William Dietz - Hitman - Enemy Within

Her supervisor’s white hair was pulled back into a tight bun and she looked stylish in a simple blue knit dress from St. Johns. Tasteful gold jewelry and the Hermès handbag completed the outfit. Marla, who was dressed in a two-piece gray business suit and wearing a pair of colorful Pikilino shoes felt dowdy by comparison.

Finally, having ignored Marla for at least two minutes, the older woman closed the flip-phone and eyed her guest with glacier-cold blue eyes.

“You may sit down.”

It had been awkward, standing there like a child waiting for permission to sit, and it was a relief to take the other chair.

“I was speaking on the phone with Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani,” the Russian said, in a voice pitched so low that only Marla could hear her. “In spite of ample evidence to the contrary, he insists that you are normally quite competent, and should be given a second chance. I’m not so sure… Perhaps you will find the means to convince me.”

Marla would have answered, but a formally attired waiter chose that moment to intervene, and Kaberov ordered for both of them. Something Marla would have taken exception to, had her hostess been anyone else. But in this case she was willing to tolerate just about any indignity in order to escape what could be a death sentence. Because while the Puissance Treize could be generous to its more reliable employees, it had a very low tolerance for failure.

“So,” Kaberov began. Her English was quite good, in spite of a slight Russian accent. “I read the report you filed, and was impressed by how objective it was. You made no attempt to conceal your incompetence or evade responsibility for what can only be categorized as a disaster. You had been told who was coming, when he would arrive, and what he planned to do. Yet you managed to take what should have been a routine hit and turn it into a major debacle. Now, having had time to reflect on what took place, tell me where you went wrong.”

Marla felt an obstruction block the back of her throat, and struggled to swallow it.

“In retrospect I realize that I should have warned the Big Kahuna, and enlisted his aid before The Agency’s assassin arrived.”

Kaberov nodded her agreement.

“You were grandstanding. Trying to impress everyone with how omnipotent you were. And it cost you… Worse yet, it cost us. Fortunately the witnesses are dead. With one notable exception. And someone took the surveillance tape. Was that you?”

“Yes,” Marla lied smoothly. “I destroyed it.”

“Good,” Kaberov replied grudgingly. “That, at least, was the competent thing to do. Although it should have been included in the report. In any case, based on the number of bodies that were found, it’s clear that Agent 47 escaped. And eliminating him was the true purpose of sending you there.”

There might have been more, except that the waiter arrived with what turned out to be excellent chicken salad, hard rolls, and iced tea. And rather than continue the conversation, the Russian launched into an analysis of fall fashions. A subject Marla knew very little about, but greatly preferred to a further discussion of the “Yakima Massacre,” as CNN now referred to it.

But talk of clothing came to an end when the dishes were taken away, and Kaberov removed a small, carefully wrapped gold box from her purse.

“Here,” the Sector Chief said, as she offered the object to Marla. “A present for you.”

The gesture was entirely unexpected, and Marla didn’t know what to say, as she accepted the gift.

“Go ahead,” Kaberov urged. “Open it.”

So Marla removed the red ribbon, broke the seals that held both halves of the box together, and lifted the lid. There, lying within a perfectly formed velvet-lined recess, was a single, hand-loaded, 230-grain,.45 caliber bullet. The round had been polished, and seemed to glow as if lit from within.

The Russian was waiting when Marla looked up.

“It’s part of a matched set,” the older woman explained sweetly. “And, if you fuck up again, you’ll get the second one right between the eyes.”

Agent 47 awoke with a jerk, eyed his wristwatch, and saw that it was 5:58 a.m.

Waking without an alarm clock was one of the many skills he’d been required to master as a child. And the only way to avoid a blow from one of the “memory sticks” that the asylum’s staff members carried was to wake up a couple of seconds early, and clearly signal that fact.

So 47 sat up, placed both Silverballers on the bed beside him, and stood. Early morning light filtered in around the curtains, and a car door slammed in the parking lot. A few steps carried him around the foot of the bed to the far side, where there was barely enough space for him to complete his morning exercises. The carpet was worn and far from clean, but he’d seen worse.

After a hundred push-ups, two-hundred sit-ups, and the rest of his regimen he entered the bathroom, pistol in hand. The automatic went on top of the toilet tank where it would be easy to reach.

Having brushed his teeth and taken a shower, 47 prepared to shave. He removed the DOVO from his kit. The straight razor was made of stainless steel, equipped with a French point, and could also be employed as a weapon should the need arise.

The gel felt cool as 47 smeared it over his cheeks, and the DOVO made a rasping noise as it carved a path through his whiskers. The task was complete five minutes later.

Next he set about the extremely difficult job of removing all of the forensic evidence from the hotel room; if someone was tracking him, he saw no reason to make their task easier. That was why he routinely wiped everything down, double-flushed any items that might carry his DNA, and kept a sharp eye out for stray socks, telltale receipts, and loose cartridges. Once the room was clean he put on a fresh white shirt, his signature red necktie, the two-gun harness, and a black suit with matching shoes.

One was scuffed. A quick buff put it right.

Then, having eyed the parking lot through the window, Agent 47 carried the matching suitcases out to the Volvo and placed them in the trunk. Having paid for his room in advance, he had no need to check out prior to breakfast, which he generally regarded as the most important meal of the day.

In France, that meant coffee, tea, or hot chocolate with a baguette or croissant. A meal that might lack substance, but certainly made more sense than the eggs, sausage, and mushrooms that were sometimes served in Great Britain.

Which was why 47 preferred to eat breakfast in the United States, where he could choose from a wide array of items, including regional specialties like biscuits and gravy or huevos rancheros.

So, having no interest in the fast-food crap put out by the restaurant chains, Agent 47 was eternally on the lookout for the one-of-a-kind restaurants that locals frequented. It was a somewhat risky strategy, since he was more noticeable in such eateries than he would have been at a McDonald’s. But that reality had to be weighed against the fact that most fast-food franchises have antitheft surveillance systems.

All of which led 47 to the Copper Kitchen. It was located on a busy street, and the parking lot was nearly full, which he considered a good sign.

As was his habit, Agent 47 backed the Volvo into a slot where it would be positioned for a quick departure, and took a moment to identify the restaurant’s rear exit before crossing the parking lot to the front door. A newspaper rack was positioned next to the entrance, so he paused to buy a copy of the Yakima Herald-Republic, then followed a man wearing overalls into the restaurant. The farmer took a seat at the well-worn counter, while 47 eyed the booths off to the left, the most distant of which was located next to the kitchen door. That was the sort of spot most diners tried to avoid, but he actually preferred.