Marla didn’t like Rashid, or the fact that he was still in the picture, but knew better than to overreach.
“Yes, and thank you,” Marla said sincerely, as they reentered the study. “While we’re on the subject of your safety, I would like to suggest that you stay away from the orphanage until we find 47. Rollet told him about it, and how you go there on Fridays. That means he could find a place to hide, lie in wait, and pick you off with a rifle.”
Al-Fulani made a face.
“But the children will miss me!”
Marla had serious doubts about that but kept them to herself.
“Perhaps the staff could bring some of them here-but promise me you won’t go there.”
The Moroccan’s face lit up.
“Yes! It shall be as you say. I will organize a party. And you will come.”
Marla experienced a wave of revulsion, and could only hope that it wasn’t visible on her face.
“Of course. Nothing would please me more.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
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.