Though slightly taller than the average Moroccan, there was nothing else to distinguish the man wearing the red fez, dilapidated business suit, and dusty black shoes from thousands of low-level bureaucrats and sales clerks as he made his way up the busy street, entered the run-down residential hotel located across from the Al-Fulani Orphanage, and carried two plastic bags bulging with groceries up three flights of stairs to apartment 301, where he paused to eye the thread that had been spit-welded across the doorjamb. It was intact.
Mindful of the fact that a truly dangerous adversary would not only notice the thread, but have an accomplice replace it once he was inside, the man in the red fez lowered his groceries to the floor. Then having eyeballed the other doors that opened onto the landing, the tenant drew a Silverballer with one hand, while he unlocked the door with the other. There was a soft click.
The man gave the door a nudge, saw it swing open, and backed away. But rather than a volley of gunshots, the only sounds to be heard were the muted babble from a television in 302 and the insistent bleat of a distant siren.
Having satisfied himself that it was safe to enter, the man in the red fez did so, weapon at the ready. But with the exception of the six flies that were chasing one another around the light fixture in the middle of the ceiling, the dingy apartment was empty of life.
The Silverballer slid back into its holster, the groceries were brought in from the hall, and the door was relocked.
The ceiling fan was broken, and there was no air conditioning other than that produced by the three vertical windows that opened onto the street, so he went over to open them. Outside air entered the room, but so did the acrid stench of exhaust fumes and the roar of traffic below.
Once the cold items were stowed in the gently wheezing fridge, Agent 47 removed both the fez and the suit that Mr. Tirk had given him. It would have been nice to remove the pencil-thin mustache, and the paste-on mole. But dangerous, because now that the move from the Sofitel Palais Jamai Fes was complete, it was important to stay in character as he kept Al-Fulani’s orphanage under observation.
According to Professor Rollet, the Moroccan would probably visit the building on the far side of the street the following day. Which was when the assassin planned to enter the orphanage, drug the businessman, and make off with his unconscious body. Then, having driven the Moroccan out into the country, he would have an opportunity to ask some very pointed questions. But before he made his move he wanted to observe the comings and goings of the place.
So 47 sat down to eat the cold couscous salad with lemon dressing and feta cheese that he had purchased from a mom-and-pop grocery store. That was followed by six lamb-skewers from a street vendor, plus a piece of coconut fudge cake, and three cups of piping hot tea.
Then, as daylight gradually surrendered to darkness, the surveillance began anew. Thanks to the information provided by Rollet, 47 knew that the building across the street had once been the property of a wealthy Jewish family, which had chosen to emigrate to Israel—or been forced to do so, in the years immediately after World War II. The old mansion was solidly built, stood three stories high, and would have been at home in the Steglitz district of Berlin.
During the two days that Agent 47 had been watching the orphanage, he had never once seen children outside playing. There were plenty of adults, however, including household staff, security guards, and the well-dressed visitors who arrived each evening, almost all of whom were male, mostly European, and generally older.
There was a good deal of turnover where the visitors were concerned, or that’s how it appeared, but there were regulars, too. Like the wheelchair-bound Mr. Wayne Bedo of Akron, Ohio, who had arrived in Fez three weeks earlier, and was delivered to the orphanage at exactly 7:00 each evening by a specially equipped van. All of which was information 47 had gathered by jumping into a taxi and following Bedo to his hotel the night before.
A breeze came up as the sun set, and the badly faded curtains began to stir, even as the lights came on across the street. Having darkened his apartment so that no one could see in, Agent 47 began the evening’s work, which consisted of memorizing everything that might be relevant to the coming mission.
That included taking note of the number of guards who were patrolling the grounds, where they were stationed, how frequently they were relieved, which ones had a tendency to goof off, where the surveillance cameras were located, how the floodlights were positioned, where the shadows fell, and much, much more. Each new observation was compared to the ones he had made during the past couple of days, in order to detect changes, variations, and patterns.
He noted the fact that at least three-quarters of the people who entered the orphanage were wearing masks, which seemed rather strange, unless the facility was being used to stage costume balls six nights a week. But, regardless of the reason, the practice might be beneficial to 47’s plan, which was all that mattered to him.
Most of the visitors had arrived by 8:00 p.m., and Al-Fulani wasn’t among them, so the assassin felt even more certain that the Moroccan would visit the orphanage on schedule the following evening. Later, about eleven or so, people began to leave. A process that continued into the wee hours of the morning before finally tailing off about 2:00 a.m. Which was when the agent put his binoculars away, took a tepid shower, and made a bed on the floor.
