Hitman: Enemy Within

CHAPTER TWENTY

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.

Like her partner, the hunter was blond, with athletically short hair and the long lean body of a tennis player. Her clothing was very chic, except for the fanny pack she wore draped across her lower abdomen. The perfect place to keep a semiauto and some spare magazines. She had very blue eyes, and when they came to rest on the man with the big paunch, he was already snapping pictures of her.

It was just the sort of thing Tazio Scaparelli would do if he saw a pretty woman and didn’t know who she was. Who could possibly keep track of all the starlets, models, and aristocrats who were roaming Europe? The safest thing to do was take pictures, and establish their value later. Agent 47 could tell that the hunter didn’t like having her picture taken, but there wasn’t much she could do about it, and her eyes drifted away as the camera was lowered.

So Al-Fulani was right, Agent 47 mused. Thorakis is guilty—and Diana is innocent. Mr. Nu will be pleased, and all things considered, so am I.

With the basic assessment out of the way, the assassin took his armchair analysis to the next level. The hunter and the killer were professional partners, but were they lovers as well? If they were, then Mr. Flattop would feel protective toward her. Something 47 might use against him, and one of the reasons why the assassin preferred to work alone.

As the couple received their keys and turned to follow a bellman toward one of the Central’s ancient elevators, the operative came to the conclusion that the answer to his question was a definite “yes.” The two were lovers. His observation wasn’t based on anything obvious, like a wedding ring, but on more subtle factors. Like the failure to maintain enough space between their bodies, the familiar manner in which they touched each other, and the way Mr. Flattop allowed his partner to board the elevator first.

All of which meant that by the time the elevator doors closed on the couple, 47 had already decided how to kill them. Their strength stemmed from the hunter-killer concept and closeness of their relationship. So the first thing to do was divide and conquer.

But how?

The logical thing to do was eliminate the hunter first, because she would be easier to kill, and because her death would make Mr. Flattop angry. And it was 47’s intention to use the other man’s grief and rage against him.

The man known as Tazio Scaparelli fought his way up out of the armchair and waddled away. The war was about to begin—and it was time to prepare.

The woman’s name was Tova Holm, and it was her job to find the target so Hans Pruter could kill him. And thanks to the fact that The Agency assassin was already registered at the hotel, the task would be that much easier. Once they figured out who the man was.

The first step would be to gain access to the Central’s guest list by bribing one of the clerks, flirting with one of them, or hacking into the hotel’s computer system. An often tiresome process that Holm wanted to avoid if possible.

Having donned a skimpy tennis outfit, the shapely blonde went down to the front desk and approached a clerk, who clearly couldn’t take his eyes off her. Having smiled beguilingly, she launched into a story about having spotted an old friend as she entered the elevator, and wanting to contact her. The problem being that she had forgotten the woman’s married name. She would remember the name, however, if she could take a look at the guest list.

The clerk knew it was wrong, but wanted to please the pretty young woman, and agreed to provide the blonde with a printout, as long as she wouldn’t tell anyone. So ten minutes later, Holm and Pruter were sitting in their room, going over the registry, and highlighting the names they considered to be most promising.

“He’s an expert where disguises are concerned,” Pruter reminded her. “But there are certain things one can’t hide. Height being the most obvious.”

While Pruter remained in the room, so he could clean his weapons, Holm took the list and went to work. The obvious place to start was with the maids, all of whom were poorly paid and eager to make a few extra euros. It wasn’t long before the guest list had been reduced to three men. Alexandru Cosma, a Romanian who had arrived earlier that morning. Tazio Scaparelli, the Italian photographer who had taken her picture in the lobby, and George Fuller, an American tourist.

So far, so good…

But which one of them was Agent 47? In order to answer that question, and “surprise her brother,” Holm managed to “rent” a master key from a maid who was about to go on a lunch break. That, combined with the uniform she had “borrowed,” would allow her to enter all three rooms. Not to make the kill, but to eliminate the false positives and identify the target. At that point Pruter would join the hunt, they would stalk the enemy assassin together, and take him out.

