It was like opening a floodgate.

“Pierre?” Thorakis demanded emotionally. “It’s a disaster, I tell you. An unmitigated disaster! A man named Agent 47 captured one of your people, a Moroccan I think, and found out about me!

“Agent 47 reported in and he’s on his way to kill me! I need protection, Pierre. Lots of protection—and I need it now.”

Douay had always been able to remain calm, even when those all about him were losing their nerve, and began his analysis by cross-checking the known facts.

Al-Fulani was missing, and had been for more than a week, which seemed to lend credence to the story. Couple that with the failed attempt on Agent 47’s life, and that individual’s reputation for tenaciousness, and there was the very real possibility that the Greek was correct.

But why protect him? Especially given how annoying the shipping magnate had become.

The answer was glaringly obvious. Thorakis was into the Puissance Treize for 500 million euros. A significant sum that might go unrecovered if the Greek was killed. And what then? the executive wondered. Who would the partners blame? That, too, was glaringly obvious.

Besides which, there still might be a great deal of valuable information to extract from the annoying man’s brain before they decided whether or not to kill him.

“Stay where you are,” Douay ordered. “I’ll send a team. A good team. They’ll kill 47. Then, with him out of the way, we’ll pull you out of Sintra. The Agency will be angry, but we’ll cut a deal with them.”

“Really?” Thorakis inquired hopefully. “You can do that?”

“Of course I can,” Douay replied confidently. “Don’t worry about it. Just stay where you are and wait for my people to arrive.”

The shipping magnate was grateful, almost too grateful, and the Frenchman felt a sense of disgust as the Greek told him where the assassin would be staying. Then the line went dead.

The next part was easy, as a two-person hunter-killer team was taken off an assignment in Prague and redirected to Sintra.

Once that chore was out of the way, Douay had to face something more difficult. He needed to activate the alternate identities that had been established for his wife and children, years before. Once that was accomplished he would send them to the retreat in French Polynesia and prepare for the reprisals that were sure to follow. Even if the Puissance Treize were able to eliminate 47 and protect Thorakis, The Agency would come looking for someone to kill. And Pierre Douay’s name would appear near the top of the list. While Legard, ironically enough, would be relatively safe in prison!

It felt as though the sunshine had lost all of its warmth as the Frenchman stepped out onto the terrace. The laughter sounded discordant, and the smiles looked false.

That was the moment when Douay realized how exposed the terrace was, how easy it would be for someone to shoot Nicole from a thousand yards away, and he called to his guests.

The party was over.

Having successfully escaped from the Greek’s mansion during the hours of darkness, Agent 47 had returned to the hotel and was sitting in the lobby when the Puissance Treize hunter-killer team checked in. It was no accident that he’d been waiting for them. They were dressed like tourists, but the assassin knew them the same way that one animal knows another. They were towing their own luggage, so no one could tamper with their belongings, notice how heavy the suitcases were, or accidentally misplace them.

The man was about six-two, well built, and had fair skin. His hair was blond, too short to grab hold of, and worn in a flattop. He was dressed in a dark blue sport shirt that was one size too big so it would hang over the bulge high on his right hip.

And as Mr. Flattop took care of the check-in formalities, his female companion was facing the lobby, rather than the counter. That was the key to the hunter-killer concept. One person, the woman most likely, functioned as the hunter. Her job was to spot the prey, bring him in close if that were possible, and provide security while the killer took the target out.

Like her partner, the hunter was blond, with athletically short hair and the long lean body of a tennis player. Her clothing was very chic, except for the fanny pack she wore draped across her lower abdomen. The perfect place to keep a semiauto and some spare magazines. She had very blue eyes, and when they came to rest on the man with the big paunch, he was already snapping pictures of her.

It was just the sort of thing Tazio Scaparelli would do if he saw a pretty woman and didn’t know who she was. Who could possibly keep track of all the starlets, models, and aristocrats who were roaming Europe? The safest thing to do was take pictures, and establish their value later. Agent 47 could tell that the hunter didn’t like having her picture taken, but there wasn’t much she could do about it, and her eyes drifted away as the camera was lowered.

So Al-Fulani was right, Agent 47 mused. Thorakis is guilty—and Diana is innocent. Mr. Nu will be pleased, and all things considered, so am I.

With the basic assessment out of the way, the assassin took his armchair analysis to the next level. The hunter and the killer were professional partners, but were they lovers as well? If they were, then Mr. Flattop would feel protective toward her. Something 47 might use against him, and one of the reasons why the assassin preferred to work alone.

As the couple received their keys and turned to follow a bellman toward one of the Central’s ancient elevators, the operative came to the conclusion that the answer to his question was a definite “yes.” The two were lovers. His observation wasn’t based on anything obvious, like a wedding ring, but on more subtle factors. Like the failure to maintain enough space between their bodies, the familiar manner in which they touched each other, and the way Mr. Flattop allowed his partner to board the elevator first.

All of which meant that by the time the elevator doors closed on the couple, 47 had already decided how to kill them. Their strength stemmed from the hunter-killer concept and closeness of their relationship. So the first thing to do was divide and conquer.

But how?

The logical thing to do was eliminate the hunter first, because she would be easier to kill, and because her death would make Mr. Flattop angry. And it was 47’s intention to use the other man’s grief and rage against him.

The man known as Tazio Scaparelli fought his way up out of the armchair and waddled away. The war was about to begin—and it was time to prepare.

The woman’s name was Tova Holm, and it was her job to find the target so Hans Pruter could kill him. And thanks to the fact that The Agency assassin was already registered at the hotel, the task would be that much easier. Once they figured out who the man was.

The first step would be to gain access to the Central’s guest list by bribing one of the clerks, flirting with one of them, or hacking into the hotel’s computer system. An often tiresome process that Holm wanted to avoid if possible.

Having donned a skimpy tennis outfit, the shapely blonde went down to the front desk and approached a clerk, who clearly couldn’t take his eyes off her. Having smiled beguilingly, she launched into a story about having spotted an old friend as she entered the elevator, and wanting to contact her. The problem being that she had forgotten the woman’s married name. She would remember the name, however, if she could take a look at the guest list.

The clerk knew it was wrong, but wanted to please the pretty young woman, and agreed to provide the blonde with a printout, as long as she wouldn’t tell anyone. So ten minutes later, Holm and Pruter were sitting in their room, going over the registry, and highlighting the names they considered to be most promising.