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That was exactly what Thorakis wanted to hear, so the magnate felt a tremendous sense of
relief, and even managed a smile.
Good. None of us are immortal& I know that, he said. But I'm not ready to go not yet!
Nor am I! Douay agreed jovially, as he rose to come around the desk. So, now that you're
here, will you join me for lunch?
Thank you, but no, Thorakis replied. I have allergies, you know, and my chef is back at the
hotel. Perhaps next time, though.
Yes, next time, the Frenchman agreed politely. Although it's important to be circumspect.
And with that in mind, perhaps you would allow my security people to take you out through the
basement garage.
That would be perfect, Thorakis said gratefully. They shook hands vigorously, and moments
later he was gone.
Douay waited until the elevator had closed on the Greek before opening an attaché case,
activating a satellite phone, and entering a two-digit code that triggered a much longer sequence
of numbers.
The truth was that Al-Fulani was fully aware of the shipping magnate's identity, which meant
Marla Norton had an important job to do. She would have to protect Al-Fulani, or die with him.
SIX
FEZ, MOROCCO
The French called Fez or Fes la Mysterieuse, and as Agent 47 pushed deeper into the
oldest and some said most dangerous part of the city, he discovered what they meant.
About a quarter-million people were crammed into a maze of narrow cobblestone streets, busy
souks, stately mosques, brooding blank-faced homes, and hidden gardens. And given the local
propensity to not only change street names, but post them in a variety of languages, it was easy
to understand why Fes El Bali, the old town, was sometimes referred to as the most
complicated square mile on Earth.
Tourists were well advised to hire a guide before setting foot in the area.
But Agent 47 was equipped with something more reliable than a human guide. He had a small
global positioning device that was preloaded with data provided by The Agency. The handheld
GPS unit showed Marla Norton's location, as well as that of The Agency's local armory, where
he could pick up any weapons he needed.
The security measures put in place over the last few years as part of the worldwide effort to
counter global terrorism made it nearly impossible to transport weapons on commercial flights
like the ones 47 had been forced to use in order to keep up with Marla. So, with the exception
of his undetectable fiber-wire garrote, the assassin was unarmed. A problem he would soon
correct.
Thanks to its location directly across the Strait of Gibraltar from Spain, as well as its reputation
as the gateway to Africa, Morocco was a favorite with tourists from all over the world. Which
was why none of the people who lived along the edge of the old city gave the assassin so much
as a second glance as he strode through labyrinthine passageways lined with small stores.
Further on the streets were lined with high walls, the iron-strapped gates that opened onto
private courtyards, and the homes that embraced them.
As the faithful were called to prayer, and the melodic sound of the adhan issued from the city's
minarets, the streets filled with locals and there were fewer and fewer European faces to be
seen.
Unlike the young women who frequented the stores in the French-built Ville Nouvelle (new
town), many of whom would have looked at home in New York City, most of Fes El Bali's
females wore the burka whenever they ventured forth to fetch food, buy clothes, or visit
relatives. Men sat on white plastic chairs, stood in doorways, or congregated in open air cafés
where many passed the time by playing cards.
Everyone, regardless of age, gender, or station, was forced to share the narrow streets with the
heavily burdened donkeys. In the absence of motor vehicles, these beasts were used to haul
everything in and out of the medina (city). And it was while he was taking refuge in a doorway,
so that one of the sturdy animals could pass, that 47 noticed the scruffy-looking African.
A furtive figure ducked into a side corridor when the assassin glanced his way. A thief most
likely, eager to steal a tourist's wallet, but the agent could imagine other scenarios as well,
including the possibility that the Puissance Treize was somehow aware of his presence. The tail
was a problem in either case, and would have to be dealt with before he could enter the armory.
With that in mind Agent 47 quickened his pace, passed a tiny shop stuffed with consumer
electronics, and took a sharp right-hand turn into a narrow passageway. Despite the heat of the
day, some of the cobblestones were wet, and the passage smelled of urine, though it was empty
except for an overflowing trash bin. At the end of the alley, all further progress was blocked by a
door covered with peeling paint. The barrier appeared to be at least a hundred years old and was
equipped with an equally venerable lock.
The agent ventured a quick look over his shoulder before dropping to one knee and peering
through the keyhole. The view was limited, but he couldn't see any sign of movement in the
courtyard beyond, so he was inclined to take the chance. The pick made quick work of the worn
tumblers, and it was only a matter of seconds before he heard a click, and the lock opened.
Another quick glance over his shoulder still showed no sign of pursuit.
Hinges squeaked as the agent pushed the door open and slipped inside. From all appearances,
the small courtyard was being used to store construction materials. Scrap lumber was stacked
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