Hitman: Enemy Within (25 page)

And there was evidence to support the priest’s hypothesis. The assassin had once taken shelter at Vittorio’s church, where he worked as the gardener in an attempt to put his violent life behind him. But men with 47’s skills were hard to come by, and it wasn’t long before the past caught up with the assassin, forcing him to take up arms once again. Those had been bloody days, in a land already soaked with blood, and it was something of a miracle that both Vittorio and his former gardener were still alive. A cold breeze came up, as if somehow summoned by the priest’s dark thoughts, and tugged at his cloak as the plane appeared in the south. Its running lights were on, and it was gradually losing altitude. The phone call had come like a bolt out of the blue. Vittorio knew who it was the moment he heard 47’s voice. The agent was on a plane loaded with orphans, headed forSicily , and in need of someone to care for the youngsters. Why was a hired killer flying north with a planeload of children? There was no way to know.

And it really didn’t matter. The orphans were in need of help, and Father Vittorio would do his best to provide it. No simple matter, given all of the legalities involved, but the local customs agent was a member of Vittorio’s parish. The Holy See could be counted on to help, and the Lord would take care of the rest.

There was a brief screech of tires as the airplane put down, the engines roared, and it wasn’t long before the twin-engined transport turned off the runway and onto the taxiway in front of the terminal. It stopped a few minutes later, and the big props continued to turn for a few revolutions before finally coming to a halt.

A door opened, stairs were lowered, and Agent 47 appeared. The assassin was wearing his usual black suit, white shirt, and red tie. When he was halfway down the stairs, he turned to accept two briefcases, then two suitcases. Three of the objects were left next to the plane as he crossed the tarmac. Vittorio noticed that 47’s skin was darker than usual, as if he’d been spending a great deal of time in the sun, and wondered how long the agent had been inAfrica .

“It’s good to see you, my son,” the priest said, as the two men embraced.

“And you, Father,” Agent 47 replied. “Thank you for agreeing to help.”

“Such is the Lord’s work,” Vittorio said, as he eyed the plane. The children were being unloaded by then, and the scrawny youngsters made for a pitiful sight as another man, who looked to be the pilot, led them toward the terminal. “What can you tell me about the little ones?” the cleric inquired. “What happened to their families?”

“Their parents were killed by slavers. They were on their way to a whorehouse inFez when something happened to the man who owned them,” 47 replied.

Vittorio crossed himself. He could well imagine what the “something” was.

“But unlike most orphans, they come with an endowment,” 47 added, as he presented Al-Fulani’s briefcase to the clergyman.

The priest released the latches, took a peek inside, and closed the lid.

“That looks like a lot of money, my son.”

“It is,” 47 agreed. “And it’s tax free.”

The conversation was interrupted as the pilot arrived with the children in tow. The man was about to introduce himself when the orphans rushed Father Vittorio and quickly surrounded him.

“My name’sPreston ,” the pilot said, as he extended his hand. “The children went to a mission school, before the priest was murdered and all of the villagers were forced to flee. So they know what a clerical collar means.”

The copilot joined the group at that point. He had a briefcase tucked under one arm and was toting the two suitcases. “I don’t know what you have in these things,” he complained to 47, “but they’re damned heavy!”

“That makes them harder to steal,” 47 said lightly as he accepted the briefcase. The situation appeared to make the agent uncomfortable, and he seemed eager not to linger.

Before the operative could make his escape, one girl detached herself from the rest of the children and came to stand directly in front of him. Her big brown eyes were solemn, and her voice was clear as she spoke.

“Thank you, Mr. Taylor. All of us will remember your name.”

That was probably the highest honor the Dinka children knew how to bestow. But as Father Vittorio looked at 47, he saw genuine consternation on the assassin’s face. He suspected that it had never been the man’s intention to help the children, and he wasn’t sure how to respond. The agent just nodded awkwardly, and mumbled, “You’re welcome,” as he slung the briefcase over a shoulder and took a grip on both of the suitcases.

There was a long moment of silence as three men and a little girl watched 47 walk away. Finally, having given a shake of his head, Father Vittorio spoke.

