A huge flat-panel screen was mounted on the inner wall over the sleek mahogany bar. Nu and the other board members turned to look as a professionally edited video montage began to roll. There was no narration, other than that provided by television reporters in a variety of countries. Subtitles had been added where necessary, and each clip was different from the others, except for the one element that tied all of them together.

There was an unsolved murder at the core of each story. Three individuals had been shot, two had been knifed, and the last victim had been pushed into the path of a train. An especially gruesome affair that dominated two news cycles in the United States.

When the five-minute-long compilation came to a close, the Chairman picked up where he had left off. There was anger in his voice now.

“Each of those people worked for us, each was a valuable asset, and each left a hole that will be difficult to fill. Some were field agents, but three were technical experts, who weren’t even armed.

“So,” the disembodied voice continued ominously, “it seems that someone—or something—has declared war on our organization. The attacking entity could be a criminal organization out to get revenge, a competitor that wants to level the playing field, or a disgruntled former client. All of which can be dealt with. But it’s extremely difficult to fight back without knowing who the enemy is. So Mr. Nu and his staff have been authorized to rescreen both senior management and the board in an attempt to find the traitor.

“That means your movements, phone calls, and email will be subject to expert analysis. Of course, all of you utilize multiple layers of encryption, some of which may be good enough to keep even our experts at bay. If so, please provide our people with full access. Failure to do so will be interpreted as a hostile act. Especially since you specifically agreed to such transparency when you joined the board. You have my word that any and all proprietary information related to your affairs, having nothing to do with The Agency, will not be altered, copied, or shared.

“Are there any questions?”

Heads swiveled as board members turned to look at one another, but no one chose to respond, so the Chairman brought the meeting to a close.

“Unfortunately, it’s quite likely that the traitor is right here in this room. If so, then know this. When we identify you, and we will, The Agency will kill you, eliminate your entire family, and all of your friends.

“Have a nice day.”

There was a click as the line went dead, and Aristotle Thorakis battled the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him, as he visualized various members of his family being gunned down. I did it to protect you, he thought forlornly. To preserve what is rightfully yours.

But it isn’t over yet, the shipping magnate told himself. You have the Puissance Treize to protect you, and they are powerful, as well! So powerful that The Agency may be a thing of the past within a matter of months.

But such thoughts offered cold comfort, as fear trickled into the shipping magnate’s belly, and the vetting process began.

Waleed Abadati was a true believer, a dedicated husband, and a good father. Virtues built on a foundation of good habits that began with a regimen of personal hygiene before breakfast, followed by early morning prayer, and a brisk three-mile walk to work.

That journey began deep within the Fes El Bali, and took him to the Ville Nouvelle district, where thanks to four years spent in the army, he worked as a low-ranking security guard at Ali bin Ahmed bin Saleh Al-Fulani’s mansion.

It was a boring job for the most part, but a relatively well-paid one, and Abadati felt fortunate to have it. The security guard was in a good mood as his feet followed the same path they walked every day and his mind contemplated the purchase of a secondhand car. It was a big step, but the money had been saved and was waiting in the bank. But what kind to buy? There were so many possibilities. Perhaps that was why the Moroccan didn’t pay any attention to the scrape of shoe leather behind him, and was completely unprepared when a hand covered his mouth, and a strong arm jerked him into a heavily shadowed passageway.

That was when the needle bit his neck, the sedative entered his bloodstream, and the arms of darkness opened to receive him.

Having followed Abadati the previous day, Agent 47 had chosen the spot with care, and knew that the sloppily constructed lean—to that half—blocked the walkway would provide cover while he stripped the security guard of his belongings, including his photo ID, access card, and a U.S.-made Colt Python revolver, complete with gun belt and twelve extra rounds of.357 Magnum ammunition.

The clothes fit fairly well, which wasn’t too surprising, since Abadati had been chosen for his height and build. Once the transformation was complete, 47 took time to bind and gag the security guard before piling musty burlap sacks on top of him.

Then, having assumed Abadati’s persona, including the guard’s peaked hat and sunglasses, the assassin continued the walk to work. The henna tattoos had started to fade by then, and were covered over with makeup that served to darken 47’s skin. The impersonation was so good that merchants waved to the familiar figure, and one of Abadati’s second cousins shouted a greeting from a second floor window as the guard passed below.

Fifteen minutes later Agent 47 entered the Ville Nouvelle. From there it was a short walk to the Al-Fulani mansion, where 47 made his way to the main gate, and waved Abadati’s ID card as he passed the guardhouse. The operative waited for what seemed like an inevitable challenge, but the gate guard had seen what he expected to see. Which was the eternally dependable Waleed Abadati, showing up early for work.

Now that he had successfully penetrated the outermost layer of Al-Fulani’s security, a single swipe of Abadati’s key card opened the basement door. That provided 47 with access to the locker room where staff stored their personal belongings, and ultimately the subsurface corridor that would take the assassin to his real objective-a stairway that led from the basement up to Al-Fulani’s study. The passageway, which was intended to function as an emergency escape route should the mansion come under attack, was to see on the diagrams downloaded from The Agency.

Which meant the assassin should be able to enter Al-Fulani’s private office, overpower the businessman, inject him with Sodium Pentothal, and ask two extremely important questions: Who had penetrated The Agency—and who were they working for? It would be awkward, since time would be limited, but with Marla running Al-Fulani’s personal security detail, 47 had given up all hope of spiriting the Moroccan away. Ever since the incident with the fuel truck her precautions had been extremely thorough.

Since Abadati was habitually early for work, Agent 47 had a full thirty minutes to enjoy before anyone would question his whereabouts, and perhaps another fifteen minutes before a search began. With that in mind, he entered the employee lounge, gave thanks for the fact that it was empty, and proceeded out into the hallway. An elderly janitor was swabbing the floor, but he didn’t bother to look up as the uniformed guard passed and slipped around a corner.

Agent 47 knew where the hidden door was supposed to be, but when he arrived there, it was to discover a wall covered with panels of gold fabric. After a quick scan to ensure he wasn’t being observed, 47 began to push and prod at the panel where the door was supposed to be.