William Dietz - Hitman - Enemy Within

Three additional hours passed before Agent 47 washed the last dish, collected his pay, and departed the restaurant. It had been a long, hard day, but a profitable one. One part of the puzzle had been filled in. Thorakis had a weakness, a potentially fatal weakness, and all 47 needed to do was find a way to take advantage of it.

It was late afternoon, and the air was still warm as the domestic made her way down the street and stopped at the corner. There wasn’t all that much traffic, but Maria was careful to look both ways before she crossed to the other side. She was tired, very tired, as were all the staff whenever Mr. Thorakis was in residence.

Miss Desta could be trying, especially when she spent too much time looking at herself in the mirror, but the Ethiopian model had been born into poverty, and knew what it was like to serve others. That made her more understanding.

Not Mr. Thorakis, though…

The Greek was often irritable, especially when his business was doing poorly, which seemed to be all of the time these days. That was when he threw things, like the Gucci loafer that had hit her earlier that day, and the magazine the day before. Such acts were almost always followed by a twenty-euro bill a few hours later. But like most of the staff members, Maria would have preferred an apology.

She could quit, of course, but to do what? Lacking the sort of good looks that would attract a man, or the skills that businesses were looking for, Maria knew her only other choice would be to work in one of Sintra’s hotels. The sort of job that would not only pay less, but force her to endure a year-round grind as an endless procession of tourists came and went. Even though things were difficult at the moment, Thorakis typically spent most of his time elsewhere, which made for relatively easy days when he was gone.

Such were the maid’s thoughts as a man carrying a complicated-looking camera stepped out to bar the way.

“Hello!” he said cheerfully. “May I speak to you for a moment?”

Maria had heard about men who did horrible things to young women, but this man, with his big potbelly, looked harmless enough, and there were plenty of tourists in the vicinity, so she paused.

“You want to speak with me ?” she responded. “Why?”

“Because you’re an important member of the Thorakis household, that’s why,” the man responded. “And I work for Le Monde. It’s a newspaper. We’re doing a profile on Mr. Thorakis, and would like to learn more about his home life.”

Maria was intrigued. No one ever asked her opinion on anything—not even her parents—and here was a man who thought she was “important.”

“What would you like to know?” she inquired cautiously. “Will it get me in trouble?”

“Trivial things for the most part,” the fat man said reassuringly. “Quality of life things. Like what time does Mr. Thorakis go to bed? When does he eat? That sort of stuff. And don’t worry-I won’t use your name. Plus, if you join me for a cup of coffee at that café over there, I’ll pay you one hundred euros for your time.”

Maria glanced at the establishment in question and back at the man again. Coffee was safe, the café was safe, and a hundred euros was a lot of money. Plus, what was there to go home to? Her mother’s nagging? And her father’s endless demands?

“Okay,” she said slyly, “but I want fifty euros up front.”

The man smiled. “You’re a very smart young woman. Let’s adjourn to the café, where I can give you the first half of the payment without anyone taking notice.”

Maria liked that idea, because Sintra was a small town, and she didn’t want to be seen accepting cash from a foreigner, especially not out here on a main street. Even a whisper of scandal would cause Maria’s father to whip her with his belt. Because in his view, his daughter’s virginity was the only asset she had.

So the two of them went to the café, where the man slipped fifty euros to the maid under the table, and ordered coffee for both of them. The conversation lasted for more than an hour, because the reporter from Le Monde was not only fascinated by the most mundane details of Maria’s job, but by the people she worked with, as well as their interpersonal relationships.

Therefore she was exhausted by the time the interview finally came to a close—and the fellow passed another fifty-euro note under the table.

“Thank you, Maria,” he said sincerely. “You’ve been very helpful. Now remember, I won’t mention your name in the article—and you must remain silent, as well. Otherwise you could lose your job.”

Maria nodded, came to her feet, and glanced at her watch. It was dinnertime! And Maria wasn’t there to help. Her mother would be furious.

Still, the interview had been worth it, and the maid felt happy as she hurried away.

Having determined the internal layout of the house, along with the habits of those who lived there, 47 was that much closer to being ready. But one problem remained, and that was how to enter the mansion, and do so at the correct time. Which, based on information provided by Maria, would be during the day. The most difficult time of all.

The assassin drained the last of his coffee, left the café, and waddled up the street.

The assassin was worried—and had good reason to be, he knew—as the minutes and hours continued to tick away. More than half the time allotted to him by Mr. Nu had already come off the clock, and there was still a lot of work left to do. Finding a way to enter the mansion during the day was proving to be difficult. No, impossible, since none of the schemes he had considered proved feasible.

Take the “magazine” man, for example. His name was Pedro, and based on the research that the assassin had carried out, he was a retired carpenter who pulled in a few euros a day by driving his beat-up sedan into Lisbon at four in the morning, buying newspapers and magazines that wouldn’t arrive in Sintra until late that afternoon, then delivering them to the mansion so Thorakis could scan them while he ate his breakfast. That raised the possibility that 47 could bribe the man, pose as his son, and come along for the ride. Then, once the guards were used to seeing the new face, the rest would be easy. Except that Pedro never spent more than five minutes in the house, which meant his fake son wouldn’t be allowed to either, which left the assassin back at the starting point.

A couple of other possibilities were eliminated in the same fashion. That left the operative with growing frustration, and he was beginning to wonder if his whole plan was going down the drain.

Finally, he decided that the simple approach would be the best. Once most of Sintra’s citizens were asleep, he would enter the mansion during the hours of darkness, hide until daylight, and carry out the assassination. Then, rather than flee, he would return to his hiding place and remain there until the ensuing ruckus was over.

Assuming the plan was successful, the Greek’s death would look like an accident, which meant no one would come looking for him. Once nightfall returned, Agent 47 would sneak out of the house again, and slip over the wall.

From what the assassin had observed, Thorakis’s security had been allowed to lapse somewhat. Perhaps due to the cost and the business setbacks Maria had mentioned. According to her, the number of guards was one-third what it had once been, and the Greek had stopped monitoring the cameras twenty-four-seven. Perhaps he hoped their very presence would fool an intruder into thinking the place was secure.

He needed to find a way to neutralize the damned dog, though. Not kill it, because that would put the security guards on high alert, but incapacitate the animal for a while-long enough for him to get in and out.