Marla might have rallied her surviving troops at that point, but a big fender struck the Puissance Treize agent a glancing blow and threw her into one of the parked vehicles.

That knocked the security chief unconscious.

Agent 47 was forced to step on the dead corporal’s chest in order to enter through the back door.

Four of Al-Fulani’s bodyguards had the presence of mind to respond, but both of the Silverballers were out by that time, and 47 fired them in quick succession. The hapless guards were forced to perform a macabre dance as the heavy.45 caliber slugs slammed into them.

Then more shots were heard—only muffled this time—as the remaining bodyguards attempted to escape via a side door, only to be met by bullets from the sharp-eyed Numo.

Satisfied that the situation was under control, 47 took the time required to reload both handguns before going in search of Al-Fulani.

The agent found the Moroccan cowering in a storage room, where he was shaking like a leaf and had recently shit his lovely silk pajamas.

“Good morning,” the assassin said politely, as the terrified businessman stared up at him. “My name is Taylor, and I have some questions to ask you.”

There weren’t any historians present to record the moment, but the airfield at Quadi Doum had fallen for the second time, and vultures were circling above.

Diana had flown to Rome for a three-day vacation and was asleep in her suite at the St. Regis Grand when the men in black came to get her.

The door was double-locked, of course, yet that was a minimal obstacle to the men who gathered outside her door. They picked the lock with ease, positioned themselves with weapons drawn, and prepared to enter.

But when the lead assailant turned the doorknob and put his shoulder to the wood, the only reaction was the strident beep, beep, beep, generated by the wedge-shaped miniature alarm Diana had pushed in under the door.

It took less than ten seconds to shove a long, thin pry bar in under the barrier and dislodge the wedge. Nonetheless, Diana was already firing by the time the door slammed open.

The first agent through the door took a 9 mm round right between the eyes and went down as if pole-axed from above. The man immediately behind him was more fortunate in that he was wearing body armor, and took two bullets to the chest without sustaining serious injury.

But as the impact took the second operative down Mr. Nu fired a Taser X26, which shot two probes at Diana. Both struck their target and delivered a shock powerful enough to bring her still-twitching body down.

“Get everyone into the bedroom,” Nu ordered tersely. “I’ll take care of the hotel’s security people.” There was a mad scramble as Diana was laid out on her rumpled bed, the dead agent was dumped into her bathtub, and the man who had taken two 9 mm blows to the chest was led over to an easy chair that occupied one corner of the ornate bedroom.

By that time Mr. Nu had shed his suit coat, removed his tie, and mussed his hair. With the improvised disguise in place he stepped out into the hall and was waiting there when two of the hotel’s plainclothes security people stepped off the elevator.

“I heard three loud firecrackers go off,” Nu complained belligerently. “Do you have children staying on this floor? My wife and I expect some peace and quiet for the kind of money we’re paying. Especially at the St. Regis.”

Both security people quickly turned apologetic and promised to conduct a complete investigation. They even went so far as to knock on neighboring doors so that other cranky guests could abuse them. Then, having been unable to pinpoint the exact nature or the origin of the firecracker-like noises, the two were forced to withdraw.

Mr. Nu reentered Diana’s suite and returned to her bedroom. Like most of the heterosexual men who had met her, the executive had often wondered what Diana would look like without any clothes on. And now he knew. The fact that her wrists and ankles were secured to the bedposts made the tableau all the more interesting.

Though still recovering from the effects of being tasered, the controller was clearly conscious and, judging from the look in her eyes, extremely angry. Her full—and apparently natural—breasts were somewhat flattened thanks to her supine position. Not her nipples though, which were pink and fully erect.

From there Nu allowed his eyes to travel down along the flat plane of her stomach to the intersection between her legs. Most of her pubic hair had been removed, and based on the small triangle of white skin he saw there, it was clear that the controller had a preference for thongs. Diana’s hips were a bit narrow for a woman, or so it seemed to Nu, but her shapely legs more than made up for what he saw as a shortcoming.

“Are you finished yet?” the controller inquired contemptuously. “Perhaps you’d like a cigarette.”

Mr. Nu smiled thinly as he sat next to her on the bed.

“My dear, dear, Diana. You sound so very brave! But as you know better than most, it’s hard to talk tough once the cutting begins. We’ll use the surgical cautery, of course. That was one of your innovations, as I recall. And a good one, too! Because the cautery seals the blood vessels off even as it slices through them. That prevents blood loss, and prolongs the subject’s life. And then there’s the rather distinctive burning odor, which adds yet another dimension to the process.

“Take this nipple, for example,” Nu said, as he took the nub between a thumb and forefinger. “You would be able to watch us cut it off, feel the excruciating pain, and smell your burning flesh all at the same time! Who knows? Maybe we could pop the little morsel into your mouth so you could taste it, too. Or,” the executive added thoughtfully, “you could simply tell me the truth.”

“About what?” Diana demanded. “And get your hands off me.”

“About your relationship with the Puissance Treize,” Nu answered gently, as he continued to squeeze, harder now.

Diana winced.

“I don’t have a relationship with the Puissance Treize.”

“Ah, but I think you do,” the executive corrected her. “How else can you explain the one million dollars that was deposited into your checking account four days ago, the two-million-dollar New York condominium deeded over to you three days ago, and the three million dollars’ worth of United States Treasury bonds that appeared in your portfolio the day before yesterday? We pay you well, very well, but how can you account for an extra six million in less than a year? Especially from a Puissance Treize front company?”

Mr. Nu had squeezed all of the blood out of the nipple by that time, and try as she might, Diana couldn’t conceal the pain. Her face was drawn as she spoke through gritted teeth.

“It’s a trick. Can’t you see that? The Puissance Treize is trying to protect the real traitor. So he or she can continue to sell us out! And besides, if I were the person you’re looking for, do you think I would be so stupid as to take payments from a front company? Don’t insult me that way.”

Nu released the nipple and put his hand on her stomach. The controller’s skin was soft and warm. His index finger drew circles around her navel.

“Six million is a lot to spend on a red herring.”

“Not if the business you’re trying to hijack grosses over a billion a year,” Diana countered tightly.

“There is that,” the executive allowed smoothly. “Which is why you’re still alive. The Chairman has something of a soft spot for you, and rather than destroy something so beautiful, perhaps without cause, he wants to wait until all of the facts are in. Agent 47 said he was close to catching up with Al-Fulani the last time he phoned in a report. So, who knows? Maybe our enterprising friend will come up with the real traitor.