“But if he doesn’t, your immediate future will be somewhat painful.”

The comment didn’t call for a response, and the controller kept her mouth shut as Nu stood and turned toward the nearest agent; a skinny man who found it difficult to take his eyes off Diana’s naked body.

“Get something to cover her,” the executive instructed. “Then pack her things, take care of checkout, and get her to the airport. The Chairman wants her back aboard the Danjou by tonight.” He turned back to Diana.

“The rest will be up to Agent 47.”

Aristotle Thorakis was at his home in Sintra, Portugal, when the phone rang. It was just after two in the morning, but he was still up, going over the company’s quarterly financial reports, when Mr. Nu came on the line. The shipping magnate was careful to hide the glee he felt as the executive told him about Diana’s detention, and the very real possibility that the controller had been the source of the devastating leaks.

It wasn’t until the phone was safely on the hook that he felt it was safe to utter a celebratory “Yes!” and pump his right fist up and down.

He wanted to call Pierre Douay at that point, and thank the Frenchman for protecting him, but knew better than to do so. There was a very good chance that The Agency was still monitoring his phone calls. So, having no one to share the good news with, Thorakis was forced to celebrate alone.

The Scotch was expensive, smooth, and very good.

It was warm on the roof, very warm, by the time Al-Fulani was assisted up the stairs and out onto the hot metal surface. Two bodies lay where they had fallen, and the air around them was thick with flies, as the Moroccan was led over to one of the camp chairs originally brought along for his comfort. The businessman was still dressed in his red silk pajamas, but they were badly soiled, and offered little protection from the scorching heat.

Once Al-Fulani was seated, Numo secured him to the chair with several feet of duct tape, which made a scritching sound as it came off the roll.

“That looks good,” Agent 47 said approvingly. “Now for the umbrella.”

The mention of an umbrella caused the Moroccan’s spirits to rise, but they subsequently fell when the blue-and-white-striped sunscreen was set up a full fifteen feet away, and six of the older children were invited to sit in the shade. The Dinkas were equipped with bottles of spring water, too-all taken from Al-Fulani’s private larder. The girl, Kola, who had been raped the night before, couldn’t stop sobbing.

They sat there for a while, Al-Fulani, the assassin, and the children, and the silence was maddening. The heat seeped into his every pore, but he withstood it, and refused to give in. Finally his captor stood, and walked over to the group of slaves.

“Here,” the assassin said without emotion, as he issued each child a knife. “Keep these handy.”

Al-Fulani’s face paled as he saw the knives, understood their purpose, and quickly lost his resolve. Before long, he began to blubber.

“Please!” he said piteously. “I implore you! Don’t let them cut me.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” 47 lied reassuringly. “As long as you answer my questions, I promise that you will come to no harm.

“There are two things I want to know,” the assassin added intently as he returned to his seat on an upturned bucket. “First, what is the name of the organization that is attacking The Agency?”

“I can’t tell you that,” the Moroccan insisted. “They would kill me! Surely you can understand that.”

“I do understand that,” Agent 47 responded soothingly. “The problem is that I don’t care. You,” the assassin said, as he turned toward the little girl with big brown eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Kola,” the Dinka answered shyly, as she attempted to wipe the tears away.

“Well, Kola,” the operative said. “Come over here and bring your knife. The truth is hidden somewhere inside this man—and your job is to cut it out. Don’t kill him though. Not until we have what we need. Here, I’ll help you get started.”

The little girl’s expression showed that she remembered what had been done to her the night before, knew what that meant within the context of her Dinka culture, and hate filled her eyes. She stood, and was halfway to the chair when Al-Fulani began to rock back and forth.

“No!” he screeched. “Don’t let the little bitch touch me! I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Agent 47 held up his hand and Kola stopped, but she stood there glaring at the Moroccan.

“All right,” the assassin said, “enlighten me. Which one of The Agency’s competitors are we dealing with?”

“The Puissance Treize!” Al-Fulani answered eagerly. “I swear it!”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” the assassin said approvingly. “That’s consistent with what we already know. So tell me something I don’t know. Who did they turn?”

“His name is Aristotle Thorakis,” the businessman said.

The operative frowned. “The Greek shipping magnate?”

“Yes!” Al-Fulani replied. “He sits on the board…and he owns a number of shipping lines. Big ones. But there were problems with his holdings. Lots of problems, until the Puissance Treize loaned him 500 million euros.”

“In return for information about The Agency’s operations,” 47 said, his voice thick with disgust. “But how can I be sure that you’re telling me the truth? How do I know you’re not setting him up as a patsy?”

“I swear it before Allah,” Al-Fulani said sanctimoniously.

Agent 47 nodded. There was no way to be absolutely sure, of course, but the accusation had the ring of truth to it. So the agent turned to face the children.

“Okay, boys and girls, he belongs to you. You can set the bastard free, if you want—or slice him into a hundred pieces. Whichever you prefer.”

At that point he motioned to Numo, and they headed for the stairs.

“Nooooo!” Al-Fulani protested. “You gave me your word!” But the two men were soon lost to sight.

The Moroccan began to scream. It lasted for a long time.

The plane was half an hour late.

It was little more than a dot at first, but gradually grew larger, and eventually turned into a war-weary C-27/G222 Spartan that, judging from its camouflage paint job and blacked-out markings, had once been the property of Italy’s air force. The twin-engined turboprop circled Quadi Doum twice as if the pilot were looking for signs of danger.

The lookout’s body had been replaced by a white towel that flapped in the breeze, and functioned as a wind sock. All three of the bodies had been removed from the maintenance building’s roof, Al-Fulani’s vehicles had been driven out onto the taxiway, and the children were instructed to wave as the transport roared over them.

Finally, satisfied that things were as they should be, the pilot turned back toward the north.

His name was Bob Preston. He was wearing a faded New York Yankees baseball cap over military-short black hair, and sported a stylish pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses. The ex-air force officer’s brown skin had proven to be an asset in Africa, as was his ability to speak French, Arabic, and a trade language called Lingala. But even with those advantages, running a one-plane transport service was a financial challenge.

Which was why Preston had been forced to supplement his regular income with jobs he and the copilot Evan Franks referred to as “specials.” Meaning the sort of low-altitude, terrain-hugging flights that were required in order to deliver—or retrieve—shipments of weapons or other cargo to airstrips that barely deserved the title, often under trying circumstances, with people shooting at them.

But this trip looked like a piece of cake as Preston put the starboard wing down and turned into the wind. According to information available on the Internet, the original airstrip was nearly 10,000 feet long, which was a whole lot more than the Spartan would require, since the plane was designed to take off and land on short 1,500-foot runways.