The solution was to eat at a hotel that not only catered to Americans, but boasted its own restaurant, because such an establishment was likely to offer eggs, pancakes, and bacon. Finding one involved a three-block walk without benefit of an umbrella, so 47 was soaking wet by the time he was shown into an over-decorated dining room and escorted to a table. The good news was that the restaurant did, indeed, serve American-style breakfasts.

The bad news was that they were serving lunch. Yet as always, money worked wonders, and having slipped a fifty-dollar bill to the waiter, the assassin was soon dining on a breakfast of waffles, bacon, and sausage, with hot coffee to wash it down.

With a full stomach, and a newly purchased umbrella to protect his head, the assassin made his way back to his hotel. His room had been cleaned, and his luggage was secure, so it was time to get back to work.

The first order of business was to call in again and try to speak with Diana, who, he hoped, would be back on duty. Since she hadn’t heard from the agent in days, she could be counted on to chew him out, especially since he had hung up on her “replacement.”

But having activated the satellite phone and entered the appropriate code, Agent 47 again found himself talking to a stranger. Not unheard of, but rare, since Diana was something of a workaholic, so he didn’t cut the connection this time.

Equally unusual, however, was the fact that the man who answered the phone immediately routed the call to Mr. Nu, who 47 had last seen in Yakima. There was a thirty-second wait, but once the executive came on, he was clearly anxious to take the call.

“Agent 47? Is that you? We’ve been trying to reach you for days.”

“I was kind of busy,” the assassin replied honestly. “Where’s Diana?”

The executive knew how attached field agents could become to their controllers and was ready for the question.

“We need to talk, 47. Face-to-face. Where are you?”

“In Rome,” the assassin answered cautiously.

“Okay, Rome it is,” the executive replied. “I can be there in time for a late dinner. We’ll eat, I’ll bring you up to date on Diana, and you can tell me about Africa. How did it go, by the way? Were you able to catch up with Al-Fulani?”

The question hung between them as the assassin considered his options. He could—and probably should—tell Mr. Nu what he had learned, but something felt wrong. Something having to do with Diana.

So rather than answer the question, the agent chose to end the conversation.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but there’s someone at the door. Let’s catch up tonight. Where should we meet?”

Nu sensed the agent’s hesitancy, but thought it best to let the matter slide, confident that he would learn whatever there was to know later in the day. So instead, he gave the name of his favorite restaurant.

“I’ll see you at nine,” he said, and he waited for 47 to be the one who broke the circuit.

He opened another channel, and a quick conversation with a technician in the Danjou’s control room was sufficient to confirm that, based on the tracker built into 47’s phone, the agent really was in Rome. It wasn’t that the executive didn’t trust the assassin. But still…

Diana had been above suspicion until recently and now nothing seemed certain. Suspicion was like a communicable disease, and once contracted, it was almost impossible to beat.

“Call the airport,” Nu said. “Tell our pilot to file a flight plan for Rome. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

Now that he thought about it, maybe he didn’t trust the assassin. In fact, maybe he didn’t trust anyone.

It was still raining, and Agent 47 had been watching the restaurant for more than an hour when a cab pulled up and Mr. Nu got out. The assassin had no reason to expect a trap, but it always paid to be careful, so he waited for a full five minutes to see if anyone else showed up. He scanned the nearby buildings, as well, but saw nothing that appeared to be suspicious. Finally, satisfied that the restaurant was reasonably safe, he stepped out into a cold drizzle.

Five minutes later he was seated across a linen-covered table from his superior. A small oil-fed lamp had been placed at the center of the surface and it lit the executive’s face from below.

“All of the food here is excellent,” Nu said, as he gestured toward a waiting menu, “but I’m especially fond of the chicken risotto. The chef uses the Carnaroli grain, which holds its shape better than the Arborio, yet absorbs the stock extremely well. Or, you might like the Pasta Rustico, which generally appeals to those with hearty appetites.”

In the end 47 ordered the pasta dish, which turned out to be delicious and went perfectly with the house red. Once they had eaten the main course, Nu got down to business.

“You inquired about Diana,” the executive said somberly, “and I put you off. That’s because it looks as though she’s the person we’ve been looking for.”

Agent 47 opened his mouth to protest, but Nu raised a hand.

“The two of you have a close working relationship. I know that. But hear me out.”

So 47 listened as the executive laid out the evidence against Diana, and their dessert arrived.

“So, that’s it,” Mr. Nu concluded gloomily. “It would appear that Diana sold us out—except that she claims the payments are part of an elaborate trick. An effort to direct attention away from the true culprit. Personally, I hope she’s correct—but it doesn’t look likely. Not unless you have information to the contrary.”

Agent 47 met the other man’s eyes. “Yes, I believe I do, although I need more proof. According to Al-Fulani the man we’re looking for is Aristotle Thorakis. Al-Fulani claimed that Thorakis is—or was—in serious financial trouble. Such deep trouble that it was necessary to accept a loan from the Puissance Treize to remain in business. And they’ve been draining him dry ever since.”

Nu frowned. “Are you sure? We knew he was having problems, but when our accountants went over his finances, he came up clean. All the money he borrowed seemed to come from legitimate sources.”

“Tell the bean counters to take another look,” Agent 47 suggested dryly. “It’s my guess that those ‘legitimate sources’ are actually fronts. Or firms that are beholden to the Puissance Treize in some way.”

“What you say makes sense,” Nu acknowledged. “But even you admit that we lack proof. What if the bean counters don’t find anything?”

“Then hopefully I will,” 47 responded. “I plan to track Thorakis down and see what I can learn. But don’t tell the board. If Thorakis gets wind of what we’re doing, he’ll take additional steps to cover his tracks or run.”

“Understood,” the executive said. “But until such time as we can prove that Thorakis is guilty, Diane will remain under lock and key. And there’s a lot of pressure to punish her now.”

“From whom?” 47 wanted to know. “From Thorakis?”

“Yes,” Nu confirmed. “But from others as well. They want blood.”

“I need time,” 47 responded.

“How much?”

“Two weeks.”

“Okay,” the executive said reluctantly. “That’s a lot, but I’ll do my best. It won’t be easy, though.”

“No,” Agent 47 agreed soberly. “It won’t be easy.”

When Agent 47 awoke the next morning he could feel the clock ticking.

Not for himself, but for Diana, which was strange, because he barely knew her. And how could it be otherwise? Given the fact that most of their relationship consisted of five-minute phone conversations.

But with the exception of extremely rare face-to-face meetings like the one with Nu, Diana was his only genuine link with The Agency. And his only hope for help when a mission went awry. So that made the controller important to 47’s survival, which, all things considered, made her very important indeed.

Such were the assassin’s thoughts as he downed a quick breakfast at the American hotel, and went back to his room to conduct some online research. The sort of thing The Agency normally took care of for him, but he would need to handle himself, lest he reveal his interest in Aristotle Thorakis.