Hitman: Enemy Within (12 page)

So he used hand towels to bind and gag Ghomara in hopes that he would remain undiscovered until the following day.

Finally, after days of preparation, Agent 47 was ready.

The hotel suite consisted of a nicely furnished sitting room, a bedroom, and a bathroom. All decorated with the same beige Oasis-print wallpaper, beautifully framed black-and-white photos of theSahara , and carefully set tiled floors. The room was equipped with air conditioning, which was set to a chilly 68

degrees, and blowing cold air into the room as the American readied himself for an evening out. Wayne Bedo could walk, albeit with some difficulty, and was standing in front of the bathroom mirror buttoning his shirt when he heard a knock, followed by a familiar double-click as the door to his suite opened and closed.

“Nathan?” the American inquired. “Is that you?”

“No,” Agent 47 replied from the entryway. “Mr. Ghomara is ill, so they sent me to replace him. May I come in?”

Bedo swore, dropped into the wheelchair, and propelled it out into the sitting room, where a tall man in a red fez stood waiting.

“My name is Kufa,” the assassin lied solemnly. “Can I help with your shoes and socks?”

Bedo knew better than to trust strangers, but the man with the pencil-thin mustache was obviously acquainted with Ghomara, and in possession of the access card. That, plus the immediate offer to provide Bedo with some much-needed assistance, served to put the American’s fears to rest.

“Yes,” he replied. “They’re in the bedroom closet.”

It took the better part of an hour to get the rest of Bedo’s clothes on, strap the American into his wheelchair, and push him out into the hallway. And that’s where they were when Bedo ordered 47 to stop.

“My mask is in the bedroom closet,” he said flatly. “Go get it.”

So the assassin reentered the hotel room and went to the closet, where a Bacchus mask—complete with a wreath of stylized grapes—was waiting on the top shelf. Agent 47 was struck by the extent to which the heavily furrowed brow, the big staring eyes, and the prominent teeth resembled Bedo’s actual appearance.

He returned to the hallway, after which it was a relatively simple matter to take the American down into the underground garage, load him into the lift-equipped van, and drive the vehicle out of the hotel. But due to the usual heavy traffic, it took a full forty-five minutes to complete the journey from the Oasis Hotel to the Al-Fulani Orphanage, where staff members helped unload their wheelchair-bound guest. And being familiar with the American by that time, the security guards waved both men inside, without so much as a glance at Bedo’s ID card.

There was a loud
beep
as both the wheelchair and a pair of Silverballers rolled through the metal detector, but that was to be expected, given all the metal in the conveyance. So the two men were allowed to proceed without further inspection.

A valet drove the van away as 47 pushed the wheelchair into a large reception area. Formal stairs led up to the second floor, the walls were covered with red wallpaper, and a table loaded with drinks and appetizers had been set up at the very center of the entry hall. The setting was more appropriate to a bordello than an orphanage. And a bordello it was.

However, judging from the heavily made-up, scantily clad boys and girls who came forward to greet the American, this wasn’t just any house of ill repute, but one designed to appeal to a clientele of pedophiles from all over the world, most of whom were wearing masks, lest they be recognized. Bedo welcomed two little girls onto his lap as the assassin scanned the room. Having penetrated the orphanage, his plan was to take Bedo into the men’s room, fiber-wire him, and park him on a commode. With that accomplished, he would wait for Al-Fulani and ambush him as he approached a urinal. Having shot the Moroccan full of sedatives, 47 would belt him into Bedo’s wheelchair. Bodyguards, if any, would be invited into the restroom, and shot with the silencer-equipped Silverballers smuggled in along with the chair.

At that point, with the Bacchus mask covering Al-Fulani’s face, it would be relatively easy to take the unconscious businessman out through security, load him into the van, and drive him into the countryside. But if he and Bedo disappeared into the restroom for too long, it might draw attention. So he wanted to make sure Al-Fulani was present. He felt sure he would be able to recognize the Moroccan even if he were wearing a mask—thanks to the deferential manner in which the staff would interact with him. But there was no sign of the man.

Not yet, anyway.

