Hitman: Enemy Within (13 page)

Finally, confident that Number 6 was truly dead, 47 let go.

Then, in keeping with a boyish impulse to send a message to his clone brothers, he wrestled 6 into one of the stalls. The body was limp—a dead weight—so it was difficult to push the head into a toilet and make sure it remained there. But that’s what the newly minted killer was determined to do. Finally that chore was accomplished, and it was time to return to the dorm. There he gathered up two pairs of socks, plus his boots, and a heavily loaded daypack. After having taken one last look around, Number 47 slipped out of the room.

A flight of stairs led down into the front hall, where Mrs. Dorvak was asleep behind the big desk, her head back, hands clasped over her protuberant belly. Number 47 smiled thinly as he tiptoed past. Maybe, if everything went especially well, Lazlow would fire the old cow for sleeping on duty!

Once in the hall beyond, he had to pause and pull on socks and boots before following a corridor to the side entrance. The much-abused door normally produced a horrible screeching sound whenever someone went to open it. But thanks to the grease lavished on its hinges the previous day, the door opened silently, and a blast of frigid air invaded the hallway.

But that was the easy part, 47 knew, because the real threat was patrolling the grounds outside, and his name was Bruno. The exact nature of the dog’s ancestry was unknown, although he was huge and resembled a mastiff.A bad-tempered mastiff that prowled the asylum’s grounds at night to keep intruders out, and to keep the boys in. Which Bruno managed to do with greatefficiency. As far as 47 could remember, there had been only one escape attempt. It had concluded in a cacophony of horrible screams followed by a brief memorial service two days later.

So 47 had reason to be frightened as he left the protection of the asylum building and made straight for the pump house. That was where he had stashed a bow he had stolen from the gym—along with a single steel-tipped arrow. Dry snowflakes fell all around him, the air was bitterly cold, and his boots made a crunching sound as the ice-crusted snow gave under his weight.

Had Bruno heard him? Or caught his scent? There was no way to know, because everyone knew that Bruno’s hunts were silent, until his jaws closed on something, and
it
began to squeal. Of course, since he didn’t want to attract any attention, that was good—or it could be, provided that 47

was able to pull the weapon out from under the pump house in one smooth motion, string the bow with cold fingers, bring the modified target arrow up into the proper position, pull the string all the way back, and let loose before Bruno could close with him.

After what seemed like hours of crossing the open ground, 47 skidded to a halt, fell to his knees in the snow, and stuck his right hand in under the dimly lit pump house. There was a brief moment of joy as his cold fingers closed around the arrow, but it was quickly followed by a sense of despair as he felt for the bow, and realized that it wasn’t there! Most likely the groundskeeper or a maintenance worker had come across the weapon while performing some chore, missed the arrow during the process, and returned the bow to the sports equipment room.

It was a horrible break, but there was no time to think about that as 47 heard a deep growl and turned to confront the oncoming dog.

The brute was airborne by that time, so all the twelve-year-old could do was throw up his arms in a futile effort to protecthimself while he waited to die.

But the arrow was clutched in his left hand, its knife-sharp tip pointed outward, and as Bruno’s weight came down on it, the dog’s own momentum inadvertently pushed the other end of the shaft into the frozen ground! There was a pitiful yelp as the improvised point penetrated the mastiff’s skin, punched all the way through his heart, and emerged between his shoulder blades.

Number 47 took the full brunt of Bruno’s weight, and produced a grunt as all of the air was forced out of his lungs. It took him a minute to recover, but finally, after gasping like a just-landed fish, the youngster managed to suck some oxygen. It was only then, as he battled to push Bruno off his torso, that 47

realized the dog was, indeed, dead.

The boy was too scared, and too cold, to appreciate the full extent of his good fortune, but there would be time later to marvel at how lucky he had been. Or
was
it luck?Because even though the bow was missing, the arrow had been wielded by 47’s hand, which had made the “good luck” possible. He shook his head to clear his mind of such thoughts. All 47 wanted to do now was turn and make a run for the metal fence that encircled the property.

It rattled as he leaped and his boots hit the mesh two feet off the ground. The boy’s breath came in short gasps as he began to climb. Less than a minute later he was over the top, dropping to the ground below, and jogging along a snow-covered access road, then onto the main road. There weren’t very many streetlights, but those there were wore halos, and led the way toward the highway, where he could hitch a ride to the city ofBrasov .

