A series of flashes strobed the room as the man named Alexandru Cosma, Agent 47, and Tazio Scaparelli took a series of pictures.
Then it was time to retrieve the dart, Holm’s Fabrique Nationale Forty-Nine, and two extra clips of.40 caliber ammunition. The FN constituted a much heavier piece than 47 had expected to acquire, and made for a welcome addition to his modest arsenal.
With those chores accomplished, the operative let himself out. The DO NOT DISTURB sign would keep the hotel’s staff at bay until the next day. At that point they would find a dead guest, who was not only dressed as one of their maids, but lying in the wrong room. A room registered to Mr. Cosma, who was nowhere to be found. It was a mystery that would keep the local authorities busy for months to come.
The hunter was dead…
The killer was waiting.
Holm had been gone for hours and Pruter was beginning to worry about her, when a bellman knocked on the door. Or was he a bellman?
The German positioned himself next to the door with the Glock at the ready. “Ja?”
“I have a package for you, sir,” the teenager said politely.
The killer peered through the keyhole, confirmed that the bellhop was holding a manila envelope in his hand, and opened the door a crack. The package slid in, a five-euro note went out, and the transaction was complete.
There was a positive click as the door swung closed. Pruter was a cautious man. That was one of the reasons why he was still alive. So rather than open the envelope right away he took a moment to examine it. The block lettering on the front said, TO HANS PRUTER. But there was no return address.
The killer felt ice water trickle into his bloodstream as he held the envelope up to the light. Could it contain a bomb? Or a dose of anthrax? Anything was possible-but he didn’t think so. Some dark rectangles could be seen through the paper, and when he rotated the container they slid from side to side.
The knife generated a soft click as the blade locked into place. Rather than open the top of the envelope Pruter was careful to slit one of the sides to avoid any triggering mechanisms hidden inside.
But the effort was wasted. The only items inside the container were a series of photographs that spilled out onto the floor: Pictures of Holm lying on a rug staring sightlessly into the camera.
The German’s knees made a solid thump as they hit the carpet. The killer’s hand shook as he began to sort through the photos that 47 had been able to print at a do-it-yourself kiosk in the local drugstore. They were of Holm, dressed in a maid’s uniform, lying dead on a rug that was identical to the one beneath him. Meaning that her body was somewhere inside the hotel.
The inarticulate bellow of rage and pain was followed by a long series of sobs that wracked his body, and tears flowed down his cheeks. Then Pruter saw that a picture postcard lay among the photos. It showed a panoramic view of gray, vegetation-clad battlements. The caption read, Costelo dos Mouros.
It was an obvious invitation—and one that Pruter planned to accept.
The Castle of the Moors had been constructed in the eighth or ninth century. The sprawling structure was situated on two neighboring mountain peaks, and offered magnificent views of both Sintra and the countryside beyond. Which meant that on the day when Dom Alfonso Henriques and his army arrived to liberate the area in 1147, the Moors must have been able to see the nobleman coming.
Later, during the Romantic period, repairs had been made. But there was little sign of that now as the sun started to dip below the western horizon, and the tourists began the long walk down to the city below.
Yet Pruter remained behind. Once the sun set and darkness settled over the battlements, Agent 47 would come. And, while nothing could ever compensate the German for Holm’s death, killing the assassin would make him feel slightly better. Not to mention the fact that it was his job to do so—and as a killer, he had a reputation to protect.
The main problem was that the castle not only covered a large area, but was built along the top of a steep hillside, and followed the contours of the land. As a result there were dozens of paths that led up and down, and hundreds of stone steps, all bordered by a jumble of ruins. So the first thing he had to do was familiarize himself with the complex, find the best spot to hide, and let 47 come to him.
Then, with the aid of the night-vision gear stowed in his pack, Hans would put the other assassin down for good.
The German went to work.
The satellite phone produced a series of soft beeps. The assassin’s eyes popped open and he activated the phone. The voice that came over the headset was insistent.
“Wake up, Agent 47… It’s time to go to work.”
It was dark inside the cavelike recess, but by craning his neck, he could catch a glimpse of city lights below. He fumbled the penlight, but aimed it away from the entrance.
“Diana? Is that you?”
“Of course it’s me,” the controller replied sweetly. “Who else would give up a perfectly good dinner to keep an eye on someone like you? Are you sure you want to go through with this? It seems like an iffy plan to me.”
“No,” 47 replied honestly. “I’m not sure. But it’s too late to bail out. The target should be in the ruins by now. Or am I wrong?”
“Oh, he’s there, all right,” Diana confirmed, as she eyed the monitor in front of her. The spooky-looking thermal images were being provided by one of three state-of-the-art surveillance satellites that The Agency owned. Just one of the reasons why it took so much money to keep the murder-for-hire organization up and running.
The Puissance Treize killer was represented by a stationary green blob. Smaller heat signatures, all of which belonged to various animals, left occasional streaks on the screen.
“He arrived an hour and sixteen minutes after you did.”
Having been forced to leave his weapons in Rome so he could play the part of Tazio Scaparelli, Agent 47 felt woefully underequipped. But the nearest armory was in Madrid, so there wasn’t enough time to acquire more firepower.
Having no desire to battle the Puissance Treize agent in Scaparelli drag, the assassin was wearing a new set of clothes, all of which were black. He had armed himself with the woman’s FN Forty-Nine, the DOVO razor, and the garrote. He was also carrying the air gun, plus three darts, which he planned to use on the German shepherd later that night. Assuming everything went well, that is-which was far from certain.
Meanwhile it seemed safe to assume that the opposition would be armed with a pistol, some sort of submachine gun, and a sniper’s rifle. Not to mention night-vision goggles. Of course, The Agency’s satellite—plus Diana’s ability to keep him advised of the German’s movements—would help to compensate for that.
“So, what did he choose?” 47 wanted to know. “The highest tower-or the rock pile above the ruins?”
“The rock pile,” the controller answered clinically.
“That’s what I would choose,” the operative said thoughtfully. “You can see just about everything from the tower, but there’s no way out, and our friend will want an escape route.”
“He isn’t your friend,” Diana said sternly. “Are you ready to move?”
There were hundreds of nooks and crannies in the ruins. The space 47 had chosen was vaguely rectangular in shape, barely high enough to stand in, and equipped with a dirt floor.
“I will be soon,” the agent said, as he aimed a stream of urine into a corner. A moment later, he said, “Okay, here I go. Keep me informed.”
“I will,” Diana promised him. “Be careful out there—and don’t forget to zip it up.”
The sun had set hours earlier, and it had turned cold. But the Puissance Treize assassin had anticipated that problem, and was dressed appropriately. And he could still see, thanks to the ambient light and the night-vision goggles he wore. The device worked better when he didn’t look directly at the lights of Sintra. So the German did the best he could to avoid that, while continually scanning the area around him.
It was a monotonous task that caused him to miss Holm even more. With her at his side, there had been no need to worry about the possibility that someone would sneak up on him from behind. But Holm was dead, and he was about to do battle with her killer.
Or was he? There was no sign of the assassin so far. Was the other man scared? Or had the postcard been a ruse? A trick intended to sideline the opposition while the enemy operative made an attack on Thorakis?