William Dietz - Hitman - Enemy Within

The group included Mr. Nu, who was there to represent management; Aheem Shbot, the onetime Iraqi minister who was sitting on more than $25 million stolen during the early days of the war; José Sosa, a Venezuelan oil minister whose enemies had a marked tendency to die in car accidents; Frank Tang, a senior member of a successful Chinese tong; Lalu Khan, who was known as “The King of Whores” in his native India; Dr. Natalia Luka, who ran a profitable business peddling Russian nuclear technology to third-world countries; Hans Beck, a German industrialist with lofty political ambitions; Mary Minnarr, a South African whose fortune had been made selling blood diamonds; Mustapha Nour, an Egyptian arms merchant with valuable contacts inside the Tamil Tigres, the PKK, and other terrorist organizations; and Goto Osami, a member of the Japanese yakuza.

Thorakis watched their eyes, as the various board members turned to greet him, but found no signs of suspicion. So the gut-wrenching fear the shipping magnate had experienced on the plane had begun to abate by the time he and his peers took their respective places around the long, glass-topped table. Mr. Nu sat at the west end, with his back to the window, five members on his right, five on his left, and an empty chair opposite him. That was the seat traditionally reserved for the mysterious Chairman, whose identity was unknown, but was very much in attendance via a one-way video hookup.

It was he who called the meeting to order.

“Thank you for coming,” the deep melodious voice said. There were speakers in the ceiling, walls, and floor, so the words seemed to originate from everywhere and nowhere, all at once.

“I know how busy you all are,” the voice continued smoothly. “And because of that, I was hesitant to add another meeting to your already demanding schedules. However, I’m sorry to announce that the efforts to identify the traitor within our organization have been unsuccessful thus far. All of our lower-ranking administrative personnel and field agents were rescreened,” the Chairman added soberly. “And, while three individuals appear to have been engaged in various types of theft, the effort to find the leak has been fruitless, evidence of which can be seen on the screen.”

A huge flat-panel screen was mounted on the inner wall over the sleek mahogany bar. Nu and the other board members turned to look as a professionally edited video montage began to roll. There was no narration, other than that provided by television reporters in a variety of countries. Subtitles had been added where necessary, and each clip was different from the others, except for the one element that tied all of them together.

There was an unsolved murder at the core of each story. Three individuals had been shot, two had been knifed, and the last victim had been pushed into the path of a train. An especially gruesome affair that dominated two news cycles in the United States.

When the five-minute-long compilation came to a close, the Chairman picked up where he had left off. There was anger in his voice now.

“ Each of those people worked for us, each was a valuable asset, and each left a hole that will be difficult to fill. Some were field agents, but three were technical experts, who weren’t even armed.

“So,” the disembodied voice continued ominously, “it seems that someone—or some thing —has declared war on our organization. The attacking entity could be a criminal organization out to get revenge, a competitor that wants to level the playing field, or a disgruntled former client. All of which can be dealt with. But it’s extremely difficult to fight back without knowing who the enemy is. So Mr. Nu and his staff have been authorized to rescreen both senior management and the board in an attempt to find the traitor.

“That means your movements, phone calls, and email will be subject to expert analysis. Of course, all of you utilize multiple layers of encryption, some of which may be good enough to keep even our experts at bay. If so, please provide our people with full access. Failure to do so will be interpreted as a hostile act. Especially since you specifically agreed to such transparency when you joined the board. You have my word that any and all proprietary information related to your affairs, having nothing to do with The Agency, will not be altered, copied, or shared.

“Are there any questions?”

Heads swiveled as board members turned to look at one another, but no one chose to respond, so the Chairman brought the meeting to a close.

“Unfortunately, it’s quite likely that the traitor is right here in this room. If so, then know this. When we identify you, and we will, The Agency will kill you, eliminate your entire family, and all of your friends.

“Have a nice day.”

There was a click as the line went dead, and Aristotle Thorakis battled the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him, as he visualized various members of his family being gunned down. I did it to protect you, he thought forlornly. To preserve what is rightfully yours.

But it isn’t over yet, the shipping magnate told himself. You have the Puissance Treize to protect you, and they are powerful, as well! So powerful that The Agency may be a thing of the past within a matter of months.

But such thoughts offered cold comfort, as fear trickled into the shipping magnate’s belly, and the vetting process began.

Waleed Abadati was a true believer, a dedicated husband, and a good father. Virtues built on a foundation of good habits that began with a regimen of personal hygiene before breakfast, followed by early morning prayer, and a brisk three-mile walk to work.

That journey began deep within the Fes El Bali, and took him to the Ville Nouvelle district, where thanks to four years spent in the army, he worked as a low-ranking security guard at Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani’s mansion.

It was a boring job for the most part, but a relatively well-paid one, and Abadati felt fortunate to have it. The security guard was in a good mood as his feet followed the same path they walked every day and his mind contemplated the purchase of a secondhand car. It was a big step, but the money had been saved and was waiting in the bank. But what kind to buy? There were so many possibilities. Perhaps that was why the Moroccan didn’t pay any attention to the scrape of shoe leather behind him, and was completely unprepared when a hand covered his mouth, and a strong arm jerked him into a heavily shadowed passageway.

That was when the needle bit his neck, the sedative entered his bloodstream, and the arms of darkness opened to receive him.

Having followed Abadati the previous day, Agent 47 had chosen the spot with care, and knew that the sloppily constructed lean—to that half—blocked the walkway would provide cover while he stripped the security guard of his belongings, including his photo ID, access card, and a U.S.-made Colt Python revolver, complete with gun belt and twelve extra rounds of.357 Magnum ammunition.

The clothes fit fairly well, which wasn’t too surprising, since Abadati had been chosen for his height and build. Once the transformation was complete, 47 took time to bind and gag the security guard before piling musty burlap sacks on top of him.

Then, having assumed Abadati’s persona, including the guard’s peaked hat and sunglasses, the assassin continued the walk to work. The henna tattoos had started to fade by then, and were covered over with makeup that served to darken 47’s skin. The impersonation was so good that merchants waved to the familiar figure, and one of Abadati’s second cousins shouted a greeting from a second floor window as the guard passed below.