Unlike the young women who frequented the stores in the French-built Ville Nouvelle[1], many of whom would have looked at home in New York City, most of Fes El Bali’s females wore the burka whenever they ventured forth to fetch food, buy clothes, or visit relatives. Men sat on white plastic chairs, stood in doorways, or congregated in open air cafés where many passed the time by playing cards.
Everyone, regardless of age, gender, or station, was forced to share the narrow streets with the heavily burdened donkeys. In the absence of motor vehicles, these beasts were used to haul everything in and out of the medina[2]. And it was while he was taking refuge in a doorway, so that one of the sturdy animals could pass, that 47 noticed the scruffy-looking African.
A furtive figure ducked into a side corridor when the assassin glanced his way. A thief most likely, eager to steal a tourist’s wallet, but the agent could imagine other scenarios as well, including the possibility that the Puissance Treize was somehow aware of his presence. The tail was a problem in either case, and would have to be dealt with before he could enter the armory.
With that in mind Agent 47 quickened his pace, passed a tiny shop stuffed with consumer electronics, and took a sharp right-hand turn into a narrow passageway. Despite the heat of the day, some of the cobblestones were wet, and the passage smelled of urine, though it was empty except for an overflowing trash bin. At the end of the alley, all further progress was blocked by a door covered with peeling paint. The barrier appeared to be at least a hundred years old and was equipped with an equally venerable lock.
The agent ventured a quick look over his shoulder before dropping to one knee and peering through the keyhole. The view was limited, but he couldn’t see any sign of movement in the courtyard beyond, so he was inclined to take the chance. The pick made quick work of the worn tumblers, and it was only a matter of seconds before he heard a click, and the lock opened.
Another quick glance over his shoulder still showed no sign of pursuit.
Hinges squeaked as the agent pushed the door open and slipped inside. From all appearances, the small courtyard was being used to store construction materials. Scrap lumber was stacked next to a wooden box full of ceramic tiles and a rusty wheelbarrow. A short flight of stairs led up to a small landing, a palm in a large pot, and a second door. But 47 had no interest in entering the residence, as he heard the patter of footsteps out in the passageway and tossed a South African Krugerrand toward the stairs. The gold coin made a ringing noise as it hit, bounced once, and rattled into place.
The tail was at the door by that time, and having found it ajar, he gave the barrier a push. The African caught sight of the brightly glittering gold coin as the slab of wood swung out of the way, and he hurried to claim it.
The man was of average height, a good deal darker than most of the local population, and dressed in the pan-African uniform of a T-shirt and ragged pants. But what made this young man different from most was the fact that his right hand had been replaced by a rudimentary metal hook. The sort of prosthesis a village blacksmith might manufacture for a few dollars.
The African had covered half the distance to the gleaming Krugerrand when the fiber-wire noose dropped over his head. The assassin’s plan was to choke the young man into submission, ask him some questions, and then decide what to do with him.
But 47’s adversary brought the hook up so quickly that the prosthesis was inside the loop before the garrote could tighten. And because the inner surface of the hook had been honed until it was knife-sharp, the noose fell away.
Reacting to this turn of events, 47 pushed the African away, dropped into a crouch, and prepared to defend himself with whatever he could lay his hands on. The only implement that happened to be available was a rusty shovel that was leaning against the courtyard wall. He held it diagonally across his body where it could be used to block the other man’s hook.
But if the assassin’s opponent was intimidated, he showed no sign of it as the two men circled each other, looking for openings. A sheen of perspiration had appeared on the hook-man’s forehead, but judging from the steady look in his eyes, he was quite confident. His prosthesis was held low and back, and one well-placed arc could sink the hook into 47’s groin, where he would be able to jerk the blade upward, and thereby spill his victim’s intestines onto the pavement.
But the hook-man would have to close with the assassin in order to accomplish such a move, and as long as 47 had the shovel, the African would be forced to keep his distance.
Suddenly the agent tripped on a loose paving-stone, which brought his opponent rushing forward in an instant. But it was a ruse, and before 47’s opponent could react, the shovel was in motion. It made an audible clang as it came into contact with the African’s left knee.
His eyes went wide, and both the hook and the man’s remaining hand went to where the pain was, as he fell backward onto the pavement. Then Agent 47 was there, with the shovel blade pressing down on the man’s throat, as the amputee whimpered in pain.
“Who are you?” the assassin demanded. “And why were you following me?”
“Jamal,” the man on the ground choked out, as he tried to push the shovel away from his throat. “My name is Jamal. Please! I can’t breathe.”
“Okay, Jamal,” the assassin said unsympathetically, as he put his right foot on the shovel. “Why were you following me?”
The response was little more than an inarticulate gurgling noise, so 47 was forced to remove his foot, and thereby relieve the pressure on Jamal’s tortured windpipe.
“Now, try again.”
“Money,” came the raspy response. “I was going to take your money.”
“That’s one possibility,” the agent allowed darkly. “But there are others. How can I be sure that you’re just a thief?”
“My hand,” Jamal said piteously, as he held up the hook for inspection. “They cut it off.”
It had long been the Muslim practice to amputate hands, arms, and in some cases legs, as a punishment for thievery. While this approach was gradually falling out of favor in many Middle Eastern countries, it was still considered an effective deterrent in others. A fact that seemed to support Jamal’s claim. So, having completed a quick pat down, Agent 47 backed out of reach.
“I suggest that you find a new line of work. You aren’t very good at this one.”
Jamal continued to hug his knee and moan softly as 47 put the shovel back where he had found it.
“I’ll leave the gate ajar,” the assassin promised, as he bent over to retrieve the Krugerrand. “And don’t bother to get up. I’ll see myself out.”
Having left the little courtyard behind, Agent 47 paused at the point where the side passage met the main thoroughfare, and took a moment to adjust his red silk tie. Then, having assured himself there weren’t any additional Jamals waiting to attack him, he resumed his journey.
A right-hand turn took him down a short flight of stairs, under an arch, and past a group of boys who were playing with a soccer ball. It soon became clear that what had once been a residential area had gradually transitioned into a small souk with specialized stores slotted along both sides of the street. The establishment 47 was looking for lay about a hundred feet farther on, just around a gentle curve and opposite a family-run grocery. The sign out front read MEN’S CLOTHING, in both English and Arabic, followed by ABAZA TIRK, PROPRIETOR, in smaller letters, carved out and painted in gold.
Having stopped to inspect the overly ripe fruit displayed on the other side of the thoroughfare, and to make sure that he hadn’t acquired a new tail, Agent 47 was forced to wait for a group of black-clad women to pass before crossing over to the store. Like the shops located to either side, the clothing store was quite narrow, which made it necessary to hang clothes in tiers, the highest of which were suspended just below the ceiling, and only accessible with a long pole. It was hot and musty, and there wasn’t much light, but what there was came from ceiling fixtures that were at least seventy-five years old.
A well-worn aisle led straight back to where a man with generally even features, slightly bulging eyes, and a servile manner stood waiting. He was dressed in a red fez, a well-tailored gray suit, and a pair of black Moroccan slippers. A young man sat behind the counter seemingly half-asleep.