The conversation continued for a while, but it soon became apparent that 47 had gained everything he was likely to obtain from Rollet, so the assassin stood, bowed, and took his leave.

The interaction was observed by a man who, like 47, looked like a tourist enjoying a light breakfast, but was actually employed by Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani.

The Moroccan was well aware of 47’s presence—and the hunter was about to become the hunted.

Darkness had fallen on Fez, and Marla Norton felt frightened, as she looked out through the open window to the busy boulevard three stories below. The evening air was warm, heavy with the rich odors of the food that the street vendors were hawking, and busy with the sounds of the city.

While fear wasn’t something she was accustomed to feeling, it was an emotion that the Puissance Treize agent had experienced a lot lately. Which was absurd, given the fact that it was she who was lying in wait for the man called 47. Not the other way around.

The trap consisted of the three-hundred-foot stretch of sidewalk located in front of Al-Fulani’s brightly lit mansion. The twenty-six-room, eight-bath home boasted a Mediterranean-style ceramic tile roof, a white façade, and several ornate balconies. Clusters of bottom-lit palm trees bracketed both sides of the home, and provided the structure with a sense of glamour. They also lit the surroundings, making it more difficult for intruders to get past the guards.

The most important component of the trap, however, was a “retired” Royal Marine named Ted Cooper, who was a graduate of the British Army’s famous Joint Sniper Training Establishment, and was officially credited with six confirmed kills in Iraq. An accomplishment Cooper had been advised to keep to himself, lest the Islamic militants catch wind of it, and decide to even the score.

Of course, Al-Fulani’s chief of security-a man named Ammar-had other assets in place as well, three of whom were walking along the busy boulevard with him. Thus, if Cooper failed to spot Agent 47 from above, Ammar and his men would nail him down below.

That was the plan, but there were still dozens of people to screen as they came and went, and it was Marla’s opinion that the members of Al-Fulani’s security staff were far too cavalier where 47 was concerned. In spite of her repeated warnings, they clearly considered themselves to be superior to the European abruti[3] that the silly female was so frightened of.

And maybe they were right.

In the wake of the disastrous shoot-out in Yakima, her unsettling meeting with Mrs. Kaberov, and the loss of her home, Marla’s self-confidence was at an all-time low. And now, having fled Kaberov’s predictable rage, Marla found herself dependent on Al-Fulani’s goodwill, which, predictably enough, was based on her willingness to serve him both professionally and personally. Regardless of her own desires.

This had been the case the night before, when Marla was “invited” to participate in a ménage à trois with the Moroccan and a teenaged girl who had been snatched off the streets of Johannesburg a week earlier. It hadn’t been an especially enjoyable experience, but far better than one of Mrs. Kaberov’s.45 caliber “gifts.”

The thought was sufficient to drive the young woman back to the powerful scope that had been set up next to Cooper’s tripod-mounted 7.62 mm L96 sniper’s rifle. The marksman seemed patient, very patient, which was good. As well he should be, since a single kill like this one could net him more money in a few seconds than the Royal-bloody-Marines would pay in a year.

Marla stared through the scope at the mostly young, upper-class men and women who continued to stream past Al-Fulani’s home on their way to fashionably late dinners or one of the alcohol-free nightclubs that had sprung up within the Ville Nouvelle. Spotting one particular individual in such a crowd would be hard enough, but her target’s tendency to use disguises would make the task that much more difficult, since each face had to be examined thoroughly before Marla could move on to the next.

As the hours dragged on, having examined and rejected hundreds of faces, Marla was beginning to wonder if 47 would ever appear when a man matching 47’s height and build casually strolled into her field of view. A German tourist, judging from his clothing. But that meant nothing. When Marla put the spotting scope on the man’s face her suspicions were confirmed! Beard or no beard, that was the man she’d seen in Yakima and Seattle! The very sight of him caused her heart to pound with excitement as her quarry turned to eye the mansion.

That was the moment when a second German tourist-dressed in identical fashion-arrived from the other direction.

Now, with two look-alikes on the street below, and both in motion, it would have been nearly impossible to tell Cooper how to distinguish between them. And to do so quickly enough to ensure the results she wanted. So Marla gave the only order she could logically give.

“The German tourists! The ones wearing the loud shirts! Kill both of them!”

Cooper’s rifle was silenced, and there was plenty of background noise, so no one heard the subsonic 7.62 mm NATO round as it sped through the space that the first German tourist’s head had occupied a fraction of a second earlier, and slammed into the second one.

The force of the impact threw the tourist to the ground and people ran every which way. Marla came unglued as the first man disappeared.

“You were too slow!” she shouted angrily. “You were supposed to kill both of them and you let one get away!”

“Don’t be stupid,” Cooper countered crossly as he continued to sweep the street below. “There wasn’t enough time to acquire both targets.”

“Well, acquire this,” the furious Puissance Treize agent declared as she drew the Walther and began to fire.

The first shot wasn’t fatal, so Cooper began to turn toward his attacker, but it was too late as four additional 9 mm rounds tore into his body. Finally, having put a final slug into the sniper’s head, Marla provided the only epitaph the Brit was likely to receive: “Bloody idiot.”

If the first tourist had truly been 47, Marla was convinced that she’d lost her only real shot at him. But then a voice crackled over the walkie-talkie clipped to her belt. The words came in short bursts—and were accompanied by the sound of heavy breathing.

“This is Ammar. He’s on the run. But we’re right behind him.”

That was when Marla knew 47 was still alive. A real tourist might have taken cover, but wouldn’t be on the run. “That’s brilliant!” she said excitedly. “Don’t lose him. Where are you?”

“We’re heading in the direction of the souk Dabbaghin,” came the confident reply. “He’s running like a rabbit!”

“A very dangerous rabbit,” Marla cautioned. “I’m on my way.”

Idiot!

As he took a right, followed by a left, Agent 47 was angry. Not at the men who were following him. But at himself. He’d been stupid enough to walk right into their trap. Rather than prepare for the reconnaissance the way he normally would have, the assassin had gone for an after-dinner walk, and chosen to stroll past Al-Fulani’s mansion on the way back to the hotel. A stupid impulse that had very nearly gotten him killed.

But how had she known he was coming? Had Marla caught a glimpse of him during the last few days? Had Rollet sold him out? Or was this latest fiasco the work of the very traitor he was looking for? There was no way to know, and no more time to think about it, as a bullet pinged off the wall to his left and forced him to concentrate on the business at hand. The assassin pushed a man out of the way and ran even faster. A woman went down as he slammed into her, a man swore at him in Arabic, and another gunshot sent people fleeing for cover.