“Okay, Jamal,” the assassin said unsympathetically, as he put his right foot on the shovel. “Why were you following me?”

The response was little more than an inarticulate gurgling noise, so 47 was forced to remove his foot, and thereby relieve the pressure on Jamal’s tortured windpipe.

“Now, try again.”

“Money,” came the raspy response. “I was going to take your money.”

“That’s one possibility,” the agent allowed darkly. “But there are others. How can I be sure that you’re just a thief?”

“My hand,” Jamal said piteously, as he held up the hook for inspection. “They cut it off.”

It had long been the Muslim practice to amputate hands, arms, and in some cases legs, as a punishment for thievery. While this approach was gradually falling out of favor in many Middle Eastern countries, it was still considered an effective deterrent in others. A fact that seemed to support Jamal’s claim. So, having completed a quick pat down, Agent 47 backed out of reach.

“I suggest that you find a new line of work. You aren’t very good at this one.”

Jamal continued to hug his knee and moan softly as 47 put the shovel back where he had found it.

“I’ll leave the gate ajar,” the assassin promised, as he bent over to retrieve the Krugerrand. “And don’t bother to get up. I’ll see myself out.”

Having left the little courtyard behind, Agent 47 paused at the point where the side passage met the main thoroughfare, and took a moment to adjust his red silk tie. Then, having assured himself there weren’t any additional Jamals waiting to attack him, he resumed his journey.

A right-hand turn took him down a short flight of stairs, under an arch, and past a group of boys who were playing with a soccer ball. It soon became clear that what had once been a residential area had gradually transitioned into a small souk with specialized stores slotted along both sides of the street. The establishment 47 was looking for lay about a hundred feet farther on, just around a gentle curve and opposite a family-run grocery. The sign out front read MEN’S CLOTHING, in both English and Arabic, followed by ABAZA TIRK, PROPRIETOR, in smaller letters, carved out and painted in gold.

Having stopped to inspect the overly ripe fruit displayed on the other side of the thoroughfare, and to make sure that he hadn’t acquired a new tail, Agent 47 was forced to wait for a group of black-clad women to pass before crossing over to the store. Like the shops located to either side, the clothing store was quite narrow, which made it necessary to hang clothes in tiers, the highest of which were suspended just below the ceiling, and only accessible with a long pole. It was hot and musty, and there wasn’t much light, but what there was came from ceiling fixtures that were at least seventy-five years old.

A well-worn aisle led straight back to where a man with generally even features, slightly bulging eyes, and a servile manner stood waiting. He was dressed in a red fez, a well-tailored gray suit, and a pair of black Moroccan slippers. A young man sat behind the counter seemingly half-asleep.

“Good afternoon, effendi,” the well-dressed man said, as he dry-washed his hands. “My name is Abaza Tirk. Welcome to my humble store. I can see that you are a man of taste and discernment. How can my family and I be of assistance?”

“Abd-el-Kader said, ‘Death is a black camel, which kneels at the gates of all,’” 47 replied matter-of-factly.

“And Ben Sira said, ‘Fear not death, for it is your destiny,’” the diminutive store owner replied, as the servile manner dropped away. “Welcome Agent 47-I was told to expect you. Please come this way.”

The assassin followed Tirk past a small counter, and as he passed he noticed that the young man seated behind the till was cradling a mini-Uzi in his lap.

There was a momentary pause as Tirk entered a code into a keypad located at the back of the crowded store. It was concealed by a small scrap of cloth tacked to the wall. The metal door made no sound as it swung open. A motion detector activated two rows of lights, and Agent 47 felt the temperature drop as Tirk pulled the door closed behind them.

Unlike the dark, slightly musty clothing store, The Agency’s armory in Fez was sleekly modern. Closely spaced racks of weapons took up both walls, all grouped by category, and labeled appropriately. Ammunition, accessories, and cleaning gear were stored below the firearms in stainless steel cabinets.

“So,” the clothier said engagingly, “what will it be? A Steyr AUG perhaps? Very stylish. An FR-F1 sniper’s rifle? Or maybe you’re in the market for something with more heft. I have a nice RAI Model 500.50 caliber sniper’s rifle. Agent Orbov made good use of it just two months ago.”

“No,” 47 replied simply. “The RAI is almost fifty inches long-which makes it very difficult to hide. Not to mention the fact that it’s single action, and.50 caliber ammo is damned heavy. I’ll take a Walther WA 2000, plus a Mossberg model 500 with a pistol grip, and two Silverballers. One short, and one long, with silencers for both. Plus a double holster rig, a dual-use drug kit, and a throwing knife.”

“Of course,” Tirk said approvingly. “A weapon for every occasion.”

After they had collected the weapons, they moved through another door at the rear of the long, narrow room to a soundproofed range that lay beyond. Once he was satisfied that all of the guns were in good working order, 47 loaded them into a pair of lockboxes that looked like travel-worn suitcases. Each had its own alarm and self-destruct system.

“The cases are rather heavy, so my number four son will accompany you,” Tirk said, as the containers were loaded onto a hand cart. “Not to mention the fact that we have our share of thieves in Fes El Bali.”

“That’s what I hear,” the assassin commented soberly.

“Will there be anything else?” Tirk wanted to know.

“Yes,” 47 said, as he eyed the store owner. “I want your hat.”

Rather than allow Tirk’s son to accompany him all the way to the hotel, Agent 47 opted to have the young man take him to a point where a major street cut through Fes El Bali, where it became possible to hail a cab. Even though Tirk and his family were presumably trustworthy, there was no need for them to know where the assassin was staying. Furthermore, it would be unusual for a guest to bring luggage into the hotel on a hand cart.

As it happened, there was barely room to squeeze him, the gun cases, and a suitcase full of clothes into the little Peugeot 205. But after much pushing and shoving, the task was accomplished. Traffic was horrendous, and in spite of the cabdriver’s best efforts to bully his way through the city’s eternal gridlock, the sun was low in the western sky by the time 47 arrived at the Sofitel Palais Jamai Fes, paid the fare, and had his bags taken up to his room.

As was his practice, the assassin allowed the bellman to enter the room first. Once it was clear that he wasn’t about to walk into an ambush, 47 followed.

A quick glance told him that everything was just as he had left it, so he gave the bellman a tip and closed the door. A subsequent thorough inspection confirmed that the room was free of threats. Having had to deal with surveillance devices, explosives, and poisonous reptiles at various times in the past, he was understandably cautious.

Thus satisfied, Agent 47 ordered a meal from room service, and requested that the waiter leave the cart outside the door. Having watched the hotel employee depart through the peephole, the agent opened the door and brought the tray inside. His dinner, which consisted of roasted lamb and cooked vegetables on a bed of flavored couscous, was delicious. Especially when paired with a sip of hearty burgundy.

Then it was time to strip down to his underwear and take the Silverballers apart while watching the BBC World News. He carefully examined each oil-slicked part for flaws, and automatically fingered for burrs prior to reassembling the weapons. This was a task he could perform blindfolded. Each nine-round clip made a comforting click as it slid home. With that accomplished, he found it a simple matter to pump a round into each chamber, set the safeties, and prepare the two-gun holster rig for the next day.