Hitman: Enemy Within

CHAPTER SIX

The French called Fez—or Fes—la Mysterieuse, and as Agent 47 pushed deeper into the oldest—and some said most dangerous—part of the city, he discovered what they meant.

About a quarter-million people were crammed into a maze of narrow cobblestone streets, busy souks, stately mosques, brooding blank-faced homes, and hidden gardens. And given the local propensity to not only change street names, but post them in a variety of languages, it was easy to understand why Fes El Bali, the old town, was sometimes referred to as “the most complicated square mile on Earth.”

Tourists were well advised to hire a guide before setting foot in the area.

But Agent 47 was equipped with something more reliable than a human guide. He had a small global positioning device that was preloaded with data provided by The Agency. The handheld GPS unit showed Marla Norton’s location, as well as that of The Agency’s local armory, where he could pick up any weapons he needed.

The security measures put in place over the last few years as part of the worldwide effort to counter global terrorism made it nearly impossible to transport weapons on commercial flights like the ones 47 had been forced to use in order to keep up with Marla. So, with the exception of his undetectable fiber-wire garrote, the assassin was unarmed. A problem he would soon correct.

Thanks to its location directly across the Strait of Gibraltar from Spain, as well as its reputation as the gateway to Africa, Morocco was a favorite with tourists from all over the world. Which was why none of the people who lived along the edge of the old city gave the assassin so much as a second glance as he strode through labyrinthine passageways lined with small stores.

Further on the streets were lined with high walls, the iron-strapped gates that opened onto private courtyards, and the homes that embraced them.

As the faithful were called to prayer, and the melodic sound of the adhan issued from the city’s minarets, the streets filled with locals and there were fewer and fewer European faces to be seen.

Unlike the young women who frequented the stores in the French-built Ville Nouvelle[1], many of whom would have looked at home in New York City, most of Fes El Bali’s females wore the burka whenever they ventured forth to fetch food, buy clothes, or visit relatives. Men sat on white plastic chairs, stood in doorways, or congregated in open air cafés where many passed the time by playing cards.

Everyone, regardless of age, gender, or station, was forced to share the narrow streets with the heavily burdened donkeys. In the absence of motor vehicles, these beasts were used to haul everything in and out of the medina[2]. And it was while he was taking refuge in a doorway, so that one of the sturdy animals could pass, that 47 noticed the scruffy-looking African.

A furtive figure ducked into a side corridor when the assassin glanced his way. A thief most likely, eager to steal a tourist’s wallet, but the agent could imagine other scenarios as well, including the possibility that the Puissance Treize was somehow aware of his presence. The tail was a problem in either case, and would have to be dealt with before he could enter the armory.

With that in mind Agent 47 quickened his pace, passed a tiny shop stuffed with consumer electronics, and took a sharp right-hand turn into a narrow passageway. Despite the heat of the day, some of the cobblestones were wet, and the passage smelled of urine, though it was empty except for an overflowing trash bin. At the end of the alley, all further progress was blocked by a door covered with peeling paint. The barrier appeared to be at least a hundred years old and was equipped with an equally venerable lock.

The agent ventured a quick look over his shoulder before dropping to one knee and peering through the keyhole. The view was limited, but he couldn’t see any sign of movement in the courtyard beyond, so he was inclined to take the chance. The pick made quick work of the worn tumblers, and it was only a matter of seconds before he heard a click, and the lock opened.

Another quick glance over his shoulder still showed no sign of pursuit.

Hinges squeaked as the agent pushed the door open and slipped inside. From all appearances, the small courtyard was being used to store construction materials. Scrap lumber was stacked next to a wooden box full of ceramic tiles and a rusty wheelbarrow. A short flight of stairs led up to a small landing, a palm in a large pot, and a second door. But 47 had no interest in entering the residence, as he heard the patter of footsteps out in the passageway and tossed a South African Krugerrand toward the stairs. The gold coin made a ringing noise as it hit, bounced once, and rattled into place.

The tail was at the door by that time, and having found it ajar, he gave the barrier a push. The African caught sight of the brightly glittering gold coin as the slab of wood swung out of the way, and he hurried to claim it.

