“I’ll tell him,” the controller promised. “Take care of yourself.”

“I will,” 47 promised, and he returned the phone to his pocket.

That was when the crackling flames found the explosives that Marla Norton kept hidden in the crawl space above her living room, and the houseboat exploded.

There was a loud boom, followed by a spectacular fireworks display as chunks of fiery debris flew up into the gray sky and rained down onto the surface of the lake, where they made a hissing sound before bobbing on the surface. Mrs. Beasley’s home was largely untouched, except for her geraniums, which were destroyed when a piece of wreckage fell on them.

The oarlocks creaked as the assassin pulled away. More sirens joined the already strident chorus, and the rain fell gently around him.

The more than 7,000-square-foot suite took up the entire 16th floor of the Hotel France and had a sweeping view of Central Park. The reception area was dominated by a huge stained-glass window and the walls were covered with hand-painted depictions of the French countryside. All of which was quite familiar to Aristotle Thorakis, as he and his family had spent the Christmas holidays in the hotel just two years before, back when the $15,000-per-night price tag seemed reasonable.

But even with the 500-million-euro loan from the Puissance Treize in his pocket, equaling nearly 700 million U.S. dollars, the businessman was struggling to keep his shipping empire afloat, and he had come to view such expenditures as an indulgence. Especially when perfectly good accommodations could be had for $5,000 a night.

The cost of the suite included the services of a very proper English butler who was present to greet Thorakis as he stepped off the elevator. The man’s hair was combed straight back, his long face was solemn, and the immaculate business suit fit his body to a tee. Judging from the way he greeted the shipping magnate, he was blessed with an excellent memory—or a very good set of files.

“Good afternoon, sir. Welcome back,” he said smoothly. “My name is Bradley. Mr. Douay has asked me to direct you to the sitting room.”

“Thank you,” Thorakis said brusquely. “I know the way.”

The formal reception area gave way to a hall that led past a formal bar, then a richly paneled dining room, into the large sitting area beyond. Picture windows opened out onto the park, a grand piano stood next to a tiny dance floor, and pieces of formal furniture were grouped to form discrete conversation areas, one of which was occupied by a pair of nattily dressed bodyguards. Both held magazines, but kept their eyes fixed on Thorakis.

Douay was seated behind a handsome replica of a French provincial desk. He was talking on the phone, and nodded as Thorakis dropped into one of the upholstered chairs that faced him.

The Greek couldn’t help but take note of the fact that the Frenchman allowed what was clearly a routine business conversation to continue for a good five minutes before finally bringing the call to an end. Was Douay sending him a message? Seeking to emphasize the extent to which he was in control? Yes, the Greek decided, that was exactly what he was doing. And it served to amplify the anger Thorakis felt when Douay finally saw fit to acknowledge him.

“It was reckless of you to come here,” Douay said sternly.

“Really?” Thorakis replied heatedly. “That’s amusing, coming from you! Are you and your people insane? I just came from a board meeting where I learned that you and the rest of your morons sent a female operative to eliminate Agent 47, and she failed! That led to a very well-publicized massacre in Yakima, followed by an explosion in Seattle, and a great deal of unfortunate news coverage.

“So, how dare you lecture me on what is and isn’t reckless!” he said, standing and placing his fists on the desk.

Both of Douay’s security people were on their feet by that time, but the Frenchman waved them off. When he spoke, his voice was calm.

“The attempt to eliminate Agent 47 was a failure,” the Frenchman acknowledged soothingly. “However, I assure you that the mistake will be rectified. And I want you to know that the decision to kill 47 wasn’t made lightly. Comparative analysis shows that while he accounted for a mere three percent of the hits carried out by The Agency during the last fiscal year, those sanctions were the most difficult contracts the organization took on, and therefore constituted 37.2 percent of the organization’s gross profit.

“That makes 47 the most valuable asset The Agency has. So, were the Puissance Treize to eliminate him, it would better position our company to compete for the lucrative upmarket jobs-those exhibiting a difficulty quotient of seven or better. That’s where the serious money is. Do you follow our reasoning?”

Not only did Thorakis follow the man’s cold-blooded logic, he found that he admired the audacity of it, if not the ham-handed manner in which the plan had been carried out. And given the Frenchman’s conciliatory tone, the shipping magnate felt his anger begin to melt away. But that left the fear, which, since he had just come from The Agency’s board meeting, was considerable.

“Yes,” he said gravely, “I follow your reasoning. And I apologize if my comments came across as being intemperate. But there is tremendous reason for concern. After the attempt on Agent 47’s life, The Agency immediately went to work trying to find the leak. They’re busy conducting an exhaustive review of the lower echelon people right now, but it’s only a matter of time before they begin to look at senior management.”

Douay started to say something at that point, but Thorakis threw up a hand.

“Wait. There’s more. The decision has been made to send Agent 47 after your assassin…in the hope that she will lead him to a person who can reveal the traitor’s identity. And that’s why I’m here. According to the briefing they gave to the board, Agent 47 followed Marla Norton to Fez, Morocco, where she’s living under the protection of a man named Al-Fulani. Does he know about our agreement? Because if he does, and if 47 were to gain control of him, then I’m a dead man.”

“No, he does not,” Douay lied smoothly. “Your identity is a closely guarded secret. Only three people know who you are, and Al-Fulani isn’t one of them.”

That was exactly what Thorakis wanted to hear, so the magnate felt a tremendous sense of relief, and even managed a smile.

“Good. None of us are immortal…I know that,” he said. “But I’m not ready to go—not yet!”

“Nor am I!” Douay agreed jovially, as he rose to come around the desk. “So, now that you’re here, will you join me for lunch?”

“Thank you, but no,” Thorakis replied. “I have allergies, you know, and my chef is back at the hotel. Perhaps next time, though.”

“Yes, next time,” the Frenchman agreed politely. “Although it’s important to be circumspect. And with that in mind, perhaps you would allow my security people to take you out through the basement garage.”

“That would be perfect,” Thorakis said gratefully. They shook hands vigorously, and moments later he was gone.

Douay waited until the elevator had closed on the Greek before opening an attaché case, activating a satellite phone, and entering a two-digit code that triggered a much longer sequence of numbers.

The truth was that Al-Fulani was fully aware of the shipping magnate’s identity, which meant Marla Norton had an important job to do. She would have to protect Al-Fulani, or die with him.