William Dietz - Hitman - Enemy Within

Preston accepted the money, thumbed the stack to make sure there weren’t any blanks in the middle, and tucked the wad away.

“What about the children?” the pilot wanted to know. “Surely you don’t plan to leave them here?”

In all truth, the question of what would become of the children hadn’t even crossed 47’s mind. But seeing the look of concern on Preston’s face, the operative was quick to respond.

“No, of course not,” the assassin replied glibly. “That’s the whole point of going to Sicily. There’s an orphanage that’s ready to take them.”

Preston smiled. He had very white teeth.

“All right then!” the American said enthusiastically. “What are we waiting for? Let’s load the kids and get the hell out of here! Chances are my lazy copilot forgot to file a flight plan. So it would be best if we weren’t caught on the ground.”

With his transportation in place, Agent 47 left Gazeau and Numo to herd the children onto the plane while he went to check on Marla. Having been knocked unconscious during the battle with Al-Fulani’s security team, the Puissance Treize agent had been duct-taped into a sleeping bag, tied hand and foot.

But when the agent went to visit her, Marla was gone.

Judging from the way the restraints had been cut, it appeared that Marla was carrying a blade of some sort-one that had been small enough and so well hidden that they had missed it in their initial, cursory search. Once she came to, it would have been relatively easy for the woman to feign unconsciousness, wait for the rest of them to leave, and cut herself free.

Now, armed with any of the weapons that had been left lying about, Marla was hiding in the ruins. The assassin could go out and hunt her down, of course. But to what end? He had what he’d been sent to get—and there wasn’t any price on her head. So it made sense to let her go.

That didn’t mean Marla would be as understanding, however. So rather than risk a long-range rifle shot, Agent 47 loaded his luggage into Al-Fulani’s Land Rover and drove it out to the plane. Even though he parked the four-wheeler in a spot that would shield the bottom of the fold-down stairs, he would be exposed as he stepped onto the flight deck, but only briefly.

Even though 47 knew Gazeau and Numo would loot Al-Fulani’s vehicles prior to submitting a final bill to The Agency, he gave each man five thousand dollars anyway. Both as a bonus, and because he might have need of them in the future.

“Take care of yourself,” Gazeau said, as the two shook hands.

“Watch your back,” 47 responded. “Especially on the way out. Marla’s on the loose. And she’s armed.”

“Thanks for the warning,” the Libyan said, as he hooked a pair of aviator-style sunglasses over his ears. “Maybe I can buy her off with the Land Rover. Unless you object, that is.”

“No,” 47 replied, “That’s entirely up to you.”

Then, with a wave to Numo, the assassin mounted the stairs.

No rifle shots were heard, but Gazeau saw a glint of reflected light coming from the direction of the water tower, as if someone were eyeing the airstrip through a pair of binoculars. With that possibility in mind, he went around to open the driver’s-side door, removed the keys from the Land Rover’s ignition, and held them up where they were plain to see.

Then, having given the woman plenty of time to look, he slid the key ring down onto the vehicle’s antenna.

The C-27 had taxied away by then, leaving a miniature dust storm in its wake, as it made the turn onto the runway. The General Electric T64-P4D engines roared as its pilot advanced both throttles, the transport jerked forward, and quickly gained speed.

The plane took to the air a few seconds later.

The airstrip dated back to the days of World War II, when German planes had used it as a place to refuel before taking off for North Africa. And later, when things began to go poorly for Rommel, a squadron of fighters had been stationed there so they could attack allied shipping in the Mediterranean.

But those days were long over, and the field was primarily dedicated to civilian aviation, plus the occasional emergency landing by commercial jets.

As the sun was beginning to set, a lonely figure stood in front of the tiny terminal building and stared toward the south. Though not Agent 47’s friend in the conventional sense of the word, Father Vittorio was his spiritual adviser, to the extent that the assassin needed one. The operative believed he was headed for hell, and given all 47 had done, that was certainly possible.

But God never gives up, nor can I, the priest told himself. Because there is a kernel of goodness buried deep within 47’s soul, even if he isn’t aware of it.

And there was evidence to support the priest’s hypothesis. The assassin had once taken shelter at Vittorio’s church, where he worked as the gardener in an attempt to put his violent life behind him. But men with 47’s skills were hard to come by, and it wasn’t long before the past caught up with the assassin, forcing him to take up arms once again. Those had been bloody days, in a land already soaked with blood, and it was something of a miracle that both Vittorio and his former gardener were still alive.

A cold breeze came up, as if somehow summoned by the priest’s dark thoughts, and tugged at his cloak as the plane appeared in the south. Its running lights were on, and it was gradually losing altitude.

The phone call had come like a bolt out of the blue. Vittorio knew who it was the moment he heard 47’s voice. The agent was on a plane loaded with orphans, headed for Sicily, and in need of someone to care for the youngsters. Why was a hired killer flying north with a planeload of children? There was no way to know.

And it really didn’t matter. The orphans were in need of help, and Father Vittorio would do his best to provide it. No simple matter, given all of the legalities involved, but the local customs agent was a member of Vittorio’s parish. The Holy See could be counted on to help, and the Lord would take care of the rest.

There was a brief screech of tires as the airplane put down, the engines roared, and it wasn’t long before the twin-engined transport turned off the runway and onto the taxiway in front of the terminal. It stopped a few minutes later, and the big props continued to turn for a few revolutions before finally coming to a halt.

A door opened, stairs were lowered, and Agent 47 appeared. The assassin was wearing his usual black suit, white shirt, and red tie. When he was halfway down the stairs, he turned to accept two briefcases, then two suitcases. Three of the objects were left next to the plane as he crossed the tarmac.

Vittorio noticed that 47’s skin was darker than usual, as if he’d been spending a great deal of time in the sun, and wondered how long the agent had been in Africa.

“It’s good to see you, my son,” the priest said, as the two men embraced.

“And you, Father,” Agent 47 replied. “Thank you for agreeing to help.”

“Such is the Lord’s work,” Vittorio said, as he eyed the plane. The children were being unloaded by then, and the scrawny youngsters made for a pitiful sight as another man, who looked to be the pilot, led them toward the terminal. “What can you tell me about the little ones?” the cleric inquired. “What happened to their families?”

“Their parents were killed by slavers. They were on their way to a whorehouse in Fez when something happened to the man who owned them,” 47 replied.

Vittorio crossed himself. He could well imagine what the “something” was.

“But unlike most orphans, they come with an endowment,” 47 added, as he presented Al-Fulani’s briefcase to the clergyman.