The man was of average height, a good deal darker than most of the local population, and dressed in the pan-African uniform of a T-shirt and ragged pants. But what made this young man different from most was the fact that his right hand had been replaced by a rudimentary metal hook. The sort of prosthesis a village blacksmith might manufacture for a few dollars.

The African had covered half the distance to the gleaming Krugerrand when the fiber-wire noose dropped over his head. The assassin’s plan was to choke the young man into submission, ask him some questions, and then decide what to do with him.

But 47’s adversary brought the hook up so quickly that the prosthesis was inside the loop before the garrote could tighten. And because the inner surface of the hook had been honed until it was knife-sharp, the noose fell away.

Reacting to this turn of events, 47 pushed the African away, dropped into a crouch, and prepared to defend himself with whatever he could lay his hands on. The only implement that happened to be available was a rusty shovel that was leaning against the courtyard wall. He held it diagonally across his body where it could be used to block the other man’s hook.

But if the assassin’s opponent was intimidated, he showed no sign of it as the two men circled each other, looking for openings. A sheen of perspiration had appeared on the hook-man’s forehead, but judging from the steady look in his eyes, he was quite confident. His prosthesis was held low and back, and one well-placed arc could sink the hook into 47’s groin, where he would be able to jerk the blade upward, and thereby spill his victim’s intestines onto the pavement.

But the hook-man would have to close with the assassin in order to accomplish such a move, and as long as 47 had the shovel, the African would be forced to keep his distance.

Suddenly the agent tripped on a loose paving-stone, which brought his opponent rushing forward in an instant. But it was a ruse, and before 47’s opponent could react, the shovel was in motion. It made an audible clang as it came into contact with the African’s left knee.

His eyes went wide, and both the hook and the man’s remaining hand went to where the pain was, as he fell backward onto the pavement. Then Agent 47 was there, with the shovel blade pressing down on the man’s throat, as the amputee whimpered in pain.

“Who are you?” the assassin demanded. “And why were you following me?”

“Jamal,” the man on the ground choked out, as he tried to push the shovel away from his throat. “My name is Jamal. Please! I can’t breathe.”

“Okay, Jamal,” the assassin said unsympathetically, as he put his right foot on the shovel. “Why were you following me?”

The response was little more than an inarticulate gurgling noise, so 47 was forced to remove his foot, and thereby relieve the pressure on Jamal’s tortured windpipe.

“Now, try again.”

“Money,” came the raspy response. “I was going to take your money.”

“That’s one possibility,” the agent allowed darkly. “But there are others. How can I be sure that you’re just a thief?”

“My hand,” Jamal said piteously, as he held up the hook for inspection. “They cut it off.”

It had long been the Muslim practice to amputate hands, arms, and in some cases legs, as a punishment for thievery. While this approach was gradually falling out of favor in many Middle Eastern countries, it was still considered an effective deterrent in others. A fact that seemed to support Jamal’s claim. So, having completed a quick pat down, Agent 47 backed out of reach.

“I suggest that you find a new line of work. You aren’t very good at this one.”

Jamal continued to hug his knee and moan softly as 47 put the shovel back where he had found it.

“I’ll leave the gate ajar,” the assassin promised, as he bent over to retrieve the Krugerrand. “And don’t bother to get up. I’ll see myself out.”

Having left the little courtyard behind, Agent 47 paused at the point where the side passage met the main thoroughfare, and took a moment to adjust his red silk tie. Then, having assured himself there weren’t any additional Jamals waiting to attack him, he resumed his journey.

A right-hand turn took him down a short flight of stairs, under an arch, and past a group of boys who were playing with a soccer ball. It soon became clear that what had once been a residential area had gradually transitioned into a small souk with specialized stores slotted along both sides of the street. The establishment 47 was looking for lay about a hundred feet farther on, just around a gentle curve and opposite a family-run grocery. The sign out front read MEN’S CLOTHING, in both English and Arabic, followed by ABAZA TIRK, PROPRIETOR, in smaller letters, carved out and painted in gold.

