GT_Dietz_William_C_Hitman_Enemy

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order to escape what could be a death sentence. Because while the Puissance Treize could be
generous to its more reliable employees, it had a very low tolerance for failure.
So, Kaberov began. Her English was quite good, in spite of a slight Russian accent. I read
the report you filed, and was impressed by how objective it was. You made no attempt to
conceal your incompetence or evade responsibility for what can only be categorized as a
disaster. You had been told who was coming, when he would arrive, and what he planned to
do. Yet you managed to take what should have been a routine hit and turn it into a major
debacle. Now, having had time to reflect on what took place, tell me where you went wrong.
Marla felt an obstruction block the back of her throat, and struggled to swallow it.
In retrospect I realize that I should have warned the Big Kahuna, and enlisted his aid before
The Agency's assassin arrived.
Kaberov nodded her agreement.
You were grandstanding. Trying to impress everyone with how omnipotent you were. And it
cost you& . Worse yet, it cost us. Fortunately the witnesses are dead. With one notable
exception. And someone took the surveillance tape. Was that you?
Yes, Marla lied smoothly. I destroyed it.
Good, Kaberov replied grudgingly. That, at least, was the competent thing to do. Although it
should have been included in the report. In any case, based on the number of bodies that were
found, it's clear that Agent 47 escaped. And eliminating him was the true purpose of sending
you there.
There might have been more, except that the waiter arrived with what turned out to be
excellent chicken salad, hard rolls, and iced tea. And rather than continue the conversation, the
Russian launched into an analysis of fall fashions. A subject Marla knew very little about, but
greatly preferred to a further discussion of the Yakima Massacre, as CNN now referred to it.
But talk of clothing came to an end when the dishes were taken away, and Kaberov removed a
small, carefully wrapped gold box from her purse.
Here, the Sector Chief said, as she offered the object to Marla. A present for you.
The gesture was entirely unexpected, and Marla didn't know what to say, as she accepted the
gift.
Go ahead, Kaberov urged. Open it.
So Marla removed the red ribbon, broke the seals that held both halves of the box together, and
lifted the lid. There, lying within a perfectly formed velvet-lined recess, was a single,
hand-loaded, 230-grain, .45 caliber bullet. The round had been polished, and seemed to glow as
if lit from within.
The Russian was waiting when Marla looked up.
It's part of a matched set, the older woman explained sweetly. And, if you fuck up again,
you'll get the second one right between the eyes.
FOUR
YAKIMA, WASHINGTON, USA
Agent 47 awoke with a jerk, eyed his wristwatch, and saw that it was 5:58 a.m.
Waking without an alarm clock was one of the many skills he'd been required to master as a
child. And the only way to avoid a blow from one of the memory sticks that the asylum's staff
members carried was to wake up a couple of seconds early, and clearly signal that fact.
So 47 sat up, placed both Silverballers on the bed beside him, and stood. Early morning light
filtered in around the curtains, and a car door slammed in the parking lot. A few steps carried
him around the foot of the bed to the far side, where there was barely enough space for him to
complete his morning exercises. The carpet was worn and far from clean, but he'd seen worse.
After a hundred push-ups, two-hundred sit-ups, and the rest of his regimen he entered the
bathroom, pistol in hand. The automatic went on top of the toilet tank where it would be easy
to reach.
Having brushed his teeth and taken a shower, 47 prepared to shave. He removed the DOVO
from his kit. The straight razor was made of stainless steel, equipped with a French point, and
could also be employed as a weapon should the need arise.
The gel felt cool as 47 smeared it over his cheeks, and the DOVO made a rasping noise as it
carved a path through his whiskers. The task was complete five minutes later.
Next he set about the extremely difficult job of removing all of the forensic evidence from the
hotel room; if someone was tracking him, he saw no reason to make their task easier. That was
why he routinely wiped everything down, double-flushed any items that might carry his DNA,
and kept a sharp eye out for stray socks, telltale receipts, and loose cartridges. Once the room
was clean he put on a fresh white shirt, his signature red necktie, the two-gun harness, and a
black suit with matching shoes.
One was scuffed. A quick buff put it right.
Then, having eyed the parking lot through the window, Agent 47 carried the matching suitcases
out to the Volvo and placed them in the trunk. Having paid for his room in advance, he had no
need to check out prior to breakfast, which he generally regarded as the most important meal of
the day.
In France, that meant coffee, tea, or hot chocolate with a baguette or croissant. A meal that
might lack substance, but certainly made more sense than the eggs, sausage, and mushrooms
that were sometimes served in Great Britain.
Which was why 47 preferred to eat breakfast in the United States, where he could choose from
a wide array of items, including regional specialties like biscuits and gravy or huevos rancheros.
So, having no interest in the fast-food crap put out by the restaurant chains, Agent 47 was
eternally on the lookout for the one-of-a-kind restaurants that locals frequented. It was a [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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