Hitman: Enemy Within (26 page)

Most of them had to do with the shipping tycoon’s business dealings. And it was then—while sampling some of the stories about the way Aristotle had improved the family-owned company—that 47 came across an article regarding one of the Greek’s competitors. A Mexican businessman named José

Alvarez, who had just been starting to take business away from a Thorakis-owned cruise line when he had the misfortune to drown in his own swimming pool. It was a terrible accident. Or that’s what the stories claimed.

The assassin already knew about the incident, because he’d been there that night. Instead of using scuba gear, which would produce bubbles, 47 had been equipped with a military-style rebreather, andwas already submerged at the deep end of the pool when Alvarez dove in. Pulling the entrepreneur under had been relatively easy. Keeping him down had been a little more difficult. By continually refining his search terms, 47was able to find dozens of newspaper and magazine articles about Thorakis, his family, and the lifestyle they enjoyed. And after skimming a number of those stories, the assassin came to the conclusion that when not attending a business meeting in London, New York, Hong Kong, or some other center of international finance, the shipping magnate spent most of his time on the family estate near Kalomata, Greece, at his high-rise condo in Athens, aboard the sleek superyacht
Perseus,
or in a relatively modest mansion located in Sintra, Portugal. Which, the operative soon learned from the tabloids, was rumored to be the house where the businessman kept his Ethiopian mistress.A relationship his wife was said to be aware of, but chose to ignore.

Having determined the places where Thorakis was most likely to be found, the assassin’s next step was to zero in on the shipping magnate’s current location. It had begun to seem hopeless, until the agent discovered that there were weekly papers that made it their business to keep track ofHollywood starlets, spoiled aristocrats, and yes, wealthy businessmen like Thorakis.Especially when they were being naughty, which according to the very latest edition of
La Dolce Vita,
the Greek definitely was. According to the breathless text that accompanied a much-magnified shot of the shipping magnate nibbling on a woman’s bare foot, Thorakis was currently lying low in Sintra with his mistress. And judging from the six suitcases that had been unloaded from his limo, the businessman was planning to stay for a while.

A quick phone call to a small paper in Sintra was sufficient to confirm the Greek’s presence. But rather than travel to Sintra, and improvise some sort of cover subsequent to his arrival, 47 wanted to do it the right way.Which was to construct an alternate identity before he boarded a plane. It was the sort of thing Diana normally took care of for him, yet now, having been forced to do his own research, the operative already knew the unsavory sort of person he wanted to impersonate. As a member of the freewheeling, hypercompetitive, and often unethical band of photographers frequently referred to as the
paparazzi,
he could hang around the Thorakis mansion at all hours of the day and night, carry a variety of cameras, and openly follow the Greek wherever he went.All without eliciting any suspicion.

Of course first, before assuming his new identity, Agent 47 knew it would be necessary to change his appearance. Not just a little bit, but a lot, because Thorakis knew very well what he looked like, and if he really was a turncoat, the
Puissance Treize
would want to protect him. So the assassin made some phone calls, took down an address, and set the alarms on his luggage. Agent 47 had learned a lot about makeup and theatrical appliances over the years. So much so that when he entered the
Portello Dell Fase
he was able to successfully pass himself off as a British actor who had unexpectedly been called upon to play Shakespeare’s Falstaff. There was much bustling about as the proprietress, a onetime stage actress herself, went in search of the perfect strap-on foam belly. An appliance that, when combined with a half-halo of black hair and some cheek inserts, would transform her customer into the shameless, lying tub of lard that was Falstaff. The woman was equipped with costumes as well, and though of the opinion that 47 was too tall to play Falstaff, she said that she was willing to make the necessary alterations anyway. Agent 47 demurred, however, insisting that the theater company would provide his costume, so he was able to exit gracefully after spending what seemed like an exorbitant amount of money in the shop. With those purchases made it was time to visit a men’s clothing store, where the assassin insisted on looking after himself, and eventually left with a wardrobe that the cashier knew was too large for him. Satisfied with his new look, and confident that it would fool just about anyone, 47 went back to the hotel, where he returned to his room. And it was there that Tazio Scaparelli was born. The
paparazzo
was a homely man, with a bald pate surrounded by unruly black hair, fat cheeks, a mole on his upper lip, and a substantial gut that not only hung out over his belt, but threatened to split his cheap sports shirt wide open. A pair of baggy pants and some thick-soled shoes completed the outfit. He wasn’t going to take the Silverballers, the Walther, or the shotgun intoPortugal . Nor did he want to take his regular clothes, since Scaparelli couldn’t wear them. So the assassin only took what he needed, packed all of it into his briefcase, and left the hotel via an emergency exit. Ten minutes later the agent stepped up to a pay phone, dialed a long series of digits, and waited for the inevitable answer. When it came he cut the controller off. “This is 47. Please send someone to get my luggage. Oh, and one other thing, tell whoever you send to leave the locks alone. Otherwise something could go
boom!
”