Having stopped to inspect the overly ripe fruit displayed on the other side of the thoroughfare, and to make sure that he hadn’t acquired a new tail, Agent 47 was forced to wait for a group of black-clad women to pass before crossing over to the store. Like the shops located to either side, the clothing store was quite narrow, which made it necessary to hang clothes in tiers, the highest of which were suspended just below the ceiling, and only accessible with a long pole. It was hot and musty, and there wasn’t much light, but what there was came from ceiling fixtures that were at least seventy-five years old.

A well-worn aisle led straight back to where a man with generally even features, slightly bulging eyes, and a servile manner stood waiting. He was dressed in a red fez, a well-tailored gray suit, and a pair of black Moroccan slippers. A young man sat behind the counter seemingly half-asleep.

“Good afternoon, effendi,” the well-dressed man said, as he dry-washed his hands. “My name is Abaza Tirk. Welcome to my humble store. I can see that you are a man of taste and discernment. How can my family and I be of assistance?”

“Abd-el-Kader said, ‘Death is a black camel, which kneels at the gates of all,’” 47 replied matter-of-factly.

“And Ben Sira said, ‘Fear not death, for it is your destiny,’” the diminutive store owner replied, as the servile manner dropped away. “Welcome Agent 47-I was told to expect you. Please come this way.”

The assassin followed Tirk past a small counter, and as he passed he noticed that the young man seated behind the till was cradling a mini-Uzi in his lap.

There was a momentary pause as Tirk entered a code into a keypad located at the back of the crowded store. It was concealed by a small scrap of cloth tacked to the wall. The metal door made no sound as it swung open. A motion detector activated two rows of lights, and Agent 47 felt the temperature drop as Tirk pulled the door closed behind them.

Unlike the dark, slightly musty clothing store, The Agency’s armory in Fez was sleekly modern. Closely spaced racks of weapons took up both walls, all grouped by category, and labeled appropriately. Ammunition, accessories, and cleaning gear were stored below the firearms in stainless steel cabinets.

“So,” the clothier said engagingly, “what will it be? A Steyr AUG perhaps? Very stylish. An FR-F1 sniper’s rifle? Or maybe you’re in the market for something with more heft. I have a nice RAI Model 500.50 caliber sniper’s rifle. Agent Orbov made good use of it just two months ago.”

“No,” 47 replied simply. “The RAI is almost fifty inches long-which makes it very difficult to hide. Not to mention the fact that it’s single action, and.50 caliber ammo is damned heavy. I’ll take a Walther WA 2000, plus a Mossberg model 500 with a pistol grip, and two Silverballers. One short, and one long, with silencers for both. Plus a double holster rig, a dual-use drug kit, and a throwing knife.”

“Of course,” Tirk said approvingly. “A weapon for every occasion.”

After they had collected the weapons, they moved through another door at the rear of the long, narrow room to a soundproofed range that lay beyond. Once he was satisfied that all of the guns were in good working order, 47 loaded them into a pair of lockboxes that looked like travel-worn suitcases. Each had its own alarm and self-destruct system.

“The cases are rather heavy, so my number four son will accompany you,” Tirk said, as the containers were loaded onto a hand cart. “Not to mention the fact that we have our share of thieves in Fes El Bali.”

“That’s what I hear,” the assassin commented soberly.

“Will there be anything else?” Tirk wanted to know.

“Yes,” 47 said, as he eyed the store owner. “I want your hat.”

Rather than allow Tirk’s son to accompany him all the way to the hotel, Agent 47 opted to have the young man take him to a point where a major street cut through Fes El Bali, where it became possible to hail a cab. Even though Tirk and his family were presumably trustworthy, there was no need for them to know where the assassin was staying. Furthermore, it would be unusual for a guest to bring luggage into the hotel on a hand cart.

As it happened, there was barely room to squeeze him, the gun cases, and a suitcase full of clothes into the little Peugeot 205. But after much pushing and shoving, the task was accomplished. Traffic was horrendous, and in spite of the cabdriver’s best efforts to bully his way through the city’s eternal gridlock, the sun was low in the western sky by the time 47 arrived at the Sofitel Palais Jamai Fes, paid the fare, and had his bags taken up to his room.

As was his practice, the assassin allowed the bellman to enter the room first. Once it was clear that he wasn’t about to walk into an ambush, 47 followed.