Then, with both Silverballers at hand, the assassin went to sleep.
The sun was low in the western sky, and the city’s shadows were pointing toward the holy city of Mecca, as the man in the red fez made his way through the lobby of the Oasis Hotel, entered the elevator, and got off on the sixth floor.
Having checked his watch, he followed the blue and gold runner down the hallway toward the linen closet he had identified previously. After a quick look around to make sure that no one was watching, he dropped to one knee. The lock pick made quick work of the old tumblers, the door opened without protest, and 47 slipped inside.
Sturdy shelves took up most of the walls, all of which were loaded with clean towels, sheets, and blankets. There were a couple of carts, plus backup cleaning supplies, and a white plastic chair. The air was thick with the combined odors of soap, cleaning agents, and room deodorizer.
He was early, and intentionally so, lest something unexpected delay him. So there was nothing for 47 to do other than leave the door slightly ajar and wait. The second maid service of the day was complete, so there was no reason why members of the staff would bother him, but if they did, a syringe was ready and waiting.
That precaution proved unnecessary, however, because the next person to come down the hallway wasn’t a member of the hotel’s staff, but Mr. Nathan Ghomara, the English-speaking aide Bedo had engaged to take him where he wanted to go. Which, for the most part, was the orphanage.
Ghomara was of average height, but a bit overweight, causing him to waddle as he approached the closet. The Moroccan was dressed in a sports jacket, white shirt, and black pants. There was nothing especially remarkable about his features except for bushy eyebrows, a slightly bulbous nose, and a heavy five-o’-clock shadow.
Agent 47 waited for Ghomara to pass, stepped out into the hall, and took three running steps. He clamped a hand over the Moroccan’s mouth and rammed the needle into his neck. Ghomara struggled weakly for a moment before becoming a dead weight as he collapsed.
The assassin was well aware of the fact that an elevator full of people could arrive at any moment, or one of the hotel’s guests might step out into the hall, which meant it was important to drag Ghomara into the storage room as quickly as possible. But the Moroccan was heavy, so it took quite a bit of effort to pull him through the door, and 47 felt a sense of relief once the chore was over.
The moment the door was closed he took a quick tour through Ghomara’s pockets. The effort produced a key card that would get him into the American’s suite, as well as the keys needed to operate the lift-equipped van parked in the hotel’s garage. The agent toyed with the idea of taking the Moroccan’s clothes, but couldn’t see any benefit to doing so, especially given the fact that everything would be at least one size too big.
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 the Sahara, 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 strangling himself. 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.
Finally, confident that Number 6 was truly dead, 47 let go.
Then, in keeping with a boyish impulse to send a message to his clone brothers, he wrestled 6 into one of the stalls. The body was limp-a dead weight-so it was difficult to push the head into a toilet and make sure it remained there. But that’s what the newly minted killer was determined to do.
Finally that chore was accomplished, and it was time to return to the dorm. There he gathered up two pairs of socks, plus his boots, and a heavily loaded daypack. After having taken one last look around, Number 47 slipped out of the room.
A flight of stairs led down into the front hall, where Mrs. Dorvak was asleep behind the big desk, her head back, hands clasped over her protuberant belly. Number 47 smiled thinly as he tiptoed past. Maybe, if everything went especially well, Lazlow would fire the old cow for sleeping on duty!
Once in the hall beyond, he had to pause and pull on socks and boots before following a corridor to the side entrance. The much-abused door normally produced a horrible screeching sound whenever someone went to open it. But thanks to the grease lavished on its hinges the previous day, the door opened silently, and a blast of frigid air invaded the hallway.
But that was the easy part, 47 knew, because the real threat was patrolling the grounds outside, and his name was Bruno. The exact nature of the dog’s ancestry was unknown, although he was huge and resembled a mastiff. A bad-tempered mastiff that prowled the asylum’s grounds at night to keep intruders out, and to keep the boys in. Which Bruno managed to do with great efficiency. As far as 47 could remember, there had been only one escape attempt. It had concluded in a cacophony of horrible screams followed by a brief memorial service two days later.
So 47 had reason to be frightened as he left the protection of the asylum building and made straight for the pump house. That was where he had stashed a bow he had stolen from the gym-along with a single steel-tipped arrow. Dry snowflakes fell all around him, the air was bitterly cold, and his boots made a crunching sound as the ice-crusted snow gave under his weight.
