He smiled.

“Congratulations, son,” the headmaster said warmly, glancing around to make certain no one was near. “That was your first kill—and it won’t be your last! The problem with Number 6 was that he enjoyed hurting people, a flaw that ultimately would have limited his usefulness. Because pleasure skews judgment. So you did us a favor, freed yourself from tyranny, and proved what you can do. I’m proud of you, and so-for that matter-is Dr. Ort-Meyer.

“But from this point forward,” he added, his expression turning grim, “you are not to kill without permission. Is that understood?”

Number 47, his eyes wide with wonder, nodded his head.

“Good,” Lazlow said contentedly. “Now, have some waffles.”

And, looking back over the intervening years, breakfast had been the most important meal of the day ever since.

A man dressed in a Nike sports outfit blew a whistle, which brought Agent 47 back to the present, and sent a team of mostly naked preteens tumbling across the floor. Though his face was hidden, Bedo seemed utterly enthralled, as were the other pedophiles seated around the low-rise stage, but the assassin was looking elsewhere.

While he had been reliving his youth, Marla Norton had slipped into the room, and was positioned on the far side of the platform. Agent 47 silently cursed himself for allowing his attention to drift.

The Puissance Treize agent wasn’t alone. Two men, both armed with AK-47s, had taken up positions immediately behind her.

Judging from the manner in which the young woman was scanning the crowd, she was looking for someone. And there was very little doubt as to who that person might be.

The Silverballers were within easy reach, but 47 didn’t want to shoot his way out of the building unless he was forced to do so, which meant he would have to rely on his disguise for protection. Thus, while the children performed handstands and made awkward tumbling runs, the assassin watched Marla out of the corner of his eye.

Then, as her gaze slid across him, 47 felt a tremendous sense of relief. The Kufa disguise had held!

For the moment, anyway.

Agent 47 felt his pulse quicken. If Marla was present-was Al-Fulani nearby? Waiting outside, perhaps? Ready to enter, once he got the all clear? That was the assassin’s hope, but it wasn’t to be. After a few more moments, Marla wrinkled her nose in what might have been an expression of disgust, and left the room. The security agents followed.

Almost immediately thereafter he heard the front door open and shut, indicating that they had departed. Yet their very presence told him that they suspected he might be there. Knowing his target wasn’t likely to appear, Agent 47 felt a keen sense of disappointment. But he was forced to suppress the emotion so he could focus his attention on extricating himself from the orphanage.

The last performance was coming to a conclusion by then, and Al-Fulani’s customers were busy choosing which performers they wanted to take upstairs, when the assassin surreptitiously stabbed Bedo in the arm. The American produced a startled yelp, started to say something, then slumped forward as the sedative kicked in.

Staff members rushed to help-but 47 was quick to shoo them away.

“Don’t worry,” he assured them. “It happens all the time. I’ll take Mr. Bedo back to his hotel and put him to bed. He’ll be as good as new in the morning.”

Having no reason to doubt the man in the red fez, and being understandably happy to rid themselves of what could have been a problem, the orphanage’s staff hurried to escort the duo out through security, and load the unconscious Bedo into the van. It was dark by then, but Agent 47 discovered that traffic was a little bit lighter than before, as he drove the American back to the Oasis Hotel.

The question—and a rather important one—was whether Mr. Ghomara had been discovered, or was still lying in the locked linen room. Having circled the hotel twice without detecting any sort of police presence, Agent 47 concluded that no alarm had been raised. And since neither Ghomara nor Bedo had seen him without the Kufa disguise, it didn’t matter what they told the police the following morning.

Not that Bedo was likely to be all that forthcoming, given his visits to the orphanage or his true reason for visiting Fez.

The assassin entered the garage without incident, chose one of the more remote parking spots, and shut the engine down. Thanks to the power lift it was possible to unload the wheelchair, move Bedo into an elevator, and return the American to his room without any assistance. Then, having removed the Silverballers from the chair’s cargo pocket, he returned both weapons to their holsters.

Bedo’s head came up at that point. The mask had fallen off.

“Where am I?” the American demanded groggily, as he blinked his eyes. “What happened?”

Agent 47 thought about his plan to kill Bedo and replace him with a heavily sedated Al-Fulani. The American had no idea how lucky he was. “You’re in your hotel room,” the man in the red fez answered evenly. “Which is all you need to know.” And with that, the assassin was gone.

The acacia tree stood like a lonely sentinel on the vast windswept savannah, its large umbrella-shaped canopy of gnarled branches, small leaves, and needle-sharp thorns throwing a pool of welcome shade onto the bone-dry ground where a group of one hundred and twenty-three Dinka refugees had stopped to rest.

They had dark black skin, almond-shaped eyes, finely wrought features, and wore brightly patterned robes of red, blue, and gold. Many had traditional tribal scars on their foreheads. Some had children, who were so malnourished that they simply sat on their mother’s laps, too tired to brush the flies off their eyelids. The group had a small flock of goats that hadn’t been eaten because of the milk they gave. But except for the treadle-powered sewing machine that one elderly gentleman and his family had brought along, the group had very few possessions.

The Dinkas were just a few of the thousands of black Africans who had been forced to flee southwestern Sudan by the bloodthirsty Janjaweed militia. Though naturally tall and slim, many members of the group were emaciated due to a lack of nutrition and the intestinal diseases that eternally plagued them. Hope, such as it was, lay across the border in Chad, where the refugees might be able to find shelter in a European-run camp.

But first the Dinkas would have to reach Chad before the ruthless, camel-riding militia members could catch up with them. If that happened, the men would be murdered, the women would be raped, and the children would be killed or left to die. Which was why Joseph Garang, the group’s unofficial leader, was squinting into the rising sun. If trouble found the group, it would arrive from the east, where the Arab-dominated government held sway.

Garang was a slender man, with richly black skin and intelligent brown eyes. Though only twenty-seven years of age, he looked older, and was considered to be an elder because so many of the real elders had been killed. Many of the Dinkas were Christians, and had just begun to sing one of their favorite hymns when Garang spotted a momentary flash of light low on the eastern horizon.

He stood, stared across the flat savannah, and wished he had a pair of binoculars. Had the momentary glint been produced by sunlight reflecting off a shard of broken glass? Or something more sinister? There was no way to be certain, but this was North Africa, where all who lived fell into two broad categories: The hunters and the hunted. Which meant that anything-even a wink of reflected light-could signal a predator’s presence.