The youngster’s plans didn’t extend much beyond that, although he knew Headmaster Lazlow would be furious and that all sorts of people would be out looking for him. So once in the city, it would be important to find additional transportation, and put as much distance as he could between himself and the asylum.

Yet like his clone brothers, 47 had never been allowed to venture outside of the asylum grounds, so after flagging down a passing motorist, and spinningher a lie about going to visit his sick grandmother, he quickly found himself in what amounted to an alien world. She took him into the city, where he asked to be dropped off.

Brasovhad begun to stir by then. It was an ancient city, built on land that had been occupied since the Bronze Age, most recently by the Germans and the Soviets, and had long been regarded asTransylvania

’s gateway to the south and east.

He had been taught the city’s origins in the course of his studies, and 47 could feel a deeply rooted connection with the past in the red-roofed merchant houses that surroundedCouncil Square and the tall watchtower located at the center of it. His boots left shallow impressions in the snow as lights came on in buildings around the perimeter of the square and the business day began. There were all sorts of buildings off the main square, as well as store windows filled with things he had never seen before, all requiring money the runaway didn’t have.Which was why 47 asked a passerby for directions, made his way to the local bus depot, and was busy trying to figure out a way to sneak on to a sleek-looking coach, when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.

The boy struggled, but to no avail, as Headmaster Lazlow frog-marched him out of the depot and onto the busy street beyond. At that point the murderer-escapee fully expected to be turned over to the authorities.Or immediately taken back to the asylum for corporeal punishment. But to the youngster’s everlasting surprise, Lazlow led him down the street and into a busy restaurant. Once they were seated the headmaster ordered hot drinks and an enormous breakfast, which the two of them shared.

Then, as 47 went to work on a big mug of steaming cocoa, peering expectantly at his captor, Lazlow did something the boy had never seen before.

He smiled.

“Congratulations, son,” the headmaster said warmly, glancing around to make certain no one was near.

“That was your first kill—and it won’t be your last! The problem with Number 6 was that he
enjoyed
hurting people, a flaw that ultimately would have limited his usefulness.Because pleasure skews judgment. So you did us a favor, freed yourself from tyranny, and proved what you can do. I’m proud of you, and so—for that matter—is Dr. Ort-Meyer.

“But from this point forward,” he added, his expression turning grim, “you are not to kill without permission. Is that understood?”

Number 47, his eyes wide with wonder, nodded his head.

“Good,” Lazlow said contentedly. “Now, have some waffles.”

And, looking back over the intervening years, breakfast had been the most important meal of the day ever since.

A man dressed in a Nike sports outfit blew a whistle, which brought Agent 47 back to the present, and sent a team of mostly naked preteens tumbling across the floor. Though his face was hidden, Bedo seemed utterly enthralled, as were the other pedophiles seated around the low-rise stage, but the assassin was looking elsewhere.

While he had been reliving his youth, Marla Norton had slipped into the room, and was positioned on the far side of the platform. Agent 47 silently cursed himself for allowing his attention to drift. The
Puissance Treize
agent wasn’t alone. Two men, both armed with AK-47s, had taken up positions immediately behind her.

Judging from the manner in which the young woman was scanning the crowd, she was looking for someone. And there was very little doubt as to who that person might be. The Silverballers were within easy reach, but 47 didn’t want to shoot his way out of the building unless he was forced to do so, which meant he would have to rely on his disguise for protection. Thus, while the children performed handstands and made awkward tumbling runs, the assassin watched Marla out of the corner of his eye.

Then, as her gaze slid across him, 47 felt a tremendous sense of relief.The Kufa disguise had held!

For the moment, anyway.

Agent 47 felt his pulse quicken. If Marla was present—was Al-Fulani nearby? Waiting outside, perhaps? Ready to enter, once he got the all clear? That was the assassin’s hope, but it wasn’t to be. After a few more moments, Marla wrinkled her nose in what might have been an expression of disgust, and left the room. The security agents followed.