“The ways of God are mysterious, my friends…very mysterious indeed.”

ROME,ITALY

It was early the next morning by the time Agent 47 arrived inRome , took the train in from the airport, and checked into a nice but low-key hotel not far from the Spanish Steps. Then it was time to take a shower, brush his teeth, and grab some sleep.

Before he had left forRome , he had tried again to contact Diana, and an unfamiliar voice had responded, claiming to be her replacement. That had been so out of the ordinary that 47 had decided not to trust his important information to a stranger, and had cut the connection immediately. It was now light outside, but the heavy drapes served to keep most of the dawn sunshine out, and some of the traffic noise, as well. The carpet was equipped with a good pad, which meant the assassin was more comfortable than usual, and had little difficulty falling asleep. Strangely—from 47’s perspective at least—it was raining when he awoke. Dark clouds obscured the sun, and raindrops pattered against his window as he carried out his morning routines. Except that it was midafternoon by then, which meant it was going to be very difficult to find a decent breakfast, especially in a country where the first meal of the day normally consisted of coffee and a roll. A meal so nonexistent that they might as well not have bothered, insofar as 47 was concerned. The solution was to eat at a hotel that not only catered to Americans, but boasted its own restaurant, because such an establishment was likely to offer eggs, pancakes, and bacon. Finding one involved a three-block walk without benefit of an umbrella, so 47 was soaking wet by the time he was shown into an over-decorated dining room and escorted to a table. The good news was that the restaurant did, indeed, serve American-style breakfasts.

The bad news was that they were serving lunch. Yet as always, money worked wonders, and having slipped a fifty-dollar bill to the waiter, the assassin was soon dining on a breakfast of waffles, bacon, and sausage, with hot coffee to wash it down.

With a full stomach, and a newly purchased umbrella to protect his head, the assassin made his way back to his hotel. His room had been cleaned, and his luggage was secure, so it was time to get back to work.

The first order of business was to call in again and try to speak with Diana, who, he hoped, would be back on duty. Since she hadn’t heard from the agent in days, she could be counted on to chew him out, especially since he had hung up on her “replacement.”

But having activated the satellite phone and entered the appropriate code, Agent 47 again found himself talking to a stranger. Not unheard of, but rare, since Diana was something of a workaholic, so he didn’t cut the connection this time.

Equally unusual, however, was the fact that the man who answered the phone immediately routed the call to Mr. Nu, who 47 had last seen inYakima . There was a thirty-second wait, but once the executive came on, he was clearly anxious to take the call.

“Agent 47?Is that you? We’ve been trying to reach you for days.”

“I was kind of busy,” the assassin replied honestly. “Where’s Diana?”

The executive knew how attached field agents could become to their controllers and was ready for the question.

“We need to talk, 47.Face-to-face. Where are you?”

“InRome ,” the assassin answered cautiously.

“Okay,Rome it is,” the executive replied. “I can be there in time for a late dinner. We’ll eat, I’ll bring you up to date on Diana, and you can tell me aboutAfrica . How did it go, by the way? Were you able to catch up with Al-Fulani?”

The question hung between them as the assassin considered his options. He could—and probably should—tell Mr. Nu what he had learned, but something felt wrong.Something having to do with Diana. So rather than answer the question, the agent chose to end the conversation.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but there’s someone at the door. Let’s catch up tonight. Where should we meet?”

Nu sensed the agent’s hesitancy, but thought it best to let the matter slide, confident that he would learn whatever there was to know later in the day. So instead, he gave the name of his favorite restaurant.

“I’ll see you at nine,” he said, and he waited for 47 to be the one who broke the circuit. He opened another channel, and a quick conversation with a technician in the
Danjou
’s control room was sufficient to confirm that, based on the tracker built into 47’s phone, the agent really was inRome . It wasn’t that the executive didn’t trust the assassin.But still…

Diana had been above suspicion until recently and now nothing seemed certain. Suspicion was like a communicable disease, and once contracted, it was almost impossible to beat.

