William Dietz - Hitman - Enemy Within

In the end 47 ordered the pasta dish, which turned out to be delicious and went perfectly with the house red. Once they had eaten the main course, Nu got down to business.

“You inquired about Diana,” the executive said somberly, “and I put you off. That’s because it looks as though she’s the person we’ve been looking for.”

Agent 47 opened his mouth to protest, but Nu raised a hand.

“The two of you have a close working relationship. I know that. But hear me out.”

So 47 listened as the executive laid out the evidence against Diana, and their dessert arrived.

“So, that’s it,” Mr. Nu concluded gloomily. “It would appear that Diana sold us out—except that she claims the payments are part of an elaborate trick. An effort to direct attention away from the true culprit. Personally, I hope she’s correct—but it doesn’t look likely. Not unless you have information to the contrary.”

Agent 47 met the other man’s eyes. “Yes, I believe I do, although I need more proof. According to Al-Fulani the man we’re looking for is Aristotle Thorakis. Al-Fulani claimed that Thorakis is—or was—in serious financial trouble. Such deep trouble that it was necessary to accept a loan from the Puissance Treize to remain in business. And they’ve been draining him dry ever since.”

Nu frowned. “Are you sure? We knew he was having problems, but when our accountants went over his finances, he came up clean. All the money he borrowed seemed to come from legitimate sources.”

“Tell the bean counters to take another look,” Agent 47 suggested dryly. “It’s my guess that those ‘legitimate sources’ are actually fronts. Or firms that are beholden to the Puissance Treize in some way.”

“What you say makes sense,” Nu acknowledged. “But even you admit that we lack proof. What if the bean counters don’t find anything?”

“Then hopefully I will,” 47 responded. “I plan to track Thorakis down and see what I can learn. But don’t tell the board. If Thorakis gets wind of what we’re doing, he’ll take additional steps to cover his tracks or run.”

“Understood,” the executive said. “But until such time as we can prove that Thorakis is guilty, Diane will remain under lock and key. And there’s a lot of pressure to punish her now.”

“From whom?” 47 wanted to know. “From Thorakis?”

“Yes,” Nu confirmed. “But from others as well. They want blood.”

“I need time,” 47 responded.

“How much?”

“Two weeks.”

“Okay,” the executive said reluctantly. “That’s a lot, but I’ll do my best. It won’t be easy, though.”

“No,” Agent 47 agreed soberly. “It won’t be easy.”

When Agent 47 awoke the next morning he could feel the clock ticking.

Not for himself, but for Diana, which was strange, because he barely knew her. And how could it be otherwise? Given the fact that most of their relationship consisted of five-minute phone conversations.

But with the exception of extremely rare face-to-face meetings like the one with Nu, Diana was his only genuine link with The Agency. And his only hope for help when a mission went awry. So that made the controller important to 47’s survival, which, all things considered, made her very important indeed.

Such were the assassin’s thoughts as he downed a quick breakfast at the American hotel, and went back to his room to conduct some online research. The sort of thing The Agency normally took care of for him, but he would need to handle himself, lest he reveal his interest in Aristotle Thorakis.

The first and most pressing problem was where to find the shipping magnate. The Greek was very well known, so having entered the name “Aristotle Thorakis” into a popular search engine, the agent came up with 1,918,000 hits.

Most of them had to do with the shipping tycoon’s business dealings. And it was then-while sampling some of the stories about the way Aristotle had improved the family-owned company-that 47 came across an article regarding one of the Greek’s competitors. A Mexican businessman named José Alvarez, who had just been starting to take business away from a Thorakis-owned cruise line when he had the misfortune to drown in his own swimming pool. It was a terrible accident. Or that’s what the stories claimed.

The assassin already knew about the incident, because he’d been there that night. Instead of using scuba gear, which would produce bubbles, 47 had been equipped with a military-style rebreather, and was already submerged at the deep end of the pool when Alvarez dove in. Pulling the entrepreneur under had been relatively easy. Keeping him down had been a little more difficult.

By continually refining his search terms, 47 was able to find dozens of newspaper and magazine articles about Thorakis, his family, and the lifestyle they enjoyed. And after skimming a number of those stories, the assassin came to the conclusion that when not attending a business meeting in London, New York, Hong Kong, or some other center of international finance, the shipping magnate spent most of his time on the family estate near Kalomata, Greece, at his high-rise condo in Athens, aboard the sleek superyacht Perseus, or in a relatively modest mansion located in Sintra, Portugal.

Which, the operative soon learned from the tabloids, was rumored to be the house where the businessman kept his Ethiopian mistress. A relationship his wife was said to be aware of, but chose to ignore.

Having determined the places where Thorakis was most likely to be found, the assassin’s next step was to zero in on the shipping magnate’s current location. It had begun to seem hopeless, until the agent discovered that there were weekly papers that made it their business to keep track of Hollywood starlets, spoiled aristocrats, and yes, wealthy businessmen like Thorakis. Especially when they were being naughty, which according to the very latest edition of La Dolce Vita, the Greek definitely was.

According to the breathless text that accompanied a much-magnified shot of the shipping magnate nibbling on a woman’s bare foot, Thorakis was currently lying low in Sintra with his mistress. And judging from the six suitcases that had been unloaded from his limo, the businessman was planning to stay for a while.

A quick phone call to a small paper in Sintra was sufficient to confirm the Greek’s presence.

But rather than travel to Sintra, and improvise some sort of cover subsequent to his arrival, 47 wanted to do it the right way. Which was to construct an alternate identity before he boarded a plane. It was the sort of thing Diana normally took care of for him, yet now, having been forced to do his own research, the operative already knew the unsavory sort of person he wanted to impersonate.

As a member of the freewheeling, hypercompetitive, and often unethical band of photographers frequently referred to as the paparazzi, he could hang around the Thorakis mansion at all hours of the day and night, carry a variety of cameras, and openly follow the Greek wherever he went. All without eliciting any suspicion.

Of course first, before assuming his new identity, Agent 47 knew it would be necessary to change his appearance. Not just a little bit, but a lot, because Thorakis knew very well what he looked like, and if he really was a turncoat, the Puissance Treize would want to protect him.

So the assassin made some phone calls, took down an address, and set the alarms on his luggage.

Agent 47 had learned a lot about makeup and theatrical appliances over the years. So much so that when he entered the Portello Dell Fase he was able to successfully pass himself off as a British actor who had unexpectedly been called upon to play Shakespeare’s Falstaff. There was much bustling about as the proprietress, a onetime stage actress herself, went in search of the perfect strap-on foam belly. An appliance that, when combined with a half-halo of black hair and some cheek inserts, would transform her customer into the shameless, lying tub of lard that was Falstaff.