“No,” 47 replied, “That’s entirely up to you.”

Then, with a wave to Numo, the assassin mounted the stairs.

No rifle shots were heard, but Gazeau saw a glint of reflected light coming from the direction of the water tower, as if someone were eyeing the airstrip through a pair of binoculars. With that possibility in mind, he went around to open the driver’s-side door, removed the keys from the Land Rover’s ignition, and held them up where they were plain to see.

Then, having given the woman plenty of time to look, he slid the key ring down onto the vehicle’s antenna.

The C-27 had taxied away by then, leaving a miniature dust storm in its wake, as it made the turn onto the runway. The General Electric T64-P4D engines roared as its pilot advanced both throttles, the transport jerked forward, and quickly gained speed.

The plane took to the air a few seconds later.

The airstrip dated back to the days of World War II, when German planes had used it as a place to refuel before taking off for North Africa. And later, when things began to go poorly for Rommel, a squadron of fighters had been stationed there so they could attack allied shipping in the Mediterranean.

But those days were long over, and the field was primarily dedicated to civilian aviation, plus the occasional emergency landing by commercial jets.

As the sun was beginning to set, a lonely figure stood in front of the tiny terminal building and stared toward the south. Though not Agent 47’s friend in the conventional sense of the word, Father Vittorio was his spiritual adviser, to the extent that the assassin needed one. The operative believed he was headed for hell, and given all 47 had done, that was certainly possible.

But God never gives up, nor can I, the priest told himself. Because there is a kernel of goodness buried deep within 47’s soul, even if he isn’t aware of it.

And there was evidence to support the priest’s hypothesis. The assassin had once taken shelter at Vittorio’s church, where he worked as the gardener in an attempt to put his violent life behind him. But men with 47’s skills were hard to come by, and it wasn’t long before the past caught up with the assassin, forcing him to take up arms once again. Those had been bloody days, in a land already soaked with blood, and it was something of a miracle that both Vittorio and his former gardener were still alive.

A cold breeze came up, as if somehow summoned by the priest’s dark thoughts, and tugged at his cloak as the plane appeared in the south. Its running lights were on, and it was gradually losing altitude.

The phone call had come like a bolt out of the blue. Vittorio knew who it was the moment he heard 47’s voice. The agent was on a plane loaded with orphans, headed for Sicily, and in need of someone to care for the youngsters. Why was a hired killer flying north with a planeload of children? There was no way to know.

And it really didn’t matter. The orphans were in need of help, and Father Vittorio would do his best to provide it. No simple matter, given all of the legalities involved, but the local customs agent was a member of Vittorio’s parish. The Holy See could be counted on to help, and the Lord would take care of the rest.

There was a brief screech of tires as the airplane put down, the engines roared, and it wasn’t long before the twin-engined transport turned off the runway and onto the taxiway in front of the terminal. It stopped a few minutes later, and the big props continued to turn for a few revolutions before finally coming to a halt.

A door opened, stairs were lowered, and Agent 47 appeared. The assassin was wearing his usual black suit, white shirt, and red tie. When he was halfway down the stairs, he turned to accept two briefcases, then two suitcases. Three of the objects were left next to the plane as he crossed the tarmac.

Vittorio noticed that 47’s skin was darker than usual, as if he’d been spending a great deal of time in the sun, and wondered how long the agent had been in Africa.

“It’s good to see you, my son,” the priest said, as the two men embraced.

“And you, Father,” Agent 47 replied. “Thank you for agreeing to help.”

“Such is the Lord’s work,” Vittorio said, as he eyed the plane. The children were being unloaded by then, and the scrawny youngsters made for a pitiful sight as another man, who looked to be the pilot, led them toward the terminal. “What can you tell me about the little ones?” the cleric inquired. “What happened to their families?”

“Their parents were killed by slavers. They were on their way to a whorehouse in Fez when something happened to the man who owned them,” 47 replied.

Vittorio crossed himself. He could well imagine what the “something” was.

“But unlike most orphans, they come with an endowment,” 47 added, as he presented Al-Fulani’s briefcase to the clergyman.

The priest released the latches, took a peek inside, and closed the lid.

“That looks like a lot of money, my son.”

“It is,” 47 agreed. “And it’s tax free.”

The conversation was interrupted as the pilot arrived with the children in tow. The man was about to introduce himself when the orphans rushed Father Vittorio and quickly surrounded him.

“My name’s Preston,” the pilot said, as he extended his hand. “The children went to a mission school, before the priest was murdered and all of the villagers were forced to flee. So they know what a clerical collar means.”

The copilot joined the group at that point. He had a briefcase tucked under one arm and was toting the two suitcases. “I don’t know what you have in these things,” he complained to 47, “but they’re damned heavy!”

“That makes them harder to steal,” 47 said lightly as he accepted the briefcase. The situation appeared to make the agent uncomfortable, and he seemed eager not to linger.

Before the operative could make his escape, one girl detached herself from the rest of the children and came to stand directly in front of him. Her big brown eyes were solemn, and her voice was clear as she spoke.

“Thank you, Mr. Taylor. All of us will remember your name.”

That was probably the highest honor the Dinka children knew how to bestow. But as Father Vittorio looked at 47, he saw genuine consternation on the assassin’s face. He suspected that it had never been the man’s intention to help the children, and he wasn’t sure how to respond.

The agent just nodded awkwardly, and mumbled, “You’re welcome,” as he slung the briefcase over a shoulder and took a grip on both of the suitcases.

There was a long moment of silence as three men and a little girl watched 47 walk away. Finally, having given a shake of his head, Father Vittorio spoke.

“The ways of God are mysterious, my friends…very mysterious indeed.”

It was early the next morning by the time Agent 47 arrived in Rome, took the train in from the airport, and checked into a nice but low-key hotel not far from the Spanish Steps. Then it was time to take a shower, brush his teeth, and grab some sleep.

Before he had left for Rome, he had tried again to contact Diana, and an unfamiliar voice had responded, claiming to be her replacement. That had been so out of the ordinary that 47 had decided not to trust his important information to a stranger, and had cut the connection immediately.

It was now light outside, but the heavy drapes served to keep most of the dawn sunshine out, and some of the traffic noise, as well. The carpet was equipped with a good pad, which meant the assassin was more comfortable than usual, and had little difficulty falling asleep.

Strangely-from 47’s perspective at least-it was raining when he awoke. Dark clouds obscured the sun, and raindrops pattered against his window as he carried out his morning routines. Except that it was midafternoon by then, which meant it was going to be very difficult to find a decent breakfast, especially in a country where the first meal of the day normally consisted of coffee and a roll. A meal so nonexistent that they might as well not have bothered, insofar as 47 was concerned.