Just as they had thirty-two times before.

Given his appearance, and the fact that he’d been staying at the hotel for more than a week by then, Tazio Scaparelli seemed like a poor bet. That being the case, Holm chose to examine the Italian’s room first. She approached the door the way any maid would, rapped three times, and shouted, “Housekeeping!”

Then, having heard no response, the Puissance Treize agent slipped the master key into the door and let herself in. Once inside, she had to check Scaparelli’s belongings to see if the corpulent paparazzo was the person he seemed to be. A delicate task, since it was necessary to search the room without disturbing anything. It soon became apparent that the Italian was a fat, somewhat slovenly diabetic, who was about to run out of clean underwear.

Satisfied that Scaparelli had been eliminated from the list, Holm set out to check on the recently arrived Romanian. His room was on the third floor. The routine was the same: Three loud knocks followed by a loud, “Housekeeping!”

Having received no response, the counterassassin entered the room and pulled the door closed behind her. A suitcase was resting on the bed, and Holm went over to inspect it. And that’s where she was, leaning over to look inside the open bag, when Agent 47 stepped out from behind the heavy floor-length curtains.

The Puissance Treize agent heard the unexpected swish of fabric, and was reaching for her pistol when the assassin fired the air gun. Holm felt the dart bite her neck, paused to pluck the object out, and was busy examining the projectile when she felt a burning sensation. That was followed by a sharp pain in her chest, a moment of vertigo as her heart stopped, and a long fall into darkness.

A series of flashes strobed the room as the man named Alexandru Cosma, Agent 47, and Tazio Scaparelli took a series of pictures.

Then it was time to retrieve the dart, Holm’s Fabrique Nationale Forty-Nine, and two extra clips of.40 caliber ammunition. The FN constituted a much heavier piece than 47 had expected to acquire, and made for a welcome addition to his modest arsenal.

With those chores accomplished, the operative let himself out. The DO NOT DISTURB sign would keep the hotel’s staff at bay until the next day. At that point they would find a dead guest, who was not only dressed as one of their maids, but lying in the wrong room. A room registered to Mr. Cosma, who was nowhere to be found. It was a mystery that would keep the local authorities busy for months to come.

The hunter was dead…

The killer was waiting.

Holm had been gone for hours and Pruter was beginning to worry about her, when a bellman knocked on the door. Or was he a bellman?

The German positioned himself next to the door with the Glock at the ready. “Ja?”

“I have a package for you, sir,” the teenager said politely.

The killer peered through the keyhole, confirmed that the bellhop was holding a manila envelope in his hand, and opened the door a crack. The package slid in, a five-euro note went out, and the transaction was complete.

There was a positive click as the door swung closed. Pruter was a cautious man. That was one of the reasons why he was still alive. So rather than open the envelope right away he took a moment to examine it. The block lettering on the front said, TO HANS PRUTER. But there was no return address.

The killer felt ice water trickle into his bloodstream as he held the envelope up to the light. Could it contain a bomb? Or a dose of anthrax? Anything was possible-but he didn’t think so. Some dark rectangles could be seen through the paper, and when he rotated the container they slid from side to side.

The knife generated a soft click as the blade locked into place. Rather than open the top of the envelope Pruter was careful to slit one of the sides to avoid any triggering mechanisms hidden inside.

But the effort was wasted. The only items inside the container were a series of photographs that spilled out onto the floor: Pictures of Holm lying on a rug staring sightlessly into the camera.

The German’s knees made a solid thump as they hit the carpet. The killer’s hand shook as he began to sort through the photos that 47 had been able to print at a do-it-yourself kiosk in the local drugstore. They were of Holm, dressed in a maid’s uniform, lying dead on a rug that was identical to the one beneath him. Meaning that her body was somewhere inside the hotel.