The controller started to respond—but the conversation was over.

Chapter Seventeen

PARIS,FRANCE

Conditions inside the
Prison de la Santé
in the
XIVe arrondissement
ofParis could only be described as a living hell. The cells were filthy, the noise was deafening, drug use was rampant, communicable diseases took a constant toll, rapes were a common occurrence, and the only way to escape was to commit suicide. Which inmates frequentlydid.

All of which made
Santé
a very dangerous place to be for any person other than Louis Legard, who as Managing Director of the
Puissance Treize,
had the benefit of bodyguards, specially prepared food, and a host of other privileges that most inmates could only dream of.

Still, privileged or not, the last place Legard wanted to be was in
Santé
. So as one of the Frenchman’s muscular bodyguards cleared a path for the crime boss, who had been forced to use crutches since the most recent attempt on his life, Legard was anything but happy. In spite of more than two million euros spent on lawyers, bribes, and appeals, he had yet to find a way out of the festering hole that the French government had put him in.

Not for murder, which he deserved, but for tax evasion.
An offense so pedestrian as to be ridiculous.
Prisoners and guards seemed to simply melt away as the
Puissance Treize
chief and his entourage turned into a main corridor and made their way toward the security checkpoint where Legard would be searched prior to being released into the visitor center that lay beyond. The screening process was something not even Legard could avoid, although the normally arrogant guards were careful to preserve the prisoner’s sense of dignity, knowing what could happen to them if they didn’t. In fact, it had been less than a year since a new staff member had referred to Legard as an
estropié

repugnant.
The guard, his wife, and both of their children had been mysteriously murdered three days later. No one had been arrested for the crime as yet, but the message was clear, and Legard had been treated with the utmost delicacy ever since.

Having been cleared through the security checkpoint, he was left to lurch across an open area to the row of narrow cubicles where prisoners could talk to visitors through sheets of cloudy Plexiglas. Consistent with the prepaid bribes that he had received, the guard responsible for regulating the flow of inmates took care to slot Legard into a booth between two empties; a seemingly trivial favor, but one that would serve to protect the man’s privacy—something that was very important to him. Pierre Douay had come to dread his visits with Legard. Both because of the unpleasant surroundings and the Managing Director’s ceaseless demands for a new trial, better medical care, and more fresh fruit. As Legard entered the cubicle on the other side of the Plexiglas and laid the crutches on the floor,Douay dipped a hand into a coat pocket and activated a scrambler that resembled a popular brand of MP3

player.

The Managing Director had always been a small man, but had lost quite a bit of weight since the failed assassination attempt, and was about the size of an average teenaged boy. He had thick white hair, a face that could only be described as gaunt, and lips so thin his mouth resembled a horizontal slash. A chromed metal grille was mounted in the Plexiglas, but given how loud the background sound was, both men were forced to lean in close in order to hear each other without being overheard by others.

“Good morning, sir,”Douay began politely. “How are you?”

“How the hell do you
think
I am?” Legard demanded sourly. “I feel like shit! When are you going to get me out of this stinking cesspool?”

“Soon,”Douay promised soothingly.“Very soon.”

“That’s what you said last time,” the older man complained bitterly. “Yet I’m still here.”