Almost immediately thereafter he heard the front door open and shut, indicating that they had departed. Yet their very presence told him that they suspected he might be there. Knowing his target wasn’t likely to appear, Agent 47 felt a keen sense of disappointment. But he was forced to suppress the emotion so he could focus his attention on extricating himself from the orphanage. The last performance was coming to a conclusion by then, and Al-Fulani’s customers were busy choosing which performers they wanted to take upstairs, when the assassin surreptitiously stabbed Bedo in the arm. The American produced a startled yelp, started to say something,then slumped forward as the sedative kicked in.

Staff members rushed to help—but 47 was quick to shoo them away.

“Don’t worry,” he assured them. “It happens all the time. I’ll take Mr. Bedo back to his hotel and put him to bed. He’ll be as good as new in the morning.”

Having no reason to doubt the man in the red fez, and being understandably happy to rid themselves of what could have been a problem, the orphanage’s staff hurried to escort the duo out through security, and load the unconscious Bedo into the van. It was dark by then, but Agent 47 discovered that traffic was a little bit lighter than before, as he drove the American back to the Oasis Hotel. The question—and a rather important one—was whether Mr. Ghomara had been discovered, or was still lying in the locked linen room. Having circled the hotel twice without detecting any sort of police presence, Agent 47 concluded that no alarm had been raised. And since neither Ghomara nor Bedo had seen him without the Kufa disguise, it didn’t matter what they told the police the following morning. Not that Bedo was likely to be all that forthcoming, given his visits to the orphanage or his true reason for visitingFez .

The assassin entered the garage without incident, chose one of the more remote parking spots, and shut the engine down. Thanks to the power lift it was possible to unload the wheelchair, move Bedo into an elevator, and return the American to his room without any assistance. Then, having removed the Silverballers from the chair’s cargo pocket, he returned both weapons to their holsters. Bedo’s head came up at that point. The mask had fallen off.

“Where am I?” the American demanded groggily, as he blinked his eyes. “What happened?”

Agent 47 thought about his plan to kill Bedo and replace him with a heavily sedated Al-Fulani. The American had no idea how lucky he was. “You’re in your hotel room,” the man in the red fez answered evenly. “Which is all you need to know.” And with that, the assassin was gone.

Chapter Nine

WEST OFKUTUM ,SUDAN ,NORTH AFRICA

The acacia tree stood like a lonely sentinel on the vast windswept savannah, its large umbrella-shaped canopy of gnarled branches, small leaves, and needle-sharp thorns throwing a pool of welcome shade onto the bone-dry ground where a group of one hundred and twenty-three Dinka refugees had stopped to rest.

They had dark black skin, almond-shaped eyes, finely wrought features, and wore brightly patterned robes of red, blue, and gold. Many had traditional tribal scars on their foreheads. Some had children, who were so malnourished that they simply sat on their mother’s laps, too tired to brush the flies off their eyelids. The group had a small flock of goats that hadn’t been eaten because of the milk they gave.But except for the treadle-powered sewing machine that one elderly gentleman and his family had brought along, the group had very few possessions.

The Dinkas were just a few of the thousands of black Africans who had been forced to flee southwesternSudan by the bloodthirsty Janjaweed militia. Though naturally tall and slim, many members of the group were emaciated due to a lack of nutrition and the intestinal diseases that eternally plagued them. Hope, such as it was, lay across the border inChad , where the refugees might be able to find shelter in a European-run camp.

But first the Dinkas would have to reachChad before the ruthless, camel-riding militia members could catch up with them. If that happened, the men would be murdered, the women would be raped, and the children would be killed or left to die.Which was why Joseph Garang, the group’s unofficial leader, was squinting into the rising sun. If trouble found the group, it would arrive from the east, where the Arab-dominated government held sway.

Garang was a slender man, with richly black skin and intelligent brown eyes. Though only twenty-seven years of age, he looked older, and was considered to be an elder because so many of the real elders had been killed. Many of the Dinkas were Christians, and had just begun to sing one of their favorite hymns when Garang spotted a momentary flash of light low on the eastern horizon. He stood, stared across the flat savannah, and wished he had a pair of binoculars. Had the momentary glint been produced by sunlight reflecting off a shard of broken glass?Or something more sinister? There was no way to be certain, but this wasNorth Africa , where all who lived fell into two broad categories: The hunters and the hunted. Which meant that anything—even a wink of reflected light—could signal a predator’s presence.