Hitman: Enemy Within (11 page)

“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 inFez . 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 yang 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 inCairo 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 hemostatslaid 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?”

“Yes,” Marla agreed.

“Good,” Rollet responded. “What would you like to know?”

A number of full-color photographs had been taped to a tiled wall. They were of good quality, and showed Rollet having breakfast with Agent 47 at the Paris Café.

“Tell us about the meeting you had with the man in those photographs,” Marla instructed. “And leave nothing out.”

Rollet complied, so that ten minutes later both Marla and her protector knew what the Frenchman knew, which was that 47 was extremely interested in Al-Fulani’s activities. And given the match between the professor’s story and recent events, there was no reason to doubt him. Al-Fulani was satisfied.

“I think we have it all,” the Moroccan said. He turned to Marla. “Kill him.”

“But you agreed to let me go!” Rollet protested.

“No,” Marla countered reasonably. “We agreed to let you
live.
But we didn’t say for how long.”

The Walther spoke twice, two bullet holes appeared at the very center of Rollet’s lightly haired chest, and his chin fell forward. Doctor Habib was left to clean up after the killing as Marla and Al-Fulani left the room.

Marla was the first to speak as they climbed the stairs.

“So, I have the job.”

“Yes,” Al-Fulani agreed soberly. “My men aren’t used to taking orders from a woman, but Ammar was a fool to ignore your advice, and paid the price. So, from this point forward, you will be in charge of my personal safety, although responsibility for overall security will continue to rest with my cousin Rashid. Are we agreed?”

Marla didn’t like Rashid, or the fact that he was still in the picture, but knew better than to overreach.

“Yes, and thank you,” Marla said sincerely, as they reentered the study. “While we’re on the subject of your safety, I would like to suggest that you stay away from the orphanage until we find 47. Rollet told him about it, and how you go there on Fridays. That means he could find a place to hide, lie in wait, and pick you off with a rifle.”

Al-Fulani made a face.

“But the children will miss me!”

Marla had serious doubts about that but kept them to herself.

“Perhaps the staff could bring some of them here—but promise me you won’t go there.”

The Moroccan’s face lit up.

“Yes! It shall be as you say. I will organize a party. And you will come.”

Marla experienced a wave of revulsion, and could only hope that it wasn’t visible on her face.

“Of course.Nothing would please me more.”

Chapter Eight

FEZ,MOROCCO

Though slightly taller than the average Moroccan, there was nothing else to distinguish the man wearing the red fez, dilapidated business suit, and dusty black shoes from thousands of low-level bureaucrats and sales clerks as he made his way up the busy street, entered the run-down residential hotel located across from the Al-Fulani Orphanage, and carried two plastic bags bulging with groceries up three flights of stairs to apartment 301, where he paused to eye the thread that had been spit-welded across the doorjamb. It was intact.

Mindful of the fact that a truly dangerous adversary would not only notice the thread, but have an accomplice replace it once he wasinside, the man in the red fez lowered his groceries to the floor. Then having eyeballed the other doors that opened onto the landing, the tenant drew a Silverballer with one hand, while he unlocked the door with the other. There was a soft
click.
The man gave the door a nudge, saw it swing open, and backed away. But rather than a volley of gunshots, the only sounds to be heard were the muted babble from a television in 302 and the insistent bleat of a distant siren.

Having satisfied himself that it was safe to enter, the man in the red fez did so, weapon at the ready. But with the exception of the six flies that were chasing one another around the light fixture in the middle of the ceiling, the dingy apartment was empty of life.

The Silverballer slid back into its holster, the groceries were brought in from the hall, and the door was relocked.

The ceiling fan was broken, and there was no air conditioning other than that produced by the three vertical windows that opened onto the street, so he went over to open them. Outside air entered the room, but so did the acrid stench of exhaust fumes and the roar of traffic below. Once the cold items were stowed in the gently wheezing fridge, Agent 47 removed both the fez and the suit that Mr. Tirk had given him. It would have been nice to remove the pencil-thin mustache, and the paste-on mole. But dangerous, because now that the move from the Sofitel
Palais Jamai Fes
was complete, it was important to stay in character as he kept Al-Fulani’s orphanage under observation. According to Professor Rollet, the Moroccan would probably visit the building on the far side of the street the following day.Which was when the assassin planned to enter the orphanage, drug the businessman, and make off with his unconscious body. Then, having driven the Moroccan out into the country, he would have an opportunity to ask some very pointed questions. But before he made his move he wanted to observe the comings and goings of the place.

