Hitman: Enemy Within (8 page)

“Yes,” he said gravely, “I follow your reasoning. And I apologize if my comments came across as being intemperate. But there is tremendous reason for concern. After the attempt on Agent 47’s life, The Agency immediately went to work trying to find the leak. They’re busy conducting an exhaustive review of the lower echelon people right now, but it’s only a matter of time before they begin to look at senior management.”

Douaystarted to say something at that point, but Thorakis threw up a hand.

“Wait. There’s more. The decision has been made to send Agent 47 after your assassin…in the hope that she will lead him to a person who can reveal the traitor’s identity. And that’s why I’m here. According to the briefing they gave to the board, Agent 47 followed Marla Norton toFez,Morocco , where she’s living under the protection of a man named Al-Fulani. Does he know about our agreement?

Because if he does, and if 47 were to gain control of him, then I’m a dead man.”

“No, he does not,”Douay lied smoothly. “Your identity is a closely guarded secret. Only three people know who you are, and Al-Fulani isn’t one of them.”

That was exactly what Thorakis wanted to hear, so the magnate felt a tremendous sense of relief, and even managed a smile.

“Good. None of us are immortal…I know that,” he said. “But I’m not ready to go—not yet!”

“Nor am I!”Douayagreed jovially, as he rose to come around the desk. “So, now that you’re here, will you join me for lunch?”

“Thank you, but no,” Thorakis replied. “I have allergies, you know, and my chef is back at the hotel. Perhaps next time, though.”

“Yes, next time,” the Frenchman agreed politely.“Although it’s important to be circumspect. And with that in mind, perhaps you would allow my security people to take you out through the basement garage.”

“That would be perfect,” Thorakis said gratefully. They shook hands vigorously, and moments later he was gone.

Douaywaited until the elevator had closed on the Greek before opening an attaché case, activating a satellite phone, and entering a two-digit code that triggered a much longer sequence of numbers. The truth was that Al-Fulani was fully aware of the shipping magnate’s identity, which meant Marla Norton had an important job to do. She would have to protect Al-Fulani, or die with him.

Chapter Six

FEZ,MOROCCO

The French called Fez—or Fes—
la Mysterieuse,
and as Agent 47 pushed deeper into the oldest—and some said most dangerous—part of the city, he discovered what they meant. About a quarter-million people were crammed into a maze of narrow cobblestone streets, busy
souks,
stately mosques, brooding blank-faced homes, and hidden gardens. And given the local propensity to not onlychange street names, but post them in a variety of languages, it was easy to understand why
Fes El
Bali,
the old town, was sometimes referred to as “the most complicated square mile on Earth.”

Tourists were well advised to hire a guide before setting foot in the area. But Agent 47 was equipped with something more reliable than a human guide. He had a small global positioning device that was preloaded with data provided by The Agency. The handheld GPS unit showed Marla Norton’s location, as well as that of The Agency’s local armory, where he could pick up any weapons he needed.

The security measures put in place over the last few years as part of the worldwide effort to counter global terrorism made it nearly impossible to transport weapons on commercial flights like the ones 47

had been forced to use in order to keep up with Marla. So, with the exception of his undetectable fiber-wire garrote, the assassin was unarmed. A problem he would soon correct. Thanks to its location directly across theStrait ofGibraltar fromSpain , as well as its reputation as the gateway to Africa,Morocco was a favorite with tourists from all over the world.Which was why none of the people who lived along the edge of the old city gave the assassin so much as a second glance as he strode through labyrinthine passageways lined with small stores.

Further on the streets were lined with high walls, the iron-strapped gates that opened onto private courtyards, and the homes that embraced them.

As the faithful were called to prayer, and the melodic sound of the
adhan
issued from the city’s minarets, the streets filled with locals and there were fewer and fewer European faces to be seen. Unlike the young women who frequented the stores in the French-built
Ville Nouvelle
(new town), many of whom would have looked at home in New York City, most of
Fes El Bali
’s females wore the
burka
whenever they ventured forth to fetch food, buy clothes, or visit relatives. Men sat on white plastic chairs, stood in doorways, or congregated in open air cafés where many passed the time by playing cards.