A quick glance told him that everything was just as he had left it, so he gave the bellman a tip and closed the door. A subsequent thorough inspection confirmed that the room was free of threats. Having had to deal with surveillance devices, explosives, and poisonous reptiles at various times in the past, he was understandably cautious.

Thus satisfied, Agent 47 ordered a meal from room service, and requested that the waiter leave the cart outside the door. Having watched the hotel employee depart through the peephole, the agent opened the door and brought the tray inside. His dinner, which consisted of roasted lamb and cooked vegetables on a bed of flavored couscous, was delicious. Especially when paired with a sip of hearty burgundy.

Then it was time to strip down to his underwear and take the Silverballers apart while watching the BBC World News. He carefully examined each oil-slicked part for flaws, and automatically fingered for burrs prior to reassembling the weapons. This was a task he could perform blindfolded. Each nine-round clip made a comforting click as it slid home. With that accomplished, he found it a simple matter to pump a round into each chamber, set the safeties, and prepare the two-gun holster rig for the next day.

Then it was time to brush his teeth, push a chair in front of the door, and make a bed on the floor.

Sleep came quickly, as did morning, and the usual hunger pangs. But rather than seek out a good breakfast as he usually did, 47 was scheduled to break bread with a retired professor named Paul Rollet, who was said to be very familiar with Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani. The man Marla Norton was staying with—and might or might not be privy to the traitor’s identity.

But first it was necessary to put together a disguise. He chose something inspired by a German tourist he had seen in the hotel’s lobby. It took the better part of forty-five minutes to prepare, but the final “look” was quite convincing. It consisted of a bollehatte, a reddish beard, a loud shirt that Abaza Tirk had been happy to get rid of, a pair of knee-length shorts that matched the blue hat, and some sturdy sandals.

With his disguise in place the assassin went out on the street. The sun was up, but the air was still cool, and the city was still in the process of waking. All of which made for a pleasant walk as 47 left the hotel for the Paris Café, which was located six blocks away.

The agent had eaten in at least fifty “Paris Cafés” over the years, most of which were little more than parodies of the real thing, and to be avoided if at all possible. But when 47 arrived in front of the Paris Café Fez, and mounted the flight of stairs that led to a sun-splashed terrace, he was pleased to see what looked like an authentic Parisian restaurant, complete with awning-covered tables, white-shirted waiters, and a personable maître d’.

Having downloaded a photo of his contact the evening before, it was easy for Agent 47 to pick the Frenchman out of the crowd and saunter over to his linen-covered table. A straw hat shaded a long, narrow face, which was partially obscured by a bushy beard and the top half of a newspaper.

“Excuse me,” 47 said. “Are you Professor Rollet?” The words were in French, just one of many languages the assassin had been force-fed as a child.

The eyes that rose to meet 47’s were blue and bright with intelligence.

“Yes, I am,” the academic confirmed. “And you are?”

“I’m a friend of Bob Denard,” the assassin lied, referencing the infamous French mercenary.

“Ah, yes,” Rollet responded. “Welcome to Fez, monsieur. Please, have a seat. Would you care for some breakfast?”

“I certainly would,” 47 replied as he took a chair. “What would you recommend?”

“I like the gazelle horns,” the Frenchman replied equably. “They are shaped like a croissant, but filled with almond paste, and flavored with orange flower water.”

“I’ll take two,” Agent 47 said decisively, “and a cup of coffee.”

The two of them made small talk until a waiter appeared to take the newcomer’s order and refresh Rollet’s cup. Then, once they were alone, the conversation began in earnest.

“I’m looking for some information about Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani,” 47 stated, “and I hear you’re quite knowledgeable about the man.”

“I know what most people know,” the expatriate said cautiously. “Al-Fulani is a successful businessman, a well-known philanthropist, and a devout Muslim.”

“I think you’re far too modest about the extent of your knowledge,” the assassin said dryly, as he pushed an envelope across the surface of the table. “Because it’s my understanding that in addition to your work on behalf of the American Language Institute, you spent twenty years working for the French Directorate of External Security. Please accept a small gift, which if properly invested, will make your retirement that much more pleasant.”