“These things take time,”Douay replied. “The wheels of government grind slowly. But the lawyers tell me that in four months, six at the most, our request for an appeal will be granted. Once we know which judge and prosecutor have been assigned to the case, we’ll bring them around. But until that time, we simply don’t know who to target.”

EverythingDouay said was true, and Legard knew it, but the crime boss was rightfully suspicious.

“So you say,Pierre …so you say. But I’m no fool! The longer I remain locked up in prison—the longer you remain in charge of the
Puissance Treize.
”

Douayhad been on the receiving end of that accusation many times before, and his answer was ready.

“But I’m not in charge, sir.
You
are. All I do is pass your instructions along to the partners. And, because you have sources of information other thanmyself , you know that I continue to serve you well.”

“The profits are good,” Legard admitted grudgingly.“But what about the Sinon Project? How is that going?”

Sinon was the ancient Greek spy who, if the legends were correct, was the person who convinced the Trojans to open the gates and allow the wooden horse to enterTroy .

“It’s going well,”Douay answered honestly. “By planting large amounts of money on one of The Agency’s most trusted employees, we were able to divert attention away from the real traitor. And he continues to provide us with a continual flow of useful information. Some of which must be ignored, if we are to preserve the source.”

“I understand that,” Legard grated as he stared through the Plexiglas. “But remember this: It’s my intent to crush The Agency. Not just nibble it to death! And one of the best ways to accomplish this is to destroy their most effective operatives. You missed Agent 47 the first time. Don’t make the same mistake again.”

Whether it was true or not, Legard expressed the belief that the mysterious Agent 47 had fired the 7.62×51 mm bullet that was responsible for his useless leg. This was one reason why a trap had been laid for the operative during the earliest phase of Project Sinon. But every attempt to eliminate 47 had failed, and the assassin was still on the loose.

“Yes, sir,”Douay said humbly. “If we see an opportunity to kill him, we will.”

Blood rose to suffuse Legard’s otherwise pallid face, his eyes seemed to glow as if lit from within, and spittle flew from his lips as he spoke.

“
Make
an opportunity, goddamn you! Or I’ll put
you
on crutches—or worse—and see how you like it!”

This time the crime boss’s voice had been loud enough to turn heads, andDouay was conscious of the fact that people were staring at him as he lifted a fruit basket up off the floor.

“I brought some apples, sir.Plus bananas and grapes. I’ll pass them to the guards on my way out.”

“I’m sorry,” Legard said contritely, and sighed as he looked away. “I’m an old man, and I say foolish things. I know you’ll do your best.”

“It’s very difficult in here,”Douay said sympathetically. “I realize that—and I’m sorry.”

The visit came to an end shortly after that.Douay gave the basket of fruit to one of the guards, followed a young woman and her little girl out onto the busy street, and paused to reacclimate himself. That was when he took a deep breath, gave thanks for everything he had, and all he was going to have. Because it would be a cold day in hell when Louis Legard left
Santé
prison and felt warm sunshine on his ugly face.

Chapter Eighteen

LISBON,PORTUGAL

The Portela airport had been opened in October of 1942 at the height of World War II. Because it was used by both the Germans and the British, the airfield had been the nexus of all sorts of espionage. And as Agent 47 entered the large, rather institutional terminal building, it was as if some of that history still lingered in the air.

A large group of tourists had just come off a British Airways flight fromLondon . Many were cranky, having just learned that their luggage was back in Heathrow, and wouldn’t arrive until the following day. The newly created
paparazzo
Tazio Scaparelli had no such difficulties, however, as the photographer went to retrieve his cheap vinyl suitcase, and hauled the bag out toward the front of the terminal. Thanks to the fact that he was traveling from one member of the Europeanunion to another, he wasn’t required to show a passport.A change for the better, insofar as lawbreakers such as himself were concerned. As the operative walked, his Nikon D2x digital camera had a tendency to bounce off his potbelly. Rather than walk around with a new camera, which might give him away, 47 had been careful to buy one that had already seen plenty of hard use, and showed it. Consistent with the Scaparelli persona, the Nikon was hanging at the ready, should some unsuspecting starlet cross his path. A little thing, it was true, but important, especially to the knowledgeable eye.