The inarticulate bellow of rage and pain was followed by a long series of sobs that wracked his body, and tears flowed down his cheeks. Then Pruter saw that a picture postcard lay among the photos. It showed a panoramic view of gray, vegetation-clad battlements. The caption read, Costelo dos Mouros.

It was an obvious invitation—and one that Pruter planned to accept.

The Castle of the Moors had been constructed in the eighth or ninth century. The sprawling structure was situated on two neighboring mountain peaks, and offered magnificent views of both Sintra and the countryside beyond. Which meant that on the day when Dom Alfonso Henriques and his army arrived to liberate the area in 1147, the Moors must have been able to see the nobleman coming.

Later, during the Romantic period, repairs had been made. But there was little sign of that now as the sun started to dip below the western horizon, and the tourists began the long walk down to the city below.

Yet Pruter remained behind. Once the sun set and darkness settled over the battlements, Agent 47 would come. And, while nothing could ever compensate the German for Holm’s death, killing the assassin would make him feel slightly better. Not to mention the fact that it was his job to do so—and as a killer, he had a reputation to protect.

The main problem was that the castle not only covered a large area, but was built along the top of a steep hillside, and followed the contours of the land. As a result there were dozens of paths that led up and down, and hundreds of stone steps, all bordered by a jumble of ruins. So the first thing he had to do was familiarize himself with the complex, find the best spot to hide, and let 47 come to him.

Then, with the aid of the night-vision gear stowed in his pack, Hans would put the other assassin down for good.

The German went to work.

The satellite phone produced a series of soft beeps. The assassin’s eyes popped open and he activated the phone. The voice that came over the headset was insistent.

“Wake up, Agent 47… It’s time to go to work.”

It was dark inside the cavelike recess, but by craning his neck, he could catch a glimpse of city lights below. He fumbled the penlight, but aimed it away from the entrance.

“Diana? Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me,” the controller replied sweetly. “Who else would give up a perfectly good dinner to keep an eye on someone like you? Are you sure you want to go through with this? It seems like an iffy plan to me.”

“No,” 47 replied honestly. “I’m not sure. But it’s too late to bail out. The target should be in the ruins by now. Or am I wrong?”

“Oh, he’s there, all right,” Diana confirmed, as she eyed the monitor in front of her. The spooky-looking thermal images were being provided by one of three state-of-the-art surveillance satellites that The Agency owned. Just one of the reasons why it took so much money to keep the murder-for-hire organization up and running.

The Puissance Treize killer was represented by a stationary green blob. Smaller heat signatures, all of which belonged to various animals, left occasional streaks on the screen.

“He arrived an hour and sixteen minutes after you did.”

Having been forced to leave his weapons in Rome so he could play the part of Tazio Scaparelli, Agent 47 felt woefully underequipped. But the nearest armory was in Madrid, so there wasn’t enough time to acquire more firepower.

Having no desire to battle the Puissance Treize agent in Scaparelli drag, the assassin was wearing a new set of clothes, all of which were black. He had armed himself with the woman’s FN Forty-Nine, the DOVO razor, and the garrote. He was also carrying the air gun, plus three darts, which he planned to use on the German shepherd later that night. Assuming everything went well, that is-which was far from certain.

Meanwhile it seemed safe to assume that the opposition would be armed with a pistol, some sort of submachine gun, and a sniper’s rifle. Not to mention night-vision goggles. Of course, The Agency’s satellite—plus Diana’s ability to keep him advised of the German’s movements—would help to compensate for that.

“So, what did he choose?” 47 wanted to know. “The highest tower-or the rock pile above the ruins?”

“The rock pile,” the controller answered clinically.

“That’s what I would choose,” the operative said thoughtfully. “You can see just about everything from the tower, but there’s no way out, and our friend will want an escape route.”

“He isn’t your friend,” Diana said sternly. “Are you ready to move?”

