In fact, it had been less than a year since a new staff member had referred to Legard as an estropié repugnant. The guard, his wife, and both of their children had been mysteriously murdered three days later. No one had been arrested for the crime as yet, but the message was clear, and Legard had been treated with the utmost delicacy ever since.

Having been cleared through the security checkpoint, he was left to lurch across an open area to the row of narrow cubicles where prisoners could talk to visitors through sheets of cloudy Plexiglas. Consistent with the prepaid bribes that he had received, the guard responsible for regulating the flow of inmates took care to slot Legard into a booth between two empties; a seemingly trivial favor, but one that would serve to protect the man’s privacy-something that was very important to him.

Pierre Douay had come to dread his visits with Legard. Both because of the unpleasant surroundings and the Managing Director’s ceaseless demands for a new trial, better medical care, and more fresh fruit. As Legard entered the cubicle on the other side of the Plexiglas and laid the crutches on the floor, Douay dipped a hand into a coat pocket and activated a scrambler that resembled a popular brand of MP3 player.

The Managing Director had always been a small man, but had lost quite a bit of weight since the failed assassination attempt, and was about the size of an average teenaged boy. He had thick white hair, a face that could only be described as gaunt, and lips so thin his mouth resembled a horizontal slash. A chromed metal grille was mounted in the Plexiglas, but given how loud the background sound was, both men were forced to lean in close in order to hear each other without being overheard by others.

“Good morning, sir,” Douay began politely. “How are you?”

“How the hell do you think I am?” Legard demanded sourly. “I feel like shit! When are you going to get me out of this stinking cesspool?”

“Soon,” Douay promised soothingly. “Very soon.”

“That’s what you said last time,” the older man complained bitterly. “Yet I’m still here.”

“These things take time,” Douay replied. “The wheels of government grind slowly. But the lawyers tell me that in four months, six at the most, our request for an appeal will be granted. Once we know which judge and prosecutor have been assigned to the case, we’ll bring them around. But until that time, we simply don’t know who to target.”

Everything Douay said was true, and Legard knew it, but the crime boss was rightfully suspicious.

“So you say, Pierre…so you say. But I’m no fool! The longer I remain locked up in prison-the longer you remain in charge of the Puissance Treize.”

Douay had been on the receiving end of that accusation many times before, and his answer was ready.

“But I’m not in charge, sir. You are. All I do is pass your instructions along to the partners. And, because you have sources of information other than myself, you know that I continue to serve you well.”

“The profits are good,” Legard admitted grudgingly. “But what about the Sinon Project? How is that going?”

Sinon was the ancient Greek spy who, if the legends were correct, was the person who convinced the Trojans to open the gates and allow the wooden horse to enter Troy.

“It’s going well,” Douay answered honestly. “By planting large amounts of money on one of The Agency’s most trusted employees, we were able to divert attention away from the real traitor. And he continues to provide us with a continual flow of useful information. Some of which must be ignored, if we are to preserve the source.”

“I understand that,” Legard grated as he stared through the Plexiglas. “But remember this: It’s my intent to crush The Agency. Not just nibble it to death! And one of the best ways to accomplish this is to destroy their most effective operatives. You missed Agent 47 the first time. Don’t make the same mistake again.”

Whether it was true or not, Legard expressed the belief that the mysterious Agent 47 had fired the 7.62×51 mm bullet that was responsible for his useless leg. This was one reason why a trap had been laid for the operative during the earliest phase of Project Sinon. But every attempt to eliminate 47 had failed, and the assassin was still on the loose.

“Yes, sir,” Douay said humbly. “If we see an opportunity to kill him, we will.”

Blood rose to suffuse Legard’s otherwise pallid face, his eyes seemed to glow as if lit from within, and spittle flew from his lips as he spoke.

“Make an opportunity, goddamn you! Or I’ll put you on crutches—or worse—and see how you like it!”

This time the crime boss’s voice had been loud enough to turn heads, and Douay was conscious of the fact that people were staring at him as he lifted a fruit basket up off the floor.

“I brought some apples, sir. Plus bananas and grapes. I’ll pass them to the guards on my way out.”

“I’m sorry,” Legard said contritely, and sighed as he looked away. “I’m an old man, and I say foolish things. I know you’ll do your best.”

“It’s very difficult in here,” Douay said sympathetically. “I realize that—and I’m sorry.”

The visit came to an end shortly after that. Douay gave the basket of fruit to one of the guards, followed a young woman and her little girl out onto the busy street, and paused to reacclimate himself. That was when he took a deep breath, gave thanks for everything he had, and all he was going to have.

Because it would be a cold day in hell when Louis Legard left Santé prison and felt warm sunshine on his ugly face.

The Portela airport had been opened in October of 1942 at the height of World War II. Because it was used by both the Germans and the British, the airfield had been the nexus of all sorts of espionage. And as Agent 47 entered the large, rather institutional terminal building, it was as if some of that history still lingered in the air.

A large group of tourists had just come off a British Airways flight from London. Many were cranky, having just learned that their luggage was back in Heathrow, and wouldn’t arrive until the following day. The newly created paparazzo Tazio Scaparelli had no such difficulties, however, as the photographer went to retrieve his cheap vinyl suitcase, and hauled the bag out toward the front of the terminal. Thanks to the fact that he was traveling from one member of the European union to another, he wasn’t required to show a passport. A change for the better, insofar as lawbreakers such as himself were concerned.

As the operative walked, his Nikon D2x digital camera had a tendency to bounce off his potbelly. Rather than walk around with a new camera, which might give him away, 47 had been careful to buy one that had already seen plenty of hard use, and showed it. Consistent with the Scaparelli persona, the Nikon was hanging at the ready, should some unsuspecting starlet cross his path. A little thing, it was true, but important, especially to the knowledgeable eye.

As the assassin made his way through the terminal, he could feel dozens of eyes slide across him as a multitude of policemen, con artists, spies, drug dealers, thieves, gun runners, and other players compared his countenance to the ones they were looking for, then moved on. If any of the onlookers were employed by the Puissance Treize, none took notice of the fat man.

The terminal building had been remodeled more than once over the years, and the current iteration consisted of a gently curved façade made out of glass, flanked by two rectangular columns. A row of tall, spindly evergreens stood guard between the main building and the parking lot. There were plenty of taxis, and having flagged one of them down, 47 was careful to negotiate the fee in advance. Just as he fancied Scaparelli would do.