The plain white envelope was thick with hundred-dollar bills, and without drawing any attention, the professor was quick to drop his newspaper on top of it.

“Both civil servants and educators are underpaid,” Rollet observed. “So your gift is welcome. And yes, even though the public Al-Fulani glitters like gold, another man dwells just below the surface.”

“How fascinating,” 47 said, as his breakfast arrived. “Please tell me more.”

So Rollet did, once the waiter had departed, and what followed was the story of a man who had inherited his father’s smuggling business and subsequently come of age while running hashish into Spain, where it was either sold or sent north to the Netherlands, Belgium, Germany, and other European countries.

Al-Fulani’s success soon caught the eye of competitors from as far away as Colombia, and it wasn’t long before some very unpleasant people began to call on the Moroccan, threatening to hijack his drug shipments unless he shared the profits with them. But, rather than cave in to the international cartels, Al-Fulani managed to maintain his independence.

At that point Professor Rollet paused to light a disreputable-looking pipe. A series of energetic puffs were required to get the moist, cherry-flavored tobacco going properly. But once the mix was alight, the academic took the fragrant smoke deep into his lungs, and smiled broadly.

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “It’s a dirty habit, but oh, how I enjoy it!”

Having finished his second pastry, 47 took another sip of coffee. “So, how did he do it?”

Rollet frowned. “Do what?”

“How did Al-Fulani manage to maintain his independence?” Agent 47 inquired patiently. The Frenchman took a long, slow look around, as if to make sure that none of the other diners were listening.

“People began to die,” the academic confided gravely. “People at the very top of the cartels, and it wasn’t long before the pressure came off Al-Fulani.”

“So, Fulani had them murdered?”

“Someone had them murdered,” Rollet said darkly. “But it wasn’t clear who. Though Al-Fulani clearly benefited, none of the acts could be traced to him.”

Perhaps Rollet didn’t know, or was reluctant to say the name out loud, but Agent 47 was pretty sure he knew which organization had been responsible for the deaths. Either the Puissance Treize had been paid to neutralize the Moroccan’s competition, or Al-Fulani had been co-opted by the organization. Not that it made much difference. All 47 cared about was the fact that Al-Fulani was in a position to know which one of The Agency’s employees was providing their rivals with proprietary information.

“I understand he has a house here,” the assassin said casually. “What else should I be aware of?”

Rollet’s pipe had gone out again by that time, and the professor took a moment to strike a wooden match and relight it.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, as a new cloud of smoke formed a halo around his head. “That all depends, doesn’t it? If you want to congratulate Al-Fulani on a life well lived, then you could walk up to his front door in the Ville Nouvelle, and deliver your message to one of the guards. But, assuming your intentions are a bit less straightforward than that, there’s the orphanage to consider. He visits every Friday night. Usually in the company of close friends or business associates-but occasionally by himself.”

Agent 47 raised an eyebrow. “He visits an orphanage?”

“Yes,” Rollet said cynically. “That’s what he calls it anyway. But some say the organization is a cover for other, less virtuous activities.”

“Such as?”

Rollet looked away, as if reluctant to voice what he’d heard.

“I really couldn’t say. But if you’re interested…the orphanage is located in the Mellah.”

“Which means?”

“The Mellah is the old Jewish quarter,” the academic explained. “It dates back to 1438, when the Jews were forced to live in a section known as Al-Mallah, or saline area. A term that eventually became synonymous with salted earth, or cursed ground.

“Then, when Israel came into existence in 1948, most of the Jewish population left Fez,” Rollet continued. “That created a vacuum that rural Moroccans rushed to fill. But the Jews left some beautiful homes in the Mellah—and the orphanage is in one of them. Ask anyone-they’ll show you where it is.”

The conversation continued for a while, but it soon became apparent that 47 had gained everything he was likely to obtain from Rollet, so the assassin stood, bowed, and took his leave.

The interaction was observed by a man who, like 47, looked like a tourist enjoying a light breakfast, but was actually employed by Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani.

The Moroccan was well aware of 47’s presence—and the hunter was about to become the hunted.

Darkness had fallen on Fez, and Marla Norton felt frightened, as she looked out through the open window to the busy boulevard three stories below. The evening air was warm, heavy with the rich odors of the food that the street vendors were hawking, and busy with the sounds of the city.

