“Forty-seven?” Diana inquired. “Are you okay?”

“So far,” the assassin replied cautiously. “Hold on.”

The operative kept the FN pointed at the body as he approached it, felt for a pulse, and confirmed that Pruter was dead. Not from a bullet, although the German’s legs were a bloody mess, but from injuries suffered during the fall.

Not having heard any sirens, 47 took the time necessary to drag the body into a niche, where loose stones could be stacked in front of it. Then it was necessary to get the penlight out, search the area for empty casings, and collect the German’s belongings from higher up the hill.

Finally, having pulled the wire for both incendiary devices and thrown everything into the makeshift crypt, it was time to wall Pruter in.

Eventually, after days of sun, some unfortunate tourist would notice the smell. At that point the Puissance Treize assassin would be disinterred and linked to the body of the mysterious Tova Holm. There was no way to know what the authorities would make of that, and 47 didn’t care.

An hour later, with his opponent’s pack on his back, Agent 47 made his way down the hill. The night was relatively young—and the real target was still alive.

By the time 47 arrived at the top of the hillside behind the mansion, it was nearly 3:00 a.m. Late, but not too late, given the task at hand. Which was to dart the German shepherd if necessary, sneak into the house the same way he had before, and wait for morning. But by the time Agent 47 was halfway down the slope it became apparent that everything had changed.

Judging from the bright glow that could be seen through the foliage, every light in the house was on. And once the assassin got closer he realized that six uniformed security guards were roaming the grounds, rather than two. Not only that, but more dogs had been brought in, and it seemed safe to assume that the surveillance cameras were being monitored now, as well.

Agent 47 had been expecting some sort of reaction to the increased threat level, but nothing like what he was looking at, and had no choice but to retreat back up the hill. It took the better part of half an hour to reach the street above, then make his way back to the hotel, where he entered via a side door. From there the assassin went straight to Pruter’s room, made use of the German’s key to let himself in, and took a quick tour of the German’s possessions.

Then, having selected a well-cut gray suit, along with some other odds and ends, 47 went back to Tazio Scaparelli’s room where it was time to take a shower and begin work on plan B. The first step was to call Diana, tell the controller about the change of plan, and request some help.

The second step was to put aside everything he would need for the coming day, and cram the rest into Scaparelli’s expandable suitcase. That included the foam belly, the hairpiece, the paparazzo’s clothes, Holm’s pistol, Pruter’s knapsack, and a variety of smaller items. Then, having gone over the room again to make sure he hadn’t missed anything, he took a nap.

As always, Agent 47’s eyes snapped open at 5:58 a.m. He got up, took Pruter’s Glock into the bathroom, and put the DOVO to work. Twenty minutes later he was shaved, dressed, and ready for the new day.

Pruter’s suit was a little too large, but otherwise satisfactory, even if it was gray rather than black.

The room had been paid for in advance, so there was no need to check out. Agent 47 carried Scaparelli’s heavily laden suitcase and Pruter’s black leather briefcase down the fire escape and out through the door he had used the night before. Someone was bound to discover the woman’s body before long—and the assassin wanted to be clear of the hotel when they did.

Rather than dump the suitcase near the hotel where the police might find it, the operative towed the bag to the Bon Appétit. The restaurant wasn’t open for business yet, but the Dumpster was, and given how much the big metal box reeked, there was very little chance that anyone would want to climb inside it. The suitcase went in, the lid closed with a clang, and the task was complete.

From there it was a short walk to a busy bakery, where the assassin had a long, leisurely breakfast. Though not up to his standards, it was a lot better than nothing. Then, at precisely 10:30 a.m., he entered a cab. By no means was he too lazy to walk, but the person he was about to become would arrive by taxi, and such details were important. If the cabdriver thought the short trip was strange, he gave no sign of it as the operative handed over a five and told him to keep the change.

Three members of the paparazzi were present as 47 got out of the cab, including Tony Fazio, and all of them watched intently as the man with the black briefcase exited the car and approached the front gate. The additional security was plain to see, and the activity within indicated that Thorakis might be getting ready to leave Sintra. Though this was not world-shaking news, it would be worth a few shots, and provide the paparazzi with something to feed their voracious editors.

As Agent 47 arrived in front of the gate, a uniformed security officer was there to greet him.

“Yes?” the man said suspiciously. “What do you want?”

The operative noticed that the security officer’s right hand had already come to rest on the butt of a huge revolver.

“My name is Gerrard,” 47 lied. “I believe you’re expecting me.”

As it happened, the security guard had been told to expect a Mr. Gerrard, so the hand came off the pistol, and the assassin was allowed to pass through the gate. From there the security officer escorted the agent to the front door, where a man in a blue blazer and khaki trousers was waiting. He had hard eyes, a no-nonsense manner, and appeared to be in his early forties. Ex-military perhaps? Yes, 47 thought so.

The entryway was half-blocked by an oak table. Beyond that the operative could see the ornate flight of stairs that led up to the second floor, along with the entry to the dining room on the left, and the door to an old-fashioned sitting room on the right. He knew from previous experience that the hall, which paralleled the stairs, led back to the kitchen.

“Good morning, sir,” the man with the hard eyes said. “Are you armed?”

“Yes, I am,” the assassin replied, as he placed the briefcase on the table. “I’m carrying a Glock, a razor, and a garrote.”

If the ex-paratrooper was surprised, he gave no sign of it.

“And in the briefcase?”

“A satellite phone, a laptop, and some other odds and ends.”

“Thank you,” the man said matter-of-factly. “Please remove all of your weapons and place them on the table. Once that process is complete, I’m going to search you. Or you can leave the property, if you prefer. The choice is up to you.”

“I have no objection to being searched,” 47 said, as he placed each weapon on the table in front of him. “In fact, I would like to commend you on your professionalism.”

The man nodded politely, but clearly didn’t care what the visitor thought, as he came around to run his hands over 47’s body. That was the point he came across the atomizer.

“What’s this?” the man wanted to know, as he held the bottle up for inspection.

“Sunblock,” the agent answered expressionlessly. “I have a tendency to burn.”

The ex-paratrooper nodded, spritzed a bit of the liquid on his wrist, sniffed and-apparently satisfied-put the atomizer back where he had found it.

“Okay,” the man with the hard eyes said. “You can retrieve your briefcase and weapons on the way out. Please step under the light.”

A stand-mounted spot had been set up in the hallway. Agent 47 could feel the heat from the lamp as he took his place beneath it. The man opened a folder, withdrew a sheet of paper, and held it up for a side-by-side comparison. The fax was modeled on a similar document The Agency had recovered during a raid on a Puissance Treize safe house in Moscow three days earlier. The first paragraph, which had been authored by Diana, was the equivalent of an introduction.