A door opened, stairs were lowered, and Agent 47 appeared. The assassin was wearing his usual black suit, white shirt, and red tie. When he was halfway down the stairs, he turned to accept two briefcases, then two suitcases. Three of the objects were left next to the plane as he crossed the tarmac.
Vittorio noticed that 47’s skin was darker than usual, as if he’d been spending a great deal of time in the sun, and wondered how long the agent had been in Africa.
“It’s good to see you, my son,” the priest said, as the two men embraced.
“And you, Father,” Agent 47 replied. “Thank you for agreeing to help.”
“Such is the Lord’s work,” Vittorio said, as he eyed the plane. The children were being unloaded by then, and the scrawny youngsters made for a pitiful sight as another man, who looked to be the pilot, led them toward the terminal. “What can you tell me about the little ones?” the cleric inquired. “What happened to their families?”
“Their parents were killed by slavers. They were on their way to a whorehouse in Fez when something happened to the man who owned them,” 47 replied.
Vittorio crossed himself. He could well imagine what the “something” was.
“But unlike most orphans, they come with an endowment,” 47 added, as he presented Al-Fulani’s briefcase to the clergyman.
The priest released the latches, took a peek inside, and closed the lid.
“That looks like a lot of money, my son.”
“It is,” 47 agreed. “And it’s tax free.”
The conversation was interrupted as the pilot arrived with the children in tow. The man was about to introduce himself when the orphans rushed Father Vittorio and quickly surrounded him.
“My name’s Preston,” the pilot said, as he extended his hand. “The children went to a mission school, before the priest was murdered and all of the villagers were forced to flee. So they know what a clerical collar means.”
The copilot joined the group at that point. He had a briefcase tucked under one arm and was toting the two suitcases. “I don’t know what you have in these things,” he complained to 47, “but they’re damned heavy!”
“That makes them harder to steal,” 47 said lightly as he accepted the briefcase. The situation appeared to make the agent uncomfortable, and he seemed eager not to linger.
Before the operative could make his escape, one girl detached herself from the rest of the children and came to stand directly in front of him. Her big brown eyes were solemn, and her voice was clear as she spoke.
“Thank you, Mr. Taylor. All of us will remember your name.”
That was probably the highest honor the Dinka children knew how to bestow. But as Father Vittorio looked at 47, he saw genuine consternation on the assassin’s face. He suspected that it had never been the man’s intention to help the children, and he wasn’t sure how to respond.
The agent just nodded awkwardly, and mumbled, “You’re welcome,” as he slung the briefcase over a shoulder and took a grip on both of the suitcases.
There was a long moment of silence as three men and a little girl watched 47 walk away. Finally, having given a shake of his head, Father Vittorio spoke.
“The ways of God are mysterious, my friends…very mysterious indeed.”
It was early the next morning by the time Agent 47 arrived in Rome, took the train in from the airport, and checked into a nice but low-key hotel not far from the Spanish Steps. Then it was time to take a shower, brush his teeth, and grab some sleep.
Before he had left for Rome, he had tried again to contact Diana, and an unfamiliar voice had responded, claiming to be her replacement. That had been so out of the ordinary that 47 had decided not to trust his important information to a stranger, and had cut the connection immediately.
It was now light outside, but the heavy drapes served to keep most of the dawn sunshine out, and some of the traffic noise, as well. The carpet was equipped with a good pad, which meant the assassin was more comfortable than usual, and had little difficulty falling asleep.
Strangely-from 47’s perspective at least-it was raining when he awoke. Dark clouds obscured the sun, and raindrops pattered against his window as he carried out his morning routines. Except that it was midafternoon by then, which meant it was going to be very difficult to find a decent breakfast, especially in a country where the first meal of the day normally consisted of coffee and a roll. A meal so nonexistent that they might as well not have bothered, insofar as 47 was concerned.
The solution was to eat at a hotel that not only catered to Americans, but boasted its own restaurant, because such an establishment was likely to offer eggs, pancakes, and bacon. Finding one involved a three-block walk without benefit of an umbrella, so 47 was soaking wet by the time he was shown into an over-decorated dining room and escorted to a table. The good news was that the restaurant did, indeed, serve American-style breakfasts.
The bad news was that they were serving lunch. Yet as always, money worked wonders, and having slipped a fifty-dollar bill to the waiter, the assassin was soon dining on a breakfast of waffles, bacon, and sausage, with hot coffee to wash it down.
With a full stomach, and a newly purchased umbrella to protect his head, the assassin made his way back to his hotel. His room had been cleaned, and his luggage was secure, so it was time to get back to work.
The first order of business was to call in again and try to speak with Diana, who, he hoped, would be back on duty. Since she hadn’t heard from the agent in days, she could be counted on to chew him out, especially since he had hung up on her “replacement.”
But having activated the satellite phone and entered the appropriate code, Agent 47 again found himself talking to a stranger. Not unheard of, but rare, since Diana was something of a workaholic, so he didn’t cut the connection this time.
Equally unusual, however, was the fact that the man who answered the phone immediately routed the call to Mr. Nu, who 47 had last seen in Yakima. There was a thirty-second wait, but once the executive came on, he was clearly anxious to take the call.
“Agent 47? Is that you? We’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
“I was kind of busy,” the assassin replied honestly. “Where’s Diana?”
The executive knew how attached field agents could become to their controllers and was ready for the question.
“We need to talk, 47. Face-to-face. Where are you?”
“In Rome,” the assassin answered cautiously.
“Okay, Rome it is,” the executive replied. “I can be there in time for a late dinner. We’ll eat, I’ll bring you up to date on Diana, and you can tell me about Africa. How did it go, by the way? Were you able to catch up with Al-Fulani?”
The question hung between them as the assassin considered his options. He could—and probably should—tell Mr. Nu what he had learned, but something felt wrong. Something having to do with Diana.
So rather than answer the question, the agent chose to end the conversation.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but there’s someone at the door. Let’s catch up tonight. Where should we meet?”
Nu sensed the agent’s hesitancy, but thought it best to let the matter slide, confident that he would learn whatever there was to know later in the day. So instead, he gave the name of his favorite restaurant.
“I’ll see you at nine,” he said, and he waited for 47 to be the one who broke the circuit.
He opened another channel, and a quick conversation with a technician in the Danjou’s control room was sufficient to confirm that, based on the tracker built into 47’s phone, the agent really was in Rome. It wasn’t that the executive didn’t trust the assassin. But still…
Diana had been above suspicion until recently and now nothing seemed certain. Suspicion was like a communicable disease, and once contracted, it was almost impossible to beat.
“Call the airport,” Nu said. “Tell our pilot to file a flight plan for Rome. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”
Now that he thought about it, maybe he didn’t trust the assassin. In fact, maybe he didn’t trust anyone.
It was still raining, and Agent 47 had been watching the restaurant for more than an hour when a cab pulled up and Mr. Nu got out. The assassin had no reason to expect a trap, but it always paid to be careful, so he waited for a full five minutes to see if anyone else showed up. He scanned the nearby buildings, as well, but saw nothing that appeared to be suspicious. Finally, satisfied that the restaurant was reasonably safe, he stepped out into a cold drizzle.
Five minutes later he was seated across a linen-covered table from his superior. A small oil-fed lamp had been placed at the center of the surface and it lit the executive’s face from below.