“Call the airport,” Nu said. “Tell our pilot to file a flight plan forRome . I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

Now that he thought about it, maybe he didn’t trust the assassin. In fact, maybe he didn’t trust anyone. It was still raining, and Agent 47 had been watching the restaurant for more than an hour when a cab pulled up and Mr. Nu got out. The assassin had no reason to expect a trap, but it always paid to be careful, so he waited for a full five minutes to see if anyone else showed up. He scanned the nearby buildings, as well, but saw nothing that appeared to be suspicious. Finally, satisfied that the restaurant was reasonably safe, he stepped out into a cold drizzle.

Five minutes later he was seated across a linen-covered table from his superior. A small oil-fed lamp had been placed at the center of the surface and it lit the executive’s face from below.

“All of the food here is excellent,” Nu said, as he gestured toward a waiting menu, “but I’m especially fond of the chicken risotto. The chef uses the Carnaroli grain, which holds its shape better than the Arborio, yet absorbs the stock extremely well. Or, you might like the
Pasta Rustico,
which generally appeals to those with hearty appetites.”

In the end 47 ordered the pasta dish, which turned out to be delicious and went perfectly with the house red. Once they had eaten the main course, Nu got down to business.

“You inquired about Diana,” the executive said somberly, “and I put you off. That’s because it looks as though she’s the person we’ve been looking for.”

Agent 47 opened his mouth to protest, but Nu raised a hand.

“The two of you have a close working relationship. I know that. But hear me out.”

So 47 listened as the executive laid out the evidence against Diana, and their dessert arrived.

“So, that’s it,” Mr. Nu concluded gloomily. “It would appear that Diana sold us out—except that she claims the payments are part of an elaborate trick.An effort to direct attention away from the true culprit. Personally, I hope she’s correct—but it doesn’t look likely. Not unless you have information to the contrary.”

Agent 47 met the other man’s eyes. “Yes, I believe I do, although I need more proof. According to Al-Fulani the man we’re looking for is Aristotle Thorakis. Al-Fulani claimed that Thorakis is—or was—in serious financial trouble. Such deep trouble that it was necessary to accept a loan from the
Puissance Treize
to remain in business. And they’ve been draining him dry ever since.”

Nu frowned. “Are you sure? We knew he was having problems, but when our accountants went over his finances, he came up clean. All the money he borrowed seemed to come from legitimate sources.”

“Tell the bean counters to take another look,” Agent 47 suggested dryly. “It’s my guess that those

‘legitimate sources’ are actually fronts. Or firms that are beholden to the
Puissance Treize
in some way.”

“What you say makes sense,” Nu acknowledged. “But even you admit that we lack proof. What if the bean counters don’t find anything?”

“Then hopefully
I
will,” 47 responded. “I plan to track Thorakis down and see what I can learn. But don’t tell the board. If Thorakis gets wind of what we’re doing, he’ll take additional steps to cover his tracks or run.”

“Understood,” the executive said. “But until such time as we can prove that Thorakis is guilty, Diane will remain under lock and key. And there’s a lot of pressure to punish her now.”

“From whom?”47 wanted to know.“From Thorakis?”

“Yes,” Nu confirmed.“But from others as well. They want blood.”

“I need time,” 47 responded.

“How much?”

“Two weeks.”

“Okay,” the executive said reluctantly. “That’s a lot, but I’ll do my best. It won’t be easy, though.”

“No,” Agent 47 agreed soberly. “It won’t be easy.”

When Agent 47 awoke the next morning he could feel the clock ticking. Not for himself, but for Diana,which was strange, because he barely knew her. And how could it be otherwise?Given the fact that most of their relationship consisted of five-minute phone conversations. But with the exception of extremely rare face-to-face meetings like the one with Nu, Diana was his only genuine link with The Agency.And his only hope for help when a mission went awry. So that made the controller important to 47’s survival, which, all things considered, made her very important indeed. Such were the assassin’s thoughts as he downed a quick breakfast at the American hotel, and went back to his room to conduct some online research. The sort of thing The Agency normally took care of for him, but he would need to handle himself, lest he reveal his interest in Aristotle Thorakis. The first and most pressing problem was where to find the shipping magnate. The Greek was very well known, so having entered the name “Aristotle Thorakis” into a popular search engine, the agent came up with 1,918,000 hits.