William Dietz - Hitman - Enemy Within

But if the assassin’s opponent was intimidated, he showed no sign of it as the two men circled each other, looking for openings. A sheen of perspiration had appeared on the hook-man’s forehead, but judging from the steady look in his eyes, he was quite confident. His prosthesis was held low and back, and one well-placed arc could sink the hook into 47’s groin, where he would be able to jerk the blade upward, and thereby spill his victim’s intestines onto the pavement.

But the hook-man would have to close with the assassin in order to accomplish such a move, and as long as 47 had the shovel, the African would be forced to keep his distance.

Suddenly the agent tripped on a loose paving-stone, which brought his opponent rushing forward in an instant. But it was a ruse, and before 47’s opponent could react, the shovel was in motion. It made an audible clang as it came into contact with the African’s left knee.

His eyes went wide, and both the hook and the man’s remaining hand went to where the pain was, as he fell backward onto the pavement. Then Agent 47 was there, with the shovel blade pressing down on the man’s throat, as the amputee whimpered in pain.

“Who are you?” the assassin demanded. “And why were you following me?”

“Jamal,” the man on the ground choked out, as he tried to push the shovel away from his throat. “My name is Jamal. Please! I can’t breathe.”

“Okay, Jamal,” the assassin said unsympathetically, as he put his right foot on the shovel. “Why were you following me?”

The response was little more than an inarticulate gurgling noise, so 47 was forced to remove his foot, and thereby relieve the pressure on Jamal’s tortured windpipe.

“Now, try again.”

“Money,” came the raspy response. “I was going to take your money.”

“That’s one possibility,” the agent allowed darkly. “But there are others. How can I be sure that you’re just a thief?”

“My hand,” Jamal said piteously, as he held up the hook for inspection. “They cut it off.”

It had long been the Muslim practice to amputate hands, arms, and in some cases legs, as a punishment for thievery. While this approach was gradually falling out of favor in many Middle Eastern countries, it was still considered an effective deterrent in others. A fact that seemed to support Jamal’s claim. So, having completed a quick pat down, Agent 47 backed out of reach.

“I suggest that you find a new line of work. You aren’t very good at this one.”

Jamal continued to hug his knee and moan softly as 47 put the shovel back where he had found it.

“I’ll leave the gate ajar,” the assassin promised, as he bent over to retrieve the Krugerrand. “And don’t bother to get up. I’ll see myself out.”

Having left the little courtyard behind, Agent 47 paused at the point where the side passage met the main thoroughfare, and took a moment to adjust his red silk tie. Then, having assured himself there weren’t any additional Jamals waiting to attack him, he resumed his journey.

A right-hand turn took him down a short flight of stairs, under an arch, and past a group of boys who were playing with a soccer ball. It soon became clear that what had once been a residential area had gradually transitioned into a small souk with specialized stores slotted along both sides of the street. The establishment 47 was looking for lay about a hundred feet farther on, just around a gentle curve and opposite a family-run grocery. The sign out front read MEN’S CLOTHING, in both English and Arabic, followed by ABAZA TIRK, PROPRIETOR, in smaller letters, carved out and painted in gold.

Having stopped to inspect the overly ripe fruit displayed on the other side of the thoroughfare, and to make sure that he hadn’t acquired a new tail, Agent 47 was forced to wait for a group of black-clad women to pass before crossing over to the store. Like the shops located to either side, the clothing store was quite narrow, which made it necessary to hang clothes in tiers, the highest of which were suspended just below the ceiling, and only accessible with a long pole. It was hot and musty, and there wasn’t much light, but what there was came from ceiling fixtures that were at least seventy-five years old.

A well-worn aisle led straight back to where a man with generally even features, slightly bulging eyes, and a servile manner stood waiting. He was dressed in a red fez, a well-tailored gray suit, and a pair of black Moroccan slippers. A young man sat behind the counter seemingly half-asleep.

“Good afternoon, effendi, ” the well-dressed man said, as he dry-washed his hands. “My name is Abaza Tirk. Welcome to my humble store. I can see that you are a man of taste and discernment. How can my family and I be of assistance?”

“Abd-el-Kader said, ‘Death is a black camel, which kneels at the gates of all,’” 47 replied matter-of-factly.

“And Ben Sira said, ‘Fear not death, for it is your destiny,’” the diminutive store owner replied, as the servile manner dropped away. “Welcome Agent 47-I was told to expect you. Please come this way.”

The assassin followed Tirk past a small counter, and as he passed he noticed that the young man seated behind the till was cradling a mini-Uzi in his lap.

There was a momentary pause as Tirk entered a code into a keypad located at the back of the crowded store. It was concealed by a small scrap of cloth tacked to the wall. The metal door made no sound as it swung open. A motion detector activated two rows of lights, and Agent 47 felt the temperature drop as Tirk pulled the door closed behind them.

Unlike the dark, slightly musty clothing store, The Agency’s armory in Fez was sleekly modern. Closely spaced racks of weapons took up both walls, all grouped by category, and labeled appropriately. Ammunition, accessories, and cleaning gear were stored below the firearms in stainless steel cabinets.

“So,” the clothier said engagingly, “what will it be? A Steyr AUG perhaps? Very stylish. An FR-F1 sniper’s rifle? Or maybe you’re in the market for something with more heft. I have a nice RAI Model 500.50 caliber sniper’s rifle. Agent Orbov made good use of it just two months ago.”

“No,” 47 replied simply. “The RAI is almost fifty inches long-which makes it very difficult to hide. Not to mention the fact that it’s single action, and.50 caliber ammo is damned heavy. I’ll take a Walther WA 2000, plus a Mossberg model 500 with a pistol grip, and two Silverballers. One short, and one long, with silencers for both. Plus a double holster rig, a dual-use drug kit, and a throwing knife.”

“Of course,” Tirk said approvingly. “A weapon for every occasion.”

After they had collected the weapons, they moved through another door at the rear of the long, narrow room to a soundproofed range that lay beyond. Once he was satisfied that all of the guns were in good working order, 47 loaded them into a pair of lockboxes that looked like travel-worn suitcases. Each had its own alarm and self-destruct system.

“The cases are rather heavy, so my number four son will accompany you,” Tirk said, as the containers were loaded onto a hand cart. “Not to mention the fact that we have our share of thieves in Fes El Bali. ”

“That’s what I hear,” the assassin commented soberly.

“Will there be anything else?” Tirk wanted to know.

“Yes,” 47 said, as he eyed the store owner. “I want your hat.”

Rather than allow Tirk’s son to accompany him all the way to the hotel, Agent 47 opted to have the young man take him to a point where a major street cut through Fes El Bali, where it became possible to hail a cab. Even though Tirk and his family were presumably trustworthy, there was no need for them to know where the assassin was staying. Furthermore, it would be unusual for a guest to bring luggage into the hotel on a hand cart.