William Dietz - Hitman - Enemy Within

As Marla answered the phone in the kitchen he lifted the receiver off the extension on her desk.

“Hello?” the Puissance Treize agent said, and the ringing stopped.

“Ms. Norton?” a male voice inquired. “This is John at the AJAX Alarm Company. Is everything okay?”

“I tripped and dropped my groceries, that’s all.” Marla replied as she watched Agent 47 screw a silencer onto his pistol. “But I’m fine.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” the man said cautiously. “So you don’t need medical assistance?”

“No,” Marla said. And she hoped it would be true.

“Good,” John replied. “Could I have your security code, please?”

Marla turned her head toward the assassin and saw that the silenced weapon was aimed at her right knee.

“My code is Indigo378.”

“Thank you,” John said politely. “Have a nice day.”

She could have been lying, of course, but based on the speed with which the man on the other end of the line had accepted the code, 47 didn’t think so.

He lowered the gun.

“Remove your clothes.”

Marla raised a well-plucked eyebrow.

“Are you planning to rape me?”

She let the raincoat fall. The Puissance Treize agent had been forced to strip before. Once in Madrid, where it had been necessary to pose as an exotic dancer, so she could sit on her target’s lap. Then in Paris, where the only way to steal the key she needed was to have sex with a French gangster. And most recently in Yakima, where the Big Kahuna insisted on a “show” the evening prior to the meeting.

So Marla knew her body could be used as a weapon-but was the man with the gun susceptible? Looking at his face it was impossible to tell.

He watched impassively as Marla’s thong hit the floor.

“So,” Marla said provocatively, as she completed a quick turn. “Are you satisfied?”

The agent ignored the question. “Who hired you to protect the Big Kahuna?” he demanded.

“Don’t be absurd,” the Puissance Treize agent replied contemptuously. “You know the rules. My superiors would kill me if I told you that!”

The assassin eyed her coldly.

“I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

“No,” Marla countered firmly, “You won’t. Not as long as you need information, and there’s a chance you might get it from me.”

“True,” 47 agreed as the DOVO reappeared. “Then it looks like I’ll have to torture the information out of you…

“Which nipple should I remove first?”

Marla’s hands instinctively flew up to cover her breasts. It was a sign of weakness she immediately came to regret, as she forced her hands back down.

“Torture doesn’t work,” she replied firmly. “People will say anything to make the pain stop. You know that, and I know that.”

“That’s what the experts say,” 47 acknowledged darkly. “But I’ve had pretty good results. Perhaps that’s because I enjoy it. Go over and sit on one of those chairs.” Marla wasn’t sure whether he was telling the truth or just trying to unnerve her more. He motioned with the gun.

The houseboat’s interior featured a retro ’50s theme, complete with lots of primary colors, plastic, and chrome. The chairs he referred to sat around a pedestal-style, circular table.

Fear tingled at the base of Marla’s skull now, and with good reason, given the possibility that the assassin was a self-confessed sadist.

“Put your hands behind your back,” he ordered sternly. He bound her wrists with phone cord. Her ankles came next, and by the time he was finished, Marla was helpless. Or nearly so, since the plastic-coated phone line was slippery, and difficult to knot.

“There,” the agent said, as he stood. “Can’t have any screaming…so all we need now is a gag. Or would you prefer to answer my questions?”

Marla remembered Mrs. Kaberov’s cold blue eyes, and the bullet in the velvet-lined box.

“Go screw yourself!” she responded defiantly.

“Fine, have it your way,” 47 said, and left the dining area.

The assassin returned a few moments later with a dish towel that he tied over Marla’s mouth, and a pillowcase that he pulled down over her head. Then, much to Marla’s relief, she heard a series of footfalls, followed by the sound of the front door opening and closing.

But the man with the gun would be back, and she knew her first opportunity to escape would most likely be the only opportunity to escape.

So rather than wait to see what would happen next, Marla went to work on freeing her hands. And thanks to the fact that the phone cord was slippery, it wasn’t long before her bonds started to come loose. Thus encouraged, she struggled to work her hands free before her assailant could return.

After what seemed like endless minutes, the cord came off, and she reached up to remove the pillowcase. Once she could see, it was relatively easy to remove the line wound around her ankles. Finally, just as it seemed as if her heart were going to beat its way out through her chest, Marla’s feet were free. She stood, got rid of the gag, and made for the door. The externally mounted slide-style bolt made a welcome snicking sound as it slid home.

The lock wouldn’t be enough to keep a really determined assailant out, but it would buy some additional time, and that’s all the Puissance Treize agent needed as she turned back into the room. The Walther was still there, lying on the floor, and never had the weapon’s weight felt more welcome than when she lifted the pistol and pointed it at the door. Holding the semiauto with both hands, Marla waited for the assassin to return. Was the safety on or off? She should have checked but hadn’t. A sure sign of how shaken she was, but an easy mistake to correct.

That was when she smelled smoke, heard her ceiling-mounted fire alarm go off, and saw flames in the kitchen. The fire immediately began to lick at the drapes before spreading across the ceiling, and there was barely enough time for her to slip into the raincoat, grab her purse off the floor, and exit the houseboat—gun in hand—as the flames continued to spread.

Marla had no desire to stay and explain everything to the authorities, so all she could do was shove the Walther into a pocket as she ran toward shore. Her bare feet made a slapping sound as they hit wet wood, and some of her neighbors emerged to shout instructions at one another as Marla entered the parking lot. Sirens could be heard as she fumbled for the remote and took refuge in the Mercedes.

Not knowing where 47 was, nor when he would return, she started the car and sped away. He might be following, but she would have to take that chance. She really had no alternative.

Her mind raced. The Agency knew where she was. That much was obvious, as was the fact that they were out to identify any of their employees who had leaked information to the Puissance Treize and put a stop to it. So, would they continue to come after her?

Yes, they almost certainly would. Except that the next attempt might be made by a specially equipped interrogation team that would use psychology, environmental conditioning, and drugs to break her.

That raised the obvious and most pressing question of what to do next. Would Kaberov provide support? Or punish her for incompetence? There was no way to be sure. But the odds weren’t very good. Suddenly-through no fault of her own-Cassandra Murphy, aka Marla Norton, was on the run.

And whether she wanted to admit it or not, Agent 47 may have just flushed his prey.

Though technically classified as a yacht, the 250-foot-long Jean Danjou had originally been designed to serve as a salvage tug, which was why she had none of the sleek grace that the other megayachts possessed as they lay at anchor on the sparkling waters of Patras.