Hitman: Enemy Within

CHAPTER FOUR

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.

“A booth, please,” he said, as a woman with gray hair arrived to seat him. “The one in the back looks nice.”

The woman nodded mechanically, grabbed a plastic-covered menu from the rack next to the cash register, and led the assassin back to a Formica-covered table that was flanked by two Naugahyde-covered benches. Agent 47 chose the one that put his back to the wall and provided a good view of the front door. The kitchen door, which could be used as an alternate exit, was immediately to his left. True to its name, the eatery was decorated with all manner of copper cooking implements that sat on shelves, dangled from the ceiling, and had been screwed to the walls.

He spent the next few minutes assembling a rather unhealthy breakfast from the long list of à la carte items the Copper Kitchen had to offer. Then, having placed an order for two fried eggs, country-style hash brown potatoes, and a side of crisp bacon, he proceeded to scan the paper. The headline proclaimed BARNYARD SLAUGHTER in big, bold letters. A description that seemed accurate enough, all things considered. Not that society had any reason to mourn the thieves, drug dealers, and murderers who had been killed at the farm.

Agent 47 had just begun to read the accompanying text when the front door opened, and the man who entered the room caught his attention. The man had carefully combed black hair, Eurasian features, and stood about five-ten or-eleven. His clothes weren’t all that different from those the assassin wore, except that his suit was dark blue, with gray pinstripes. Though 47 had never seen him before-just as he had never seen Marla prior to the meeting at the barn-he instinctively recognized the newcomer as a player.

He already had one hand inside his coat, and was preparing to exit the booth, when the stranger saw him and…

Waved.

At that moment, the assassin could stay, and run the risk that the man in the pinstriped suit had been sent by the Big Kahuna’s associates, or he could duck out the back. And run into what? An ambush in the parking lot? There was no way to know.

Finally, as was so often the case, the decision came down to a gut feeling. So 47 remained where he was as the other man slid into the seat across from him. The stranger had yellowish-brown eyes, a straight nose, and extremely white teeth. They gleamed when he smiled.

“Good morning!” the man said heartily. “I notice only one of your hands is visible. Does that mean what I think it means?”

“Of course,” 47 replied cautiously. “What did you expect?”

“Nothing less,” the other man replied evenly.

Agent 47’s waitress appeared at that point, placed his order on the table, and agreed to bring a cup of coffee for the man with the yellowish-brown eyes.

“So,” the assassin said as the woman walked away. “Who are you?”

“My name is Nu,” the man with the perfect teeth responded. “Mr. Nu. We work for the same organization. The difference is that I’m management, and you’re labor.”

“Really?” 47 inquired skeptically. “And why should I believe you?”

“Because I know how important the number 640509040147 is to you,” Nu replied confidently. “Go ahead and eat. Your food is getting cold.”

The revelation came as a shock. Only someone from The Agency would be privy to the serial number-the one that had been issued to the assassin on September 5, 1964. But even though Nu appeared to be who he said he was, Agent 47 kept a Silverballer aimed at the other man’s stomach. That left one hand with which he could eat his breakfast.

“All right,” the assassin allowed, “Let’s say you are who you claim to be. What brings you to Yakima?”

“Your most recent report brought me,” the other man replied, as the waitress arrived with his coffee. Waiting for her to depart, he continued. “Having reviewed the surveillance footage, the entire management team came to the same conclusion. The woman who calls herself Marla not only knew you were coming, but was aware of the contract on the Big Kahuna, and the way you were supposed to take him out.”

Agent 47 chased a mouthful of food with some of the Copper Kitchen’s lukewarm coffee before putting the cup down.

“Which means?”

“Which means that someone has found a way to penetrate our organization,” Nu replied darkly. “The personnel department will look at the most recent hires first, and if that strategy fails, we’ll expand the scope of our investigation.”

“That makes sense,” the assassin allowed cautiously, as he wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “But what about the larger question? Assuming a mole exists…who is behind him?”

