Hitman: Enemy Within (27 page)

As the assassin made his way through the terminal, he could feel dozens of eyes slide across him as a multitude of policemen, con artists, spies, drug dealers, thieves, gun runners, and other players compared his countenance to the ones they were looking for,then moved on. If any of the onlookers were employed by the
Puissance Treize,
none took notice of the fat man.

The terminal building had been remodeled more than once over the years, and the current iteration consisted of a gently curved façade made out of glass, flanked by two rectangular columns. A row of tall, spindly evergreens stood guard between the main building and the parking lot. There were plenty of taxis, and having flagged one of them down, 47 was careful to negotiate the fee in advance. Just as he fancied Scaparelli would do.

The town ofSintra was located eighteen miles northwest ofLisbon . The first part of the drive took the cab through Lisbon’s not very distinguished suburbs, but once clear of the urban blight 47 found himself in one of the most beautiful places in Portugal, if not the world. An area known for its cool summer air and lush vegetation, it was so pleasant that Portuguese kings and aristocrats once spent their summers there.

Later, as word of Sintra’s beauty continued to spread, a steady stream of travelers visited the area. And they were still coming. Agent 47 knew that many tourists use Sintra as a base from which to explore the coast, while others take in local attractions like the
Palacio Nacional de Sintra
(SintraPalace), theRegionalMuseum , and the Moorish Castle.

But for people like Aristotle Thorakis, who could afford a three-hundred-year-old home situated on a half acre of very valuable real estate, the town was a quiet retreat.A place to escape the media that prowled the streets ofLondon ,Paris , andRome . Or that’s what the glitterati were hoping for, although it was becoming increasingly difficult to escape the long lenses of men like Tazio Scaparelli. For his own quarters, Agent 47 had chosen the Hotel Central, which had been
the
place to stay back in the early 1900s, but had long since been overtaken by generations of newer establishments. Yet as the operative paid his fare, and towed his shabby bag into the dated lobby, some of the hotel’s original charm could still be seen in the richly polished wood, Portuguese tiles, and sturdy furniture that surrounded him.

All of which served to confirm that the Central was the sort of slightly seedy hostelry where a man on a limited expense account would choose to stay. Not to mention the fact that it was located across from theSintraPalace , which put the hotel right at the center of all the tourist activity, and not far from the sort of restaurants thata man like Thorakis was likely to frequent.

As it turned out, Agent 47’s small, somewhat threadbare room was on the second floor, facing a rather noisy square. But that was okay with the assassin, since he didn’t plan to spend much time in it, and rarely had trouble falling asleep regardless of the din.

Consistent with the part he was playing, Agent 47 made no attempt to secure his belongings. With the exception of the seemingly innocuous fiber-wire garrote, and what appeared to be an insulin kit, all of the assassin’s weapons were back inRome . The whole idea was to let people search his luggage if they chose—knowing full well that everything they found would support his cover rather than blow it. Even the password-protected laptop and the satellite phone were consistent with the requirements of Scaparelli’s profession.

Pleased with the way things had gone so far, and with plenty of daylight left, the operative took the Nikon and went down into the street. As he followed a gently curving street toward the area where most of the mansions were located, he noticed that the houses along the way had red-tiled roofs, all manner of wrought iron balconies, and generally looked sturdy rather than graceful. Peaked roofs were common, as were lots of evenly spaced windows and narrow passageways that ran between the buildings. But as the street took him down into what felt like a canyon, the architecture became increasingly diverse, and in many cases more elegant. A significant number of the homes built in this area over the last hundred years had been inspired by the architecture their owners were already familiar with or the rampant romanticism of the late eighteenth century. And the house Thorakis had chosen for his mistress fell into the latter category. It was three stories tall, and capped by all manner of interlocking pitched roofs. The walls were made of well-fitted gray stone, pierced here and there by windows that seemed too small for a building of that size, and were adorned with sculptural panels clearly imported fromGermany orBavaria .

