Ammar dropped his gun and brought his hands up-but it was too late. He was jerked off his feet. The Moroccan attempted to scream, but discovered that he couldn’t.
His legs kicked uselessly in the air.
After a few moments, the kicking stopped.
Time was of the essence.
47’s sandals made a wet slapping sound as they hit the pavement, and his damp clothes began to rub his skin raw as the assassin followed a narrow street toward the tanner’s quarter-an ancient section of the city where animal skins were left to soak in vats of dye before being hung out to dry. Lights had been rigged so that tourists could view the scene at night, and the air was heavy with the foul odor of the pigeon droppings that were used to make the leather more pliable.
And that’s where Fahd was waiting.
While the operative was at least thirty pounds overweight, Fahd was smart and knew Fez like the back of his hand. Knowing which way Dabir’s killer was headed, and being well aware of his own physical limitations, the Moroccan had cut over to a main street, hailed a cab, and arrived outside the souk Dabbaghin a few minutes later.
Thus, the moment Agent 47 appeared on the far side of the craterlike vats, Fahd began to fire. One or two of his VIPER’s 9 mm slugs may have struck the assassin, but from what Fahd could tell neither did any real damage. Either way, Fahd had emptied his pistol and was busy fumbling for a second clip when the assassin fired in return.
What felt like a sledgehammer struck Fahd’s shoulder, snatched the fat man off his feet, and dumped him into a vat full of blue dye. The liquid felt cold as it closed over his head and set fire to his wounded shoulder.
He struggled to right himself, and the moment that the Moroccan’s feet made contact with the bottom of the vat, he pushed himself back up. Fahd spluttered as he broke the surface, opened his eyes, and immediately wished he hadn’t as he found himself looking into the barrel of a shiny gun. There was a flash of light, and Fahd was gone.
The police arrived a few minutes later, but the mysterious European had disappeared, leaving four bodies in his wake. All of whom were tied to Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani; a man who gave generously to police charities and was known to place a high value on his privacy. So the corpses were given over to their respective families, funerals were scheduled for the following day, and the deaths were ascribed to gang activity. Which, sadly enough, was on the upswing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani’s study was quite large. Complex geometric designs had been painted onto the ceiling, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered most of the wall space not occupied by the three arched windows behind his desk. A set of six intricately carved, hand-painted, Moorish screens served to partition off the east end of the room, where a prayer rug and a day bed were kept, and three richly polished antique doors had been used to decorate the wall. They were made of cedar and bound with strips of brass.
But Marla Norton had other things on her mind, and was only vaguely aware of her surroundings, as she entered her sponsor’s office and went to stand in front of his desk. There weren’t any guest chairs, and wouldn’t be, unless orders were issued to bring some in.
Al-Fulani was a big man with a broad forehead, heavy brows, and a prominent nose. He was at least fifty, and some said sixty, but his face was smooth and tight. He owned dozens of Western-style business suits, but it was rather warm that day, which was why he had chosen to wear a full-length, Gulf-style, white thawb instead. It made Al-Fulani look princely, which Marla suspected was one of the primary reasons why he wore it.
The Moroccan was genuinely fond of Marla, even if he considered her a Western whore, and smiled as he looked up from the report that he had been reading.
“Yes, my dear, what can I do for you?”
“Professor Rollet is ready for questioning,” Marla answered evenly.
“Then it would be rude to keep him waiting,” Al-Fulani replied cheerfully, as he rose from his executive-style chair. “Come, take my arm, and we will go down to greet him together.”
Marla knew that both of the Moroccan’s wives lived at his country estate, and were therefore blissfully unaware of what went on in Fez. So she allowed her protector to escort her down a flight of gently curving stairs and into the basement. Besides having six bedrooms, eight baths, a huge kitchen, large study, and sprawling living room, Al-Fulani’s mansion boasted something none of the surrounding residences had: Its own medical clinic—and adjacent torture chamber. Which, like a similar facility at police headquarters, was equipped with ceiling-mounted hooks and a central floor drain.
Nor was the seeming contradiction lost on Al-Fulani, who while not the recipient of a formal education, was well read, and therefore familiar with the ancient Chinese concept of polar opposites. Which was why he called one room yin—and the other yang.
As the twosome entered the scrupulously clean yang room, the first thing they saw was Paul Rollet. The former spy and college professor hung spread-eagled at the very center of the chamber. Ropes connected his wrists to the hooks in the ceiling and his ankles to ring bolts sunk in beautifully tiled floor. The academic’s partially bald pate gleamed under the bright lights, the bushy beard made him look much older than he actually was, and his long, obscenely white body was reminiscent of a skinned rabbit. Rollet’s ribs were plainly visible, as was a shock of brown pubic hair, and a long wormlike penis. The bruises all over his body suggested that Rollet had put up a fight during his abduction, or been professionally beaten since.
Other than Rollet, Marla, and Al-Fulani, the only other person in the room was a man named Habib, who had been forced to drop out of medical school in Cairo because of his low grades, but had progressed far enough to learn a great deal about the human body, including portions that were particularly susceptible to pain. He liked to refer to himself as Doctor Habib, and affected a white lab coat, a pocketful of multicolored pens, and typically wore a stethoscope.
And, judging from the gleaming array of scalpels and hemostats laid out on a neatly draped Mayo stand, Habib was ready to both start and stop some bleeding, if ordered to do so. He was a sleek little man, with beady brown eyes and slightly protuberant ears.
“The patient is ready,” the torturer said evenly as his employer entered the room. “As am I.”
“Excellent,” Al-Fulani replied coldly as he took up a position directly in front of Rollet. “So, Professor, are you ready to metaphorically spill your guts, or must Doctor Habib actually remove them? It’s a process that won’t kill you, at least not right away, but is very unpleasant.”
The Frenchman’s eyes had been closed until that point, but suddenly they popped open. Ironically enough, there had been occasions during the last twenty years when he had stood in Al-Fulani’s position. Though for different reasons.
“So, if I tell you what you want to know, you’ll allow me to live?”
“Yes,” Marla agreed.
“Good,” Rollet responded. “What would you like to know?”
A number of full-color photographs had been taped to a tiled wall. They were of good quality, and showed Rollet having breakfast with Agent 47 at the Paris Café.
“Tell us about the meeting you had with the man in those photographs,” Marla instructed. “And leave nothing out.”
Rollet complied, so that ten minutes later both Marla and her protector knew what the Frenchman knew, which was that 47 was extremely interested in Al-Fulani’s activities. And given the match between the professor’s story and recent events, there was no reason to doubt him. Al-Fulani was satisfied.
“I think we have it all,” the Moroccan said. He turned to Marla. “Kill him.”
“But you agreed to let me go!” Rollet protested.
“No,” Marla countered reasonably. “We agreed to let you live. But we didn’t say for how long.”
The Walther spoke twice, two bullet holes appeared at the very center of Rollet’s lightly haired chest, and his chin fell forward. Doctor Habib was left to clean up after the killing as Marla and Al-Fulani left the room.
Marla was the first to speak as they climbed the stairs.
“So, I have the job.”
“Yes,” Al-Fulani agreed soberly. “My men aren’t used to taking orders from a woman, but Ammar was a fool to ignore your advice, and paid the price. So, from this point forward, you will be in charge of my personal safety, although responsibility for overall security will continue to rest with my cousin Rashid. Are we agreed?”