“He’s an expert where disguises are concerned,” Pruter reminded her. “But there are certain things one can’t hide. Height being the most obvious.”

While Pruter remained in the room, so he could clean his weapons, Holm took the list and went to work. The obvious place to start was with the maids, all of whom were poorly paid and eager to make a few extra euros. It wasn’t long before the guest list had been reduced to three men. Alexandru Cosma, a Romanian who had arrived earlier that morning. Tazio Scaparelli, the Italian photographer who had taken her picture in the lobby, and George Fuller, an American tourist.

So far, so good…

But which one of them was Agent 47? In order to answer that question, and “surprise her brother,” Holm managed to “rent” a master key from a maid who was about to go on a lunch break. That, combined with the uniform she had “borrowed,” would allow her to enter all three rooms. Not to make the kill, but to eliminate the false positives and identify the target. At that point Pruter would join the hunt, they would stalk the enemy assassin together, and take him out.

Just as they had thirty-two times before.

Given his appearance, and the fact that he’d been staying at the hotel for more than a week by then, Tazio Scaparelli seemed like a poor bet. That being the case, Holm chose to examine the Italian’s room first. She approached the door the way any maid would, rapped three times, and shouted, “Housekeeping!”

Then, having heard no response, the Puissance Treize agent slipped the master key into the door and let herself in. Once inside, she had to check Scaparelli’s belongings to see if the corpulent paparazzo was the person he seemed to be. A delicate task, since it was necessary to search the room without disturbing anything. It soon became apparent that the Italian was a fat, somewhat slovenly diabetic, who was about to run out of clean underwear.

Satisfied that Scaparelli had been eliminated from the list, Holm set out to check on the recently arrived Romanian. His room was on the third floor. The routine was the same: Three loud knocks followed by a loud, “Housekeeping!”

Having received no response, the counterassassin entered the room and pulled the door closed behind her. A suitcase was resting on the bed, and Holm went over to inspect it. And that’s where she was, leaning over to look inside the open bag, when Agent 47 stepped out from behind the heavy floor-length curtains.

The Puissance Treize agent heard the unexpected swish of fabric, and was reaching for her pistol when the assassin fired the air gun. Holm felt the dart bite her neck, paused to pluck the object out, and was busy examining the projectile when she felt a burning sensation. That was followed by a sharp pain in her chest, a moment of vertigo as her heart stopped, and a long fall into darkness.

A series of flashes strobed the room as the man named Alexandru Cosma, Agent 47, and Tazio Scaparelli took a series of pictures.

Then it was time to retrieve the dart, Holm’s Fabrique Nationale Forty-Nine, and two extra clips of.40 caliber ammunition. The FN constituted a much heavier piece than 47 had expected to acquire, and made for a welcome addition to his modest arsenal.

With those chores accomplished, the operative let himself out. The DO NOT DISTURB sign would keep the hotel’s staff at bay until the next day. At that point they would find a dead guest, who was not only dressed as one of their maids, but lying in the wrong room. A room registered to Mr. Cosma, who was nowhere to be found. It was a mystery that would keep the local authorities busy for months to come.

The hunter was dead…

The killer was waiting.

Holm had been gone for hours and Pruter was beginning to worry about her, when a bellman knocked on the door. Or was he a bellman?

The German positioned himself next to the door with the Glock at the ready. “Ja?”

“I have a package for you, sir,” the teenager said politely.

The killer peered through the keyhole, confirmed that the bellhop was holding a manila envelope in his hand, and opened the door a crack. The package slid in, a five-euro note went out, and the transaction was complete.

There was a positive click as the door swung closed. Pruter was a cautious man. That was one of the reasons why he was still alive. So rather than open the envelope right away he took a moment to examine it. The block lettering on the front said, TO HANS PRUTER. But there was no return address.

The killer felt ice water trickle into his bloodstream as he held the envelope up to the light. Could it contain a bomb? Or a dose of anthrax? Anything was possible-but he didn’t think so. Some dark rectangles could be seen through the paper, and when he rotated the container they slid from side to side.

The knife generated a soft click as the blade locked into place. Rather than open the top of the envelope Pruter was careful to slit one of the sides to avoid any triggering mechanisms hidden inside.

But the effort was wasted. The only items inside the container were a series of photographs that spilled out onto the floor: Pictures of Holm lying on a rug staring sightlessly into the camera.

The German’s knees made a solid thump as they hit the carpet. The killer’s hand shook as he began to sort through the photos that 47 had been able to print at a do-it-yourself kiosk in the local drugstore. They were of Holm, dressed in a maid’s uniform, lying dead on a rug that was identical to the one beneath him. Meaning that her body was somewhere inside the hotel.

The inarticulate bellow of rage and pain was followed by a long series of sobs that wracked his body, and tears flowed down his cheeks. Then Pruter saw that a picture postcard lay among the photos. It showed a panoramic view of gray, vegetation-clad battlements. The caption read, Costelo dos Mouros.

It was an obvious invitation—and one that Pruter planned to accept.

The Castle of the Moors had been constructed in the eighth or ninth century. The sprawling structure was situated on two neighboring mountain peaks, and offered magnificent views of both Sintra and the countryside beyond. Which meant that on the day when Dom Alfonso Henriques and his army arrived to liberate the area in 1147, the Moors must have been able to see the nobleman coming.

Later, during the Romantic period, repairs had been made. But there was little sign of that now as the sun started to dip below the western horizon, and the tourists began the long walk down to the city below.

Yet Pruter remained behind. Once the sun set and darkness settled over the battlements, Agent 47 would come. And, while nothing could ever compensate the German for Holm’s death, killing the assassin would make him feel slightly better. Not to mention the fact that it was his job to do so—and as a killer, he had a reputation to protect.

The main problem was that the castle not only covered a large area, but was built along the top of a steep hillside, and followed the contours of the land. As a result there were dozens of paths that led up and down, and hundreds of stone steps, all bordered by a jumble of ruins. So the first thing he had to do was familiarize himself with the complex, find the best spot to hide, and let 47 come to him.

Then, with the aid of the night-vision gear stowed in his pack, Hans would put the other assassin down for good.

The German went to work.

The satellite phone produced a series of soft beeps. The assassin’s eyes popped open and he activated the phone. The voice that came over the headset was insistent.

“Wake up, Agent 47… It’s time to go to work.”

It was dark inside the cavelike recess, but by craning his neck, he could catch a glimpse of city lights below. He fumbled the penlight, but aimed it away from the entrance.