While fear wasn’t something she was accustomed to feeling, it was an emotion that the Puissance Treize agent had experienced a lot lately. Which was absurd, given the fact that it was she who was lying in wait for the man called 47. Not the other way around.

The trap consisted of the three-hundred-foot stretch of sidewalk located in front of Al-Fulani’s brightly lit mansion. The twenty-six-room, eight-bath home boasted a Mediterranean-style ceramic tile roof, a white façade, and several ornate balconies. Clusters of bottom-lit palm trees bracketed both sides of the home, and provided the structure with a sense of glamour. They also lit the surroundings, making it more difficult for intruders to get past the guards.

The most important component of the trap, however, was a “retired” Royal Marine named Ted Cooper, who was a graduate of the British Army’s famous Joint Sniper Training Establishment, and was officially credited with six confirmed kills in Iraq. An accomplishment Cooper had been advised to keep to himself, lest the Islamic militants catch wind of it, and decide to even the score.

Of course, Al-Fulani’s chief of security-a man named Ammar-had other assets in place as well, three of whom were walking along the busy boulevard with him. Thus, if Cooper failed to spot Agent 47 from above, Ammar and his men would nail him down below.

That was the plan, but there were still dozens of people to screen as they came and went, and it was Marla’s opinion that the members of Al-Fulani’s security staff were far too cavalier where 47 was concerned. In spite of her repeated warnings, they clearly considered themselves to be superior to the European abruti[3] that the silly female was so frightened of.

And maybe they were right.

In the wake of the disastrous shoot-out in Yakima, her unsettling meeting with Mrs. Kaberov, and the loss of her home, Marla’s self-confidence was at an all-time low. And now, having fled Kaberov’s predictable rage, Marla found herself dependent on Al-Fulani’s goodwill, which, predictably enough, was based on her willingness to serve him both professionally and personally. Regardless of her own desires.

This had been the case the night before, when Marla was “invited” to participate in a ménage à trois with the Moroccan and a teenaged girl who had been snatched off the streets of Johannesburg a week earlier. It hadn’t been an especially enjoyable experience, but far better than one of Mrs. Kaberov’s.45 caliber “gifts.”

The thought was sufficient to drive the young woman back to the powerful scope that had been set up next to Cooper’s tripod-mounted 7.62 mm L96 sniper’s rifle. The marksman seemed patient, very patient, which was good. As well he should be, since a single kill like this one could net him more money in a few seconds than the Royal-bloody-Marines would pay in a year.

Marla stared through the scope at the mostly young, upper-class men and women who continued to stream past Al-Fulani’s home on their way to fashionably late dinners or one of the alcohol-free nightclubs that had sprung up within the Ville Nouvelle. Spotting one particular individual in such a crowd would be hard enough, but her target’s tendency to use disguises would make the task that much more difficult, since each face had to be examined thoroughly before Marla could move on to the next.

As the hours dragged on, having examined and rejected hundreds of faces, Marla was beginning to wonder if 47 would ever appear when a man matching 47’s height and build casually strolled into her field of view. A German tourist, judging from his clothing. But that meant nothing. When Marla put the spotting scope on the man’s face her suspicions were confirmed! Beard or no beard, that was the man she’d seen in Yakima and Seattle! The very sight of him caused her heart to pound with excitement as her quarry turned to eye the mansion.

That was the moment when a second German tourist-dressed in identical fashion-arrived from the other direction.

Now, with two look-alikes on the street below, and both in motion, it would have been nearly impossible to tell Cooper how to distinguish between them. And to do so quickly enough to ensure the results she wanted. So Marla gave the only order she could logically give.

“The German tourists! The ones wearing the loud shirts! Kill both of them!”

Cooper’s rifle was silenced, and there was plenty of background noise, so no one heard the subsonic 7.62 mm NATO round as it sped through the space that the first German tourist’s head had occupied a fraction of a second earlier, and slammed into the second one.

The force of the impact threw the tourist to the ground and people ran every which way. Marla came unglued as the first man disappeared.

“You were too slow!” she shouted angrily. “You were supposed to kill both of them and you let one get away!”