Had Bruno heard him? Or caught his scent? There was no way to know, because everyone knew that Bruno’s hunts were silent, until his jaws closed on something, and it began to squeal.
Of course, since he didn’t want to attract any attention, that was good—or it could be, provided that 47 was able to pull the weapon out from under the pump house in one smooth motion, string the bow with cold fingers, bring the modified target arrow up into the proper position, pull the string all the way back, and let loose before Bruno could close with him.
After what seemed like hours of crossing the open ground, 47 skidded to a halt, fell to his knees in the snow, and stuck his right hand in under the dimly lit pump house. There was a brief moment of joy as his cold fingers closed around the arrow, but it was quickly followed by a sense of despair as he felt for the bow, and realized that it wasn’t there! Most likely the groundskeeper or a maintenance worker had come across the weapon while performing some chore, missed the arrow during the process, and returned the bow to the sports equipment room.
It was a horrible break, but there was no time to think about that as 47 heard a deep growl and turned to confront the oncoming dog.
The brute was airborne by that time, so all the twelve-year-old could do was throw up his arms in a futile effort to protect himself while he waited to die.
But the arrow was clutched in his left hand, its knife-sharp tip pointed outward, and as Bruno’s weight came down on it, the dog’s own momentum inadvertently pushed the other end of the shaft into the frozen ground! There was a pitiful yelp as the improvised point penetrated the mastiff’s skin, punched all the way through his heart, and emerged between his shoulder blades.
Number 47 took the full brunt of Bruno’s weight, and produced a grunt as all of the air was forced out of his lungs. It took him a minute to recover, but finally, after gasping like a just-landed fish, the youngster managed to suck some oxygen. It was only then, as he battled to push Bruno off his torso, that 47 realized the dog was, indeed, dead.
The boy was too scared, and too cold, to appreciate the full extent of his good fortune, but there would be time later to marvel at how lucky he had been. Or was it luck? Because even though the bow was missing, the arrow had been wielded by 47’s hand, which had made the “good luck” possible.
He shook his head to clear his mind of such thoughts. All 47 wanted to do now was turn and make a run for the metal fence that encircled the property.
It rattled as he leaped and his boots hit the mesh two feet off the ground. The boy’s breath came in short gasps as he began to climb. Less than a minute later he was over the top, dropping to the ground below, and jogging along a snow-covered access road, then onto the main road. There weren’t very many streetlights, but those there were wore halos, and led the way toward the highway, where he could hitch a ride to the city of Brasov.
The youngster’s plans didn’t extend much beyond that, although he knew Headmaster Lazlow would be furious and that all sorts of people would be out looking for him. So once in the city, it would be important to find additional transportation, and put as much distance as he could between himself and the asylum.
Yet like his clone brothers, 47 had never been allowed to venture outside of the asylum grounds, so after flagging down a passing motorist, and spinning her a lie about going to visit his sick grandmother, he quickly found himself in what amounted to an alien world. She took him into the city, where he asked to be dropped off.
Brasov had begun to stir by then. It was an ancient city, built on land that had been occupied since the Bronze Age, most recently by the Germans and the Soviets, and had long been regarded as Transylvania’s gateway to the south and east.
He had been taught the city’s origins in the course of his studies, and 47 could feel a deeply rooted connection with the past in the red-roofed merchant houses that surrounded Council Square and the tall watchtower located at the center of it. His boots left shallow impressions in the snow as lights came on in buildings around the perimeter of the square and the business day began.
There were all sorts of buildings off the main square, as well as store windows filled with things he had never seen before, all requiring money the runaway didn’t have. Which was why 47 asked a passerby for directions, made his way to the local bus depot, and was busy trying to figure out a way to sneak on to a sleek-looking coach, when a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.
The boy struggled, but to no avail, as Headmaster Lazlow frog-marched him out of the depot and onto the busy street beyond. At that point the murderer-escapee fully expected to be turned over to the authorities. Or immediately taken back to the asylum for corporeal punishment.
But to the youngster’s everlasting surprise, Lazlow led him down the street and into a busy restaurant. Once they were seated the headmaster ordered hot drinks and an enormous breakfast, which the two of them shared.
Then, as 47 went to work on a big mug of steaming cocoa, peering expectantly at his captor, Lazlow did something the boy had never seen before.