“That’s what we want you to find out,” the executive replied grimly. “We know who the Marla woman works for, so that’s where you’ll start. Everything we have is on this,” Nu finished, as he pushed a USB memory stick across the table’s surface.

“All right,” Agent 47 replied flatly, as he palmed the device. “I’ll take care of it.”

“We knew you would,” the executive said, as he got up to leave. “We need to find this person, and find him—or her—fast.”

“One last thing,” 47 put in. “Where is the GPS tracker located? In my car? Or in my computer?”

“That’s for me to know,” Nu answered with a grin, “and for you to find out!” With that he was gone.

Agent 47 waited until the executive had exited through the front door before he returned the Silverballer to its holster and finished the meal. Then it was time to pay the bill, exit the restaurant, and go looking for a woman named Marla.

Thanks to its location on the water and proximity to both the Olympic and Cascade mountain ranges, Seattle was a beautiful city. Especially on a warm sunny day, when all manner of small boats were out on the lake, just north of downtown.

It was late in the day by the time Agent 47 arrived and began to stalk his target. Always a challenge, but even more so when the target was armed, and had at least three kills to her credit. A record that-while not all that impressive by 47’s standards-still qualified the Puissance Treize agent as a worthy adversary.

According to the information on the memory stick, in her role as a control-an agent assigned to direct a field assassin-the woman had been indirectly responsible for more than a dozen hits in the Med. The woman’s real name was Cassandra Murphy, and according to the data supplied by Mr. Nu, she’d been born in Belfast. She was thirty-six years old.

Adding to the challenge was the fact that he would have to gain control of the woman in order to communicate with her, which would probably be more difficult than simply shooting her. According to the information he had been given, the target was currently living on a houseboat moored in Lake Union. Years ago, there had been more of the floating domiciles, but a variety of government regulations and economic pressures had reduced the waterborne community to a few hundred water-level homes located on the lake and in neighboring Portage Bay.

It wasn’t clear how 47’s superiors had been tracking Marla’s movements prior to the massacre in Yakima, but there wasn’t any doubt as to why, since The Agency routinely kept track of anyone who had ever been employed by one of its competitors. Especially those having links with the Puissance Treize.

As he followed a side street down to the waterfront and the small parking lot that served the houseboats, a couple of problems quickly became apparent. The first was the cyclone fence and gate that had been put in place to prevent thieves, sightseers, and other undesirables from making their way out onto the community dock. The second was the fact that the area was so open that there was no place from which the assassin could safely observe his target’s comings and goings prior to making a move.

A red Mercedes was parked in the lot, though, and while there hadn’t been an opportunity for him to memorize the license plate, the assassin would have sworn that it was the same vehicle he’d seen parked outside the barn in Yakima. A thick patina of dust seemed to confirm that theory, as 47 executed a U-turn and left the area.

It was nearly dark by that time, the streetlights were on, and the orange-red sun was in the process of dropping behind the Olympic Mountains as the assassin searched for a place to stay. There weren’t any mom-and-pop-style motels in the downtown area, but Agent 47 happened by a seedy motor inn on the west side of the lake. It met all of his requirements. According to a sign in the lobby, the proprietors were willing to let rooms by the hour, day, week, or month. So he registered as Mr. Metzger, paid for five days in advance, and carried his suitcases up to a second-floor room.

The door opened into a claustrophobic space that was all too reminiscent of other hotel rooms he had stayed in over the years. The relatively early hour, along with the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of a bed hitting the wall next door, suggested that his neighbors were taking advantage of the motel’s hourly rate.

The energetic couple was still at it when 47 left shortly thereafter to return to the Volvo.

His first task for the evening was to find dinner down by the water. That was easy enough to do, since there were plenty of restaurants along the lake’s south shore. It was while he was looking for a place to park that Agent 47 stumbled across a nonprofit organization dedicated to the preservation and use of wooden boats. The organization also offered some boats for rent.

That could come in handy, he mused.