So 47 was forced to push Bedo into what once had been a ballroom, as the so-called “guests” were invited to watch a “talent show.” The walls were covered with mirrors that would multiply the images of whatever took place, and thereby intensify it. A lighting grid dangled above the low, circular platform at the center of the room, which served as a stage. Guests were invited to choose seats around the circumference of the platform, leaving two aisles via which the preteen performers could come and go. Agent 47 felt his stomach lurch at the sight. The setup was reminiscent of the asylum’s gymnasium, and he recalled the performances that had been held there. Rather than perform sex with adults, however, as the orphanage’s children were clearly expected to do, the assassin and his clone brothers had been forced into brutal fights.

As the audience began to applaud, and a dozen half-naked boys and girls were sent out to engage in a highly sexualized parody of a beauty contest, the assassin found himself reliving a very different performance that took place many years before.

It was winter. The asylum’s heating system had never been that good, and the air inside the gymnasium was cold. So much so that the boy named 47 could see his breath as he followed his brothers through double doors and out onto the worn hardwood floor.

Once they had lined up in front of the boxing ring, the boys were introduced to an audience that consisted of Dr. Otto Wolfgang Ort-Meyer’s friends and associates. Ort-Meyer was the man who—along with four former legionnaires—was responsible for having created the clones. But even though the boys shared the same DNA, experience had exerted a profound impact on personality, granting each brother a decidedly different identity.

The visitors, some two dozen in all, wore ski parkas, expensive overcoats, and in some cases, furs. They were seated on padded bleachers, and each was equipped with a thermos filled with coffee, tea, or hot buttered rum. They clapped as each boy was introduced, took a step forward, and stood with his chest out and shoulders back while statistics regarding his past fights were read out loud. Each round of applause was followed by a rustle of activity as members of the audience placed bets on the various bouts.

47’s record was well above average, and he was rewarded with more applause than most. Yet that was nothing compared to the standing ovation reserved for number 6. Not only was he the asylum’s most accomplished kickboxer, but 47’s personal nemesis. No matter what the boy did to avoid notice, 6 consistently sought him out, called him names like “my little bitch,” and constantly taunted him. Which was why 47, who was slated to battle 6 during the third round, felt a persistent emptiness in the pit of his stomach.

Once 6 had been introduced and collected his applause, he turned to wink at 47, as if to say, “Here it comes!” before taking a step back into line.

Some of the visitors laughed when they saw that, and the betting was brisk as they put even more money on 6.

The final introductions were made. Then, once the process was complete, the boys were ordered to sit on the cold metal chairs that lined one side of the elevated boxing arena. The ring measured 20©20 feet square, stood three feet off the floor, and was equipped with an inch of canvas-covered padding.
Stained
canvas, because it was difficult to get the blood out of the material, no matter how hard the boys scrubbed. There were four posts, each of which stood a little more than four feet high, to which the side ropes had been secured.

Number 47 hated the ring—and more than that, he was afraid of it—but knew better than to let his emotions show. Fear equated to weakness within the closed society he lived in, and weakness invited attack.If not from 6, then from one of his toadies or a wannabe. So all he could do was sit there and shiver, as the headmaster gave the first two combatants their instructions, then left the ring. As the name would suggest, kickboxing incorporated both the hand-thrown blows typical of boxing, along with the power kicks, knee strikes, and leg sweeps common to Asian martial arts. Which, to Ort-Meyer’s way of thinking, meant kickboxing was the perfect form of unarmed combat for the clone-soldiers of the future to master. Each round of the competition would be supervised by the headmaster, Lazlow. He was a big man, one of the reasons the boys feared him and always did what they were told. Lazlow wore his hair in a comb-over that failed to conceal a large bald spot, and he stared out at the world through a pair of Coke-bottle-thick glasses. Round one—which was intended as little more than an appetizer—ended quickly as Number 21 threw three rapid-fire volleys of head blows, spun, and delivered a reverse kick to 9’s solar plexus.Then, as the boy known as “Niner” struggled to recover, 21 hammered the youngster to the floor. Round two was a bit more entertaining, as the combatants traveled the length and breadth of the ring before 32 finally managed to run a younger boy into a post, thereby knocking his opponent unconscious. That brought up round three as what felt like an ounce of liquid lead trickled into the pit of 47’s stomach and continued to lay there as he scrambled into the ring. Lazlow’s expression said that he already knew who was going to win the third round as he checked to make sure both boys had their protective mouthpieces, cups, and hand wraps.

“All right,” the headmaster said, as 6 danced around the ring. “Don’t kill each other.” And with that admonition, he was gone.