“Don’t be stupid,” Cooper countered crossly as he continued to sweep the street below. “There wasn’t enough time to acquire both targets.”

“Well, acquire this,” the furious Puissance Treize agent declared as she drew the Walther and began to fire.

The first shot wasn’t fatal, so Cooper began to turn toward his attacker, but it was too late as four additional 9 mm rounds tore into his body. Finally, having put a final slug into the sniper’s head, Marla provided the only epitaph the Brit was likely to receive: “Bloody idiot.”

If the first tourist had truly been 47, Marla was convinced that she’d lost her only real shot at him. But then a voice crackled over the walkie-talkie clipped to her belt. The words came in short bursts—and were accompanied by the sound of heavy breathing.

“This is Ammar. He’s on the run. But we’re right behind him.”

That was when Marla knew 47 was still alive. A real tourist might have taken cover, but wouldn’t be on the run. “That’s brilliant!” she said excitedly. “Don’t lose him. Where are you?”

“We’re heading in the direction of the souk Dabbaghin,” came the confident reply. “He’s running like a rabbit!”

“A very dangerous rabbit,” Marla cautioned. “I’m on my way.”

Idiot!

As he took a right, followed by a left, Agent 47 was angry. Not at the men who were following him. But at himself. He’d been stupid enough to walk right into their trap. Rather than prepare for the reconnaissance the way he normally would have, the assassin had gone for an after-dinner walk, and chosen to stroll past Al-Fulani’s mansion on the way back to the hotel. A stupid impulse that had very nearly gotten him killed.

But how had she known he was coming? Had Marla caught a glimpse of him during the last few days? Had Rollet sold him out? Or was this latest fiasco the work of the very traitor he was looking for? There was no way to know, and no more time to think about it, as a bullet pinged off the wall to his left and forced him to concentrate on the business at hand. The assassin pushed a man out of the way and ran even faster. A woman went down as he slammed into her, a man swore at him in Arabic, and another gunshot sent people fleeing for cover.

Sirens had begun to bleat, but they were back in the Ville Nouvelle, where the real German tourist was being tended to and the police were trying to sort out the situation. The man he had modeled himself after-the one he’d previously seen in the lobby of his hotel-had unwittingly paid for 47’s life with his own. The agent knew that he had to lose this particular disguise at the first possible opportunity.

Even though he was outnumbered, 47 still had some advantages, not the least of which was the fact that his pursuers had allowed themselves to become strung out. This provided the assassin with an opportunity to lay a quick trap of his own, as one fellow rounded a corner and came to a momentary stop directly beneath a streetlight. The long-barreled Silverballer barked twice. The target staggered and went down.

That was 47’s cue to take off again, conscious of the fact that reinforcements were on the way and might cut off his line of retreat.

Ammar began to round the corner, spotted the crumpled body, and pulled back again.

“He shot Dabir,” the security operative said into the radio. “So be careful.”

“Keep after him!” Marla’s voice insisted through Ammar’s radio. “Don’t let him out of your sight!”

“You stay off the radio!” Ammar snapped arrogantly, as another man, Jumah, caught up with him. “We’ll take care of this. Return to the mansion.”

“What’s going on?” Jumah wanted to know, his brown eyes alight with excitement. “Did you take a shot at him?”

“No, he was gone by the time I arrived,” Ammar temporized. “You take the lead. I need to catch my breath.”

Jumah, who was the youngest man on the team, and, Ammar knew, eager to establish his own reputation, took off at a sprint. Ammar waited for the telltale sound of a gunshot, and when none was forthcoming, followed in Jumah’s footsteps.

As he did he glanced back at the body and watched as a pair of preteen boys materialized from the gloom, beginning to rifle through Dabir’s pockets.

He swore bitterly. Dabir was his brother-in-law, and there would be hell to pay once he got home.

Fez was home to many derbs, or districts, each having its own epicenter with a mosque, bakery, and public fountain. And that’s where Jumah found himself as the street he had been following delivered him into a square that boasted a large fountain.

But his quarry was nowhere to be seen, and since there were at least four other passageways that led out of the open area, he had no choice but to stop and look around. The security agent turned a full circle, noticed that the square was deserted, and wondered why.

