, my dear,” Al-Fulani said, as he ambled over to where the Puissance Treize agent was standing. He had just gotten up, and having spent the night with two of the children, was still dressed in red silk pajamas. “What’s going on?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to piece together,” Marla replied quickly. “Somebody is out there, that much is clear, but who? It might be locals, who want to steal our vehicles, but the fact that they aren’t afraid of the police, and the way they killed our lookout, would seem to suggest another possibility.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll take care of the matter,” the Moroccan said confidently. “All you need to do is keep them at a distance. The plane will be here in three hours at the most.”

  It was good advice, and Marla took it to heart as she left to begin her rounds. Here was an opportunity to prove what she was capable of, put the Kaberovs of the world in their place, and secure a lasting reputation within the Puissance Treize. Then, with Al-Fulani’s continued sponsorship, the sky was the limit!

  Buoyed by those thoughts Marla started to climb the stairs that led to the building’s flat roof.

  “They’re in the maintenance building,” Gazeau said from his perch on the radio tower. It was very exposed up there, some twenty-five feet below where the lookout’s body still hung, and the Libyan knew the Moroccan’s security forces could see him because bullets were pinging the metal around him.

  The transmission served to confirm what Agent 47 already suspected as he continued to work his way in toward what they were calling “section six.”

  “Good work,” the man known as Taylor replied, his voice little more than a terse whisper. “Now get down off that tower before someone shoots you.” Gazeau was well ahead of him, and was already descending the metal ladder by the time he heard the transmission, but appreciated the sentiment as a bullet tugged at his sleeve.

  He heard the man trying to reach Numo by then, as well.

  “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” the Libyan replied. “I can.”

  “Do you have any sort of shot at the maintenance building?”

  Numo stared through his sight. From his perch on the walkway that circled the elevated water tank, he could look down on the building in question and the two-no, make that three-people standing on the roof.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then go to work on it,” came the instructions. “Bullets will go right through that metal siding. I want you to drive them out into the open. Try not to shoot Al-Fulani however. That’s a no-no.”

  It was an extremely cold-blooded order, because there were children inside the maintenance building, and it was clear that the man named Taylor didn’t care. But Numo had children, lots of them, and wasn’t about to shoot someone else’s.

  That didn’t apply to the adults on the roof, however, so he said, “Will do,” and chose the first person to kill.

  Marla could already feel the sun’s warm promise as she opened the door and stepped out onto the metal roof. Soon-within an hour or so-the surface would be too hot to stand on. She knew that the man on the tower had been forced down onto the ground. But as she turned to take a quick look around, the Puissance Treize agent spotted movement up on the water tower!

  “Get down!” she shouted. “There’s a man on the-”

  But the warning came too late, as the shooter squeezed the trigger and sent a bullet spinning toward his target. The man nearest to Marla was in the process of turning toward her when the bullet slammed into his torso and threw him down. Then, before anyone could react, another rifle shot was heard and a second man fell.

  Marla felt as if she were wading through quicksand as she turned back toward the door, and threw herself into the darkness that lay beyond. There was a loud clang, followed by a report, as a third bullet flattened itself against steel. That was the moment when she realized the truth.

  What had been a sanctuary had been transformed into a trap.

  A slender, nearly emaciated corporal was in charge of the surviving policemen. Not only was he angry about having lost one of his men, but the whore’s repeated attempts to exert control infuriated him more.

  So when the shooting began, he led his men past the cowering children to the building’s back door.

  Then, knowing how important good leadership can be, he exited first.

  Agent 47 was within fifty feet of the maintenance building by that time, and was just about to check the seemingly unguarded back door when it unexpectedly flew open. And, having prepared himself for close-in fighting, he already had the 12-gauge shotgun in his hands.

  As the police rushed the assassin, the pump gun made its characteristic boom-clack, over and over again, as the weapon jumped, and the double-aught buck tore the men apart. Blood sprayed the concrete, the doorway, and inside the building.

  Marla was back down on the main floor by that time, and any thoughts she had of charging through the open door were put to rest when she saw blood come spraying in through the portal. So she and the rest of Al-Fulani’s bodyguards opened up on the exit with automatic weapons. That forced the shooter to withdraw-thumbing shells into the shotgun’s receiver as he backed away.

  It was Agent 47.

  Just as the threat faded Marla heard the roar of an engine. The vehicle sounded like a maddened beast as it came across the taxiway, and a Mog crashed into the huge double doors that guarded the interior, slamming them aside. That was followed by the sound of screeching tires, as the driver stood on the brakes, and a cacophony of screams as terrified children ran in every direction.