There were hundreds of nooks and crannies in the ruins. The space 47 had chosen was vaguely rectangular in shape, barely high enough to stand in, and equipped with a dirt floor.

“I will be soon,” the agent said, as he aimed a stream of urine into a corner. A moment later, he said, “Okay, here I go. Keep me informed.”

“I will,” Diana promised him. “Be careful out there—and don’t forget to zip it up.”

The sun had set hours earlier, and it had turned cold. But the Puissance Treize assassin had anticipated that problem, and was dressed appropriately. And he could still see, thanks to the ambient light and the night-vision goggles he wore. The device worked better when he didn’t look directly at the lights of Sintra. So the German did the best he could to avoid that, while continually scanning the area around him.

It was a monotonous task that caused him to miss Holm even more. With her at his side, there had been no need to worry about the possibility that someone would sneak up on him from behind. But Holm was dead, and he was about to do battle with her killer.

Or was he? There was no sign of the assassin so far. Was the other man scared? Or had the postcard been a ruse? A trick intended to sideline the opposition while the enemy operative made an attack on Thorakis?

Suddenly that seemed all too possible, and Pruter was considering a strategic withdrawal when he saw an image appear downslope from him. It was there for a fraction of a second, then gone, as if someone were working his way uphill using the ruins as cover. Pruter removed the goggles, picked up the German Blaser 93 LRS2 rifle, and looked through its night-vision scope.

The target had disappeared, but the counter-assassin was a patient man, and was willing to wait.

Agent 47 paused, eyed the open stretch of walkway that lay ahead, and hoped that the Puissance Treize agent was busy sipping hot cocoa. Then, knowing he couldn’t put the task off forever, the assassin launched himself out into the open. There was a loud spang as a 7.62 mm bullet bounced off a paver, and disappeared into the night.

Not only was the German paying attention-he was a good shot!

Agent 47 heard another slug ping off the crenellated wall to his right as he took cover behind some stone blocks. It was dark all around him, and it would have been easy to lose his way, except for one thing: Having visited the ruins prior to sending the photos to Pruter, the operative had not only carried out a general reconnaissance, but surreptitiously sprayed night-glow paint along some of the paths. So all he had to do was follow the blobs to one of two wires. Which, like the paint, batteries, and a few other odds and ends, had been purchased at the local hardware store.

“He’s still in the same place,” Diana put in helpfully. “And I don’t see anyone else in the area.”

Thus reassured, Agent 47 continued to follow the glowing green dots to the point where the number one remote was hidden. His movements resulted in a flurry of silenced shots, one of which came so close that rock chips sprayed the side of his face as he scurried along the path.

Then he was there, rolling in under the protection of a stone wall, as bullets continued to ping, whine, and spang all around him. The expenditure of that much ammo seemed nonsensical at first, until 47 realized what his opponent was up to, and the potential danger involved. The Puissance Treize agent was hoping to bounce a slug into him, just like a bank shot in a game of pool. And even if that strategy failed, the fusillade was bound to exact a psychological toll.

So Agent 47 forced himself to concentrate as his fingers probed the crevices to either side of a glowing dot. Once he had located the hidden switch it was time to pull the.40 caliber pistol, and pray.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, he realized the Supreme Being was very unlikely to take sides in a battle between hired killers, so he decided he would have to rely on skill, and an element of luck.

With that, the assassin pressed the button, an electrical charge ran up the wire, and delivered a spark to the container of petrol hidden among the rocks. The results were even more spectacular than what 47 had hoped for. There was a dull thump, followed by a sudden gout of flame that shot upward to light the surrounding area with a ghastly glow. Though completely untouched by the fire, his opponent was lit from behind as he stood to get a better look at the surrounding area.

Agent 47 was on his feet by then, with the FN clutched in both hands, firing uphill. A series of sharp reports were heard, the pistol jumped, and empty casings arced through the air. Pruter staggered as a slug hit him in the chest, but he must have been wearing body armor, since he brought the HK MP-5N submachine gun up into firing position. And thanks to 47’s muzzle flashes, the Puissance Treize agent had a point to aim at as he fired a long ten-round burst.

