Because it would be a cold day in hell when Louis Legard left Santé prison and felt warm sunshine on his ugly face.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Portela airport had been opened in October of 1942 at the height of World War II. Because it was used by both the Germans and the British, the airfield had been the nexus of all sorts of espionage. And as Agent 47 entered the large, rather institutional terminal building, it was as if some of that history still lingered in the air.
A large group of tourists had just come off a British Airways flight from London. Many were cranky, having just learned that their luggage was back in Heathrow, and wouldn’t arrive until the following day. The newly created paparazzo Tazio Scaparelli had no such difficulties, however, as the photographer went to retrieve his cheap vinyl suitcase, and hauled the bag out toward the front of the terminal. Thanks to the fact that he was traveling from one member of the European union to another, he wasn’t required to show a passport. A change for the better, insofar as lawbreakers such as himself were concerned.
As the operative walked, his Nikon D2x digital camera had a tendency to bounce off his potbelly. Rather than walk around with a new camera, which might give him away, 47 had been careful to buy one that had already seen plenty of hard use, and showed it. Consistent with the Scaparelli persona, the Nikon was hanging at the ready, should some unsuspecting starlet cross his path. A little thing, it was true, but important, especially to the knowledgeable eye.
As the assassin made his way through the terminal, he could feel dozens of eyes slide across him as a multitude of policemen, con artists, spies, drug dealers, thieves, gun runners, and other players compared his countenance to the ones they were looking for, then moved on. If any of the onlookers were employed by the Puissance Treize, none took notice of the fat man.
The terminal building had been remodeled more than once over the years, and the current iteration consisted of a gently curved façade made out of glass, flanked by two rectangular columns. A row of tall, spindly evergreens stood guard between the main building and the parking lot. There were plenty of taxis, and having flagged one of them down, 47 was careful to negotiate the fee in advance. Just as he fancied Scaparelli would do.
The town of Sintra was located eighteen miles northwest of Lisbon. The first part of the drive took the cab through Lisbon’s not very distinguished suburbs, but once clear of the urban blight 47 found himself in one of the most beautiful places in Portugal, if not the world. An area known for its cool summer air and lush vegetation, it was so pleasant that Portuguese kings and aristocrats once spent their summers there.
Later, as word of Sintra’s beauty continued to spread, a steady stream of travelers visited the area. And they were still coming. Agent 47 knew that many tourists use Sintra as a base from which to explore the coast, while others take in local attractions like the Palacio Nacional de Sintra[7], the Regional Museum, and the Moorish Castle.
But for people like Aristotle Thorakis, who could afford a three-hundred-year-old home situated on a half acre of very valuable real estate, the town was a quiet retreat. A place to escape the media that prowled the streets of London, Paris, and Rome. Or that’s what the glitterati were hoping for, although it was becoming increasingly difficult to escape the long lenses of men like Tazio Scaparelli.
For his own quarters, Agent 47 had chosen the Hotel Central, which had been the place to stay back in the early 1900s, but had long since been overtaken by generations of newer establishments. Yet as the operative paid his fare, and towed his shabby bag into the dated lobby, some of the hotel’s original charm could still be seen in the richly polished wood, Portuguese tiles, and sturdy furniture that surrounded him.
All of which served to confirm that the Central was the sort of slightly seedy hostelry where a man on a limited expense account would choose to stay. Not to mention the fact that it was located across from the Sintra Palace, which put the hotel right at the center of all the tourist activity, and not far from the sort of restaurants that a man like Thorakis was likely to frequent.
As it turned out, Agent 47’s small, somewhat threadbare room was on the second floor, facing a rather noisy square. But that was okay with the assassin, since he didn’t plan to spend much time in it, and rarely had trouble falling asleep regardless of the din.
Consistent with the part he was playing, Agent 47 made no attempt to secure his belongings. With the exception of the seemingly innocuous fiber-wire garrote, and what appeared to be an insulin kit, all of the assassin’s weapons were back in Rome. The whole idea was to let people search his luggage if they chose-knowing full well that everything they found would support his cover rather than blow it.
Even the password-protected laptop and the satellite phone were consistent with the requirements of Scaparelli’s profession.
Pleased with the way things had gone so far, and with plenty of daylight left, the operative took the Nikon and went down into the street. As he followed a gently curving street toward the area where most of the mansions were located, he noticed that the houses along the way had red-tiled roofs, all manner of wrought iron balconies, and generally looked sturdy rather than graceful. Peaked roofs were common, as were lots of evenly spaced windows and narrow passageways that ran between the buildings.
But as the street took him down into what felt like a canyon, the architecture became increasingly diverse, and in many cases more elegant. A significant number of the homes built in this area over the last hundred years had been inspired by the architecture their owners were already familiar with or the rampant romanticism of the late eighteenth century. And the house Thorakis had chosen for his mistress fell into the latter category. It was three stories tall, and capped by all manner of interlocking pitched roofs. The walls were made of well-fitted gray stone, pierced here and there by windows that seemed too small for a building of that size, and were adorned with sculptural panels clearly imported from Germany or Bavaria.
Consistent with both its size and importance, the house was set well back from the street, surrounded by deciduous trees that were hundreds of years old, and separated from its neighbors by a largely ornamental stone wall. Some rather obvious surveillance cameras could be seen here and there, which when combined with at least two uniformed security guards, would be sufficient to keep the Scaparellis of the world out.
Conscious of the need to both establish his cover, and capture photographs of the mansion, 47 was careful to remove the lens cap before he brought the Nikon up and began to snap pictures. The long lens couldn’t reach through the curtained windows into the rooms beyond, but the assassin was able to obtain valuable close-ups of what appeared to be a card reader mounted next to the front door, both of the security guards, and the German shepherd that followed the men around.
The operative had captured thirty-four exposures by the time a stranger appeared at his elbow. The newcomer was American, judging from his accent, and no more than five foot six. His clothes were black, as if that might make him look slimmer, and the soles of his shoes were at least an inch-and-a-half thick. He was armed with two cameras, one for long shots and the other for close-ups. Bright inquisitive eyes peered out from under thick eyebrows—and a two-day growth of black stubble covered his cheeks.
“The Greek ain’t home,” the little man said laconically. “He went to Lisbon. He’ll probably be back for dinner, though. But you never know when Miss Desta will make an appearance.”
“Thanks,” 47 said cautiously, as he lowered the camera. This was the situation he feared most. A one-on-one conversation with a genuine member of the paparazzi, in which he might give himself away. “I’m Tazio Scaparelli. I just flew in from Rome.”
“My name’s Tony Fazio,” the other photographer said. “My family’s from Italy-but that was a long time ago. I grew up in New Jersey. Who are you shooting for?”
Agent 47 had been waiting for that question, and had his answer ready. “I’m a freelancer. How ’bout you?”
“Star Track sent me,” Fazio replied. “They want pictures of Thorakis humping his mistress. Shot from three feet away, if possible.”
Agent 47 laughed. “Only three feet? You get the easy assignments.”