Having made a mental note of what time the center opened, 47 walked east, turned into a waterfront shopping complex, and entered an upscale restaurant. Predictably enough the interior boasted a nautical theme, the menu emphasized seafood, and the waitstaff wore blue polo shirts, white slacks, and deck shoes.

The assassin ordered wild salmon and a glass of ice water, then settled back to wait. It was dark outside the windows, so there was nothing to do but watch the people seated around him; individuals whose existences focused on office politics, leaky roofs, and demanding children-all of them variables to be circumvented or exploited. Unpredictable objects that could block a shot, suddenly morph into a counterassassin, or be used for cover should it become necessary.

There had been a relationship with another living being once. Not with a human, but with the mouse that had lived in the wall near his bed and emerged each night to collect the crumbs the little boy brought him from the asylum’s spartan dining room. Though never really tame, the rodent would stare up at its benefactor through beady black eyes as it ate whatever treat it had been given.

The relationship lasted for about a month, but came to an abrupt end when 47 returned one evening to find the dead mouse lying across his pillow. Its head was matted with dried blood, and its eyes were glassy. That was when one of his clone brothers erupted into laughter, the rest of them followed suit, and the bond between 47 and his pet ended the way all relationships must. In death.

“Here’s your salmon, sir,” a female voice said, and 47 snapped back into the present as his food arrived. The meal was better than he had expected.

The night in the motel wasn’t.

It was raining when the assassin arose the next morning.

Seattle was known for its rain, which often manifested as little more than an intermittent mist, but this was the real thing. The Volvo’s wipers made a soft slapping sound as he drove to the local Denny’s restaurant, which in the absence of a mom-and-pop option, would have to do. After a “grand-slam” breakfast, it was time to return to the Center for Wooden Boats, park the sedan, and make his way down onto the floating dock.

Classic wooden boats were moored to the right and the left. Many had rainwater sloshing around under the floorboards. A seaplane roared as it passed overhead and made a neat two-point landing on the steel-gray lake beyond, one of a fleet of such planes that ferried people to and from the San Juan Islands, about 80 miles to the north.

A left, a right, and a short walk carried 47 out to a cedar-sheathed structure labeled BOAT HOUSE. The door to the office stood open, and with the exception of a single attendant, the room was empty. A fact that wasn’t all that surprising, given the time of day and the nature of the weather.

“Good morning!” the man said cheerfully. The attendant standing next to the counter was sixty or so and was wearing a blue baseball cap with the words USS PONCE LPD 15 stitched across the front. The rest of his outfit consisted of a paint-smeared sweatshirt and a pair of baggy khaki pants. “My name’s Hal,” he continued genially. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to rent a boat,” Agent 47 replied.

“Well, there’s plenty to pick from,” the attendant said. “What’s your fancy?”

“Something light,” the assassin answered. “Something easy to row.”

“Then I have just the thing,” Hal replied confidently. “Follow me.”

The attendant showed a keen knowledge of the wooden boats, and by the time 47 had been issued a pair of oars and a life jacket, he knew all about the vessel he was about to rent. Twelve-foot-long Whitehalls had originally been designed for use as water taxis in New York harbor, and first put into service about 1840. Because they were faster than the other harbor taxis of their day, Whitehalls were favored by the boardinghouse “crimps,” or runners, who went out to meet incoming ships and bring seamen ashore.

Hal watched Agent 47 as he rowed away, waved once he was comfortable that his customer was competent, and went back to the office.

Though far from an expert, 47 knew how to row, and was pleased with the way the boat cut through the water as he pulled on the oars. And in spite of the cool air and the persistent rain, it wasn’t long before the assassin began to feel warm. So he brought the oars inboard and allowed the Whitehall to coast while he stripped the rain jacket off. That left him in a blue nylon top, matching pants, and running shoes. The Silverballers were invisible beneath the loose zip-up top. His garrote, plus a hypo loaded with an extremely effective sedative, were stashed in a waterproof knapsack that sat beside him.