Everyone, regardless of age, gender, or station, was forced to share the narrow streets with the heavily burdened donkeys. In the absence of motor vehicles, these beasts were used to haul everything in and out of the
medina
(city). And it was while he was taking refuge in a doorway, so that one of the sturdy animals could pass, that 47 noticed the scruffy-looking African.

A furtive figure ducked into a side corridor when the assassin glanced his way. A thief most likely, eager to steal a tourist’s wallet, but the agent could imagine other scenarios as well, including the possibility that the
Puissance Treize
was somehow aware of his presence. The tail was a problem in either case, and would have to be dealt with before he could enter the armory.

With that in mind Agent 47 quickened his pace, passed a tiny shop stuffed with consumer electronics, and took a sharp right-hand turn into a narrow passageway. Despite the heat of the day, some of the cobblestones were wet, and the passage smelled of urine, though it was empty except for an overflowing trash bin. At the end of the alley, all further progress was blocked by a door covered with peeling paint. The barrier appeared to be at least a hundred years old and was equipped with an equally venerable lock.

The agent ventured a quick look over his shoulder before dropping to one knee and peering through the keyhole. The view was limited, but he couldn’t see any sign of movement in the courtyard beyond, so he was inclined to take the chance. The pick made quick work of the worn tumblers, and it was only a matter of seconds before he heard a
click,
and the lock opened. Another quick glance over his shoulder still showed no sign of pursuit. Hinges squeaked as the agent pushed the door open and slipped inside. From all appearances, the small courtyard was being used to store construction materials. Scrap lumber was stacked next to a wooden box full of ceramic tiles and a rusty wheelbarrow. A short flight of stairs led up to a small landing, a palm in a large pot, and a second door. But 47 had no interest in entering the residence, as he heard the patter of footsteps out in the passageway and tossed a South African Krugerrand toward the stairs. The gold coin made a ringing noise as it hit, bounced once, and rattled into place. The tail was at the door by that time, and having found it ajar, he gave the barrier a push. The African caught sight of the brightly glittering gold coin as the slab of wood swung out of the way, and he hurried to claim it.

The man was of average height, a good deal darker than most of the local population, and dressed in the pan-African uniform of a T-shirt and ragged pants. But what made this young man different from most was the fact that his right hand had been replaced by a rudimentary metal hook. The sort of prosthesis a village blacksmith might manufacture for a few dollars.

The African had covered half the distance to the gleaming Krugerrand when the fiber-wire noose dropped over his head. The assassin’s plan was to choke the young man into submission, ask him some questions, and then decide what to do with him.

But 47’s adversary brought the hook up so quickly that the prosthesis was inside the loop before the garrote could tighten. And because the inner surface of the hook had been honed until it was knife-sharp, the noose fell away.

Reacting to this turn of events, 47 pushed the African away, dropped into a crouch, and prepared to defend himself with whatever he could lay his hands on. The only implement that happened to be available was a rusty shovel that was leaning against the courtyard wall. He held it diagonally across his body where it could be used to block the other man’s hook.

But if the assassin’s opponent was intimidated, he showed no sign of it as the two men circled each other, looking for openings.A sheen of perspiration had appeared on the hook-man’s forehead, but judging from the steady look in his eyes, he was quite confident. His prosthesis was held low and back, and one well-placed arc could sink the hook into 47’s groin, where he would be able to jerk the blade upward, and thereby spill his victim’s intestines onto the pavement. But the hook-man would have to close with the assassin in order to accomplish such a move, and as long as 47 had the shovel, the African would be forced to keep his distance. Suddenly the agent tripped on a loose paving-stone, which brought his opponent rushing forward in an instant. But it was a ruse, and before 47’s opponent could react, the shovel was in motion. It made an audible
clang
as it came into contact with the African’s left knee. His eyes went wide, and both the hook and the man’s remaining hand went to where the pain was, as he fell backward onto the pavement. Then Agent 47 was there, with the shovel blade pressing down on the man’s throat, as the amputee whimpered in pain.

