He spent the next few minutes assembling a rather unhealthy breakfast from the long list of à la carte items the Copper Kitchen had to offer. Then, having placed an order for two fried eggs, country-style hash brown potatoes, and a side of crisp bacon, he proceeded to scan the paper. The headline proclaimed BARNYARD SLAUGHTER in big, bold letters. A description that seemed accurate enough, all things considered. Not that society had any reason to mourn the thieves, drug dealers, and murderers who had been killed at the farm.

Agent 47 had just begun to read the accompanying text when the front door opened, and the man who entered the room caught his attention. The man had carefully combed black hair, Eurasian features, and stood about five-ten or-eleven. His clothes weren’t all that different from those the assassin wore, except that his suit was dark blue, with gray pinstripes. Though 47 had never seen him before-just as he had never seen Marla prior to the meeting at the barn-he instinctively recognized the newcomer as a player.

He already had one hand inside his coat, and was preparing to exit the booth, when the stranger saw him and…

Waved.

At that moment, the assassin could stay, and run the risk that the man in the pinstriped suit had been sent by the Big Kahuna’s associates, or he could duck out the back. And run into what? An ambush in the parking lot? There was no way to know.

Finally, as was so often the case, the decision came down to a gut feeling. So 47 remained where he was as the other man slid into the seat across from him. The stranger had yellowish-brown eyes, a straight nose, and extremely white teeth. They gleamed when he smiled.

“Good morning!” the man said heartily. “I notice only one of your hands is visible. Does that mean what I think it means?”

“Of course,” 47 replied cautiously. “What did you expect?”

“Nothing less,” the other man replied evenly.

Agent 47’s waitress appeared at that point, placed his order on the table, and agreed to bring a cup of coffee for the man with the yellowish-brown eyes.

“So,” the assassin said as the woman walked away. “Who are you?”

“My name is Nu,” the man with the perfect teeth responded. “Mr. Nu. We work for the same organization. The difference is that I’m management, and you’re labor.”

“Really?” 47 inquired skeptically. “And why should I believe you?”

“Because I know how important the number 640509040147 is to you,” Nu replied confidently. “Go ahead and eat. Your food is getting cold.”

The revelation came as a shock. Only someone from The Agency would be privy to the serial number-the one that had been issued to the assassin on September 5, 1964. But even though Nu appeared to be who he said he was, Agent 47 kept a Silverballer aimed at the other man’s stomach. That left one hand with which he could eat his breakfast.

“All right,” the assassin allowed, “Let’s say you are who you claim to be. What brings you to Yakima?”

“Your most recent report brought me,” the other man replied, as the waitress arrived with his coffee. Waiting for her to depart, he continued. “Having reviewed the surveillance footage, the entire management team came to the same conclusion. The woman who calls herself Marla not only knew you were coming, but was aware of the contract on the Big Kahuna, and the way you were supposed to take him out.”

Agent 47 chased a mouthful of food with some of the Copper Kitchen’s lukewarm coffee before putting the cup down.

“Which means?”

“Which means that someone has found a way to penetrate our organization,” Nu replied darkly. “The personnel department will look at the most recent hires first, and if that strategy fails, we’ll expand the scope of our investigation.”

“That makes sense,” the assassin allowed cautiously, as he wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “But what about the larger question? Assuming a mole exists…who is behind him?”

“That’s what we want you to find out,” the executive replied grimly. “We know who the Marla woman works for, so that’s where you’ll start. Everything we have is on this,” Nu finished, as he pushed a USB memory stick across the table’s surface.

“All right,” Agent 47 replied flatly, as he palmed the device. “I’ll take care of it.”

“We knew you would,” the executive said, as he got up to leave. “We need to find this person, and find him—or her—fast.”

“One last thing,” 47 put in. “Where is the GPS tracker located? In my car? Or in my computer?”

“That’s for me to know,” Nu answered with a grin, “and for you to find out!” With that he was gone.

Agent 47 waited until the executive had exited through the front door before he returned the Silverballer to its holster and finished the meal. Then it was time to pay the bill, exit the restaurant, and go looking for a woman named Marla.

Thanks to its location on the water and proximity to both the Olympic and Cascade mountain ranges, Seattle was a beautiful city. Especially on a warm sunny day, when all manner of small boats were out on the lake, just north of downtown.

It was late in the day by the time Agent 47 arrived and began to stalk his target. Always a challenge, but even more so when the target was armed, and had at least three kills to her credit. A record that-while not all that impressive by 47’s standards-still qualified the Puissance Treize agent as a worthy adversary.

According to the information on the memory stick, in her role as a control-an agent assigned to direct a field assassin-the woman had been indirectly responsible for more than a dozen hits in the Med. The woman’s real name was Cassandra Murphy, and according to the data supplied by Mr. Nu, she’d been born in Belfast. She was thirty-six years old.

Adding to the challenge was the fact that he would have to gain control of the woman in order to communicate with her, which would probably be more difficult than simply shooting her. According to the information he had been given, the target was currently living on a houseboat moored in Lake Union. Years ago, there had been more of the floating domiciles, but a variety of government regulations and economic pressures had reduced the waterborne community to a few hundred water-level homes located on the lake and in neighboring Portage Bay.

It wasn’t clear how 47’s superiors had been tracking Marla’s movements prior to the massacre in Yakima, but there wasn’t any doubt as to why, since The Agency routinely kept track of anyone who had ever been employed by one of its competitors. Especially those having links with the Puissance Treize.

As he followed a side street down to the waterfront and the small parking lot that served the houseboats, a couple of problems quickly became apparent. The first was the cyclone fence and gate that had been put in place to prevent thieves, sightseers, and other undesirables from making their way out onto the community dock. The second was the fact that the area was so open that there was no place from which the assassin could safely observe his target’s comings and goings prior to making a move.

A red Mercedes was parked in the lot, though, and while there hadn’t been an opportunity for him to memorize the license plate, the assassin would have sworn that it was the same vehicle he’d seen parked outside the barn in Yakima. A thick patina of dust seemed to confirm that theory, as 47 executed a U-turn and left the area.

It was nearly dark by that time, the streetlights were on, and the orange-red sun was in the process of dropping behind the Olympic Mountains as the assassin searched for a place to stay. There weren’t any mom-and-pop-style motels in the downtown area, but Agent 47 happened by a seedy motor inn on the west side of the lake. It met all of his requirements. According to a sign in the lobby, the proprietors were willing to let rooms by the hour, day, week, or month. So he registered as Mr. Metzger, paid for five days in advance, and carried his suitcases up to a second-floor room.