It felt better without the jacket, and Agent 47 soon found that he was enjoying the exercise as he sent the rowboat north in a series of long, smooth spurts. The wind ruffled the surface of the lake, and the bow made a gentle smacking sound as it cut through the occasional wavelet. Gradually the Whitehall passed a marina, a dry dock, and the pier at which three NOAA ships were moored.

Water dripped off the tips of 47’s oars, and left circles spinning in the boat’s wake, as the skiff began to close with the houseboats ahead. It was perfectly natural for those who passed to eyeball the floating homes, so there was no need to be secretive, as the assassin took an occasional glance over his left shoulder. The first thing he noticed was that the waterborne structures came in a variety of shapes and sizes. Some were only one-story tall, while others had a second level, and were more spacious inside. Almost all of them were well maintained, and many boasted baskets filled with flowers.

One such home was of special interest to the agent because it was located at the end of the dock, directly across from the unit the target lived in. An elderly woman was kneeling on the front deck, tending a flower box full of bright red geraniums, as 47 directed the boat in toward her one-story houseboat.

“Your flowers are very healthy,” he said, as the gap between the two of them closed. “What do you feed them?” The entire time he spoke, he remained aware of the target’s houseboat, but saw no sign of activity.

Even with the weather, there were several rowers out on the lake, and the woman must have been accustomed to such compliments, because she registered no sense of alarm as the stranger allowed one of his oars to rest on her wooden deck. Her name was Grace Beasley, and wisps of gray hair stuck out from under the blue rain hat her dead husband liked to wear while golfing. Her eyes were like chips of turquoise mounted in sockets of wrinkled skin. A plaid shirt and a pair of black pants completed her outfit.

“I use regular fertilizer,” Mrs. Beasley admitted. “But the key is to pinch off the spent blooms. That makes them flower again.”

“Well, it certainly works,” 47 said, admiringly. “By the way, might I have a drink of water? I should have brought some, but I forgot, and it’s a long ways back to the dock.”

The request seemed innocent enough, so Mrs. Beasley said, “Yes, of course. I’ll be right back.” She stepped through a sliding glass door that led into a comfortably furnished living room and the small galley-style kitchen beyond.

A moment later he found her there, removing a bottle of chilled water from her refrigerator. A large hand closed over mouth. Mrs. Beasley tried to scream, felt something bite her neck, and instantly began to fall.

Agent 47 caught the unconscious woman and carried her into the single bedroom, where he laid her out on the neatly made bed. To make doubly sure that she would remain immobilized for the necessary length of time, he bound her wrists and ankles with some of her own nylons. Confident that the elderly woman wasn’t about to go anywhere, he set about his real task, which was to enter the neighboring houseboat and have a chat with its owner.

A task that would be easier said than done, he thought, since his target was an assassin herself, and was sure to have a variety of security measures in place. Just as he would.

So 47 turned out the lights in the living room, but left everything else as it was, knowing that the slightest deviation from the way the old lady normally did things could attract attention.

First, he subtly adjusted the position of what had once been Mr. Beasley’s favorite chair, placing it where someone would have to actually press their nose against the glass in order to see him as he settled back to wait.

Finally, after an hour had passed, the assassin was reasonably certain of two things. The first was that the target didn’t have any security guards to protect her. His position allowed him a reasonably clear view of the houseboat and the surrounding area, and even the most skilled surveillance would have given some sign of their presence, particularly within the small, close-knit floating community. There were no cameras, either. And that made sense, given her relatively low status within the Puissance Treize organization.

Second, based on the time of day and the complete lack of movement across the way, the assassin felt sure that the target wasn’t home. This was something he could have confirmed simply by venturing out to check the parking lot, but he didn’t want to take the chance, since one of the residents might see him exiting the old lady’s home.

So all he could do was wait for the target to return, and make his move during the brief moment when her front door would be unlocked and she would least expect an attack. Having locked the gate behind her, and being on her own home ground, the target would feel safe.

Having formulated his plan, he checked to ensure that the houseboat’s front door would open smoothly. The Whitehall was safely stashed behind Mrs. Beasley’s boat, out of sight.

