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saw that it was 5:58 a.m. Waking without an alarm clock was one of the many skills he’d been required to master as a child. And the only way to avoid a blow from one of the “memory sticks” that the asylum’s staff members carried was to wake up a couple of seconds early, and clearly signal that fact. So 47 sat up, placed both Silverballers on the bed beside him, and stood. Early morning light filtered in around the curtains, and a car door slammed in the parking lot. A few steps carried him around the foot of the bed to the far side, where there was barely enough space for him to complete his morning exercises. The carpet was worn and far from clean, but he’d seen worse. After a hundred push-ups, two-hundred sit-ups, and the rest of his regimen he entered the bathroom, pistol in hand. The automatic went on top of the toilet tank where it would be easy to reach. Having brushed his teeth and taken a shower, 47 prepared to shave. He removed the DOVO from his kit. The straight razor was made of stainless steel, equipped with a French point, and could also be employed as a weapon should the need arise.
    The gel felt cool as 47 smeared it over his cheeks, and the DOVO made a rasping noise as it carved a path through his whiskers. The task was complete five minutes later. Next he set about the extremely difficult job of removing all of the forensic evidence from the hotel room; if someone was tracking him, he saw no reason to make their task easier. That was why he routinely wiped everything down, double-flushed any items that might carry his DNA, and kept a sharp eye out for stray socks, telltale receipts, and loose cartridges. Once the room was clean he put on a fresh white shirt, his signature red necktie, the two-gun harness, and a black suit with matching shoes. One was scuffed. A quick buff put it right.
    Then, having eyed the parking lot through the window, Agent 47 carried the matching suitcases out to the Volvo and placed them in the trunk. Having paid for his room in advance, he had no need to check out prior to breakfast, which he generally regarded as the most important meal of the day. InFrance , that meant coffee, tea, or hot chocolate with a baguette or croissant.A meal that might lack substance, but certainly made more sense than the eggs, sausage, and mushrooms that were sometimes served inGreat Britain .
    Which was why 47 preferred to eat breakfast in theUnited States , where he could choose from a wide array of items, including regional specialties like biscuits and gravy or huevos rancheros. So, having no interest in the fast-food crap put out by the restaurant chains, Agent 47 was eternally on the lookout for the one-of-a-kind restaurants that locals frequented. It was a somewhat risky strategy, since he was more noticeable in such eateries than he would have been at a McDonald’s. But that reality had to be weighed against the fact that most fast-food franchises have antitheft surveillance systems. All of which led 47 to the Copper Kitchen. It was located on a busy street, and the parking lot was nearly full, which he considered a good sign.
    As was his habit, Agent 47 backed the Volvo into a slot where it would be positioned for a quick departure, and took a moment to identify the restaurant’s rear exit before crossing the parking lot to the front door. A newspaper rack was positioned next to the entrance, so he paused to buy a copy of the Yakima Herald-Republic, then followed a man wearing overalls into the restaurant. The farmer took a seat at the well-worn counter, while 47 eyed the booths off to the left, the most distant of which was located next to the kitchen door. That was the sort of spot most diners tried to avoid, but he actually preferred.
    “A booth, please,” he said, as a woman with gray hair arrived to seat him. “The one in the back looks nice.”
    The woman nodded mechanically, grabbed a plastic-covered menu from the rack next to the cash register, and led the assassin back to a