  Marla might have rallied her surviving troops at that point,
but a big fender struck the Puissance Treize agent a glancing blow and threw her into one of the parked vehicles.

  That knocked the security chief unconscious.

  Agent 47 was forced to step on the dead corporal’s chest in order to enter through the back door.

  Four of Al-Fulani’s bodyguards had the presence of mind to respond, but both of the Silverballers were out by that time, and 47 fired them in quick succession. The hapless guards were forced to perform a macabre dance as the heavy.45 caliber slugs slammed into them.

  Then more shots were heard—only muffled this time—as the remaining bodyguards attempted to escape via a side door, only to be met by bullets from the sharp-eyed Numo.

  Satisfied that the situation was under control, 47 took the time required to reload both handguns before going in search of Al-Fulani.

  The agent found the Moroccan cowering in a storage room, where he was shaking like a leaf and had recently shit his lovely silk pajamas.

  “Good morning,” the assassin said politely, as the terrified businessman stared up at him. “My name is Taylor, and I have some questions to ask you.”

  There weren’t any historians present to record the moment, but the airfield at Quadi Doum had fallen for the second time, and vultures were circling above.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ROME, ITALY

  Diana had flown to Rome for a three-day vacation and was asleep in her suite at the St. Regis Grand when the men in black came to get her.

  The door was double-locked, of course, yet that was a minimal obstacle to the men who gathered outside her door. They picked the lock with ease, positioned themselves with weapons drawn, and prepared to enter.

  But when the lead assailant turned the doorknob and put his shoulder to the wood, the only reaction was the strident beep, beep, beep, generated by the wedge-shaped miniature alarm Diana had pushed in under the door.

  It took less than ten seconds to shove a long, thin pry bar in under the barrier and dislodge the wedge. Nonetheless, Diana was already firing by the time the door slammed open.

  The first agent through the door took a 9 mm round right between the eyes and went down as if pole-axed from above. The man immediately behind him was more fortunate in that he was wearing body armor, and took two bullets to the chest without sustaining serious injury.

  But as the impact took the second operative down Mr. Nu fired a Taser X26, which shot two probes at Diana. Both struck their target and delivered a shock powerful enough to bring her still-twitching body down.

  “Get everyone into the bedroom,” Nu ordered tersely. “I’ll take care of the hotel’s security people.” There was a mad scramble as Diana was laid out on her rumpled bed, the dead agent was dumped into her bathtub, and the man who had taken two 9 mm blows to the chest was led over to an easy chair that occupied one corner of the ornate bedroom.

  By that time Mr. Nu had shed his suit coat, removed his tie, and mussed his hair. With the improvised disguise in place he stepped out into the hall and was waiting there when two of the hotel’s plainclothes security people stepped off the elevator.

  “I heard three loud firecrackers go off,” Nu complained belligerently. “Do you have children staying on this floor? My wife and I expect some peace and quiet for the kind of money we’re paying. Especially at the St. Regis.”

  Both security people quickly turned apologetic and promised to conduct a complete investigation. They even went so far as to knock on neighboring doors so that other cranky guests could abuse them. Then, having been unable to pinpoint the exact nature or the origin of the firecracker-like noises, the two were forced to withdraw.

  Mr. Nu reentered Diana’s suite and returned to her bedroom. Like most of the heterosexual men who had met her, the executive had often wondered what Diana would look like without any clothes on. And now he knew. The fact that her wrists and ankles were secured to the bedposts made the tableau all the more interesting.

  Though still recovering from the effects of being tasered, the controller was clearly conscious and, judging from the look in her eyes, extremely angry. Her full—and apparently natural—breasts were somewhat flattened thanks to her supine position. Not her nipples though, which were pink and fully erect.

  From there Nu allowed his eyes to travel down along the flat plane of her stomach to the intersection between her legs. Most of her pubic hair had been removed, and based on the small triangle of white skin he saw there, it was clear that the controller had a preference for thongs. Diana’s hips were a bit narrow for a woman, or so it seemed to Nu, but her shapely legs more than made up for what he saw as a shortcoming.

  “Are you finished yet?” the controller inquired contemptuously. “Perhaps you’d like a cigarette.”

  Mr. Nu smiled thinly as he sat next to her on the bed.