All that was left was the waiting.

The payoff came forty-five minutes later, when the target appeared on the dock, carrying two bags of groceries. She placed one of them on the bench next to the front door, slid the key into the lock, and gave it a turn to the right. There was a snicking sound as the deadbolt slid to one side; she turned the knob, and gave the door a gentle push. The telltale beep of a burglar alarm could be heard from the kitchen. That meant she had only a few moments in which to enter a PIN number, or the security company would call to check on her.

That was the moment when the Puissance Treize agent heard a series of quick footsteps behind her and began to turn. In one fluid motion 47 shut the door and gave her a violent shove. She tripped, lost the bag of groceries, and fell forward. The Walther was holstered under her left arm, but she had no opportunity to use it as she thrust out her hands in order to break her fall.

As the target went down, the assassin knew the situation was iffy at best. He had seconds, maybe a minute, in which to subdue an armed opponent and force her compliance before the alarm company reacted. The insistent beep, beep, beep served to emphasize that fact. So 47 was already moving forward, seeking to get a grip on her, when she rolled over onto her back. A can of soup was at hand so Marla threw it. The cylinder hit the assassin on the right cheek and caused him to stagger backward.

Marla instantly recognized 47 and felt a sudden stab of fear. The Puissance Treize agent had no doubt about her ability to deal with either a burglar or would-be rapist, but she’d seen this man in action, and knew his capabilities.

Which begged the question: Why was she still alive?

The answer was obvious. He wanted it that way!

The realization brought a new sense of hope.

Marla kicked with her feet in an attempt to put more distance between them, and thanks to the smooth wood floor of the living room, was able to push herself backward. A box of pasta lay within reach, so she threw it with her left hand and went for the Walther with her right.

But the spaghetti bounced off 47’s left thigh. His right foot made contact with her gun hand, and the pistol went flying. There was a loud clatter as the weapon landed on the hardwood floor and slid away.

The maddening beep, beep, beep continued unabated.

Marla thought of herself as fast, but was shocked by the speed with which the man grabbed the front of her raincoat and jerked her up off the floor. A trickle of blood ran down from the point where the can had broken the assassin’s skin, and she could see the cold determination in his eyes.

The phone began to ring.

“That’s the alarm company,” the agent said grimly. “Give them the code—and do it now.”

“Or?” Marla demanded defiantly. “If you were going to kill me, you would have done so by now.”

Agent 47 bared his teeth as the phone rang again. How long would the person on the other end of the line wait? For three rings? Perhaps four?

The ringing stopped.

There was a metallic whisper as the DOVO opened. Light rippled along the razor’s stainless steel blade, and 47 brought the cold metal up to touch the side of the Puissance Treize agent’s softly rounded cheek.

“Answer the phone or I’ll cut your face.”

When Marla looked into the hitman’s eyes, it was like looking into a mirror. Here was someone just as ruthless as she was. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her face, and the coiled strength of his body.

The phone rang again.

“Let go and I’ll answer it,” she said, the tension causing her to reveal a faint Irish accent.

“Use the phone in the kitchen,” 47 ordered, and drew a Silverballer as the woman crossed the room. Just because the Walther was lying on the floor didn’t mean the woman wasn’t carrying a second weapon, or even a third.

As Marla answered the phone in the kitchen he lifted the receiver off the extension on her desk.

“Hello?” the Puissance Treize agent said, and the ringing stopped.

“Ms. Norton?” a male voice inquired. “This is John at the AJAX Alarm Company. Is everything okay?”

“I tripped and dropped my groceries, that’s all.” Marla replied as she watched Agent 47 screw a silencer onto his pistol. “But I’m fine.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” the man said cautiously. “So you don’t need medical assistance?”

“No,” Marla said. And she hoped it would be true.

“Good,” John replied. “Could I have your security code, please?”

Marla turned her head toward the assassin and saw that the silenced weapon was aimed at her right knee.

“My code is Indigo378.”

