The French called Fez—or Fes—la Mysterieuse, and as Agent 47 pushed deeper into the oldest—and some said most dangerous—part of the city, he discovered what they meant.

About a quarter-million people were crammed into a maze of narrow cobblestone streets, busy souks, stately mosques, brooding blank-faced homes, and hidden gardens. And given the local propensity to not only change street names, but post them in a variety of languages, it was easy to understand why Fes El Bali, the old town, was sometimes referred to as “the most complicated square mile on Earth.”

Tourists were well advised to hire a guide before setting foot in the area.

But Agent 47 was equipped with something more reliable than a human guide. He had a small global positioning device that was preloaded with data provided by The Agency. The handheld GPS unit showed Marla Norton’s location, as well as that of The Agency’s local armory, where he could pick up any weapons he needed.

The security measures put in place over the last few years as part of the worldwide effort to counter global terrorism made it nearly impossible to transport weapons on commercial flights like the ones 47 had been forced to use in order to keep up with Marla. So, with the exception of his undetectable fiber-wire garrote, the assassin was unarmed. A problem he would soon correct.

Thanks to its location directly across the Strait of Gibraltar from Spain, as well as its reputation as the gateway to Africa, Morocco was a favorite with tourists from all over the world. Which was why none of the people who lived along the edge of the old city gave the assassin so much as a second glance as he strode through labyrinthine passageways lined with small stores.

Further on the streets were lined with high walls, the iron-strapped gates that opened onto private courtyards, and the homes that embraced them.

As the faithful were called to prayer, and the melodic sound of the adhan issued from the city’s minarets, the streets filled with locals and there were fewer and fewer European faces to be seen.

Unlike the young women who frequented the stores in the French-built Ville Nouvelle[1], many of whom would have looked at home in New York City, most of Fes El Bali’s females wore the burka whenever they ventured forth to fetch food, buy clothes, or visit relatives. Men sat on white plastic chairs, stood in doorways, or congregated in open air cafés where many passed the time by playing cards.

Everyone, regardless of age, gender, or station, was forced to share the narrow streets with the heavily burdened donkeys. In the absence of motor vehicles, these beasts were used to haul everything in and out of the medina[2]. And it was while he was taking refuge in a doorway, so that one of the sturdy animals could pass, that 47 noticed the scruffy-looking African.

A furtive figure ducked into a side corridor when the assassin glanced his way. A thief most likely, eager to steal a tourist’s wallet, but the agent could imagine other scenarios as well, including the possibility that the Puissance Treize was somehow aware of his presence. The tail was a problem in either case, and would have to be dealt with before he could enter the armory.

With that in mind Agent 47 quickened his pace, passed a tiny shop stuffed with consumer electronics, and took a sharp right-hand turn into a narrow passageway. Despite the heat of the day, some of the cobblestones were wet, and the passage smelled of urine, though it was empty except for an overflowing trash bin. At the end of the alley, all further progress was blocked by a door covered with peeling paint. The barrier appeared to be at least a hundred years old and was equipped with an equally venerable lock.

The agent ventured a quick look over his shoulder before dropping to one knee and peering through the keyhole. The view was limited, but he couldn’t see any sign of movement in the courtyard beyond, so he was inclined to take the chance. The pick made quick work of the worn tumblers, and it was only a matter of seconds before he heard a click, and the lock opened.

Another quick glance over his shoulder still showed no sign of pursuit.

Hinges squeaked as the agent pushed the door open and slipped inside. From all appearances, the small courtyard was being used to store construction materials. Scrap lumber was stacked next to a wooden box full of ceramic tiles and a rusty wheelbarrow. A short flight of stairs led up to a small landing, a palm in a large pot, and a second door. But 47 had no interest in entering the residence, as he heard the patter of footsteps out in the passageway and tossed a South African Krugerrand toward the stairs. The gold coin made a ringing noise as it hit, bounced once, and rattled into place.

The tail was at the door by that time, and having found it ajar, he gave the barrier a push. The African caught sight of the brightly glittering gold coin as the slab of wood swung out of the way, and he hurried to claim it.

The man was of average height, a good deal darker than most of the local population, and dressed in the pan-African uniform of a T-shirt and ragged pants. But what made this young man different from most was the fact that his right hand had been replaced by a rudimentary metal hook. The sort of prosthesis a village blacksmith might manufacture for a few dollars.

The African had covered half the distance to the gleaming Krugerrand when the fiber-wire noose dropped over his head. The assassin’s plan was to choke the young man into submission, ask him some questions, and then decide what to do with him.

But 47’s adversary brought the hook up so quickly that the prosthesis was inside the loop before the garrote could tighten. And because the inner surface of the hook had been honed until it was knife-sharp, the noose fell away.

Reacting to this turn of events, 47 pushed the African away, dropped into a crouch, and prepared to defend himself with whatever he could lay his hands on. The only implement that happened to be available was a rusty shovel that was leaning against the courtyard wall. He held it diagonally across his body where it could be used to block the other man’s hook.

But if the assassin’s opponent was intimidated, he showed no sign of it as the two men circled each other, looking for openings. A sheen of perspiration had appeared on the hook-man’s forehead, but judging from the steady look in his eyes, he was quite confident. His prosthesis was held low and back, and one well-placed arc could sink the hook into 47’s groin, where he would be able to jerk the blade upward, and thereby spill his victim’s intestines onto the pavement.

But the hook-man would have to close with the assassin in order to accomplish such a move, and as long as 47 had the shovel, the African would be forced to keep his distance.

Suddenly the agent tripped on a loose paving-stone, which brought his opponent rushing forward in an instant. But it was a ruse, and before 47’s opponent could react, the shovel was in motion. It made an audible clang as it came into contact with the African’s left knee.

His eyes went wide, and both the hook and the man’s remaining hand went to where the pain was, as he fell backward onto the pavement. Then Agent 47 was there, with the shovel blade pressing down on the man’s throat, as the amputee whimpered in pain.

“Who are you?” the assassin demanded. “And why were you following me?”

“Jamal,” the man on the ground choked out, as he tried to push the shovel away from his throat. “My name is Jamal. Please! I can’t breathe.”