He smiled.
“Congratulations, son,” the headmaster said warmly, glancing around to make certain no one was near. “That was your first kill—and it won’t be your last! The problem with Number 6 was that he enjoyed hurting people, a flaw that ultimately would have limited his usefulness. Because pleasure skews judgment. So you did us a favor, freed yourself from tyranny, and proved what you can do. I’m proud of you, and so-for that matter-is Dr. Ort-Meyer.
“But from this point forward,” he added, his expression turning grim, “you are not to kill without permission. Is that understood?”
Number 47, his eyes wide with wonder, nodded his head.
“Good,” Lazlow said contentedly. “Now, have some waffles.”
And, looking back over the intervening years, breakfast had been the most important meal of the day ever since.
A man dressed in a Nike sports outfit blew a whistle, which brought Agent 47 back to the present, and sent a team of mostly naked preteens tumbling across the floor. Though his face was hidden, Bedo seemed utterly enthralled, as were the other pedophiles seated around the low-rise stage, but the assassin was looking elsewhere.
While he had been reliving his youth, Marla Norton had slipped into the room, and was positioned on the far side of the platform. Agent 47 silently cursed himself for allowing his attention to drift.
The Puissance Treize agent wasn’t alone. Two men, both armed with AK-47s, had taken up positions immediately behind her.
Judging from the manner in which the young woman was scanning the crowd, she was looking for someone. And there was very little doubt as to who that person might be.
The Silverballers were within easy reach, but 47 didn’t want to shoot his way out of the building unless he was forced to do so, which meant he would have to rely on his disguise for protection. Thus, while the children performed handstands and made awkward tumbling runs, the assassin watched Marla out of the corner of his eye.
Then, as her gaze slid across him, 47 felt a tremendous sense of relief. The Kufa disguise had held!
For the moment, anyway.
Agent 47 felt his pulse quicken. If Marla was present-was Al-Fulani nearby? Waiting outside, perhaps? Ready to enter, once he got the all clear? That was the assassin’s hope, but it wasn’t to be. After a few more moments, Marla wrinkled her nose in what might have been an expression of disgust, and left the room. The security agents followed.
Almost immediately thereafter he heard the front door open and shut, indicating that they had departed. Yet their very presence told him that they suspected he might be there. Knowing his target wasn’t likely to appear, Agent 47 felt a keen sense of disappointment. But he was forced to suppress the emotion so he could focus his attention on extricating himself from the orphanage.
The last performance was coming to a conclusion by then, and Al-Fulani’s customers were busy choosing which performers they wanted to take upstairs, when the assassin surreptitiously stabbed Bedo in the arm. The American produced a startled yelp, started to say something, then slumped forward as the sedative kicked in.
Staff members rushed to help-but 47 was quick to shoo them away.
“Don’t worry,” he assured them. “It happens all the time. I’ll take Mr. Bedo back to his hotel and put him to bed. He’ll be as good as new in the morning.”
Having no reason to doubt the man in the red fez, and being understandably happy to rid themselves of what could have been a problem, the orphanage’s staff hurried to escort the duo out through security, and load the unconscious Bedo into the van. It was dark by then, but Agent 47 discovered that traffic was a little bit lighter than before, as he drove the American back to the Oasis Hotel.
The question—and a rather important one—was whether Mr. Ghomara had been discovered, or was still lying in the locked linen room. Having circled the hotel twice without detecting any sort of police presence, Agent 47 concluded that no alarm had been raised. And since neither Ghomara nor Bedo had seen him without the Kufa disguise, it didn’t matter what they told the police the following morning.
Not that Bedo was likely to be all that forthcoming, given his visits to the orphanage or his true reason for visiting Fez.
The assassin entered the garage without incident, chose one of the more remote parking spots, and shut the engine down. Thanks to the power lift it was possible to unload the wheelchair, move Bedo into an elevator, and return the American to his room without any assistance. Then, having removed the Silverballers from the chair’s cargo pocket, he returned both weapons to their holsters.
Bedo’s head came up at that point. The mask had fallen off.
“Where am I?” the American demanded groggily, as he blinked his eyes. “What happened?”
Agent 47 thought about his plan to kill Bedo and replace him with a heavily sedated Al-Fulani. The American had no idea how lucky he was. “You’re in your hotel room,” the man in the red fez answered evenly. “Which is all you need to know.” And with that, the assassin was gone.