Jumah was still pondering this when a voice came from behind him. The words were in French.

“Are you looking for me?”

Jumah whirled and was in the process of bringing the Jordanian-manufactured 9 mm VIPER up into firing position when he saw that a man wearing a brightly colored shirt had risen from the waters of the fountain and was peering down at him. Even worse was the fact that the stranger was holding two semiautomatic pistols.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” the man said evenly, and he fired both weapons. The heavy slugs pounded Jumah to the ground as gunshots echoed between the surrounding buildings, and the VIPER skittered away.

“Jumah?” A male voice inquired from one of the dead man’s pockets. “What’s going on?”

Agent 47 returned one Silverballer to its holster, jumped down onto the cobblestones, and carried out a quick search of Jumah’s body. Having appropriated the walkie-talkie, the assassin fled.

More sirens had joined the chorus as Ammar entered the empty square. The Moroccan saw Jumah and felt a momentary pang of guilt, knowing it could have been his body lying there.

Then, having detected a flicker of movement on the far side of the square, Ammar ran over to the fountain. Careful to keep his head down, he began to circle it. Having lost two of his men, it was clear that Fulani’s sharmuta was correct. The European was dangerous.

“Ammar? Fahd? Answer me!” The whore’s voice came over the radio, thick with fear.

But Ammar knew the man they were chasing must have taken Jumah’s radio, so he sent one last message to Fahd, ordering him to maintain radio silence. A strategy that was likely to work both for and against them, to the extent that it kept Ammar and Fahd from coordinating their movements.

To hell with the woman.

Having followed his prey’s watery trail into a narrow passageway, Ammar felt cautiously hopeful. The ground was dry, and the infidel was wet, which meant Ammar had tracks that were easy to follow, at least temporarily. The wet prints led him up a long flight of stairs and under a two-hundred-year-old arch before they suddenly disappeared.

That brought the security agent to a cautious halt. He was examining the well-lit patch of ground in front of him when a fiber-wire noose dropped over his head and began to tighten around his neck.

Ammar dropped his gun and brought his hands up-but it was too late. He was jerked off his feet. The Moroccan attempted to scream, but discovered that he couldn’t.

His legs kicked uselessly in the air.

After a few moments, the kicking stopped.

Time was of the essence.

47’s sandals made a wet slapping sound as they hit the pavement, and his damp clothes began to rub his skin raw as the assassin followed a narrow street toward the tanner’s quarter-an ancient section of the city where animal skins were left to soak in vats of dye before being hung out to dry. Lights had been rigged so that tourists could view the scene at night, and the air was heavy with the foul odor of the pigeon droppings that were used to make the leather more pliable.

And that’s where Fahd was waiting.

While the operative was at least thirty pounds overweight, Fahd was smart and knew Fez like the back of his hand. Knowing which way Dabir’s killer was headed, and being well aware of his own physical limitations, the Moroccan had cut over to a main street, hailed a cab, and arrived outside the souk Dabbaghin a few minutes later.

Thus, the moment Agent 47 appeared on the far side of the craterlike vats, Fahd began to fire. One or two of his VIPER’s 9 mm slugs may have struck the assassin, but from what Fahd could tell neither did any real damage. Either way, Fahd had emptied his pistol and was busy fumbling for a second clip when the assassin fired in return.

What felt like a sledgehammer struck Fahd’s shoulder, snatched the fat man off his feet, and dumped him into a vat full of blue dye. The liquid felt cold as it closed over his head and set fire to his wounded shoulder.

He struggled to right himself, and the moment that the Moroccan’s feet made contact with the bottom of the vat, he pushed himself back up. Fahd spluttered as he broke the surface, opened his eyes, and immediately wished he hadn’t as he found himself looking into the barrel of a shiny gun. There was a flash of light, and Fahd was gone.

The police arrived a few minutes later, but the mysterious European had disappeared, leaving four bodies in his wake. All of whom were tied to Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani; a man who gave generously to police charities and was known to place a high value on his privacy. So the corpses were given over to their respective families, funerals were scheduled for the following day, and the deaths were ascribed to gang activity. Which, sadly enough, was on the upswing.