William Dietz - Hitman - Enemy Within

He lowered the shopping bag to the ground, fumbled for the Nikon, and was in the process of removing the lens cap when the German shepherd began to bark. The assassin froze as a security guard passed through the pool of illumination generated by a spotlight mounted under the eaves. The man said something unintelligible to the animal, which came over to collect a pat on the head before following the human around a corner.

The agent waited a full ten seconds before bringing the camera up and turning it on. He could see that there was someone in the bedroom, and once he brought the image into focus, everything came clear. A beautiful black woman was seated in front of a mirror, brushing her hair, and staring at her own reflection. The Nikon made its characteristic click-whir as Agent 47 began to take pictures. Not so much of her as of the room-reconnaissance that could be of value later on.

And he was still at it when he heard a rock rattle down the slope, and went for a Silverballer.

Except that his pistols were back in Rome.

That meant that his best defense would be to react the way Scaparelli would, which was with an aggressive attitude, and a certain amount of bluster.

“Who’s there?” he demanded with a hiss. “I have mace!”

“Save it for someone else,” Fazio said sotto voce, as he skidded into the shadow 47 currently occupied. “I never should have told you about the back-shot. So, is she naked?”

“No,” 47 said lightly. “But one can hope!”

“One sure can,” the American replied, as he brought a camera up to his eye. “Wait a minute. Who do we have here? Thorakis, that’s who! Okay, boys and girls, give me the money shot.”

Satisfied that he wasn’t about to be attacked by a counterassassin, Agent 47 turned back toward the house, and discovered that the paparazzo was correct. Thorakis had entered the bedroom, and judging from the towel that was wrapped around his waist, he was fresh from a shower. His broad shoulders were thick with curly black hair. The woman said something as the shipping magnate bent over to kiss her.

“Here we go!” Fazio enthused, as his camera clicked away. “Screw the bitch! Take her standing up!”

But as newsworthy as such an act might have been, it wasn’t going to happen. The window was open to let the night air enter the room, which meant both men could hear the phone ring. Fazio swore as Thorakis went to answer it, and his mistress left the room a few moments later.

The two lurkers waited, hoping for something more, but other than a few brief sightings, nothing particularly exciting happened. And once the upstairs lights went out, it was obviously time to adjourn.

“Looks like it’s time for a nightcap,” Fazio said glumly. “Want to join me?”

Agent 47 had absolutely no desire for a drink, but knew Scaparelli would accept the offer, which meant he had to as well. So the assassin followed the American through the trees, up the steep hillside, and onto the street above. From there it was a short walk to a bar where Fazio was greeted by his first name.

After a round of beers and a game of darts, 47 was able to excuse himself and return to the hotel. Once in his room he pushed the dresser in front of the door, made a place for himself on the floor, and promptly fell asleep.

There were dreams, however. Strange dreams that centered around a house that contained many rooms, a very elusive woman, and a clock that continued to tick even after the assassin fired six bullets into it.

Even though the back door was propped open, and a floor-mounted fan was positioned just inside, the kitchen’s interior was hot and steamy. Conditions Agent 47 was still in the process of getting used to, even though he’d been the Bon Appétit ’s dishwasher for more than six hours by then. A job he had obtained by the simple expedient of showing up and asking for it. Not as Scaparelli, foam belly and all, but as a British drifter looking for a day’s pay on his way to the French Riviera.

Originally the ploy had seemed like a good idea, since it would put him inside the restaurant where Thorakis preferred to eat, but now he wasn’t so sure. What if the Greek failed to show? He would be trapped in this disgusting place, all those hours of hard work would be wasted, the better part of another day would have passed, and he would be no closer to his objective.

It seemed foolish to quit at that point, however, since the dinner crowd was filtering in, and the pace had started to quicken. The waiters shouted orders, the chefs swore at each other, and the fan roared as snatches of music came over the greasy boom box that rested on a shelf. Taken together, the noise, heat, and cooking odors made for a hellish environment.

Thankfully part of his job involved leaving the chaos of the kitchen for the relative calm of the dining room, where it was his job to retrieve plastic bins filled with dirty dishes. And even though it seemed as if time had slowed to a crawl, the room continued to fill.

And the moment the assassin had been hoping for finally arrived.

He had just left the kitchen to pick up the latest load of dishes when there was a commotion near the front entrance, and 47 turned to watch Thorakis and his entourage enter the restaurant. They were followed by a series of bright flashes as Fazio and a second member of the paparazzi tried to follow the party in, and the maître d’ forced them back. There was a sudden buzz of conversation as everyone turned to watch the newly arrived guests make their way back to the tables that had been reserved for them.

Most of those who were present had no idea who the couple were, but a few recognized them, and word began to spread. There was a rumble of approval as Thorakis held a chair for his mistress-followed by more conversation as the businessman’s two bodyguards were shown to an adjoining table. They looked tough, and judging from the way they handled themselves, they knew what they were doing.

Still another reason to come at Thorakis sideways, rather than head-on.

But there was a fifth member of the entourage, a sleek man with slicked-back hair, who was making his way back toward the kitchen door. That struck 47 as interesting, so he carried his bin full of dishes back into the kitchen, and placed them next to the sink. It was easy to listen in because the sleek man had already entered into a shouting match with the senior chef.

“Mr. Thorakis eats here all the time!” the cook proclaimed indignantly. “So I am well aware of his allergy—and I can assure you that nothing harmful will be served to him. Perhaps you should get a real job, assuming you are qualified to cook a meal, which I doubt.”

“Are you insane ?” the sleek man demanded, as he waved a piece of paper under the other man’s nose. “Look at this menu! What’s the third special from the top? Monga, which is a recipe from French Guinea. And what is the primary ingredient of Monga ? Two pounds of roasted peanut butter, plus two tablespoons of peanut oil, which is enough to kill Mr. Thorakis a thousand times over!”

“But only if we were to serve it to him,” the chef countered angrily, “which we won’t!”

“Not intentionally, no,” the sleek man agreed. “But who knows how many of your cooking implements and surfaces have been contaminated? The choice is simple. You can prepare my client’s food under my supervision, or the entire party will leave, and never come back.”

That was a potent threat, since Thorakis was known as a big spender, and a draw for other customers, as well. So the chef knew how the restaurant’s owner would respond—and was forced to back off.

Agent 47 was ordered to clean a work area under the sleek man’s supervision-even as the necessary cooking utensils were scrubbed and dipped in boiling water. Then—and only then—was the restaurant’s head chef allowed to prepare the chicken breasts stuffed with goat cheese that Thorakis doted on.