He was considering his options when he heard the opening of a sliding-glass door. Fisher stepped to the bedroom door and peeked around the corner, down the carpeted hall, in time to see a man and woman stepping into one of the guest bedrooms. The door clicked shut, and moments later came a woman's giggle.
Fisher stepped out, crept down the hall to the door, pressed his ear to the wood, and heard the creak of bed-springs as the man and woman lay down. Fisher drew the SC pistol and with his thumb flipped the selector to DART, then reached down with his left hand and gave the knob a test turn. Unlocked. He turned the knob an inch, paused, then another inch, then another until the knob reached its stop. He swung open the door and stepped through to the left. From his reconnaissance he knew the layout of the room, and now he turned right, bringing the SC up. Neither the man nor the woman had heard him enter. Fisher fired a dart into the man's shoulder blades, then sidestepped right and fired again. The second dart struck the woman in the side of the neck. They both went limp, unconscious. Two down.Fisher pulled the bedspread over the bodies, then left, shutting the door behind him.
Another giggle. The slap of flesh on flesh. A squeal. The noises were coming from outside.
Fisher pressed himself against the wall, eased up to the corner, and poked his head around it. Another couple appeared at the top of the terrace steps and crossed the patio to the sliding doors. Fisher stepped backward down the hall until he was deeper in the shadows, then crouched down and raised the SC.
Ten seconds passed.
From another part of the villa a door slammed, followed by the distinctive hum of an automatic garage door opening. An engine revved to life. A few moments later the garage door closed. Four down, Fisher thought. He couldn't afford to assume anything about this latest couple's departure, however. They could be gone five minutes or the rest of the night. He would assume the latter.
It was time to gamble. Fisher went back into the guest bedroom and found the unconscious man's Hawaiian shirt lying beside the bed. He slipped it on over his tac suit, then went out the front sliding doors, paused to put aside his rifle, pistol, and Tridents, then took a deep breath and walked to the terrace steps, careful to allow only his head and shoulders to appear over the cliff's edge.
"Hey, Chucky, phone!" he called through cupped hands in his best British accent.
In unison, the group around the pool stopped and looked up at him.
Fisher felt his heart lurch. After five long seconds of silence, Zahm yelled back, "Don't call me that, damn it! I told you!"
Oops. Fisher gave a mea culpa shrug of his shoulders, then shouted, "Phone for you!"
Zahm handed his drink to one of the girls and headed for the stairs. Fisher sprinted back to the villa, scooped up his gear, and then returned to the hallway where he shed the Hawaiian shirt. He brought up the SC pistol, took a step forward. The sliding door whooshed open, then banged shut. When Zahm appeared in the living room and started toward the kitchen, where the phone was located, Fisher tracked him for two seconds, then fired. The dart hit Zahm beneath the right earlobe. He gasped, stumbled; then his knees went out from under him and he collapsed. Fisher crossed to him and snagged him by the collar and dragged him down the hall into the master bedroom, where he flex-cuffed his hands and feet. Five down or out of the picture.
He gave Zahm a quick pat down and found a Colt .25 semiautomatic pistol in his waistband. This complicated things. If the boss was armed, the underlings would be armed. Probably. Another assumption Fisher had to make. He considered trying a Cottonball shot, but the distance and the wind made accurate hits difficult. He would need to get close and dart them. And that was iffy. Even in their drunken state, the remaining three men were ex-SAS. They'd lived and breathed firearms for many years; even if they were drunk, Fisher didn't put his odds above 50 percent.
Alternatives,he thought.
The kernel of an idea formed in his head.
He found the servants' changing room, a small closet off the laundry room, by the garage door, and found a white smock and a pair of khaki pants and sandals that fit reasonably well, then went to the kitchen.
SITTINGon the counter were a dozen liquor bottles, but the emptiest ones seemed to be those needed for mojitos. Perhaps it was time for a special Sam Fisher concoction. He found a glass pitcher in one of the cabinets, mixed up a batch of mojitos, then set it aside and turned to his SC-20. How many?he wondered. Three men, four women, all already drunk . . .He ejected five Cottonballs from the rifle's modular magazine, dropped them in the pitcher, and then, using a long grilling fork, probed the liquid until he'd perforated all the Cottonballs. He waited three minutes to let the tranquilizer diffuse, then gave the pitcher a good stir, added ice, found a silver tray and six highball mugs, and poured. Finally, he shoved the SC pistol into his waistband and headed for the door. He paused before the foyer mirror to check himself, then stepped out.
He was halfway down the terrace steps before he was noticed. Welcoming shouts and cheers rose from the group around the pool, and by the time Fisher reached the deck they were walking toward him. Fisher's Portuguese was rudimentary, but his French was better, so he switched mental gears and said in French-accented, halting Portuguese, "Mojitos. Senhor Zahm's compliments."
The sweating glasses disappeared from the tray. Fisher turned to leave but was stopped short by a shout from one of Zahm's men: "Hey, I thought Charles gave you guys the night off."
Fisher turned. "No, sir. I am here."
"You're not Alberto." The man pointed a wobbly finger at the embroidered name on Fisher's smock.
"No, senhor. Pierre." Fisher gave the man a subservient smile.
"Huh. Pierre."
"Yes, senhor."
"Okay, then. Keep 'em coming, Pierre."
"Yes, senhor."
Fisher walked back to the steps and started upward. When the curve of the stairs blocked the pool area from view, he stopped, crouched down, and set aside the tray. He crab-walked back down until he could again see the pool. He was under no illusion about his Cottonball ruse: The tranquilizer would probably not be enough to render everyone unconscious. What it would do--what he was now seeing--was effectively double the group's inebriation level and give him the advantage he needed. One of the women, the skinniest of the group, was the first to react, stumbling toward a chaise lounge, where she collapsed, giggling and holding her mojito glass aloft in a babbled toast.