“The Otero brothers?” the assassin inquired mildly. “Who are they? A new boy band?”

“No,” Diana replied firmly. “They work for the Tumaco cartel in Colombia. They specialize in killing judges, government officials, and anyone else who gets in the organization’s way. And based on the latest intelligence, it looks like they have orders to hit Al-Fulani. It seems the cartel wants a cut of the money the Moroccan makes by smuggling drugs into Europe, and he refused. That’s where the Otero brothers come in.”

The assassin felt a rising sense of frustration. No matter how hard he tried to move this assignment forward, it always seemed to slip back. Now, instead of abducting Al-Fulani as planned, The Agency wanted him to protect the miserable bastard!

But Diana was right. It would be pretty hard to pry information out of a dead man. And if the Oteros showed up in the middle of the snatch, then everything would go straight to hell. The risk factor had just ratcheted up to an eleven.

“So how’s the internal audit going?” the agent inquired, as the couple to his right began to make noisy love.

“They haven’t found anything so far,” Diana admitted. “Which makes your initiative that much more important. Check your inbox. You’ll find everything we have on the Oteros waiting there. Including their love affair with explosives. Bombs big enough to bring down entire buildings, blow up airplanes, and demolish bridges.”

Someone else might have interpreted that particular approach as demonic overkill, given the amount of collateral damage that would be involved. But 47 saw the strategy for what it was. After all, why sneak into a well-protected casino and inject the owner with an overdose of insulin, if you can just hire some poor slob to drive a truck loaded with explosives into the parking lot underneath the building? And detonate the load from a hotel room blocks-perhaps even miles-away.

But that sort of thing wasn’t tolerated everywhere. Sometimes the subtle approach was necessary. Which was why individuals like 47 were so sought after.

The woman was picking up the pace, her head was thrown back, and she was making high-pitched whining noises as her breasts flopped up and down and her friends looked on.

“I’ll look forward to meeting the Oteros,” the agent said dryly. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” Diana said. “There are four brothers—and each one of them is worth $250,000.”

“Then there’s a client other than ourselves?”

“Yes,” the controller replied. “A certain agency within the American government would love to see the Tumaco cartel fail. And they don’t like the Oteros, either.”

“Well, there isn’t a whole lot of time, but I’ll do what I can,” he promised.

“Mr. Nu will be pleased,” Diana said evenly. “And one other thing…”

Agent 47 looked skyward.

“Yes?”

“Tell the young woman to your right that she’s getting a sunburn.”

There was only one large public square within the city of Fez; that was where most of the main events involved in the music festival were scheduled to be held. And as Agent 47 exited a cab deep within the area known as Fes El Bali, he saw that preparations were nearing completion. The streets that emptied into the square had been blocked with police barricades, a huge stage had been set up at one end of the plaza, and the area was thick with workmen.

Having paid his fare, the assassin made a beeline for the closest security checkpoint. He wasn’t carrying any weapons other than a garrote, and was relying on the ID card that dangled from his neck to get him in.

The queue continued to move ahead in fits and starts as a policeman examined the cards proffered by the people who had lined up in front of the operative. Then came the moment of truth as 47 stepped forward.

The ID was the rightful property of British folk singer Peter Samo, who was currently passed out on Agent 47’s couch. It had been altered by the simple expedient of pasting a picture of the Jammer persona over the photo of a petulant Samo. It was an amateurish job by most standards, but the panoply of henna tattoos that covered the Jammer’s hairless skull, face, neck, and bare arms proved such a distraction that the cop barely glanced at the card before waving him through.

Which, to 47’s way of thinking, was a clear indication that if the Otero brothers wanted to sneak into the square, they certainly could. And quite possibly had, since the setup phase of the festival was the perfect time to plant a bomb for detonation the following evening. The easiest way to prolong Al-Fulani’s life, at least for the moment, would be to remove the device. Or, if the bomb was too complex for the agent to handle, an anonymous call to the police would take care of the matter as well. Once that problem was out of the way, the assassin could turn his attention to finding the Colombians. A necessity if he were to prevent the Oteros from activating some sort of backup plan.

The problem was that there were literally hundreds of places to conceal one or more bombs on, under, or in the vicinity of the stage. Which meant there was lots of work to do. By far the easiest and most effective place to plant explosives would be directly under the performance platform, so the assassin resolved to begin his inspection there.

It was dark under the stage, and a maze of crisscrossed supports made it difficult to move around. But thanks to a penlight and his willingness to crawl through small spaces, 47 was able to thoroughly inspect the area under the platform. Half an hour later, without having found a bomb or any signs of suspicious activity, he was forced to brush off his clothes and return to the stage, where a team of electricians was working on the sound system.

Having checked to ensure that none of the workmen looked anything like the Otero brothers, 47 began to examine anything that might contain—or be—a bomb. He was stopped and questioned about his activities by a suspicious security guard, but the assassin explained that he was looking for his lost cell phone. That, plus a look at the Jammer’s fake ID, was sufficient to put the guard’s concerns to rest.

Just as 47 was about to give up and leave the platform, a couple of newcomers appeared. And unlike all of the other men in the area, they were wearing stylish sports coats on a very warm day. Why? Because they’re armed, that’s why-a problem he could relate to. Yet they weren’t the Oteros, so who were they? Plainclothes police? Goons hired to protect the Oteros? Bodyguards for some mullah or another?

Then he had his answer, as a demurely dressed Marla Norton mounted the platform, closely followed by more men wearing sports coats. The assassin felt a jolt of adrenaline enter his bloodstream. Was Al-Fulani about to make an early appearance? Or had his security team simply come to check out the situation? Planning what to do if the shit hit the fan?

The second possibility seemed the more likely of the two, and as they moved closer, 47 went to one knee next to a row of spotlights, and pretended to inspect them.

Marla glanced at the tattooed man, wondered why anyone would do such a thing to his body, and turned to look out over the square.

If there were a worse situation to put her protector in, the Puissance Treize agent couldn’t imagine what it would be. Buildings stood shoulder to shoulder all around the square, and any of them could provide cover to someone with a rifle or a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

Then, as if that wasn’t bloody well bad enough, there was the crowd to consider. It would be easy for an assassin like 47 to use the mob for cover, get in close, and bag Al-Fulani from twenty feet away. Or-given the fact that other dignitaries would be onstage-there was always the chance that somebody would try to eliminate one of them by lobbing a grenade onto the platform. Then there was the possibility of a suicide bomber, a riot triggered by religious fundamentalists, or a falling light, for God’s sake. And those were only some of the possibilities.