47 had a plan—a fantasy, really—in which he would find a way to beat 6’s defenses down and kick the other boy in the head. But that’s all it was—a fantasy.Which quickly became apparent when the fight began. Even though both boys were made of the same genetic stuff, it was as if 6 had been imbued with an extra something that gave the bully a distinct advantage.

While 47 attempted to put Number 6 on the defense with a series of body blows, the other boy was able to reach around and grab him behind the neck, delivering a series of knee strikes to the groin.

“Take
that,
bitch,” 6 said, “and
that,
and
that,
and
that
!”

He was going to lose, that much was certain, so 47 did the only thing he logically could. And that was to take just enough punishment to make the fight look convincing, take a fall, and walk away with the fewest number of injuries possible.

But 6 seemed determined to polish his image as the toughest student in the school. So rather than put his opponent down immediately, he pushed 47 away, and subjected him to a succession of front kicks, side kicks, and a fancy roundhouse that landed 47 on his back. A blow so hard, and so well delivered, it left 47 gasping for air.

That brought Ort-Meyer and his associates to their feet as 6 accepted a loud round of applause and grinned from ear to ear.

It took the combined efforts of Lazlow and another staff member to remove 47 from the blood-splattered ring, and load the injured youngster onto a squeaky gurney that carried him to the infirmary. It was there, while recovering from the beating, that 47 made a fateful decision. After months of being victimized, the boy had arrived at the point where he was willing to do whatever was necessary to end the abuse. No matter what that entailed.

The decision produced both a sense of determination and a feeling of freedom as 47 left the infirmary and returned to the long, narrow dormitory he shared with eleven other boys. A pile of human feces had been left on his pillow, and there was no need to read the note to know which one of his peers had placed it there.

“Hey, shit head!” 6 said, as he and his toadies filtered into the area. “Oops! What’s that? It looks like the turd fairy left you a present!”

That produced gales of laughter as the other boys left and went to dinner. But even if 47 wasn’t the fastest boy in the dorm, he was among the smartest, and he began to formulate a plan. From his training he knew how dangerous habits could be. And Number 6 had habits. One of which was to get up at roughly 3:00 a.m. every morning and take a pee before returning to bed. With that opportunity in mind, 47 spent the next two days making careful preparations. At the end of the second day he waited until everyone else had gone to sleep, got up long enough to get dressed, and returned to bed. At that point he set his mental alarm clock for 2:30, but was so amped up that he couldn’t sleep, and was still awake when Number 6 padded by at 2:53. That was the moment when the youngster slipped out from between the blankets, swung his still-bare feet onto the floor, and padded silently down the hall as he followed his enemy in the lavatory. Number 47 knew that one mistake, one errant sound, would be sufficient to alert the bully and cause him to glance back. And if that occurred, an even worse beating would come his way. Adrenaline flooded his body, and his heart beat like a trip-hammer as he tiptoed into the dimly lit bathroom. And that’s where 6 was, directing a powerful stream into one of the urinals, as the loop fell over his head.

Number 6 was fast, but he was sleepy, and his first instinct was to try to tuck his penis away. So his hands didn’t come up until the ligature had already begun to constrict at his throat. The homemade garrote consisted of a length of cord from a window sash, affixed to two four-inch lengths of wood, both of which had been surreptitiously removed from one of the custodian’s brooms. Urine sprayed left and right as 47 pulled the handles in opposite directions, and the two of them performed a slow pirouette as the struggle continued. They turned toward the long row of sinks on the other side of the room. Suddenly the attacker could see both himself and his victim in the big wall mirror. Because the boys were identical in appearance, it appeared as though 47 were stranglinghimself . At that moment, he knew why 6 liked to brutalize people. It was all about control. He discovered how addictive such power could be as 6 made gargling noises and attempted to stomp 47’s bare toes. Then the bully’s eyes began to bulge, his lips turned blue, and a long, drawn-out, farting sound was heard as he soiled himself. That was when 47 expected to feel a sense of regret. But there was nothing other than a feeling of satisfaction as all life departed the other youngster’s body. Number 47 wanted to release the garrote at that point, not out of a sense of revulsion, but to speed his escape. Especially since some other boy could enter the lavatory at any time and discover the grisly scene. But 47 knew that the only thing worse than a dead enemy was one who came back to life, filled with a burning desire for revenge. So in spite of the stench, the young assassin continued to pull the wooden handles in opposite directions, and counted to sixty.