William Dietz - Hitman - Enemy Within

“Take this nipple, for example,” Nu said, as he took the nub between a thumb and forefinger. “You would be able to watch us cut it off, feel the excruciating pain, and smell your burning flesh all at the same time! Who knows? Maybe we could pop the little morsel into your mouth so you could taste it, too. Or,” the executive added thoughtfully, “you could simply tell me the truth.”

“About what ?” Diana demanded. “And get your hands off me.”

“About your relationship with the Puissance Treize, ” Nu answered gently, as he continued to squeeze, harder now.

Diana winced.

“I don’t have a relationship with the Puissance Treize. ”

“Ah, but I think you do,” the executive corrected her. “How else can you explain the one million dollars that was deposited into your checking account four days ago, the two-million-dollar New York condominium deeded over to you three days ago, and the three million dollars’ worth of United States Treasury bonds that appeared in your portfolio the day before yesterday? We pay you well, very well, but how can you account for an extra six million in less than a year? Especially from a Puissance Treize front company?”

Mr. Nu had squeezed all of the blood out of the nipple by that time, and try as she might, Diana couldn’t conceal the pain. Her face was drawn as she spoke through gritted teeth.

“It’s a trick. Can’t you see that? The Puissance Treize is trying to protect the real traitor. So he or she can continue to sell us out! And besides, if I were the person you’re looking for, do you think I would be so stupid as to take payments from a front company? Don’t insult me that way.”

Nu released the nipple and put his hand on her stomach. The controller’s skin was soft and warm. His index finger drew circles around her navel.

“Six million is a lot to spend on a red herring.”

“Not if the business you’re trying to hijack grosses over a billion a year,” Diana countered tightly.

“There is that,” the executive allowed smoothly. “Which is why you’re still alive. The Chairman has something of a soft spot for you, and rather than destroy something so beautiful, perhaps without cause, he wants to wait until all of the facts are in. Agent 47 said he was close to catching up with Al-Fulani the last time he phoned in a report. So, who knows? Maybe our enterprising friend will come up with the real traitor.

“But if he doesn’t, your immediate future will be somewhat painful.”

The comment didn’t call for a response, and the controller kept her mouth shut as Nu stood and turned toward the nearest agent; a skinny man who found it difficult to take his eyes off Diana’s naked body.

“Get something to cover her,” the executive instructed. “Then pack her things, take care of checkout, and get her to the airport. The Chairman wants her back aboard the Danjou by tonight.” He turned back to Diana.

“The rest will be up to Agent 47.”

Aristotle Thorakis was at his home in Sintra, Portugal, when the phone rang. It was just after two in the morning, but he was still up, going over the company’s quarterly financial reports, when Mr. Nu came on the line. The shipping magnate was careful to hide the glee he felt as the executive told him about Diana’s detention, and the very real possibility that the controller had been the source of the devastating leaks.

It wasn’t until the phone was safely on the hook that he felt it was safe to utter a celebratory “Yes!” and pump his right fist up and down.

He wanted to call Pierre Douay at that point, and thank the Frenchman for protecting him, but knew better than to do so. There was a very good chance that The Agency was still monitoring his phone calls. So, having no one to share the good news with, Thorakis was forced to celebrate alone.

The Scotch was expensive, smooth, and very good.

It was warm on the roof, very warm, by the time Al-Fulani was assisted up the stairs and out onto the hot metal surface. Two bodies lay where they had fallen, and the air around them was thick with flies, as the Moroccan was led over to one of the camp chairs originally brought along for his comfort. The businessman was still dressed in his red silk pajamas, but they were badly soiled, and offered little protection from the scorching heat.

Once Al-Fulani was seated, Numo secured him to the chair with several feet of duct tape, which made a scritching sound as it came off the roll.

“That looks good,” Agent 47 said approvingly. “Now for the umbrella.”

The mention of an umbrella caused the Moroccan’s spirits to rise, but they subsequently fell when the blue-and-white-striped sunscreen was set up a full fifteen feet away, and six of the older children were invited to sit in the shade. The Dinkas were equipped with bottles of spring water, too-all taken from Al-Fulani’s private larder. The girl, Kola, who had been raped the night before, couldn’t stop sobbing.

They sat there for a while, Al-Fulani, the assassin, and the children, and the silence was maddening. The heat seeped into his every pore, but he withstood it, and refused to give in. Finally his captor stood, and walked over to the group of slaves.

“Here,” the assassin said without emotion, as he issued each child a knife. “Keep these handy.”

Al-Fulani’s face paled as he saw the knives, understood their purpose, and quickly lost his resolve. Before long, he began to blubber.

“Please!” he said piteously. “I implore you! Don’t let them cut me.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” 47 lied reassuringly. “As long as you answer my questions, I promise that you will come to no harm.

“There are two things I want to know,” the assassin added intently as he returned to his seat on an upturned bucket. “First, what is the name of the organization that is attacking The Agency?”

“I can’t tell you that,” the Moroccan insisted. “They would kill me! Surely you can understand that.”

“I do understand that,” Agent 47 responded soothingly. “The problem is that I don’t care. You,” the assassin said, as he turned toward the little girl with big brown eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Kola,” the Dinka answered shyly, as she attempted to wipe the tears away.

“Well, Kola,” the operative said. “Come over here and bring your knife. The truth is hidden somewhere inside this man—and your job is to cut it out. Don’t kill him though. Not until we have what we need. Here, I’ll help you get started.”

The little girl’s expression showed that she remembered what had been done to her the night before, knew what that meant within the context of her Dinka culture, and hate filled her eyes. She stood, and was halfway to the chair when Al-Fulani began to rock back and forth.

“No!” he screeched. “Don’t let the little bitch touch me! I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Agent 47 held up his hand and Kola stopped, but she stood there glaring at the Moroccan.

“All right,” the assassin said, “enlighten me. Which one of The Agency’s competitors are we dealing with?”

“The Puissance Treize !” Al-Fulani answered eagerly. “I swear it!”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” the assassin said approvingly. “That’s consistent with what we already know. So tell me something I don’t know. Who did they turn?”

“His name is Aristotle Thorakis,” the businessman said.

The operative frowned. “The Greek shipping magnate?”

“Yes!” Al-Fulani replied. “He sits on the board…and he owns a number of shipping lines. Big ones. But there were problems with his holdings. Lots of problems, until the Puissance Treize loaned him 500 million euros.”