Raymond Benson - 2012 - Hitman: Damnation (9 page)

 
          
When
next he opened his eyes, his vision was less blurry. The bright lights were
still above him, and he realized he was no longer floating helplessly in the
ocean. However, the rocking sensation of being tossed around by the waves was
still present.

 
          
Agent
47 lay in a bed. He was dressed in a hospital gown and was covered with warm
sheets and blankets. An IV was attached to the back of his right hand. A drip
on a stand stood next to the bed. Turning his head, he saw a nurse with her
back to him.

 
          
He
coughed, but it came out in an unintelligible croak.

 
          
She
turned.
Dark hair, in her thirties.
“Oh, you’re awake!
I’ll get the doctor.”

 
          
Where
am I?

 
          
The
assassin studied his surroundings. It was no ordinary hospital room.
Too small.
The windows were round.
Portholes.

 
          
He
was on a boat.

 
          
No
wonder he still felt the rocking of the sea.

 
          
A
black man in a white lab coat entered the cabin, followed by the nurse. He was
in his fifties, wore glasses, and had a kind face.

 
          
“Good
morning,” he said in a British accent. “I’m Dr. Chalmers. How are you feeling?”

 
          
Agent
47 didn’t answer.

 
          
“You’ve
had a rough time. You were lucky we were nearby. We picked you up out of the
water. You’d almost drowned.”

 
          
Again,
the
hitman
said nothing.

 
          
“Don’t
worry. You’re going to be fine. You have a strong constitution.”

 
          
47
already knew that.

 
          
“We’re
giving you some fluids through an IV. You were dehydrated. Kind of ironic,
isn’t it? Being dehydrated in the middle of the ocean?”

 
          
The
assassin didn’t respond.

 
          
The
doctor indicated the stethoscope around his neck. “May I check your vitals?”
Not waiting for an answer, the man leaned in to listen to 47 breathe. The
assassin didn’t protest.

 
          
“Your
lungs are clear.” The doctor nodded to the nurse, who wrapped a cuff around
47’s left arm to take his blood pressure. She pumped it up and then let it
deflate.

 
          
“One
eighteen over seventy-eight,” she said.

 
          
“That’s
very good,” the doctor commented. “I’ll bet you’re thirsty and hungry. Nurse
Parkins here will get you some juice and something to eat. Get some rest.
You’ve had a rough time.”

 
          
The
nurse quickly left the cabin. The doctor waited for 47 to say something; when
the patient didn’t, the man turned to leave. He paused at the curved hatch, turned,
and replied to the unasked question.

 
          
“All
will be explained shortly.”

 
          
And
then he left.

 
          
It
was only then that Agent 47 noticed the embossed insignia on the IV drip bag.
It was triangular; a skull and crossbones topped by a crown was inside the pyramid,
the Latin phrase
Merces
Letifer
scrolled across the bottom.

 
          
“Lethal trade.”

 
          
The emblem of the ICA.

 
          
The Agency.

 
          
After
a meal of scrambled eggs, toast, and orange juice, Agent 47 felt his strength
returning. He wanted to jump out of bed and find out what was going on. Given
that he was on a ship, he figured it was the Jean
Danjou
II, the Agency’s
superyacht
. What else could it be?

 
          
The
prospect that the ICA had found him was disturbing. 47 had wanted to remain
hidden. The assassin had hoped that, if he ever decided to reconnect with the
Agency, it would be on his terms.

 
          
The
familiar unpleasant fireball of anxiety suddenly grew in his chest. How long
had it been since he’d taken an
oxycodone
pill? The
withdrawal symptoms would soon hit him full force. Where was his briefcase?
His clothes?
His painkillers?

 
          
Before
he could attempt to get out of bed, an attractive Asian woman, wearing a
business suit and carrying a notepad, entered the cabin.

 
          
“Good
morning, Agent 47,” she said without a trace of an accent. “My name is Jade.
I’m a senior assistant to the management team of ICA. I take it you’ve already
discerned that’s who we are?”

 
          
47
stared at her for several seconds and then nodded.

 
          
“I
suppose you have a lot of questions. Mr. Travis will be here shortly to talk to
you. He will be your new handler.”

 
          
The
assassin spoke for the first time since he’d been revived. “I don’t work for
the Agency anymore.”

 
          
Jade
acknowledged the remark with a bow of her head. “Mr. Travis will speak to you
about that. In the meantime, I am authorized to tell you that you are on the
Jean
Danjou
II, and we were—”

 
          
“I
know that.”

 
          
“—we
were sailing in the Atlantic, quite near the Caribbean. We have been searching
for you for many months. Your last employer, the man you knew as Roget, alerted
us—for a price—that his plane was leaving Jamaica with you on it.”

 
          
“There
was no pilot aboard.”

