It was cool inside the dimly lit room, and a quick check of the bathroom was sufficient to confirm what Agent 47 had already sensed, that everything was the way he had left it.

Duty demanded that he upload a full report to The Agency, but he’d been looking forward to a shower, so he decided that the management types could wait for a while. It felt good to shuck the dirty clothing and step under the shower. Cognizant of how many people he had killed in bathrooms, he kept a.45 caliber Silverballer within easy reach, knowing the water wouldn’t damage the stainless steel weapon.

But no one attacked the agent as the stream of hot water pummeled his lean body, found the partially open gunshot wound, and caused it to sting. He just stood there for a while, thinking about Marla, before turning the water off and stepping out of the tub. The bathmat was too small, but managed to absorb at least some of the water that ran down off his legs, as 47 ran a scratchy towel over his body.

Who was the woman with the Walther? he wondered. And how did she know about the smack?

Then it was time to retrieve his first-aid kit and examine the flesh wound in the bathroom mirror before squirting antiseptic ointment onto it. A self-adhesive bandage went on over that. There had been other cuts, abrasions, and puncture wounds over the years, and many of the scars were visible.

With that part of his regimen completed, and clad only in white boxer shorts, 47 went back to work. The Blackbird Inn didn’t offer Internet access, but it didn’t matter, since all of the agent’s interactions with The Agency were handled via scrambled and encrypted satellite uplinks. So it was a simple matter to transfer the surveillance video over to his laptop, connect the computer to his cell phone, and hit a few keys. He heard a series of tones, followed by a momentary burst of static, before Diana’s well-modulated voice came over the line.

The assassin had never seen the woman whose voice he heard, but imagined her to be attractive. There had been times-hard times-when Diana had been his only link to the possibility of salvation. Like one of the guardian angels that Father Vittorio spoke of, who could reach down from the heavens and pluck a soul to safety. And for that reason he liked the sound of her voice.

“Good evening, 47,” Diana said evenly. “How did it go?”

“Poorly,” the assassin replied honestly. “The target was terminated, but only after I was fingered, and the entire setup was blown.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Diana said sympathetically. “Are you all right?”

“Couldn’t be better,” the agent lied. “Stand by for a digital upload. The whole affair was captured on surveillance video, including footage of the woman who blew my cover.”

“We’re ready,” Diana said. “Send us what you have.”

So he typed a command into the laptop, waited for the upload to complete itself, and forced himself to sever the link. Doing so always left him feeling cut off, but such was his fate, and it was shared by anyone who practiced his trade.

Time to take out the trash, and he was hungry, so he spent the next few minutes getting ready. Agent 47 began the process by donning a crisp white shirt, a red silk tie, and a pair of pants prior to slipping his arms into a two-gun shoulder-holster rig. A suit jacket went on over that, which, thanks to the efforts of his English tailor, effectively hid the twin Silverballers and a garrote. Black socks and a pair of well-polished shoes completed the ensemble. Once he was dressed, it was a simple matter to lock his possessions into a pair of armored suitcases, set the built-in security systems, and slide them under the bed. Then he exited the room with the half-full garbage bag dangling from one hand.

Having opened the Volvo with the remote, Agent 47 slid inside, placed the garbage bag on the seat beside him, and started the car. Two minutes later he was out on the street trolling for a Dumpster. It wasn’t the perfect means of disposal, since whatever one person put into one of the big bins another person could remove, but it was better than leaving the materials in his room.

Dumpsters located behind restaurants were best. Once the contents had begun to rot, the smell was so bad even the homeless wouldn’t enter them.

Having disposed of the Johnson disguise behind the Green Jade Palace, but not being in the mood for a sit-down dinner, Agent 47 bought a couple of hamburgers from a local drive-through. It was his opinion that food purchased from small, independently owned burger joints was always better than the stuff the big chains churned out.

Back in his room, 47 flipped through the channels until he located a soccer game. Not because he cared who won, but for some sort of company, as he unwrapped the burgers and ate another meal by himself.

One of what? Hundreds? Thousands?

There was no way to know.

Eventually the game ended, so he stripped down and hung his clothes in the closet. Then 47 prepared to sleep on the floor. He was well aware of the fact that if a counterassassin forced the door open, the first thing they would do would be to put a few slugs into the bed. So, rather than run that risk, he took his place on the floor, where an intruder’s first shot would miss him. A hard surface, but no worse than the pallet he’d been required to sleep on as a child.

The Silverballers were comforting—and he was asleep five minutes later.

As Marla parked her Mercedes in an underground garage and entered a well-appointed elevator, the Puissance Treize agent had a feeling she didn’t experience often.

She was frightened.

And with good reason. After being promoted to Assistant Sector Chief, and posted to the Pacific Northwest, she had been ordered to rid the Big Kahuna’s organization of an undercover FBI agent, and protect the crime boss from an assassin. And she’d been successful up until the moment when she decided to out the assassin. That’s when things went horribly wrong, and people began to die, including the man she’d been sent to protect. It wasn’t that Marla really cared. In fact, those who had died no doubt deserved their fate. But not on her watch.

Now, Marla was on the way up to meet with her new supervisor, a hard-eyed woman called Mrs. Kaberov, who, in spite of her polished exterior, had once been a member of the dreaded KGB, the Russian State Security Committee, before the Puissance Treize had hired her away. Which was why it felt like an ounce of liquid lead was sloshing around the pit of Marla’s stomach as she left the elevator, crossed a beautifully decorated lobby, and entered the private club.

The restaurant was called The Pacific Rim, and it boasted a sweeping view of Seattle’s Elliott Bay and the snowcapped Olympic Mountains beyond. A prissy maître d’ was there to greet her and lead her to what was unarguably the best table in the restaurant. That’s where Kaberov sat, gazing out over the sparkling bay, as she spoke on her cell phone. A cruise ship was pulling away from a nearby dock as it departed for Alaska and a green and white ferryboat was about to dock as Marla stopped just short of the table.

Her supervisor’s white hair was pulled back into a tight bun and she looked stylish in a simple blue knit dress from St. Johns. Tasteful gold jewelry and the Hermès handbag completed the outfit. Marla, who was dressed in a two-piece gray business suit and wearing a pair of colorful Pikilino shoes felt dowdy by comparison.

Finally, having ignored Marla for at least two minutes, the older woman closed the flip-phone and eyed her guest with glacier-cold blue eyes.

“You may sit down.”

It had been awkward, standing there like a child waiting for permission to sit, and it was a relief to take the other chair.