“Who are you?” the assassin demanded. “And why were you following me?”

“Jamal,” the man on the ground choked out, as he tried to push the shovel away from his throat. “My name is Jamal. Please! I can’t breathe.”

“Okay, Jamal,” the assassin said unsympathetically, as he put his right foot on the shovel. “Why were you following me?”

The response was little more than an inarticulate gurgling noise, so 47 was forced to remove his foot, and thereby relieve the pressure on Jamal’s tortured windpipe.

“Now, try again.”

“Money,”came the raspy response. “I was going to take your money.”

“That’s one possibility,” the agent allowed darkly. “But there are others. How can I be sure that you’re just a thief?”

“My hand,” Jamal said piteously, as he held up the hook for inspection. “They cut it off.”

It had long been the Muslim practice to amputate hands, arms, and in some cases legs, as a punishment for thievery. While this approach was gradually falling out of favor in many Middle Eastern countries, it was still considered an effective deterrent in others.A fact that seemed to support Jamal’s claim. So, having completed a quick pat down, Agent 47 backed out of reach.

“I suggest that you find a new line of work. You aren’t very good at this one.”

Jamal continued to hug his knee and moan softly as 47 put the shovel back where he had found it.

“I’ll leave the gate ajar,” the assassin promised, as he bent over to retrieve the Krugerrand. “And don’t bother to get up. I’ll see myself out.”

Having left the little courtyard behind, Agent 47 paused at the point where the side passage met the main thoroughfare, and took a moment to adjust his red silk tie. Then, having assured himself there weren’t any additional Jamals waiting to attack him, he resumed his journey.

A right-hand turn took him down a short flight of stairs, under an arch, and past a group of boys who were playing with a soccer ball. It soon became clear that what had once been a residential area had gradually transitioned into a small
souk
with specialized stores slotted along both sides of the street. The establishment 47 was looking for lay about a hundred feet farther on, just around a gentle curve and opposite a family-run grocery. The sign out front read MEN’S CLOTHING, in both English and Arabic, followed by ABAZA TIRK, PROPRIETOR, in smaller letters, carved out and painted in gold. Having stopped to inspect the overly ripe fruit displayed on the other side of the thoroughfare, and to make sure that he hadn’t acquired a new tail, Agent 47 was forced to wait for a group of black-clad women to pass before crossing over to the store. Like the shops located to either side, the clothing store was quite narrow, which made it necessary to hang clothes in tiers, the highest of which were suspended just below the ceiling, and only accessible with a long pole. It was hot and musty, and there wasn’t much light, but what there wascame from ceiling fixtures that were at least seventy-five years old. A well-worn aisle led straight back to where a man with generally even features, slightly bulging eyes, and a servile manner stood waiting. He was dressed in a red fez, a well-tailored gray suit, and a pair of black Moroccan slippers. A young man sat behind the counter seemingly half-asleep.

“Good afternoon,
effendi,
” the well-dressed man said, as he dry-washed his hands. “My name is Abaza Tirk. Welcome to my humble store. I can see that you are a man of taste and discernment. How can my family and I be of assistance?”

“Abd-el-Kader said, ‘Death is a black camel, which kneels at the gates of all,’” 47 replied matter-of-factly.

“And Ben Sira said, ‘Fear not death, for it is your destiny,’” the diminutive store owner replied, as the servile manner dropped away. “Welcome Agent 47—I was told to expect you. Please come this way.”

The assassin followed Tirk past a small counter, and as he passed he noticed that the young man seated behind the till was cradling a mini-Uzi in his lap.

There was a momentary pause as Tirk entered a code into a keypad located at the back of the crowded store. It was concealed by a small scrap of cloth tacked to the wall. The metal door made no sound as it swung open. A motion detector activated two rows of lights, and Agent 47 felt the temperature drop as Tirk pulled the door closed behind them.

Unlike the dark, slightly musty clothing store, The Agency’s armory inFez was sleekly modern. Closely spaced racks of weapons took up both walls, all grouped by category, and labeled appropriately. Ammunition, accessories, and cleaning gear were stored below the firearms in stainless steel cabinets.