It felt as though the sunshine had lost all of its warmth as the Frenchman stepped out onto the terrace. The laughter sounded discordant, and the smiles looked false.

That was the moment when Douay realized how exposed the terrace was, how easy it would be for someone to shoot Nicole from a thousand yards away, and he called to his guests.

The party was over.

CHAPTER TWENTY

SINTRA, PORTUGAL Having successfully escaped from the Greek’s mansion during the hours of darkness, Agent 47 had returned to the hotel and was sitting in the lobby when the Puissance Treize hunter-killer team checked in. It was no accident that he’d been waiting for them. They were dressed like tourists, but the assassin knew them the same way that one animal knows another. They were towing their own luggage, so no one could tamper with their belongings, notice how heavy the suitcases were, or accidentally misplace them.

The man was about six-two, well built, and had fair skin. His hair was blond, too short to grab hold of, and worn in a flattop. He was dressed in a dark blue sport shirt that was one size too big so it would hang over the bulge high on his right hip.

And as Mr. Flattop took care of the check-in formalities, his female companion was facing the lobby, rather than the counter. That was the key to the hunter-killer concept. One person, the woman most likely, functioned as the hunter. Her job was to spot the prey, bring him in close if that were possible, and provide security while the killer took the target out.

Like her partner, the hunter was blond, with athletically short hair and the long lean body of a tennis player. Her clothing was very chic, except for the fanny pack she wore draped across her lower abdomen. The perfect place to keep a semiauto and some spare magazines. She had very blue eyes, and when they came to rest on the man with the big paunch, he was already snapping pictures of her.

It was just the sort of thing Tazio Scaparelli would do if he saw a pretty woman and didn’t know who she was. Who could possibly keep track of all the starlets, models, and aristocrats who were roaming Europe? The safest thing to do was take pictures, and establish their value later. Agent 47 could tell that the hunter didn’t like having her picture taken, but there wasn’t much she could do about it, and her eyes drifted away as the camera was lowered.

So Al-Fulani was right, Agent 47 mused. Thorakis is guilty—and Diana is innocent. Mr. Nu will be pleased, and all things considered, so am I.

With the basic assessment out of the way, the assassin took his armchair analysis to the next level. The hunter and the killer were professional partners, but were they lovers as well? If they were, then Mr. Flattop would feel protective toward her. Something 47 might use against him, and one of the reasons why the assassin preferred to work alone.

As the couple received their keys and turned to follow a bellman toward one of the Central’s ancient elevators, the operative came to the conclusion that the answer to his question was a definite “yes.” The two were lovers. His observation wasn’t based on anything obvious, like a wedding ring, but on more subtle factors. Like the failure to maintain enough space between their bodies, the familiar manner in which they touched each other, and the way Mr. Flattop allowed his partner to board the elevator first.

All of which meant that by the time the elevator doors closed on the couple, 47 had already decided how to kill them. Their strength stemmed from the hunter-killer concept and closeness of their relationship. So the first thing to do was divide and conquer.

But how?

The logical thing to do was eliminate the hunter first, because she would be easier to kill, and because her death would make Mr. Flattop angry. And it was 47’s intention to use the other man’s grief and rage against him.

The man known as Tazio Scaparelli fought his way up out of the armchair and waddled away. The war was about to begin—and it was time to prepare.

The woman’s name was Tova Holm, and it was her job to find the target so Hans Pruter could kill him. And thanks to the fact that The Agency assassin was already registered at the hotel, the task would be that much easier. Once they figured out who the man was.

The first step would be to gain access to the Central’s guest list by bribing one of the clerks, flirting with one of them, or hacking into the hotel’s computer system. An often tiresome process that Holm wanted to avoid if possible.

Having donned a skimpy tennis outfit, the shapely blonde went down to the front desk and approached a clerk, who clearly couldn’t take his eyes off her. Having smiled beguilingly, she launched into a story about having spotted an old friend as she entered the elevator, and wanting to contact her. The problem being that she had forgotten the woman’s married name. She would remember the name, however, if she could take a look at the guest list.

The clerk knew it was wrong, but wanted to please the pretty young woman, and agreed to provide the blonde with a printout, as long as she wouldn’t tell anyone. So ten minutes later, Holm and Pruter were sitting in their room, going over the registry, and highlighting the names they considered to be most promising.

“He’s an expert where disguises are concerned,” Pruter reminded her. “But there are certain things one can’t hide. Height being the most obvious.”

