William Dietz - Hitman - Enemy Within

Conscious of the need to both establish his cover, and capture photographs of the mansion, 47 was careful to remove the lens cap before he brought the Nikon up and began to snap pictures. The long lens couldn’t reach through the curtained windows into the rooms beyond, but the assassin was able to obtain valuable close-ups of what appeared to be a card reader mounted next to the front door, both of the security guards, and the German shepherd that followed the men around.

The operative had captured thirty-four exposures by the time a stranger appeared at his elbow. The newcomer was American, judging from his accent, and no more than five foot six. His clothes were black, as if that might make him look slimmer, and the soles of his shoes were at least an inch-and-a-half thick. He was armed with two cameras, one for long shots and the other for close-ups. Bright inquisitive eyes peered out from under thick eyebrows—and a two-day growth of black stubble covered his cheeks.

“The Greek ain’t home,” the little man said laconically. “He went to Lisbon. He’ll probably be back for dinner, though. But you never know when Miss Desta will make an appearance.”

“Thanks,” 47 said cautiously, as he lowered the camera. This was the situation he feared most. A one-on-one conversation with a genuine member of the paparazzi, in which he might give himself away. “I’m Tazio Scaparelli. I just flew in from Rome.”

“My name’s Tony Fazio,” the other photographer said. “My family’s from Italy-but that was a long time ago. I grew up in New Jersey. Who are you shooting for?”

Agent 47 had been waiting for that question, and had his answer ready. “I’m a freelancer. How ’bout you?”

“ Star Track sent me,” Fazio replied. “They want pictures of Thorakis humping his mistress. Shot from three feet away, if possible.”

Agent 47 laughed. “Only three feet? You get the easy assignments.”

The conversation lasted for another five minutes or so—and the operative had some valuable nuggets by the time he turned away. First, the master bedroom was best photographed from the hillside behind the house, the upper slopes of which were on public property. Second, the Greek’s Ethiopian mistress had once been a model, and was far from camera shy. Third, the couple ate out at least three times a week, often at the same French restaurant.

It wasn’t clear which, if any, of those pieces of information would prove to be important, but 47 was more than satisfied with the results of his preliminary outing as he made his way back to the hotel. The next couple of hours were spent transferring the pictures he had taken to the laptop, going over them one by one, and learning as much as he could about the Greek’s security precautions.

And it was during that process that 47 began to entertain new doubts. Not about his ability to penetrate the security cordon, and get close enough to kill Thorakis, but about the wisdom of doing so without more proof. The penalty for mistakenly assassinating a board member would be severe indeed.

So, what to do? The answer—or so it seemed to Agent 47—was to make all the necessary preparations, but stop just short of killing Thorakis. Then, at the very last moment, he would call Nu and tell him to leak a lie, and wait to see what occurred.

If the shipping magnate was the mole, he would immediately contact the Puissance Treize and ask for help. Thereby signaling his guilt.

The plan was somewhat convoluted, but necessarily so, given the situation. More reconnaissance would be necessary, but thanks to the information he had gleaned earlier in the day, he felt reasonably sure that he would eventually find a way to enter the mansion.

The killing itself-should it become necessary-couldn’t be done overtly. A homicide investigation might lead back to his employers. And it might alert the Puissance Treize that The Agency was onto them. Something best left until the reprisals were over, and the enemy was burying its dead.

That suggested an “accident” of some sort. The kind everyone would accept. But how ?

That was a problem the assassin would have to work out on his own.

The Bon Appétit was everything 47 expected it to be, which was to say a Portuguese imitation of a French restaurant, complete with Eiffel Tower wallpaper, candlelit tables, and an imperious staff. According to the information provided by Fazio, Thorakis and his mistress typically ate dinner at 8:00, so Agent 47 arrived at 7:30. The Nikon was concealed in a shopping bag.

Having been scrutinized by the maître d’, and clearly been found wanting, the man with the bald pate and protruding paunch was shown to a tiny table located right next to the kitchen. Which, ironically enough, was the sort of spot Agent 47 often chose for himself so he could escape out the back should the necessity arise.

Indeed, it was a terrible table, since the heavily laden waiters had a tendency to brush it as they came and went, not to mention all the noise that emanated from the kitchen itself. However, 47 could hear snatches of conversation every once in a while, some of which were quite entertaining. The maître d’ was known as o porco [8] the pig , somebody named Joao was HIV-positive, and a person referred to as “the goddamned dishwasher” had quit without warning.

Meanwhile, in between bits of culinary gossip, Agent 47 was served a hot hors d’oeuvre, yellow pepper soup, and a hearty boeuf Bourguignon, which left the assassin too full for dessert.

At neighboring tables tourists from all over the world talked to one another about the castles they’d seen, what they were planning to do during their visit, and a variety of personal matters, all of which seemed to center around money, sex, and power. What 47 thought of as the “unholy trinity,” since those issues were at the heart of every murder he was hired to carry out.

But while such contemplations were interesting, his true reason for eating at the Bon Appétit was nowhere to be seen. So 47 paid the bill, took his camera, and left the establishment.

Once outside, the assassin retraced his steps from earlier in the day, except that this time he went uphill when the street split, rather than follow it down as he had before. It was dark by now, but the soft night air, the spill of light from the old-fashioned street lamps, and the buttery glow that emanated from the surrounding windows combined to create a surreal sense of peace and quiet.

It wasn’t long before he arrived at a point directly above and behind the stone house. Others were out and about as well, so it was necessary for him to bend over awkwardly, and retie a shoelace while a German couple walked past. Then, once the tourists were a good fifty feet down the street, it was time to swing a leg up over the iron railing and lower himself into the inky blackness beyond.

The hillside was steep, and 47 very nearly lost his balance as his street shoes sent a small avalanche of dirt and gravel down the slope, but he was able to prevent what could have been a disastrous fall by grabbing on to a sturdy branch.

Most of the mansion’s lights were on, but there was a good deal of foliage in the way, so the agent knew it would be necessary to work his way farther downhill before there would be any possibility of seeing in. And that was unfortunate, because while it had been merely annoying up on the street, the potbelly was a real encumbrance on the hillside, and made it difficult for him to move.

Nevertheless, he got a better grip on the shopping bag, chose his footholds with care, and gradually worked his way down until he was standing on top of an ancient retaining wall. It was some fifteen feet higher than the stone wall that surrounded the property, and but a single glance was sufficient to confirm that he could see into at least some of the windows, including what appeared to be a well-lit master bedroom.