 
          
“We
had Roget install the remote so we could land the aircraft safely on the water.
Unfortunately, the storm hit and an engine failed. Apparently you damaged the
remote-control box, and we were unable to help you. Luckily, we were in your
vicinity when the jet went down, but it still took us several hours to find
you. You are a very lucky man.”

 
          
Was
she telling the truth? Agent 47 supposed that it sounded plausible. He also
knew that the Agency was capable of elaborate deceptions.

 
          
A
middle-aged man in a suit appeared in the hatchway. He wore glasses, had a
mustache, and was a bit overweight.

 
          
“How’s
the patient?” he asked.

 
          
“Dr.
Chalmers says he’s doing very well,” Jade answered. “Agent 47, this is Benjamin
Travis.”

 
          
The
man approached the bed and held out his hand. The
hitman
ignored it, so Travis shrugged. “I can imagine how you feel. Hiding from the
Agency for a year and suddenly finding
yourself
on our
ship. I’ll bet you think you were set up.”

 
          
“Where’s
Diana?” 47 asked.

 
          
Travis
and Jade exchanged a look, and then he continued. “I’ll get to that. I want to
assure you that what Jade told you
is
true. Yes, we
wanted to find you. Yes, we would have paid a lot of money to get you back, and
we did. Yes, Roget worked for us, in a way.
As an informer
and sometimes contractor.
I’m sorry the flight didn’t go as we planned.”

 
          
“Where’s
Diana?” the
hitman
asked again, with a little more
insistence in his voice.

 
          
“Very well.”
Travis took a chair and sat in it. Jade
continued to stand. “Diana
Burnwood
betrayed the
Agency. She irreparably damaged the organization by compromising a classified
project that top management was working on. And … she abandoned you during a
crucial mission. The Himalayan assignment would not have gone wrong had she not
bailed. She left you in a vulnerable position. I suppose you remember that?”

 
          
He
did. Agent 47’s eyes narrowed as he searched Travis’s face for artifice.

 
          
“What
happened?” he asked.

 
          
“I
can’t go into the classified details, but suffice it to say that she meant for
you to die. Diana felt you were the only one who might possibly be sent to come
after her when we discovered her betrayal. And she’s right. As soon as we find
out where she’s hiding, we will send you after her. After all, you know her
better than anyone.”

 
          
“I
don’t work for the Agency anymore.”

 
          
“I
was hoping we could discuss that.”

 
          
“I
don’t work for the Agency anymore.”

 
          
“Hear
me out, 47. Will you do that?”

 
          
The
assassin kept silent.

 
          
“We
know you’ve been working freelance. We know you’re being paid much less than
what you’re worth. It’s beneath you, 47. You were the Agency’s greatest asset.
We want you back. We’re prepared to double your fees.”

 
          
“I
don’t care about the money.”

 
          
“We
know you don’t. You never have. But you care about your reputation. You care
about the quality of your work. You care about what you do best.”

 
          
“I
am nowhere near one hundred percent operational.”

 
          
“We
think you are,” Travis said. “The fact that you survived that jump from the
plane and the subsequent hours in the sea proves that you are. Did you know you
were floating in impossibly rough waters for seven hours before we picked you
up? That’s extraordinary. Any other human being, even one with your, uh,
special genetic structure, would never have endured the ordeal. You did, 47.
We’re all astonished and … humbled.”

 
          
47
didn’t respond.

 
          
“Look,
why don’t you rest? Think about it overnight. You’ve been through a tough
twenty-four hours. But, frankly, we need you. There’s a pressing assignment
that is quite suited to you. We don’t need the verification, but you could
prove to yourself that you’re, as you call it, one hundred percent operational.
And don’t you want to get back at
Burnwood
? She
abandoned you, left you like a piece of meat for dogs to devour.”

 
          
The
assassin didn’t know what to think about Diana. All the facts weren’t in. But
Travis was right. If she had indeed intentionally caused the Himalayan task to
fail, then she deserved every bit of his … attention.

 
          
“What’s
the assignment?” he asked.

 
          
Travis
stood. “It may very well be the most difficult mission of your career. Consider
it a challenge. But why don’t you rest for a day? We can talk about it
tomorrow. It can wait that long.” He pointed to two different call buttons on
47’s bed. “If you need anything, press one of those buttons. The red one is for
the nurse. The blue one is for us.”

 
          
“Where
are my things? Did you recover my briefcase?”

 
          
Travis
grinned. “It’s unbelievable, 47. Even in your unconscious state, being tossed
around like flotsam on that rough sea, you held on to that damned briefcase. We
have it.” He nodded to a locker on the other side of the cabin. “It’s all
there.
Your clothes, everything.
We dry-cleaned your
suit. It’s fresh and like new, hanging right in there. We opened the briefcase
to check on your weapons, and they’re fine. You’ll want to clean them, oil
them, do all the things you do to get them back to shipshape condition, but,
miraculously, all of your stuff survived with you. You’re one in a million, 47.
The Agency will be very grateful, and make it worth your while, if you decide
to rejoin us.”