  “My dear, dear, Diana. You sound so very brave! But as you know better than most, it’s hard to talk tough once the cutting begins. We’ll use the surgical cautery, of course. That was one of your innovations, as I recall. And a good one, too! Because the cautery seals the blood vessels off even as it slices through them. That prevents blood loss, and prolongs the subject’s life. And then there’s the rather distinctive burning odor, which adds yet another dimension to the process.

  “Take this nipple, for example,” Nu said, as he took the nub between a thumb and forefinger. “You would be able to watch us cut it off, feel the excruciating pain, and smell your burning flesh all at the same time! Who knows? Maybe we could pop the little morsel into your mouth so you could taste it, too. Or,” the executive added thoughtfully, “you could simply tell me the truth.”

  “About what?” Diana demanded. “And get your hands off me.”

  “About your relationship with the Puissance Treize,” Nu answered gently, as he continued to squeeze, harder now.

  Diana winced.

  “I don’t have a relationship with the Puissance Treize.”

  “Ah, but I think you do,” the executive corrected her. “How else can you explain the one million dollars that was deposited into your checking account four days ago, the two-million-dollar New York condominium deeded over to you three days ago, and the three million dollars’ worth of United States Treasury bonds that appeared in your portfolio the day before yesterday? We pay you well, very well, but how can you account for an extra six million in less than a year? Especially from a Puissance Treize front company?”

  Mr. Nu had squeezed all of the blood out of the nipple by that time, and try as she might, Diana couldn’t conceal the pain. Her face was drawn as she spoke through gritted teeth.

  “It’s a trick. Can’t you see that? The Puissance Treize is trying to protect the real traitor. So he or she can continue to sell us out! And besides, if I were the person you’re looking for, do you think I would be so stupid as to take payments from a front company? Don’t insult me that way.”

  Nu released the nipple and put his hand on her stomach. The controller’s skin was soft and warm. His index finger drew circles around her navel.

  “Six million is a lot to spend on a red herring.”

  “Not if the business you’re trying to hijack grosses over a billion a year,” Diana countered tightly.

  “There is that,” the executive allowed smoothly. “Which is why you’re still alive. The Chairman has something of a soft spot for you, and rather than destroy something so beautiful, perhaps without cause, he wants to wait until all of the facts are in. Agent 47 said he was close to catching up with Al-Fulani the last time he phoned in a report. So, who knows? Maybe our enterprising friend will come up with the real traitor.

  “But if he doesn’t, your immediate future will be somewhat painful.”

  The comment didn’t call for a response, and the controller kept her mouth shut as Nu stood and turned toward the nearest agent; a skinny man who found it difficult to take his eyes off Diana’s naked body.

  “Get something to cover her,” the executive instructed. “Then pack her things, take
care of checkout, and get her to the airport. The Chairman wants her back aboard the Danjou by tonight.” He turned back to Diana.

  “The rest will be up to Agent 47.”

  Aristotle Thorakis was at his home in Sintra, Portugal, when the phone rang. It was just after two in the morning, but he was still up, going over the company’s quarterly financial reports, when Mr. Nu came on the line. The shipping magnate was careful to hide the glee he felt as the executive told him about Diana’s detention, and the very real possibility that the controller had been the source of the devastating leaks.

  It wasn’t until the phone was safely on the hook that he felt it was safe to utter a celebratory “Yes!” and pump his right fist up and down.

  He wanted to call Pierre Douay at that point, and thank the Frenchman for protecting him, but knew better than to do so. There was a very good chance that The Agency was still monitoring his phone calls. So, having no one to share the good news with, Thorakis was forced to celebrate alone.

  The Scotch was expensive, smooth, and very good.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  QUADI DOUM, CHAD

  It was warm on the roof, very warm, by the time Al-Fulani was assisted up the stairs and out onto the hot metal surface. Two bodies lay where they had fallen, and the air around them was thick with flies, as the Moroccan was led over to one of the camp chairs originally brought along for his comfort. The businessman was still dressed in his red silk pajamas, but they were badly soiled, and offered little protection from the scorching heat.

  Once Al-Fulani was seated, Numo secured him to the chair with several feet of duct tape, which made a scritching sound as it came off the roll.

  “That looks good,” Agent 47 said approvingly. “Now for the umbrella.”

  The mention of an umbrella caused the Moroccan’s spirits to rise, but they subsequently fell when the blue-and-white-striped sunscreen was set up a full fifteen feet away, and six of the older children were invited to sit in the shade. The Dinkas were equipped with bottles of spring water, too-all taken from Al-Fulani’s private larder. The girl, Kola, who had been raped the night before, couldn’t stop sobbing.