Sirens had begun to bleat, but they were back in the Ville Nouvelle, where the real German tourist was being tended to and the police were trying to sort out the situation. The man he had modeled himself after-the one he’d previously seen in the lobby of his hotel-had unwittingly paid for 47’s life with his own. The agent knew that he had to lose this particular disguise at the first possible opportunity.

Even though he was outnumbered, 47 still had some advantages, not the least of which was the fact that his pursuers had allowed themselves to become strung out. This provided the assassin with an opportunity to lay a quick trap of his own, as one fellow rounded a corner and came to a momentary stop directly beneath a streetlight. The long-barreled Silverballer barked twice. The target staggered and went down.

That was 47’s cue to take off again, conscious of the fact that reinforcements were on the way and might cut off his line of retreat.

Ammar began to round the corner, spotted the crumpled body, and pulled back again.

“He shot Dabir,” the security operative said into the radio. “So be careful.”

“Keep after him!” Marla’s voice insisted through Ammar’s radio. “Don’t let him out of your sight!”

“You stay off the radio!” Ammar snapped arrogantly, as another man, Jumah, caught up with him. “We’ll take care of this. Return to the mansion.”

“What’s going on?” Jumah wanted to know, his brown eyes alight with excitement. “Did you take a shot at him?”

“No, he was gone by the time I arrived,” Ammar temporized. “You take the lead. I need to catch my breath.”

Jumah, who was the youngest man on the team, and, Ammar knew, eager to establish his own reputation, took off at a sprint. Ammar waited for the telltale sound of a gunshot, and when none was forthcoming, followed in Jumah’s footsteps.

As he did he glanced back at the body and watched as a pair of preteen boys materialized from the gloom, beginning to rifle through Dabir’s pockets.

He swore bitterly. Dabir was his brother-in-law, and there would be hell to pay once he got home.

Fez was home to many derbs, or districts, each having its own epicenter with a mosque, bakery, and public fountain. And that’s where Jumah found himself as the street he had been following delivered him into a square that boasted a large fountain.

But his quarry was nowhere to be seen, and since there were at least four other passageways that led out of the open area, he had no choice but to stop and look around. The security agent turned a full circle, noticed that the square was deserted, and wondered why.

Jumah was still pondering this when a voice came from behind him. The words were in French.

“Are you looking for me?”

Jumah whirled and was in the process of bringing the Jordanian-manufactured 9 mm VIPER up into firing position when he saw that a man wearing a brightly colored shirt had risen from the waters of the fountain and was peering down at him. Even worse was the fact that the stranger was holding two semiautomatic pistols.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” the man said evenly, and he fired both weapons. The heavy slugs pounded Jumah to the ground as gunshots echoed between the surrounding buildings, and the VIPER skittered away.

“Jumah?” A male voice inquired from one of the dead man’s pockets. “What’s going on?”

Agent 47 returned one Silverballer to its holster, jumped down onto the cobblestones, and carried out a quick search of Jumah’s body. Having appropriated the walkie-talkie, the assassin fled.

More sirens had joined the chorus as Ammar entered the empty square. The Moroccan saw Jumah and felt a momentary pang of guilt, knowing it could have been his body lying there.

Then, having detected a flicker of movement on the far side of the square, Ammar ran over to the fountain. Careful to keep his head down, he began to circle it. Having lost two of his men, it was clear that Fulani’s sharmuta was correct. The European was dangerous.

“Ammar? Fahd? Answer me!” The whore’s voice came over the radio, thick with fear.

But Ammar knew the man they were chasing must have taken Jumah’s radio, so he sent one last message to Fahd, ordering him to maintain radio silence. A strategy that was likely to work both for and against them, to the extent that it kept Ammar and Fahd from coordinating their movements.

To hell with the woman.

Having followed his prey’s watery trail into a narrow passageway, Ammar felt cautiously hopeful. The ground was dry, and the infidel was wet, which meant Ammar had tracks that were easy to follow, at least temporarily. The wet prints led him up a long flight of stairs and under a two-hundred-year-old arch before they suddenly disappeared.

That brought the security agent to a cautious halt. He was examining the well-lit patch of ground in front of him when a fiber-wire noose dropped over his head and began to tighten around his neck.

Ammar dropped his gun and brought his hands up-but it was too late. He was jerked off his feet. The Moroccan attempted to scream, but discovered that he couldn’t.

His legs kicked uselessly in the air.

After a few moments, the kicking stopped.

Time was of the essence.

47’s sandals made a wet slapping sound as they hit the pavement, and his damp clothes began to rub his skin raw as the assassin followed a narrow street toward the tanner’s quarter-an ancient section of the city where animal skins were left to soak in vats of dye before being hung out to dry. Lights had been rigged so that tourists could view the scene at night, and the air was heavy with the foul odor of the pigeon droppings that were used to make the leather more pliable.

And that’s where Fahd was waiting.

While the operative was at least thirty pounds overweight, Fahd was smart and knew Fez like the back of his hand. Knowing which way Dabir’s killer was headed, and being well aware of his own physical limitations, the Moroccan had cut over to a main street, hailed a cab, and arrived outside the souk Dabbaghin a few minutes later.

Thus, the moment Agent 47 appeared on the far side of the craterlike vats, Fahd began to fire. One or two of his VIPER’s 9 mm slugs may have struck the assassin, but from what Fahd could tell neither did any real damage. Either way, Fahd had emptied his pistol and was busy fumbling for a second clip when the assassin fired in return.

What felt like a sledgehammer struck Fahd’s shoulder, snatched the fat man off his feet, and dumped him into a vat full of blue dye. The liquid felt cold as it closed over his head and set fire to his wounded shoulder.

He struggled to right himself, and the moment that the Moroccan’s feet made contact with the bottom of the vat, he pushed himself back up. Fahd spluttered as he broke the surface, opened his eyes, and immediately wished he hadn’t as he found himself looking into the barrel of a shiny gun. There was a flash of light, and Fahd was gone.

The police arrived a few minutes later, but the mysterious European had disappeared, leaving four bodies in his wake. All of whom were tied to Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani; a man who gave generously to police charities and was known to place a high value on his privacy. So the corpses were given over to their respective families, funerals were scheduled for the following day, and the deaths were ascribed to gang activity. Which, sadly enough, was on the upswing.