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high-pitched whining noises as her breasts flopped up and down and her friends looked on.
 I'll look forward to meeting the Oteros, the agent said dryly.  Is there anything else?
 Yes, Diana said.  There are four brothers and each one of them is worth $250,000.
 Then there's a client other than ourselves?
 Yes, the controller replied.  A certain agency within the American government would love to
see the Tumaco cartel fail. And they don't like the Oteros, either.
 Well, there isn't a whole lot of time, but I'll do what I can, he promised.
 Mr. Nu will be pleased, Diana said evenly.  And one other thing& 
Agent 47 looked skyward.
 Yes?
 Tell the young woman to your right that she's getting a sunburn.
There was only one large public square within the city of Fez; that was where most of the main
events involved in the music festival were scheduled to be held. And as Agent 47 exited a cab
deep within the area known as Fes El Bali, he saw that preparations were nearing completion.
The streets that emptied into the square had been blocked with police barricades, a huge stage
had been set up at one end of the plaza, and the area was thick with workmen.
Having paid his fare, the assassin made a beeline for the closest security checkpoint. He wasn't
carrying any weapons other than a garrote, and was relying on the ID card that dangled from his
neck to get him in.
The queue continued to move ahead in fits and starts as a policeman examined the cards
proffered by the people who had lined up in front of the operative. Then came the moment of
truth as 47 stepped forward.
The ID was the rightful property of British folk singer Peter Samo, who was currently passed
out on Agent 47's couch. It had been altered by the simple expedient of pasting a picture of the
Jammer persona over the photo of a petulant Samo. It was an amateurish job by most standards,
but the panoply of henna tattoos that covered the Jammer's hairless skull, face, neck, and bare
arms proved such a distraction that the cop barely glanced at the card before waving him
through.
Which, to 47's way of thinking, was a clear indication that if the Otero brothers wanted to sneak
into the square, they certainly could. And quite possibly had, since the setup phase of the festival
was the perfect time to plant a bomb for detonation the following evening. The easiest way to
prolong Al-Fulani's life, at least for the moment, would be to remove the device. Or, if the bomb
was too complex for the agent to handle, an anonymous call to the police would take care of the
matter as well. Once that problem was out of the way, the assassin could turn his attention to
finding the Colombians. A necessity if he were to prevent the Oteros from activating some sort
of backup plan.
The problem was that there were literally hundreds of places to conceal one or more bombs on,
under, or in the vicinity of the stage. Which meant there was lots of work to do. By far the
easiest and most effective place to plant explosives would be directly under the performance
platform, so the assassin resolved to begin his inspection there.
It was dark under the stage, and a maze of crisscrossed supports made it difficult to move
around. But thanks to a penlight and his willingness to crawl through small spaces, 47 was able
to thoroughly inspect the area under the platform. Half an hour later, without having found a
bomb or any signs of suspicious activity, he was forced to brush off his clothes and return to the
stage, where a team of electricians was working on the sound system.
Having checked to ensure that none of the workmen looked anything like the Otero brothers, 47
began to examine anything that might contain or be a bomb. He was stopped and questioned
about his activities by a suspicious security guard, but the assassin explained that he was looking
for his lost cell phone. That, plus a look at the Jammer's fake ID, was sufficient to put the
guard's concerns to rest.
Just as 47 was about to give up and leave the platform, a couple of newcomers appeared. And
unlike all of the other men in the area, they were wearing stylish sports coats on a very warm
day. Why? Because they're armed, that's why a problem he could relate to. Yet they weren't the
Oteros, so who were they? Plainclothes police? Goons hired to protect the Oteros? Bodyguards
for some mullah or another?
Then he had his answer, as a demurely dressed Marla Norton mounted the platform, closely
followed by more men wearing sports coats. The assassin felt a jolt of adrenaline enter his
bloodstream. Was Al-Fulani about to make an early appearance? Or had his security team simply
come to check out the situation? Planning what to do if the shit hit the fan?
The second possibility seemed the more likely of the two, and as they moved closer, 47 went to
one knee next to a row of spotlights, and pretended to inspect them.
Marla glanced at the tattooed man, wondered why anyone would do such a thing to his body,
and turned to look out over the square.
If there were a worse situation to put her protector in, the Puissance Treize agent couldn't
imagine what it would be. Buildings stood shoulder to shoulder all around the square, and any
of them could provide cover to someone with a rifle or a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.
Then, as if that wasn't bloody well bad enough, there was the crowd to consider. It would be
easy for an assassin like 47 to use the mob for cover, get in close, and bag Al-Fulani from twenty
feet away. Or given the fact that other dignitaries would be onstage there was always the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]