William Dietz - Hitman - Enemy Within

“I still believe Thorakis is the man that we’re looking for…but I haven’t been able to find proof. That’s where you come in.”

Nu frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“Here’s what I want you to do,” 47 explained. “Tell all of the board members-including Thorakis-that I know who the traitor is, and that I’m on my way to kill that individual. But don’t identify anyone by name. And find an opportunity to let the name ‘Hotel Central’ slip out. It’s an establishment that Thorakis is bound to recognize.

“If our man is innocent, he won’t do anything at all. But I’m betting that he’ll phone his contact within the Puissance Treize and beg for help. When that help comes, I’ll be waiting. And that will constitute the proof we need.”

“And then?” Mr. Nu wanted to know.

“And then Mr. Thorakis is going to have an accident,” the assassin responded flatly.

The sun was on the edge of the horizon by then, and Diana felt a sudden chill. She lacked a sweater, so she wrapped her arms around her torso instead.

“I like it,” the executive replied coldly. “I like it very much. But be careful. Assuming things go the way you expect them to, the people the Puissance Treize send will be very, very good. Do you need help?”

“Thanks,” 47 replied. “But no thanks.”

“All right then,” Nu said. “Keep me informed.”

“I will,” the assassin assured him. “And I have a message for Diana…”

The executive looked from the phone to the controller and back again.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Tell her she owes me.”

Diana was about to reply when she heard a click, followed by a dial tone.

She deserved to die for some of things she had done. By most people’s standards anyway. But maybe, just maybe, a guardian angel was about to save her.

If so, he would be a dark angel, sent from a place other than heaven.

A large banner had been strung between two of the weather-beaten columns that were evenly spaced along the front of the sun-splashed terrace. It read HAPPY BIRTHDAY NICOLE, in big blue letters. Colorful groupings of balloons bobbed here and there, a long narrow table occupied the center of the space, where dirty plates and the half-eaten remains of a very expensive birthday cake could still be seen.

Children squealed with excitement as they chased each other back and forth, completely unaware of the dark deeds that had been carried out within the castle during the last five hundred years, or the blood money required to purchase and maintain the fortress now. And even though some of the adults who were seated around well-set tables knew about such things, they too were lost in the moment.

Pierre Douay’s daughter, Nicole, had just turned seven, the children were enjoying themselves, and it was a lovely day.

Such was the scene when the phone in Douay’s pocket began to vibrate. The Frenchman didn’t want to answer it, but that particular number was known to less than thirty people, every one of whom was extremely important in one way or another. So Douay swore silently, went inside in order to get away from the noise, and eyed the incoming number.

The call was from Aristotle Thorakis, a man the executive had come to detest, but was still in a position to provide the Puissance Treize with valuable information. Which was the only reason Douay thumbed the device on.

It was like opening a floodgate.

“Pierre?” Thorakis demanded emotionally. “It’s a disaster, I tell you. An unmitigated disaster! A man named Agent 47 captured one of your people, a Moroccan I think, and found out about me!

“Agent 47 reported in and he’s on his way to kill me! I need protection, Pierre. Lots of protection—and I need it now. ”

Douay had always been able to remain calm, even when those all about him were losing their nerve, and began his analysis by cross-checking the known facts.

Al-Fulani was missing, and had been for more than a week, which seemed to lend credence to the story. Couple that with the failed attempt on Agent 47’s life, and that individual’s reputation for tenaciousness, and there was the very real possibility that the Greek was correct.

But why protect him? Especially given how annoying the shipping magnate had become.

The answer was glaringly obvious. Thorakis was into the Puissance Treize for 500 million euros. A significant sum that might go unrecovered if the Greek was killed. And what then? the executive wondered. Who would the partners blame? That, too, was glaringly obvious.

Besides which, there still might be a great deal of valuable information to extract from the annoying man’s brain before they decided whether or not to kill him.

“Stay where you are,” Douay ordered. “I’ll send a team. A good team. They’ll kill 47. Then, with him out of the way, we’ll pull you out of Sintra. The Agency will be angry, but we’ll cut a deal with them.”

“Really?” Thorakis inquired hopefully. “You can do that?”

“Of course I can,” Douay replied confidently. “Don’t worry about it. Just stay where you are and wait for my people to arrive.”

The shipping magnate was grateful, almost too grateful, and the Frenchman felt a sense of disgust as the Greek told him where the assassin would be staying. Then the line went dead.

The next part was easy, as a two-person hunter-killer team was taken off an assignment in Prague and redirected to Sintra.

Once that chore was out of the way, Douay had to face something more difficult. He needed to activate the alternate identities that had been established for his wife and children, years before. Once that was accomplished he would send them to the retreat in French Polynesia and prepare for the reprisals that were sure to follow. Even if the Puissance Treize were able to eliminate 47 and protect Thorakis, The Agency would come looking for someone to kill. And Pierre Douay’s name would appear near the top of the list. While Legard, ironically enough, would be relatively safe in prison!

It felt as though the sunshine had lost all of its warmth as the Frenchman stepped out onto the terrace. The laughter sounded discordant, and the smiles looked false.

That was the moment when Douay realized how exposed the terrace was, how easy it would be for someone to shoot Nicole from a thousand yards away, and he called to his guests.

The party was over.

Having successfully escaped from the Greek’s mansion during the hours of darkness, Agent 47 had returned to the hotel and was sitting in the lobby when the Puissance Treize hunter-killer team checked in. It was no accident that he’d been waiting for them. They were dressed like tourists, but the assassin knew them the same way that one animal knows another. They were towing their own luggage, so no one could tamper with their belongings, notice how heavy the suitcases were, or accidentally misplace them.

The man was about six-two, well built, and had fair skin. His hair was blond, too short to grab hold of, and worn in a flattop. He was dressed in a dark blue sport shirt that was one size too big so it would hang over the bulge high on his right hip.

And as Mr. Flattop took care of the check-in formalities, his female companion was facing the lobby, rather than the counter. That was the key to the hunter-killer concept. One person, the woman most likely, functioned as the hunter. Her job was to spot the prey, bring him in close if that were possible, and provide security while the killer took the target out.