“He’s coming toward you!” Diana warned.

“No shit,” 47 responded as he was forced to duck, and dump the empty clip. The second one slid in smoothly, the FN’s action pushed another bullet into the chamber, and the pistol was ready to fire again. If the German bastard ever stopped shooting, that is!

The opportunity he needed came a few seconds later when the submachine gun ran dry and Pruter was forced to reload. That was when 47 popped up, saw the blocky form outlined against the quickly fading flames, and was careful to aim low. The heavy slugs cut the German’s legs out from under him. He staggered, fought to keep his balance, and fell. The body tumbled downhill, bounced into the air, and there was a sickening thump as it landed.

“Forty-seven?” Diana inquired. “Are you okay?”

“So far,” the assassin replied cautiously. “Hold on.”

The operative kept the FN pointed at the body as he approached it, felt for a pulse, and confirmed that Pruter was dead. Not from a bullet, although the German’s legs were a bloody mess, but from injuries suffered during the fall.

Not having heard any sirens, 47 took the time necessary to drag the body into a niche, where loose stones could be stacked in front of it. Then it was necessary to get the penlight out, search the area for empty casings, and collect the German’s belongings from higher up the hill.

Finally, having pulled the wire for both incendiary devices and thrown everything into the makeshift crypt, it was time to wall Pruter in.

Eventually, after days of sun, some unfortunate tourist would notice the smell. At that point the Puissance Treize assassin would be disinterred and linked to the body of the mysterious Tova Holm. There was no way to know what the authorities would make of that, and 47 didn’t care.

An hour later, with his opponent’s pack on his back, Agent 47 made his way down the hill. The night was relatively young—and the real target was still alive.

By the time 47 arrived at the top of the hillside behind the mansion, it was nearly 3:00 a.m. Late, but not too late, given the task at hand. Which was to dart the German shepherd if necessary, sneak into the house the same way he had before, and wait for morning. But by the time Agent 47 was halfway down the slope it became apparent that everything had changed.

Judging from the bright glow that could be seen through the foliage, every light in the house was on. And once the assassin got closer he realized that six uniformed security guards were roaming the grounds, rather than two. Not only that, but more dogs had been brought in, and it seemed safe to assume that the surveillance cameras were being monitored now, as well.

Agent 47 had been expecting some sort of reaction to the increased threat level, but nothing like what he was looking at, and had no choice but to retreat back up the hill. It took the better part of half an hour to reach the street above, then make his way back to the hotel, where he entered via a side door. From there the assassin went straight to Pruter’s room, made use of the German’s key to let himself in, and took a quick tour of the German’s possessions.

Then, having selected a well-cut gray suit, along with some other odds and ends, 47 went back to Tazio Scaparelli’s room where it was time to take a shower and begin work on plan B. The first step was to call Diana, tell the controller about the change of plan, and request some help.

The second step was to put aside everything he would need for the coming day, and cram the rest into Scaparelli’s expandable suitcase. That included the foam belly, the hairpiece, the paparazzo’s clothes, Holm’s pistol, Pruter’s knapsack, and a variety of smaller items. Then, having gone over the room again to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, he took a nap.

As always, Agent 47’s eyes snapped open at 5:58 a.m. He got up, took Pruter’s Glock into the bathroom, and put the DOVO to work. Twenty minutes later he was shaved, dressed, and ready for the new day.

Pruter’s suit was a little too large, but otherwise satisfactory, even if it was gray rather than black.

The room had been paid for in advance, so there was no need to check out. Agent 47 carried Scaparelli’s heavily laden suitcase and Pruter’s black leather briefcase down the fire escape and out through the door he had used the night before. Someone was bound to discover the woman’s body before long—and the assassin wanted to be clear of the hotel when they did.

