Hitman: Enemy Within

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Conditions inside the Prison de la Santé in the XIVe arrondissement of Paris could only be described as a living hell. The cells were filthy, the noise was deafening, drug use was rampant, communicable diseases took a constant toll, rapes were a common occurrence, and the only way to escape was to commit suicide. Which inmates frequently did.

All of which made Santé a very dangerous place to be for any person other than Louis Legard, who as Managing Director of the Puissance Treize, had the benefit of bodyguards, specially prepared food, and a host of other privileges that most inmates could only dream of.

Still, privileged or not, the last place Legard wanted to be was in Santé. So as one of the Frenchman’s muscular bodyguards cleared a path for the crime boss, who had been forced to use crutches since the most recent attempt on his life, Legard was anything but happy. In spite of more than two million euros spent on lawyers, bribes, and appeals, he had yet to find a way out of the festering hole that the French government had put him in.

Not for murder, which he deserved, but for tax evasion. An offense so pedestrian as to be ridiculous.

Prisoners and guards seemed to simply melt away as the Puissance Treize chief and his entourage turned into a main corridor and made their way toward the security checkpoint where Legard would be searched prior to being released into the visitor center that lay beyond. The screening process was something not even Legard could avoid, although the normally arrogant guards were careful to preserve the prisoner’s sense of dignity, knowing what could happen to them if they didn’t.

In fact, it had been less than a year since a new staff member had referred to Legard as an estropié repugnant. The guard, his wife, and both of their children had been mysteriously murdered three days later. No one had been arrested for the crime as yet, but the message was clear, and Legard had been treated with the utmost delicacy ever since.

Having been cleared through the security checkpoint, he was left to lurch across an open area to the row of narrow cubicles where prisoners could talk to visitors through sheets of cloudy Plexiglas. Consistent with the prepaid bribes that he had received, the guard responsible for regulating the flow of inmates took care to slot Legard into a booth between two empties; a seemingly trivial favor, but one that would serve to protect the man’s privacy-something that was very important to him.

Pierre Douay had come to dread his visits with Legard. Both because of the unpleasant surroundings and the Managing Director’s ceaseless demands for a new trial, better medical care, and more fresh fruit. As Legard entered the cubicle on the other side of the Plexiglas and laid the crutches on the floor, Douay dipped a hand into a coat pocket and activated a scrambler that resembled a popular brand of MP3 player.

The Managing Director had always been a small man, but had lost quite a bit of weight since the failed assassination attempt, and was about the size of an average teenaged boy. He had thick white hair, a face that could only be described as gaunt, and lips so thin his mouth resembled a horizontal slash. A chromed metal grille was mounted in the Plexiglas, but given how loud the background sound was, both men were forced to lean in close in order to hear each other without being overheard by others.

“Good morning, sir,” Douay began politely. “How are you?”

“How the hell do you think I am?” Legard demanded sourly. “I feel like shit! When are you going to get me out of this stinking cesspool?”

“Soon,” Douay promised soothingly. “Very soon.”

“That’s what you said last time,” the older man complained bitterly. “Yet I’m still here.”

“These things take time,” Douay replied. “The wheels of government grind slowly. But the lawyers tell me that in four months, six at the most, our request for an appeal will be granted. Once we know which judge and prosecutor have been assigned to the case, we’ll bring them around. But until that time, we simply don’t know who to target.”

Everything Douay said was true, and Legard knew it, but the crime boss was rightfully suspicious.

“So you say, Pierre…so you say. But I’m no fool! The longer I remain locked up in prison-the longer you remain in charge of the Puissance Treize.”

Douay had been on the receiving end of that accusation many times before, and his answer was ready.

“But I’m not in charge, sir. You are. All I do is pass your instructions along to the partners. And, because you have sources of information other than myself, you know that I continue to serve you well.”

“The profits are good,” Legard admitted grudgingly. “But what about the Sinon Project? How is that going?”

Sinon was the ancient Greek spy who, if the legends were correct, was the person who convinced the Trojans to open the gates and allow the wooden horse to enter Troy.

“It’s going well,” Douay answered honestly. “By planting large amounts of money on one of The Agency’s most trusted employees, we were able to divert attention away from the real traitor. And he continues to provide us with a continual flow of useful information. Some of which must be ignored, if we are to preserve the source.”

“I understand that,” Legard grated as he stared through the Plexiglas. “But remember this: It’s my intent to crush The Agency. Not just nibble it to death! And one of the best ways to accomplish this is to destroy their most effective operatives. You missed Agent 47 the first time. Don’t make the same mistake again.”

Whether it was true or not, Legard expressed the belief that the mysterious Agent 47 had fired the 7.62×51 mm bullet that was responsible for his useless leg. This was one reason why a trap had been laid for the operative during the earliest phase of Project Sinon. But every attempt to eliminate 47 had failed, and the assassin was still on the loose.

“Yes, sir,” Douay said humbly. “If we see an opportunity to kill him, we will.”

Blood rose to suffuse Legard’s otherwise pallid face, his eyes seemed to glow as if lit from within, and spittle flew from his lips as he spoke.

“Make an opportunity, goddamn you! Or I’ll put you on crutches—or worse—and see how you like it!”

This time the crime boss’s voice had been loud enough to turn heads, and Douay was conscious of the fact that people were staring at him as he lifted a fruit basket up off the floor.

“I brought some apples, sir. Plus bananas and grapes. I’ll pass them to the guards on my way out.”

“I’m sorry,” Legard said contritely, and sighed as he looked away. “I’m an old man, and I say foolish things. I know you’ll do your best.”

“It’s very difficult in here,” Douay said sympathetically. “I realize that—and I’m sorry.”

The visit came to an end shortly after that. Douay gave the basket of fruit to one of the guards, followed a young woman and her little girl out onto the busy street, and paused to reacclimate himself. That was when he took a deep breath, gave thanks for everything he had, and all he was going to have.

Because it would be a cold day in hell when Louis Legard left Santé prison and felt warm sunshine on his ugly face.