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No, 47 replied, That's entirely up to you.
Then, with a wave to Numo, the assassin mounted the stairs.
No rifle shots were heard, but Gazeau saw a glint of reflected light coming from the direction of
the water tower, as if someone were eyeing the airstrip through a pair of binoculars. With that
possibility in mind, he went around to open the driver's-side door, removed the keys from the
Land Rover's ignition, and held them up where they were plain to see.
Then, having given the woman plenty of time to look, he slid the key ring down onto the
vehicle's antenna.
The C-27 had taxied away by then, leaving a miniature dust storm in its wake, as it made the
turn onto the runway. The General Electric T64-P4D engines roared as its pilot advanced both
throttles, the transport jerked forward, and quickly gained speed.
The plane took to the air a few seconds later.
NEAR NOTO, SICILY
The airstrip dated back to the days of World War II, when German planes had used it as a place
to refuel before taking off for North Africa. And later, when things began to go poorly for
Rommel, a squadron of fighters had been stationed there so they could attack allied shipping in
the Mediterranean.
But those days were long over, and the field was primarily dedicated to civilian aviation, plus
the occasional emergency landing by commercial jets.
As the sun was beginning to set, a lonely figure stood in front of the tiny terminal building and
stared toward the south. Though not Agent 47's friend in the conventional sense of the word,
Father Vittorio was his spiritual adviser, to the extent that the assassin needed one. The
operative believed he was headed for hell, and given all 47 had done, that was certainly possible.
But God never gives up, nor can I, the priest told himself. Because there is a kernel of goodness
buried deep within 47's soul, even if he isn't aware of it.
And there was evidence to support the priest's hypothesis. The assassin had once taken shelter
at Vittorio's church, where he worked as the gardener in an attempt to put his violent life behind
him. But men with 47's skills were hard to come by, and it wasn't long before the past caught up
with the assassin, forcing him to take up arms once again. Those had been bloody days, in a land
already soaked with blood, and it was something of a miracle that both Vittorio and his former
gardener were still alive.
A cold breeze came up, as if somehow summoned by the priest's dark thoughts, and tugged at
his cloak as the plane appeared in the south. Its running lights were on, and it was gradually
losing altitude.
The phone call had come like a bolt out of the blue. Vittorio knew who it was the moment he
heard 47's voice. The agent was on a plane loaded with orphans, headed for Sicily, and in need
of someone to care for the youngsters. Why was a hired killer flying north with a planeload of
children? There was no way to know.
And it really didn't matter. The orphans were in need of help, and Father Vittorio would do his
best to provide it. No simple matter, given all of the legalities involved, but the local customs
agent was a member of Vittorio's parish. The Holy See could be counted on to help, and the
Lord would take care of the rest.
There was a brief screech of tires as the airplane put down, the engines roared, and it wasn't
long before the twin-engined transport turned off the runway and onto the taxiway in front of
the terminal. It stopped a few minutes later, and the big props continued to turn for a few
revolutions before finally coming to a halt.
A door opened, stairs were lowered, and Agent 47 appeared. The assassin was wearing his usual
black suit, white shirt, and red tie. When he was halfway down the stairs, he turned to accept
two briefcases, then two suitcases. Three of the objects were left next to the plane as he crossed
the tarmac.
Vittorio noticed that 47's skin was darker than usual, as if he'd been spending a great deal of
time in the sun, and wondered how long the agent had been in Africa.
It's good to see you, my son, the priest said, as the two men embraced.
And you, Father, Agent 47 replied. Thank you for agreeing to help.
Such is the Lord's work, Vittorio said, as he eyed the plane. The children were being unloaded
by then, and the scrawny youngsters made for a pitiful sight as another man, who looked to be
the pilot, led them toward the terminal. What can you tell me about the little ones? the cleric
inquired. What happened to their families?
Their parents were killed by slavers. They were on their way to a whorehouse in Fez when
something happened to the man who owned them, 47 replied.
Vittorio crossed himself. He could well imagine what the something was.
But unlike most orphans, they come with an endowment, 47 added, as he presented
Al-Fulani's briefcase to the clergyman.
The priest released the latches, took a peek inside, and closed the lid.
That looks like a lot of money, my son.
It is, 47 agreed. And it's tax free.
The conversation was interrupted as the pilot arrived with the children in tow. The man was
about to introduce himself when the orphans rushed Father Vittorio and quickly surrounded
him.
My name's Preston, the pilot said, as he extended his hand. The children went to a mission
school, before the priest was murdered and all of the villagers were forced to flee. So they know
what a clerical collar means.
The copilot joined the group at that point. He had a briefcase tucked under one arm and was
toting the two suitcases. I don't know what you have in these things, he complained to 47,
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