“Thank you,” John said politely. “Have a nice day.”

She could have been lying, of course, but based on the speed with which the man on the other end of the line had accepted the code, 47 didn’t think so.

He lowered the gun.

“Remove your clothes.”

Marla raised a well-plucked eyebrow.

“Are you planning to rape me?”

She let the raincoat fall. The Puissance Treize agent had been forced to strip before. Once in Madrid, where it had been necessary to pose as an exotic dancer, so she could sit on her target’s lap. Then in Paris, where the only way to steal the key she needed was to have sex with a French gangster. And most recently in Yakima, where the Big Kahuna insisted on a “show” the evening prior to the meeting.

So Marla knew her body could be used as a weapon-but was the man with the gun susceptible? Looking at his face it was impossible to tell.

He watched impassively as Marla’s thong hit the floor.

“So,” Marla said provocatively, as she completed a quick turn. “Are you satisfied?”

The agent ignored the question. “Who hired you to protect the Big Kahuna?” he demanded.

“Don’t be absurd,” the Puissance Treize agent replied contemptuously. “You know the rules. My superiors would kill me if I told you that!”

The assassin eyed her coldly.

“I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

“No,” Marla countered firmly, “You won’t. Not as long as you need information, and there’s a chance you might get it from me.”

“True,” 47 agreed as the DOVO reappeared. “Then it looks like I’ll have to torture the information out of you…

“Which nipple should I remove first?”

Marla’s hands instinctively flew up to cover her breasts. It was a sign of weakness she immediately came to regret, as she forced her hands back down.

“Torture doesn’t work,” she replied firmly. “People will say anything to make the pain stop. You know that, and I know that.”

“That’s what the experts say,” 47 acknowledged darkly. “But I’ve had pretty good results. Perhaps that’s because I enjoy it. Go over and sit on one of those chairs.” Marla wasn’t sure whether he was telling the truth or just trying to unnerve her more. He motioned with the gun.

The houseboat’s interior featured a retro ’50s theme, complete with lots of primary colors, plastic, and chrome. The chairs he referred to sat around a pedestal-style, circular table.

Fear tingled at the base of Marla’s skull now, and with good reason, given the possibility that the assassin was a self-confessed sadist.

“Put your hands behind your back,” he ordered sternly. He bound her wrists with phone cord. Her ankles came next, and by the time he was finished, Marla was helpless. Or nearly so, since the plastic-coated phone line was slippery, and difficult to knot.

“There,” the agent said, as he stood. “Can’t have any screaming…so all we need now is a gag. Or would you prefer to answer my questions?”

Marla remembered Mrs. Kaberov’s cold blue eyes, and the bullet in the velvet-lined box.

“Go screw yourself!” she responded defiantly.

“Fine, have it your way,” 47 said, and left the dining area.

The assassin returned a few moments later with a dish towel that he tied over Marla’s mouth, and a pillowcase that he pulled down over her head. Then, much to Marla’s relief, she heard a series of footfalls, followed by the sound of the front door opening and closing.

But the man with the gun would be back, and she knew her first opportunity to escape would most likely be the only opportunity to escape.

So rather than wait to see what would happen next, Marla went to work on freeing her hands. And thanks to the fact that the phone cord was slippery, it wasn’t long before her bonds started to come loose. Thus encouraged, she struggled to work her hands free before her assailant could return.

After what seemed like endless minutes, the cord came off, and she reached up to remove the pillowcase. Once she could see, it was relatively easy to remove the line wound around her ankles. Finally, just as it seemed as if her heart were going to beat its way out through her chest, Marla’s feet were free. She stood, got rid of the gag, and made for the door. The externally mounted slide-style bolt made a welcome snicking sound as it slid home.

The lock wouldn’t be enough to keep a really determined assailant out, but it would buy some additional time, and that’s all the Puissance Treize agent needed as she turned back into the room. The Walther was still there, lying on the floor, and never had the weapon’s weight felt more welcome than when she lifted the pistol and pointed it at the door. Holding the semiauto with both hands, Marla waited for the assassin to return. Was the safety on or off? She should have checked but hadn’t. A sure sign of how shaken she was, but an easy mistake to correct.

