[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

platform. Then there was the possibility of a suicide bomber, a riot triggered by religious
fundamentalists, or a falling light, for God's sake. And those were only some of the possibilities.
Which was why the agent had done her best to talk her employer out of the appearance, only to
be overruled. And why? Because Al-Fulani enjoyed the role of benefactor, and didn't want to
miss out on his moment in the spotlight even if attending the event involved unnecessary risk.
So she would have her people search the area for explosives prior to the opening ceremonies,
dress her client in body armor, and station unsuspecting bullet catchers around the businessman
in the hope that any incoming projectiles would hit one of them, rather than Al-Fulani.
Yet ultimately Marla knew that Al-Fulani's fate and to a great extent hers would depend on a
great deal of luck, and the man called 47. Based on information that the Puissance Treize had
given Al-Fulani, the assassin was still in Fez and eager to get his hands on the Moroccan. The
thought sent a chill down Marla's spine as she turned to leave the stage.
It was late afternoon, and the sun had disappeared, leaving a bloody smear on the western
horizon as Agent 47 guided the blue BMW motorcycle through heavy traffic. In contrast to the
sleek chopped hog the Grim Reaper had been riding at the moment of his death, the Beemer had
a bulbous gas tank, controls that forced the assassin to ride as if he were in a race, and a
high-tech aesthetic he liked. The only problem was that, even though the bike was capable of
going well over a hundred miles per hour, the jam-packed streets kept him down to no more
than twenty.
Stealing the BMW had been as easy as taking a leather jacket that belonged to one of his house
guests. There were all sorts of useful things in the pockets, including two prophylactics, a plastic
bag containing a mysterious white powder, and the bike's ignition key. The matching helmet
and the guitar case slung across his back were courtesy of the same musician. And because the
jacket was long enough to conceal the short-slide Silverballer, it served that purpose as well.
Most of the traffic consisted of smoke-spewing trucks, buses, and dilapidated cars, all of which
had fully operable horns that honked, beeped, and brayed as traffic continued to inch its way
forward. But like the rest of the scooters and motorcycles, the Beemer was free to weave in and
out of traffic. A potentially fatal game were someone to open a car door unexpectedly, but
preferable to sitting in one place and sucking exhaust fumes.
Finally, having battled traffic for more than twenty minutes, the BMW passed through one of
the city's ancient gates, and was released into the countryside that stretched beyond. Which,
according to intelligence provided by The Agency, was where the Otero brothers had set up
shop.
The question was: Why? Especially given that their target, and the best opportunity to kill him,
lay deep within Fez itself. Not that it mattered, so long as Agent 47 could locate the
Colombians and kill them before they could carry out the hit.
Traffic opened up as the assassin left Fez behind. He followed a well-maintained two-lane road
through a succession of small villages and into the hills. There, perched on a rise, stood an old
Catholic church. It had been desanctified more than a hundred years earlier, and used for a
variety of purposes since. The whitewashed building seemed to brood over a hillside of
weathered headstones, as if waiting for the dead parishioners to arise and worship again. There
was very little light by the time he arrived. But what there was served to silhouette the
variegated arch at the front of the building and the bell tower to the right of it. And that,
according to Diana, was where the Oteros had chosen to stay.
Agent 47 downshifted, which caused the BMW to slow, giving the assassin the opportunity to
observe that lights were on within the church. Then it was necessary to open the throttle and
guide the bike up over a rise.
Confident that he couldn't be seen from the church at that point, 47 downshifted again, and
turned onto a dirt track. The motorcycle's headlamp played across ranks of shadowy olive trees
before the assassin turned it off, toed the transmission into neutral, and killed the engine.
Having deployed the BMW's kickstand, Agent 47 swung a leg over the bike, and parked the
helmet on the seat.
The countryside seemed unnaturally quiet after riding the noisy bike. In fact, there weren't any
sounds to be heard, other than the occasional chirp of a cricket, the distant bark of a village dog,
and the throaty growl that a heavily laden lorry produced as it made its way up a nearby incline.
All of which were pleasant, but the silence also meant that gunshots would be heard if he
missed a target and an all-out shooting war began.
Keeping that potential in mind, the assassin drew the short-slide, and took the time required to
attach a silencer to it before returning the weapon to its holster. Branches grabbed at him as 47
passed between the trees, but did no damage, as he made his way toward the church. Local
night creatures were out and about by that time, and the assassin heard an occasional rustle as
other predators went in search of their prey.
The olive trees began to thin after a while, and 47 found himself at the very edge of the grove,
which was about thirty feet from a five-foot-high wall, and the church stood beyond. A new
sound could be heard by then: the muted but persistent beat of Colombian salsa, punctuated by
occasional bursts of raucous laughter. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]