Consistent with both its size and importance, the house was set well back from the street, surrounded by deciduous trees that were hundreds of years old, and separated from its neighbors by a largely ornamental stone wall. Some rather obvious surveillance cameras could be seen here and there, which when combined with at least two uniformed security guards, would be sufficient to keep the Scaparellis of the world out.

Conscious of the need to both establish his cover, and capture photographs of the mansion, 47 was careful to remove the lens cap before he brought the Nikon up and began to snap pictures. The long lens couldn’t reach through the curtained windows into the rooms beyond, but the assassin was able to obtain valuable close-ups of what appeared to be a card reader mounted next to the front door, both of the security guards, and the German shepherd that followed the men around. The operative had captured thirty-four exposures by the time a stranger appeared at his elbow. The newcomer was American, judging from his accent, and no more than five foot six. His clothes were black, as if that might make him look slimmer, and the soles of his shoes were at least an inch-and-a-half thick. He was armed with two cameras, one for long shots and the other for close-ups. Bright inquisitive eyes peered out from under thick eyebrows—and a two-day growth of black stubble covered his cheeks.

“The Greek ain’t home,” the little man said laconically. “He went toLisbon . He’ll probably be back for dinner, though. But you never know when Miss Desta will make an appearance.”

“Thanks,” 47 said cautiously, as he lowered the camera. This was the situation he feared most.A one-on-one conversation with a genuine member of the
paparazzi,
in which he might give himself away.

“I’m Tazio Scaparelli. I just flew in fromRome .”

“My name’s Tony Fazio,” the other photographer said. “My family’s fromItaly —but that was a long time ago. I grew up inNew Jersey . Who are you shooting for?”

Agent 47 had been waiting for that question, and had his answer ready. “I’m a freelancer.How ’bout you?”

“
Star Track
sent me,” Fazio replied. “They want pictures of Thorakis humping his mistress. Shot from three feet away, if possible.”

Agent 47 laughed.“Only
three
feet? You get the easy assignments.”

The conversation lasted for another five minutes or so—and the operative had some valuable nuggets by the time he turned away. First, the master bedroom was best photographed from the hillside behind the house, the upper slopes of which were on public property. Second, the Greek’s Ethiopian mistress had once been a model, and was far from camera shy. Third, the couple ate out at least three times a week, often at the same French restaurant.

It wasn’t clear which, if any, of those pieces of information would prove to be important, but 47 was more than satisfied with the results of his preliminary outing as he made his way back to the hotel. The next couple of hours were spent transferring the pictures he had taken to the laptop, going over them one by one, and learning as much as he could about the Greek’s security precautions. And it was during that process that 47 began to entertain new doubts. Not about his ability to penetrate the security cordon, and get close enough to kill Thorakis, but about the wisdom of doing so without more proof. The penalty for mistakenly assassinating a board member would be severe indeed. So, what to do? The answer—or so it seemed to Agent 47—was to make all the necessary preparations, but stop just short of killing Thorakis. Then, at the very last moment, he would call Nu and tell him to leak a lie, and wait to see what occurred.

If the shipping magnate was the mole, he would immediately contact the
Puissance Treize
and ask for help.Thereby signaling his guilt.

The plan was somewhat convoluted, but necessarily so, given the situation. More reconnaissance would be necessary, but thanks to the information he had gleaned earlier in the day, he felt reasonably sure that he would eventually find a way to enter the mansion.

The killing itself—should it become necessary—couldn’t be done overtly. A homicide investigation might lead back to his employers. And it might alert the
Puissance Treize
that The Agency was onto them. Something best left until the reprisals were over, and the enemy was burying its dead. That suggested an “accident” of some sort. The kind everyone would accept.But
how
?

That was a problem the assassin would have to work out on his own.