That was when she smelled smoke, heard her ceiling-mounted fire alarm go off, and saw flames in the kitchen. The fire immediately began to lick at the drapes before spreading across the ceiling, and there was barely enough time for her to slip into the raincoat, grab her purse off the floor, and exit the houseboat—gun in hand—as the flames continued to spread.

Marla had no desire to stay and explain everything to the authorities, so all she could do was shove the Walther into a pocket as she ran toward shore. Her bare feet made a slapping sound as they hit wet wood, and some of her neighbors emerged to shout instructions at one another as Marla entered the parking lot. Sirens could be heard as she fumbled for the remote and took refuge in the Mercedes.

Not knowing where 47 was, nor when he would return, she started the car and sped away. He might be following, but she would have to take that chance. She really had no alternative.

Her mind raced. The Agency knew where she was. That much was obvious, as was the fact that they were out to identify any of their employees who had leaked information to the Puissance Treize and put a stop to it. So, would they continue to come after her?

Yes, they almost certainly would. Except that the next attempt might be made by a specially equipped interrogation team that would use psychology, environmental conditioning, and drugs to break her.

That raised the obvious and most pressing question of what to do next. Would Kaberov provide support? Or punish her for incompetence? There was no way to be sure. But the odds weren’t very good. Suddenly-through no fault of her own-Cassandra Murphy, aka Marla Norton, was on the run.

And whether she wanted to admit it or not, Agent 47 may have just flushed his prey.

Though technically classified as a yacht, the 250-foot-long Jean Danjou had originally been designed to serve as a salvage tug, which was why she had none of the sleek grace that the other megayachts possessed as they lay at anchor on the sparkling waters of Patras.

But then, unlike her peers, the Danjou was expected to work for a living. Which was why she carried two armored SUVs, four BMW motorcycles, two snowmobiles, six personal watercraft, a four-place helicopter, scuba gear, a decompression chamber, a bulletproof Mercedes S500, and two forty-foot gunboats. Not to mention a great deal of very sophisticated communications and tracking equipment intended to support Agency activities worldwide.

The heart of the ship, and the place where Diana spent most of her time, was the communications and control room located deep within the Danjou’s armored hull. Her high-backed chair was located at the center of a U-shaped desk from which she could monitor twenty-four wall-mounted video screens, two side-by-side computer displays, and take satellite phone calls from all over the world.

Diana had a high forehead and eyes that were a tiny bit smaller than she would have preferred. Still, having been gifted with a straight nose, high cheekbones, and sensual lips, her face would have been considered beautiful had it not been for a certain hardness that was resident there.

“Say again,” she said, as static rattled in her earphones. “You’re breaking up.”

“I have a message for Mr. Nu,” Agent 47 replied. “Tell him I made contact with Marla Norton. And although I wasn’t able to pry any information out of her, she’s on the run. I placed micro-trackers in both her raincoat and her purse. With any luck at all, she’ll lead us up the food chain, and to the person who has the answers we’re looking for.”

Diana glanced at one of the monitors to her right. Mr. Nu was taking part in a board meeting in Houston, where shipping magnate Aristotle Thorakis was halfway through a report.

“I’ll tell him,” the controller promised. “Take care of yourself.”

“I will,” 47 promised, and he returned the phone to his pocket.

That was when the crackling flames found the explosives that Marla Norton kept hidden in the crawl space above her living room, and the houseboat exploded.

There was a loud boom, followed by a spectacular fireworks display as chunks of fiery debris flew up into the gray sky and rained down onto the surface of the lake, where they made a hissing sound before bobbing on the surface. Mrs. Beasley’s home was largely untouched, except for her geraniums, which were destroyed when a piece of wreckage fell on them.

The oarlocks creaked as the assassin pulled away. More sirens joined the already strident chorus, and the rain fell gently around him.