Rather than dump the suitcase near the hotel where the police might find it, the operative towed the bag to the Bon Appétit. The restaurant wasn’t open for business yet, but the Dumpster was, and given how much the big metal box reeked, there was very little chance that anyone would want to climb inside it. The suitcase went in, the lid closed with a clang, and the task was complete.

From there it was a short walk to a busy bakery, where the assassin had a long, leisurely breakfast. Though not up to his standards, it was a lot better than nothing. Then, at precisely 10:30 a.m., he entered a cab. By no means was he too lazy to walk, but the person he was about to become would arrive by taxi, and such details were important. If the cabdriver thought the short trip was strange, he gave no sign of it as the operative handed over a five and told him to keep the change.

Three members of the paparazzi were present as 47 got out of the cab, including Tony Fazio, and all of them watched intently as the man with the black briefcase exited the car and approached the front gate. The additional security was plain to see, and the activity within indicated that Thorakis might be getting ready to leave Sintra. Though this was not world-shaking news, it would be worth a few shots, and provide the paparazzi with something to feed their voracious editors.

As Agent 47 arrived in front of the gate, a uniformed security officer was there to greet him.

“Yes?” the man said suspiciously. “What do you want?”

The operative noticed that the security officer’s right hand had already come to rest on the butt of a huge revolver.

“My name is Gerrard,” 47 lied. “I believe you’re expecting me.”

As it happened, the security guard had been told to expect a Mr. Gerrard, so the hand came off the pistol, and the assassin was allowed to pass through the gate. From there the security officer escorted the agent to the front door, where a man in a blue blazer and khaki trousers was waiting. He had hard eyes, a no-nonsense manner, and appeared to be in his early forties. Ex-military perhaps? Yes, 47 thought so.

The entryway was half-blocked by an oak table. Beyond that the operative could see the ornate flight of stairs that led up to the second floor, along with the entry to the dining room on the left, and the door to an old-fashioned sitting room on the right. He knew from previous experience that the hall, which paralleled the stairs, led back to the kitchen.

“Good morning, sir,” the man with the hard eyes said. “Are you armed?”

“Yes, I am,” the assassin replied, as he placed the briefcase on the table. “I’m carrying a Glock, a razor, and a garrote.”

If the ex-paratrooper was surprised, he gave no sign of it.

“And in the briefcase?”

“A satellite phone, a laptop, and some other odds and ends.”

“Thank you,” the man said matter-of-factly. “Please remove all of your weapons and place them on the table. Once that process is complete, I’m going to search you. Or you can leave the property, if you prefer. The choice is up to you.”

“I have no objection to being searched,” 47 said, as he placed each weapon on the table in front of him. “In fact, I would like to commend you on your professionalism.”

The man nodded politely, but clearly didn’t care what the visitor thought, as he came around to run his hands over 47’s body. That was the point he came across the atomizer.

“What’s this?” the man wanted to know, as he held the bottle up for inspection.

“Sunblock,” the agent answered expressionlessly. “I have a tendency to burn.”

The ex-paratrooper nodded, spritzed a bit of the liquid on his wrist, sniffed and-apparently satisfied-put the atomizer back where he had found it.

“Okay,” the man with the hard eyes said. “You can retrieve your briefcase and weapons on the way out. Please step under the light.”

A stand-mounted spot had been set up in the hallway. Agent 47 could feel the heat from the lamp as he took his place beneath it. The man opened a folder, withdrew a sheet of paper, and held it up for a side-by-side comparison. The fax was modeled on a similar document The Agency had recovered during a raid on a Puissance Treize safe house in Moscow three days earlier. The first paragraph, which had been authored by Diana, was the equivalent of an introduction.

“Mr. François Gerrard will arrive prior to 12:00 p.m., and should be given full access to the premises so that he can make plans for a Class III extraction. Please grant him your full cooperation.”

And, because both the photo and the description of Gerrard matched the man standing in front of him, the former soldier began to relax.

