Then it was time to brush his teeth, push a chair in front of the door, and make a bed on the floor.

Sleep came quickly, as did morning, and the usual hunger pangs. But rather than seek out a good breakfast as he usually did, 47 was scheduled to break bread with a retired professor named Paul Rollet, who was said to be very familiar with Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani. The man Marla Norton was staying with—and might or might not be privy to the traitor’s identity.

But first it was necessary to put together a disguise. He chose something inspired by a German tourist he had seen in the hotel’s lobby. It took the better part of forty-five minutes to prepare, but the final “look” was quite convincing. It consisted of a bollehatte, a reddish beard, a loud shirt that Abaza Tirk had been happy to get rid of, a pair of knee-length shorts that matched the blue hat, and some sturdy sandals.

With his disguise in place the assassin went out on the street. The sun was up, but the air was still cool, and the city was still in the process of waking. All of which made for a pleasant walk as 47 left the hotel for the Paris Café, which was located six blocks away.

The agent had eaten in at least fifty “Paris Cafés” over the years, most of which were little more than parodies of the real thing, and to be avoided if at all possible. But when 47 arrived in front of the Paris Café Fez, and mounted the flight of stairs that led to a sun-splashed terrace, he was pleased to see what looked like an authentic Parisian restaurant, complete with awning-covered tables, white-shirted waiters, and a personable maître d’.

Having downloaded a photo of his contact the evening before, it was easy for Agent 47 to pick the Frenchman out of the crowd and saunter over to his linen-covered table. A straw hat shaded a long, narrow face, which was partially obscured by a bushy beard and the top half of a newspaper.

“Excuse me,” 47 said. “Are you Professor Rollet?” The words were in French, just one of many languages the assassin had been force-fed as a child.

The eyes that rose to meet 47’s were blue and bright with intelligence.

“Yes, I am,” the academic confirmed. “And you are?”

“I’m a friend of Bob Denard,” the assassin lied, referencing the infamous French mercenary.

“Ah, yes,” Rollet responded. “Welcome to Fez, monsieur. Please, have a seat. Would you care for some breakfast?”

“I certainly would,” 47 replied as he took a chair. “What would you recommend?”

“I like the gazelle horns,” the Frenchman replied equably. “They are shaped like a croissant, but filled with almond paste, and flavored with orange flower water.”

“I’ll take two,” Agent 47 said decisively, “and a cup of coffee.”

The two of them made small talk until a waiter appeared to take the newcomer’s order and refresh Rollet’s cup. Then, once they were alone, the conversation began in earnest.

“I’m looking for some information about Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani,” 47 stated, “and I hear you’re quite knowledgeable about the man.”

“I know what most people know,” the expatriate said cautiously. “Al-Fulani is a successful businessman, a well-known philanthropist, and a devout Muslim.”

“I think you’re far too modest about the extent of your knowledge,” the assassin said dryly, as he pushed an envelope across the surface of the table. “Because it’s my understanding that in addition to your work on behalf of the American Language Institute, you spent twenty years working for the French Directorate of External Security. Please accept a small gift, which if properly invested, will make your retirement that much more pleasant.”

The plain white envelope was thick with hundred-dollar bills, and without drawing any attention, the professor was quick to drop his newspaper on top of it.

“Both civil servants and educators are underpaid,” Rollet observed. “So your gift is welcome. And yes, even though the public Al-Fulani glitters like gold, another man dwells just below the surface.”

“How fascinating,” 47 said, as his breakfast arrived. “Please tell me more.”

So Rollet did, once the waiter had departed, and what followed was the story of a man who had inherited his father’s smuggling business and subsequently come of age while running hashish into Spain, where it was either sold or sent north to the Netherlands, Belgium, Germany, and other European countries.

Al-Fulani’s success soon caught the eye of competitors from as far away as Colombia, and it wasn’t long before some very unpleasant people began to call on the Moroccan, threatening to hijack his drug shipments unless he shared the profits with them. But, rather than cave in to the international cartels, Al-Fulani managed to maintain his independence.

At that point Professor Rollet paused to light a disreputable-looking pipe. A series of energetic puffs were required to get the moist, cherry-flavored tobacco going properly. But once the mix was alight, the academic took the fragrant smoke deep into his lungs, and smiled broadly.

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “It’s a dirty habit, but oh, how I enjoy it!”

Having finished his second pastry, 47 took another sip of coffee. “So, how did he do it?”

Rollet frowned. “Do what?”

“How did Al-Fulani manage to maintain his independence?” Agent 47 inquired patiently. The Frenchman took a long, slow look around, as if to make sure that none of the other diners were listening.

“People began to die,” the academic confided gravely. “People at the very top of the cartels, and it wasn’t long before the pressure came off Al-Fulani.”

“So, Fulani had them murdered?”

“Someone had them murdered,” Rollet said darkly. “But it wasn’t clear who. Though Al-Fulani clearly benefited, none of the acts could be traced to him.”

Perhaps Rollet didn’t know, or was reluctant to say the name out loud, but Agent 47 was pretty sure he knew which organization had been responsible for the deaths. Either the Puissance Treize had been paid to neutralize the Moroccan’s competition, or Al-Fulani had been co-opted by the organization. Not that it made much difference. All 47 cared about was the fact that Al-Fulani was in a position to know which one of The Agency’s employees was providing their rivals with proprietary information.

“I understand he has a house here,” the assassin said casually. “What else should I be aware of?”

Rollet’s pipe had gone out again by that time, and the professor took a moment to strike a wooden match and relight it.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, as a new cloud of smoke formed a halo around his head. “That all depends, doesn’t it? If you want to congratulate Al-Fulani on a life well lived, then you could walk up to his front door in the Ville Nouvelle, and deliver your message to one of the guards. But, assuming your intentions are a bit less straightforward than that, there’s the orphanage to consider. He visits every Friday night. Usually in the company of close friends or business associates-but occasionally by himself.”

Agent 47 raised an eyebrow. “He visits an orphanage?”

“Yes,” Rollet said cynically. “That’s what he calls it anyway. But some say the organization is a cover for other, less virtuous activities.”

“Such as?”

Rollet looked away, as if reluctant to voice what he’d heard.

“I really couldn’t say. But if you’re interested…the orphanage is located in the Mellah.”

“Which means?”

“The Mellah is the old Jewish quarter,” the academic explained. “It dates back to 1438, when the Jews were forced to live in a section known as Al-Mallah, or saline area. A term that eventually became synonymous with salted earth, or cursed ground.

“Then, when Israel came into existence in 1948, most of the Jewish population left Fez,” Rollet continued. “That created a vacuum that rural Moroccans rushed to fill. But the Jews left some beautiful homes in the Mellah—and the orphanage is in one of them. Ask anyone-they’ll show you where it is.”