While Pruter remained in the room, so he could clean his weapons, Holm took the list and went to work. The obvious place to start was with the maids, all of whom were poorly paid and eager to make a few extra euros. It wasn’t long before the guest list had been reduced to three men. Alexandru Cosma, a Romanian who had arrived earlier that morning. Tazio Scaparelli, the Italian photographer who had taken her picture in the lobby, and George Fuller, an American tourist.

So far, so good…

But which one of them was Agent 47? In order to answer that question, and “surprise her brother,” Holm managed to “rent” a master key from a maid who was about to go on a lunch break. That, combined with the uniform she had “borrowed,” would allow her to enter all three rooms. Not to make the kill, but to eliminate the false positives and identify the target. At that point Pruter would join the hunt, they would stalk the enemy assassin together, and take him out.

Just as they had thirty-two times before.

Given his appearance, and the fact that he’d been staying at the hotel for more than a week by then, Tazio Scaparelli seemed like a poor bet. That being the case, Holm chose to examine the Italian’s room first. She approached the door the way any maid would, rapped three times, and shouted, “Housekeeping!”

Then, having heard no response, the Puissance Treize agent slipped the master key into the door and let herself in. Once inside, she had to check Scaparelli’s belongings to see if the corpulent paparazzo was the person he seemed to be. A delicate task, since it was necessary to search the room without disturbing anything. It soon became apparent that the Italian was a fat, somewhat slovenly diabetic, who was about to run out of clean underwear.

Satisfied that Scaparelli had been eliminated from the list, Holm set out to check on the recently arrived Romanian. His room was on the third floor. The routine was the same: Three loud knocks followed by a loud, “Housekeeping!”

Having received no response, the counterassassin entered the room and pulled the door closed behind her. A suitcase was resting on the bed, and Holm went over to inspect it. And that’s where she was, leaning over to look inside the open bag, when Agent 47 stepped out from behind the heavy floor-length curtains.

The Puissance Treize agent heard the unexpected swish of fabric, and was reaching for her pistol when the assassin fired the air gun. Holm felt the dart bite her neck, paused to pluck the object out, and was busy examining the projectile when she felt a burning sensation. That was followed by a sharp pain in her chest, a moment of vertigo as her heart stopped, and a long fall into darkness.

A series of flashes strobed the room as the man named Alexandru Cosma, Agent 47, and Tazio Scaparelli took a series of pictures.

Then it was time to retrieve the dart, Holm’s Fabrique Nationale Forty-Nine, and two extra clips of.40 caliber ammunition. The FN constituted a much heavier piece than 47 had expected to acquire, and made for a welcome addition to his modest arsenal.

With those chores accomplished, the operative let himself out. The DO NOT DISTURB sign would keep the hotel’s staff at bay until the next day. At that point they would find a dead guest, who was not only dressed as one of their maids, but lying in the wrong room. A room registered to Mr. Cosma, who was nowhere to be found. It was a mystery that would keep the local authorities busy for months to come.

The hunter was dead…

The killer was waiting.

Holm had been gone for hours and Pruter was beginning to worry about her, when a bellman knocked on the door. Or was he a bellman?

The German positioned himself next to the door with the Glock at the ready. “Ja?”

“I have a package for you, sir,” the teenager said politely.

The killer peered through the keyhole, confirmed that the bellhop was holding a manila envelope in his hand, and opened the door a crack. The package slid in, a five-euro note went out, and the transaction was complete.

There was a positive click as the door swung closed. Pruter was a cautious man. That was one of the reasons why he was still alive. So rather than open the envelope right away he took a moment to examine it. The block lettering on the front said, TO HANS PRUTER. But there was no return address.

The killer felt ice water trickle into his bloodstream as he held the envelope up to the light. Could it contain a bomb? Or a dose of anthrax? Anything was possible-but he didn’t think so. Some dark rectangles could be seen through the paper, and when he rotated the container they slid from side to side.

The knife generated a soft click as the blade locked into place. Rather than open the top of the envelope Pruter was careful to slit one of the sides to avoid any triggering mechanisms hidden inside.

But the effort was wasted. The only items inside the container were a series of photographs that spilled out onto the floor: Pictures of Holm lying on a rug staring sightlessly into the camera.

The German’s knees made a solid thump as they hit the carpet. The killer’s hand shook as he began to sort through the photos that 47 had been able to print at a do-it-yourself kiosk in the local drugstore. They were of Holm, dressed in a maid’s uniform, lying dead on a rug that was identical to the one beneath him. Meaning that her body was somewhere inside the hotel.

The inarticulate bellow of rage and pain was followed by a long series of sobs that wracked his body, and tears flowed down his cheeks. Then Pruter saw that a picture postcard lay among the photos. It showed a panoramic view of gray, vegetation-clad battlements. The caption read, Costelo dos Mouros.