“Could I have your identity code please?”

“It’s BXY-892,” Agent 47 replied.

The code was correct, so the security officer slid the fax back into its folder, and rang a bell.

The woman who responded was none other than a harried looking Maria. With the departure imminent, Thorakis had probably been very difficult that morning—and 47 imagined that the last thing she needed was a visitor to take care of. And because the man in front of her looked very different from the photographer Tazio Scaparelli, she never appeared to make the connection.

Fortunately for Maria, the man in the gray suit had no need of her services, and having said as much, he began to prowl the premises after she took her leave.

Agent 47 eyed his watch. Based on the information he had obtained from Maria earlier, he knew that the kitchen staff were required to prepare a green salad for Miss Desta each morning, and leave it outside the master bedroom at precisely 11:30. With rare exceptions, it was the ex-model’s practice to remain incommunicado until 1:00 p.m., when she was ready to greet the world.

Assuming the salad rule was still in force, the assassin had five minutes to get upstairs and position himself in the vicinity of the master bedroom. With that in mind, he produced a small notebook, made some meaningless notes in it, and returned to the main hallway. From there he climbed the stairs and was standing on the landing above when a girl appeared at the other end of the hall. Having made use of the back stairs himself, Agent 47 knew they led up from the kitchen, which was consistent with the tray the youngster held in her hands.

The operative saw a teapot, a matching cup, and a plate with a silver dome over it. The teenager placed the offering on a table, paused to make sure the tray was square with the edge of the table, and turned back toward the stairs.

Agent 47 took a quick look around to make sure no one was visible, hurried down the hall, and lifted the domed lid. Then, still holding the cover aloft, he aimed the atomizer at the perfectly tossed salad. The bottle made a gentle wheezing sound as peanut oil misted the air and drifted down to coat the greens below.

Having replaced the lid, the operative turned back toward the front of the house. He was halfway down the front stairs, on his way to retrieve his belongings, when he heard the door open and Miss Desta emerge to get her salad.

The assassin was more than a mile away when Aristotle Thorakis took Miss Desta in his arms, nuzzled her hair, and began to kiss her.

A few minutes later, as they were just starting to make love, the Greek’s throat started to constrict. His face turned red, it was no longer possible for him to breathe, and he struggled to speak.

But Thorakis couldn’t get the necessary words out. He made gasping noises, clawed at his throat, and began to thrash about.

Miss Desta, frightened, rolled out of bed and ran to the intercom. Unfortunately the former model didn’t know enough Portuguese to effectively communicate with the staff in the kitchen. Valuable time was lost while half a dozen members of the shipping magnate’s domestic staff rushed upstairs to see why Miss Desta was screaming hysterically.

The chef was among them, and even though he couldn’t imagine how such a thing could have happened, he recognized the symptoms for what they were. Fortunately an injector preloaded with epinephrine was sitting on top of the dresser next to the businessman’s wallet.

Maria watched in open-mouthed horror as the chef removed the locking cap from the EpiPen and rammed the exposed needle into his employer’s meaty thigh. There was an audible click as the spring-loaded device delivered the correct dose of medication into muscle.

But unfortunately for Aristotle Thorakis, his mistress, his family, and the Puissance Treize, the shipping magnate was already dead.

Fazio and his peers were present to witness the moment when the medics arrived, after which the famous businessman’s body was removed from the house.

As for the proximate cause of the Greek’s death, that was clear, although no one could figure out how a small amount of peanut oil had found its way onto Miss Desta’s salad, in spite of all the precautions taken in the kitchen.

At the exact moment when CPR was suspended, and then while Thorakis was being loaded onto a stretcher, Agent 47 was standing on the ramparts of Pena Palace, a fairy tale-like keep that sat atop a peak not far from the remains of the Moorish castle where Hans Pruter’s body was beginning to rot.

The sun was out, the air was clean, and a hawk could be seen circling in the distance.

The killer was at rest.