William Dietz - Hitman - Enemy Within

Having checked his watch, he followed the blue and gold runner down the hallway toward the linen closet he had identified previously. After a quick look around to make sure that no one was watching, he dropped to one knee. The lock pick made quick work of the old tumblers, the door opened without protest, and 47 slipped inside.

Sturdy shelves took up most of the walls, all of which were loaded with clean towels, sheets, and blankets. There were a couple of carts, plus backup cleaning supplies, and a white plastic chair. The air was thick with the combined odors of soap, cleaning agents, and room deodorizer.

He was early, and intentionally so, lest something unexpected delay him. So there was nothing for 47 to do other than leave the door slightly ajar and wait. The second maid service of the day was complete, so there was no reason why members of the staff would bother him, but if they did, a syringe was ready and waiting.

That precaution proved unnecessary, however, because the next person to come down the hallway wasn’t a member of the hotel’s staff, but Mr. Nathan Ghomara, the English-speaking aide Bedo had engaged to take him where he wanted to go. Which, for the most part, was the orphanage.

Ghomara was of average height, but a bit overweight, causing him to waddle as he approached the closet. The Moroccan was dressed in a sports jacket, white shirt, and black pants. There was nothing especially remarkable about his features except for bushy eyebrows, a slightly bulbous nose, and a heavy five-o’-clock shadow.

Agent 47 waited for Ghomara to pass, stepped out into the hall, and took three running steps. He clamped a hand over the Moroccan’s mouth and rammed the needle into his neck. Ghomara struggled weakly for a moment before becoming a dead weight as he collapsed.

The assassin was well aware of the fact that an elevator full of people could arrive at any moment, or one of the hotel’s guests might step out into the hall, which meant it was important to drag Ghomara into the storage room as quickly as possible. But the Moroccan was heavy, so it took quite a bit of effort to pull him through the door, and 47 felt a sense of relief once the chore was over.

The moment the door was closed he took a quick tour through Ghomara’s pockets. The effort produced a key card that would get him into the American’s suite, as well as the keys needed to operate the lift-equipped van parked in the hotel’s garage. The agent toyed with the idea of taking the Moroccan’s clothes, but couldn’t see any benefit to doing so, especially given the fact that everything would be at least one size too big.

So he used hand towels to bind and gag Ghomara in hopes that he would remain undiscovered until the following day.

Finally, after days of preparation, Agent 47 was ready.

The hotel suite consisted of a nicely furnished sitting room, a bedroom, and a bathroom. All decorated with the same beige Oasis-print wallpaper, beautifully framed black-and-white photos of the Sahara, and carefully set tiled floors. The room was equipped with air conditioning, which was set to a chilly 68 degrees, and blowing cold air into the room as the American readied himself for an evening out.

Wayne Bedo could walk, albeit with some difficulty, and was standing in front of the bathroom mirror buttoning his shirt when he heard a knock, followed by a familiar double-click as the door to his suite opened and closed.

“Nathan?” the American inquired. “Is that you?”

“No,” Agent 47 replied from the entryway. “Mr. Ghomara is ill, so they sent me to replace him. May I come in?”

Bedo swore, dropped into the wheelchair, and propelled it out into the sitting room, where a tall man in a red fez stood waiting.

“My name is Kufa,” the assassin lied solemnly. “Can I help with your shoes and socks?”

Bedo knew better than to trust strangers, but the man with the pencil-thin mustache was obviously acquainted with Ghomara, and in possession of the access card. That, plus the immediate offer to provide Bedo with some much-needed assistance, served to put the American’s fears to rest.

“Yes,” he replied. “They’re in the bedroom closet.”

It took the better part of an hour to get the rest of Bedo’s clothes on, strap the American into his wheelchair, and push him out into the hallway. And that’s where they were when Bedo ordered 47 to stop.

“My mask is in the bedroom closet,” he said flatly. “Go get it.”

So the assassin reentered the hotel room and went to the closet, where a Bacchus mask—complete with a wreath of stylized grapes—was waiting on the top shelf. Agent 47 was struck by the extent to which the heavily furrowed brow, the big staring eyes, and the prominent teeth resembled Bedo’s actual appearance.

He returned to the hallway, after which it was a relatively simple matter to take the American down into the underground garage, load him into the lift-equipped van, and drive the vehicle out of the hotel. But due to the usual heavy traffic, it took a full forty-five minutes to complete the journey from the Oasis Hotel to the Al-Fulani Orphanage, where staff members helped unload their wheelchair-bound guest. And being familiar with the American by that time, the security guards waved both men inside, without so much as a glance at Bedo’s ID card.

There was a loud beep as both the wheelchair and a pair of Silverballers rolled through the metal detector, but that was to be expected, given all the metal in the conveyance. So the two men were allowed to proceed without further inspection.

A valet drove the van away as 47 pushed the wheelchair into a large reception area. Formal stairs led up to the second floor, the walls were covered with red wallpaper, and a table loaded with drinks and appetizers had been set up at the very center of the entry hall. The setting was more appropriate to a bordello than an orphanage. And a bordello it was.

However, judging from the heavily made-up, scantily clad boys and girls who came forward to greet the American, this wasn’t just any house of ill repute, but one designed to appeal to a clientele of pedophiles from all over the world, most of whom were wearing masks, lest they be recognized.

Bedo welcomed two little girls onto his lap as the assassin scanned the room. Having penetrated the orphanage, his plan was to take Bedo into the men’s room, fiber-wire him, and park him on a commode. With that accomplished, he would wait for Al-Fulani and ambush him as he approached a urinal. Having shot the Moroccan full of sedatives, 47 would belt him into Bedo’s wheelchair. Bodyguards, if any, would be invited into the restroom, and shot with the silencer-equipped Silverballers smuggled in along with the chair.

At that point, with the Bacchus mask covering Al-Fulani’s face, it would be relatively easy to take the unconscious businessman out through security, load him into the van, and drive him into the countryside.

But if he and Bedo disappeared into the restroom for too long, it might draw attention. So he wanted to make sure Al-Fulani was present. He felt sure he would be able to recognize the Moroccan even if he were wearing a mask-thanks to the deferential manner in which the staff would interact with him. But there was no sign of the man.

Not yet, anyway.

So 47 was forced to push Bedo into what once had been a ballroom, as the so-called “guests” were invited to watch a “talent show.” The walls were covered with mirrors that would multiply the images of whatever took place, and thereby intensify it. A lighting grid dangled above the low, circular platform at the center of the room, which served as a stage. Guests were invited to choose seats around the circumference of the platform, leaving two aisles via which the preteen performers could come and go.