William Dietz - Hitman - Enemy Within

But then, unlike her peers, the Danjou was expected to work for a living. Which was why she carried two armored SUVs, four BMW motorcycles, two snowmobiles, six personal watercraft, a four-place helicopter, scuba gear, a decompression chamber, a bulletproof Mercedes S500, and two forty-foot gunboats. Not to mention a great deal of very sophisticated communications and tracking equipment intended to support Agency activities worldwide.

The heart of the ship, and the place where Diana spent most of her time, was the communications and control room located deep within the Danjou ’s armored hull. Her high-backed chair was located at the center of a U-shaped desk from which she could monitor twenty-four wall-mounted video screens, two side-by-side computer displays, and take satellite phone calls from all over the world.

Diana had a high forehead and eyes that were a tiny bit smaller than she would have preferred. Still, having been gifted with a straight nose, high cheekbones, and sensual lips, her face would have been considered beautiful had it not been for a certain hardness that was resident there.

“Say again,” she said, as static rattled in her earphones. “You’re breaking up.”

“I have a message for Mr. Nu,” Agent 47 replied. “Tell him I made contact with Marla Norton. And although I wasn’t able to pry any information out of her, she’s on the run. I placed micro-trackers in both her raincoat and her purse. With any luck at all, she’ll lead us up the food chain, and to the person who has the answers we’re looking for.”

Diana glanced at one of the monitors to her right. Mr. Nu was taking part in a board meeting in Houston, where shipping magnate Aristotle Thorakis was halfway through a report.

“I’ll tell him,” the controller promised. “Take care of yourself.”

“I will,” 47 promised, and he returned the phone to his pocket.

That was when the crackling flames found the explosives that Marla Norton kept hidden in the crawl space above her living room, and the houseboat exploded.

There was a loud boom, followed by a spectacular fireworks display as chunks of fiery debris flew up into the gray sky and rained down onto the surface of the lake, where they made a hissing sound before bobbing on the surface. Mrs. Beasley’s home was largely untouched, except for her geraniums, which were destroyed when a piece of wreckage fell on them.

The oarlocks creaked as the assassin pulled away. More sirens joined the already strident chorus, and the rain fell gently around him.

The more than 7,000-square-foot suite took up the entire 16th floor of the Hotel France and had a sweeping view of Central Park. The reception area was dominated by a huge stained-glass window and the walls were covered with hand-painted depictions of the French countryside. All of which was quite familiar to Aristotle Thorakis, as he and his family had spent the Christmas holidays in the hotel just two years before, back when the $15,000-per-night price tag seemed reasonable.

But even with the 500-million-euro loan from the Puissance Treize in his pocket, equaling nearly 700 million U.S. dollars, the businessman was struggling to keep his shipping empire afloat, and he had come to view such expenditures as an indulgence. Especially when perfectly good accommodations could be had for $5,000 a night.

The cost of the suite included the services of a very proper English butler who was present to greet Thorakis as he stepped off the elevator. The man’s hair was combed straight back, his long face was solemn, and the immaculate business suit fit his body to a tee. Judging from the way he greeted the shipping magnate, he was blessed with an excellent memory—or a very good set of files.

“Good afternoon, sir. Welcome back,” he said smoothly. “My name is Bradley. Mr. Douay has asked me to direct you to the sitting room.”

“Thank you,” Thorakis said brusquely. “I know the way.”

The formal reception area gave way to a hall that led past a formal bar, then a richly paneled dining room, into the large sitting area beyond. Picture windows opened out onto the park, a grand piano stood next to a tiny dance floor, and pieces of formal furniture were grouped to form discrete conversation areas, one of which was occupied by a pair of nattily dressed bodyguards. Both held magazines, but kept their eyes fixed on Thorakis.

Douay was seated behind a handsome replica of a French provincial desk. He was talking on the phone, and nodded as Thorakis dropped into one of the upholstered chairs that faced him.

The Greek couldn’t help but take note of the fact that the Frenchman allowed what was clearly a routine business conversation to continue for a good five minutes before finally bringing the call to an end. Was Douay sending him a message? Seeking to emphasize the extent to which he was in control? Yes, the Greek decided, that was exactly what he was doing. And it served to amplify the anger Thorakis felt when Douay finally saw fit to acknowledge him.

“It was reckless of you to come here,” Douay said sternly.

“Really?” Thorakis replied heatedly. “That’s amusing, coming from you! Are you and your people insane ? I just came from a board meeting where I learned that you and the rest of your morons sent a female operative to eliminate Agent 47, and she failed! That led to a very well-publicized massacre in Yakima, followed by an explosion in Seattle, and a great deal of unfortunate news coverage.

“So, how dare you lecture me on what is and isn’t reckless!” he said, standing and placing his fists on the desk.

Both of Douay’s security people were on their feet by that time, but the Frenchman waved them off. When he spoke, his voice was calm.

“The attempt to eliminate Agent 47 was a failure,” the Frenchman acknowledged soothingly. “However, I assure you that the mistake will be rectified. And I want you to know that the decision to kill 47 wasn’t made lightly. Comparative analysis shows that while he accounted for a mere three percent of the hits carried out by The Agency during the last fiscal year, those sanctions were the most difficult contracts the organization took on, and therefore constituted 37.2 percent of the organization’s gross profit.

“That makes 47 the most valuable asset The Agency has. So, were the Puissance Treize to eliminate him, it would better position our company to compete for the lucrative upmarket jobs-those exhibiting a difficulty quotient of seven or better. That’s where the serious money is. Do you follow our reasoning?”

Not only did Thorakis follow the man’s cold-blooded logic, he found that he admired the audacity of it, if not the ham-handed manner in which the plan had been carried out. And given the Frenchman’s conciliatory tone, the shipping magnate felt his anger begin to melt away. But that left the fear, which, since he had just come from The Agency’s board meeting, was considerable.

“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.”

Douay started 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 to Fez, 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.”