* * *

The
Bon Appétit
was everything 47 expected it to be, which was to say a Portuguese imitation of a French restaurant, complete withEiffelTower wallpaper, candlelit tables, and an imperious staff. According to the information provided by Fazio, Thorakis and his mistress typically ate dinner at 8:00, so Agent 47 arrived at 7:30. The Nikon was concealed in a shopping bag. Having been scrutinized by the maître d’, and clearly been found wanting, the man with the bald pate and protruding paunch was shown to a tiny table located right next to the kitchen. Which, ironically enough, was the sort of spot Agent 47 often chose forhimself so he could escape out the back should the necessity arise.

Indeed, it was a terrible table, since the heavily laden waiters had a tendency to brush it as they came and went, not to mention all the noise that emanated from the kitchen itself. However, 47 could hear snatches of conversation every once in a while, some of which were quite entertaining. The maître d’ was known as
o porco
(the pig), somebody named Joao was HIV-positive, and a person referred to as “the goddamned dishwasher” had quit without warning.

Meanwhile, in between bits of culinary gossip, Agent 47 was served a hot
hors d’oeuvre,
yellow pepper soup, and a hearty
boeuf Bourguignon,
which left the assassin too full for dessert. At neighboring tables tourists from all over the world talked to one another about the castles they’d seen, what they were planning to do during their visit, and a variety of personal matters, all of which seemed to center around money, sex, and power. What 47 thought of as the “unholy trinity,” since those issues were at the heart of every murder he was hired to carry out.

But while such contemplations were interesting, his true reason for eating at the
Bon Appétit
was nowhere to be seen. So 47 paid the bill, took his camera, and left the establishment. Once outside, the assassin retraced his steps from earlier in the day, except that this time he went uphill when the street split, rather than follow it down as he had before. It was dark by now, but the soft night air, the spill of light from the old-fashioned street lamps, and the buttery glow that emanated from the surrounding windows combined to create a surreal sense of peace and quiet. It wasn’t long before he arrived at a point directly above and behind the stone house. Others were out and about as well, so it was necessary for him to bend over awkwardly, and retie a shoelace while a German couple walked past. Then, once the tourists were a good fifty feet down the street, it was time to swing a leg up over the iron railing and lowerhimself into the inky blackness beyond. The hillside was steep, and 47 very nearly lost his balance as his street shoes sent a small avalanche of dirt and gravel down the slope, but he was able to prevent what could have been a disastrous fall by grabbing on to a sturdy branch.

Most of the mansion’s lights were on, but there was a good deal of foliage in the way, so the agent knew it would be necessary to work his way farther downhill before there would be any possibility of seeing in. And that was unfortunate, because while it had been merely annoying up on the street, the potbelly was a real encumbrance on the hillside, and made it difficult for him to move. Nevertheless, he got a better grip on the shopping bag, chose his footholds with care, and gradually worked his way down until he was standing on top of an ancient retaining wall. It was some fifteen feet higher than the stone wall that surrounded the property, and but a single glance was sufficient to confirm that he could see into at least some of the windows, including what appeared to be a well-lit master bedroom.

He lowered the shopping bag to the ground, fumbled for the Nikon, and was in the process of removing the lens cap when the German shepherd began to bark. The assassin froze as a security guard passed through the pool of illumination generated by a spotlight mounted under the eaves. The man said something unintelligible to the animal, which came over to collect a pat on the head before following the human around a corner.

The agent waited a full ten seconds before bringing the camera up and turning it on. He could see that there was someone in the bedroom, and once he brought the image into focus, everything came clear. A beautiful black woman was seated in front of a mirror, brushing her hair, and staring at her own reflection. The Nikon made its characteristic
click-whir
as Agent 47 began to take pictures. Not so much of her as of the room—reconnaissance that could beof value later on.

And he was still at it when he heard a rock rattle down the slope, and went for a Silverballer. Except that his pistols were back inRome .

That meant that his best defense would be to react the way Scaparelli would, which was with an aggressive attitude, and a certain amount of bluster.

“Who’s there?” he demanded with a hiss. “I have mace!”