The plain white envelope was thick with hundred-dollar bills, and without drawing any attention, the professor was quick to drop his newspaper on top of it.
“Both civil servants and educators are underpaid,” Rollet observed. “So your gift is welcome. And yes, even though the public Al-Fulani glitters like gold, another man dwells just below the surface.”
“How fascinating,” 47 said, as his breakfast arrived. “Please tell me more.”
So Rollet did, once the waiter had departed, and what followed was the story of a man who had inherited his father’s smuggling business and subsequently come of age while running hashish into Spain, where it was either sold or sent north to the Netherlands, Belgium, Germany, and other European countries.
Al-Fulani’s success soon caught the eye of competitors from as far away as Colombia, and it wasn’t long before some very unpleasant people began to call on the Moroccan, threatening to hijack his drug shipments unless he shared the profits with them. But, rather than cave in to the international cartels, Al-Fulani managed to maintain his independence.
At that point Professor Rollet paused to light a disreputable-looking pipe. A series of energetic puffs were required to get the moist, cherry-flavored tobacco going properly. But once the mix was alight, the academic took the fragrant smoke deep into his lungs, and smiled broadly.
“Ah!” he exclaimed. “It’s a dirty habit, but oh, how I enjoy it!”
Having finished his second pastry, 47 took another sip of coffee. “So, how did he do it?”
Rollet frowned. “Do what?”
“How did Al-Fulani manage to maintain his independence?” Agent 47 inquired patiently. The Frenchman took a long, slow look around, as if to make sure that none of the other diners were listening.
“People began to die,” the academic confided gravely. “People at the very top of the cartels, and it wasn’t long before the pressure came off Al-Fulani.”
“So, Fulani had them murdered?”
“Someone had them murdered,” Rollet said darkly. “But it wasn’t clear who. Though Al-Fulani clearly benefited, none of the acts could be traced to him.”
Perhaps Rollet didn’t know, or was reluctant to say the name out loud, but Agent 47 was pretty sure he knew which organization had been responsible for the deaths. Either the Puissance Treize had been paid to neutralize the Moroccan’s competition, or Al-Fulani had been co-opted by the organization. Not that it made much difference. All 47 cared about was the fact that Al-Fulani was in a position to know which one of The Agency’s employees was providing their rivals with proprietary information.
“I understand he has a house here,” the assassin said casually. “What else should I be aware of?”
Rollet’s pipe had gone out again by that time, and the professor took a moment to strike a wooden match and relight it.
“Well,” he said thoughtfully, as a new cloud of smoke formed a halo around his head. “That all depends, doesn’t it? If you want to congratulate Al-Fulani on a life well lived, then you could walk up to his front door in the Ville Nouvelle, and deliver your message to one of the guards. But, assuming your intentions are a bit less straightforward than that, there’s the orphanage to consider. He visits every Friday night. Usually in the company of close friends or business associates-but occasionally by himself.”
Agent 47 raised an eyebrow. “He visits an orphanage?”
“Yes,” Rollet said cynically. “That’s what he calls it anyway. But some say the organization is a cover for other, less virtuous activities.”
“Such as?”
Rollet looked away, as if reluctant to voice what he’d heard.
“I really couldn’t say. But if you’re interested…the orphanage is located in the Mellah.”
“Which means?”
“The Mellah is the old Jewish quarter,” the academic explained. “It dates back to 1438, when the Jews were forced to live in a section known as Al-Mallah, or saline area. A term that eventually became synonymous with salted earth, or cursed ground.
“Then, when Israel came into existence in 1948, most of the Jewish population left Fez,” Rollet continued. “That created a vacuum that rural Moroccans rushed to fill. But the Jews left some beautiful homes in the Mellah—and the orphanage is in one of them. Ask anyone-they’ll show you where it is.”
The conversation continued for a while, but it soon became apparent that 47 had gained everything he was likely to obtain from Rollet, so the assassin stood, bowed, and took his leave.
The interaction was observed by a man who, like 47, looked like a tourist enjoying a light breakfast, but was actually employed by Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani.
The Moroccan was well aware of 47’s presence—and the hunter was about to become the hunted.
Darkness had fallen on Fez, and Marla Norton felt frightened, as she looked out through the open window to the busy boulevard three stories below. The evening air was warm, heavy with the rich odors of the food that the street vendors were hawking, and busy with the sounds of the city.
While fear wasn’t something she was accustomed to feeling, it was an emotion that the Puissance Treize agent had experienced a lot lately. Which was absurd, given the fact that it was she who was lying in wait for the man called 47. Not the other way around.
The trap consisted of the three-hundred-foot stretch of sidewalk located in front of Al-Fulani’s brightly lit mansion. The twenty-six-room, eight-bath home boasted a Mediterranean-style ceramic tile roof, a white façade, and several ornate balconies. Clusters of bottom-lit palm trees bracketed both sides of the home, and provided the structure with a sense of glamour. They also lit the surroundings, making it more difficult for intruders to get past the guards.
The most important component of the trap, however, was a “retired” Royal Marine named Ted Cooper, who was a graduate of the British Army’s famous Joint Sniper Training Establishment, and was officially credited with six confirmed kills in Iraq. An accomplishment Cooper had been advised to keep to himself, lest the Islamic militants catch wind of it, and decide to even the score.
Of course, Al-Fulani’s chief of security-a man named Ammar-had other assets in place as well, three of whom were walking along the busy boulevard with him. Thus, if Cooper failed to spot Agent 47 from above, Ammar and his men would nail him down below.
That was the plan, but there were still dozens of people to screen as they came and went, and it was Marla’s opinion that the members of Al-Fulani’s security staff were far too cavalier where 47 was concerned. In spite of her repeated warnings, they clearly considered themselves to be superior to the European abruti[3] that the silly female was so frightened of.
And maybe they were right.
In the wake of the disastrous shoot-out in Yakima, her unsettling meeting with Mrs. Kaberov, and the loss of her home, Marla’s self-confidence was at an all-time low. And now, having fled Kaberov’s predictable rage, Marla found herself dependent on Al-Fulani’s goodwill, which, predictably enough, was based on her willingness to serve him both professionally and personally. Regardless of her own desires.
This had been the case the night before, when Marla was “invited” to participate in a ménage à trois with the Moroccan and a teenaged girl who had been snatched off the streets of Johannesburg a week earlier. It hadn’t been an especially enjoyable experience, but far better than one of Mrs. Kaberov’s.45 caliber “gifts.”
The thought was sufficient to drive the young woman back to the powerful scope that had been set up next to Cooper’s tripod-mounted 7.62 mm L96 sniper’s rifle. The marksman seemed patient, very patient, which was good. As well he should be, since a single kill like this one could net him more money in a few seconds than the Royal-bloody-Marines would pay in a year.
Marla stared through the scope at the mostly young, upper-class men and women who continued to stream past Al-Fulani’s home on their way to fashionably late dinners or one of the alcohol-free nightclubs that had sprung up within the Ville Nouvelle. Spotting one particular individual in such a crowd would be hard enough, but her target’s tendency to use disguises would make the task that much more difficult, since each face had to be examined thoroughly before Marla could move on to the next.