So 47 sat down to eat the cold couscous salad with lemon dressing and feta cheese that he had purchased from a mom-and-pop grocery store. That was followed by six lamb-skewers from a street vendor, plus a piece of coconut fudge cake, and three cups of piping hot tea. Then, as daylight gradually surrendered to darkness, the surveillance began anew. Thanks to the information provided by Rollet, 47 knew that the building across the street had once been the property of a wealthy Jewish family, which had chosen to emigrate to Israel—or been forced to do so, in the years immediately after World War II. The old mansion was solidly built, stood three stories high, and would have been at home in the Steglitz district of Berlin.

During the two days that Agent 47 had been watching the orphanage, he had never once seen children outside playing. There were plenty of adults, however, including household staff, security guards, and the well-dressed visitors who arrived each evening, almost all of whom were male, mostly European, and generally older.

There was a good deal of turnover where the visitors were concerned, or that’s how it appeared, but there were regulars, too. Like the wheelchair-bound Mr. Wayne Bedo ofAkron ,Ohio , who had arrived inFez three weeks earlier, and was delivered to the orphanage at exactly 7:00 each evening by a specially equipped van. All of which was information 47 had gathered by jumping into a taxi and following Bedo to his hotel the night before.

A breeze came up as the sun set, and the badly faded curtains began to stir, even as the lights came on across the street. Having darkened his apartment so that no one could see in, Agent 47 began the evening’s work, which consisted of memorizing everything that might be relevant to the coming mission. That included taking note of the number of guards who were patrolling the grounds, where they were stationed, how frequently they were relieved, which ones had a tendency to goof off, where the surveillance cameras were located, how the floodlights were positioned, where the shadows fell, and much, much more. Each new observation was compared to the ones he had made during the past couple of days, in order to detect changes, variations, and patterns.

He noted the fact that at least three-quarters of the people who entered the orphanage were wearing masks, which seemed rather strange, unless the facility was being used to stage costume balls six nights a week. But, regardless of the reason, the practice might be beneficial to 47’s plan, which was all that mattered to him.

Most of the visitors had arrived by 8:00 p.m., and Al-Fulani wasn’t among them, so the assassin felt even more certain that the Moroccan would visit the orphanage on schedule the following evening. Later, about eleven or so, people began to leave.A process that continued into the wee hours of the morning before finally tailing off about 2:00 a.m.Which was when the agent put his binoculars away, took a tepid shower, and made a bed on the floor.

Then, with both Silverballers at hand, the assassin went to sleep.

* * *

The sun was low in the western sky, and the city’s shadows were pointing toward the holy city ofMecca

, as the man in the red fez made his way through the lobby of the Oasis Hotel, entered the elevator, and got off on the sixth floor.

Having checked his watch, he followed the blue and gold runner down the hallway toward the linen closet he had identified previously. After a quick look around to make sure that no one was watching, he dropped to one knee. The lock pick made quick work of the old tumblers, the door opened without protest, and 47 slipped inside.

Sturdy shelves took up most of the walls, all of which were loaded with clean towels, sheets, and blankets. There were a couple of carts, plus backup cleaning supplies, and a white plastic chair. The air was thick with the combined odors of soap, cleaning agents, and room deodorizer. He was early, and intentionally so, lest something unexpected delay him. So there was nothing for 47 to do other than leave the door slightly ajar and wait. The second maid service of the day was complete, so there was no reason why members of the staff would bother him, but if they did, a syringe was ready and waiting.

That precaution proved unnecessary, however, because the next person to come down the hallway wasn’t a member of the hotel’s staff, but Mr. Nathan Ghomara, the English-speaking aide Bedo had engaged to take him where he wanted to go.Which, for the most part, was the orphanage. Ghomara was of average height, but a bit overweight, causing him to waddle as he approached the closet. The Moroccan was dressed in a sports jacket, white shirt, and black pants. There was nothing especially remarkable about his features except for bushy eyebrows, a slightly bulbous nose, and a heavy five-o’-clock shadow.

Agent 47 waited for Ghomara to pass, stepped out into the hall, and took three running steps. He clamped a hand over the Moroccan’s mouth and rammed the needle into his neck. Ghomara struggled weakly for a moment before becoming a dead weight as he collapsed.

The assassin was well aware of the fact that an elevator full of people could arrive at any moment, or one of the hotel’s guests might step out into the hall, which meant it was important to drag Ghomara into the storage room as quickly as possible. But the Moroccan was heavy, so it took quite a bit of effort to pull him through the door, and 47 felt a sense of relief once the chore was over. The moment the door was closed he took a quick tour through Ghomara’s pockets. The effort produced a key card that would get him into the American’s suite, as well as the keys needed to operate the lift-equipped van parked in the hotel’s garage. The agent toyed with the idea of taking the Moroccan’s clothes, but couldn’t see any benefit to doing so, especially given the fact that everything would be at least one size too big.