The Mark of the Assassin

man,
    obviously. That's why you are willing to endure physical pain for him.
    He does not feel the same for you, I assure you. Otherwise, he would
    never have allowed you to approach me. He's using you, just like those
    bastards in the RAF used you."
    Stoltenberg said something to the driver in rapid Arabic that Astrid did
    not understand. The driver opened the door and got out. Stoltenberg
    shoved the gun into her throat again. All right," he said. "Let's try
    this one more time."
    DELAROCHE KILLED THE BIKE'S ENGINE when he saw the brake lights of the
    Mercedes flare red. He silently coasted to a stop, pushed the bike off
    the track, and approached the car on foot. The moon threw shadows. Cairo
    murmured in the distance. He froze when he heard a car door open and
    close. The car remained dark; Stoltenberg, like any decent officer, had
    disabled his interior light. In the moonlight Delaroche could see the
    driver, gun in hand, checking the perimeter. Delaroche crouched behind a
    jagged outcropping of rock and waited for the man to draw nearer. When
    the driver was about ten yards away, De-laroche stood and leveled his
    Beretta in the darkness.
    STOLTENBERG WAS SLAPPING her again, her face, the back of her head, her
    breasts. She felt he was beginning to enjoy it. She thought about
    something else, anything else. She thought of her houseboat on the
    Prinsengracht, and her little bookstore, and she wished to God that
    Jean-Paul Delaroche had never come into her life. The front
    driver's-side door opened and closed. In the darkness Astrid could
    barely make out the silhouetted figure of a man behind the wheel. She
    realized it was not the same man who had been there before. Stoltenberg
    was pressing the gun into Astrid's throat again. "Anything back there?"
    Stoltenberg said in Arabic. The man behind the wheel shook his head.
    "Yallah," Stoltenberg said. Let's go. Delaroche spun around and pointed
    Stoltenberg's face. The German was too stunned to react. Delaroche fired
    three times.
    the Beretta at "HE COULD HAVE KILLED ME, Jean-Paul."
    She lay on the bed at the Hotel Imperial, dressed in her galabia,
    smoking one cigarette after the next in the half-darkness. Delaroche lay
    next to her, dismantling his guns. Her hair was damp from the shower;
    she had rubbed herself raw, trying to wash away Stoltenberg's blood.
    Wind drifted through the open French doors. She shuddered with a chill.
    The toilet had stopped working again. Delaroche called the front desk
    and asked someone to fix it, but Mr. Fahmy, the keeper of the secret
    knowledge, was off that night. "Bukra, inshallah," the clerk said.
    Tomorrow, God willing. Delaroche regarded her statement; the
    professional in him could not dispute it. Eric Stoltenberg had had ample
    time and opportunity to kill her. He had chosen not to because he needed
    more information. "He could have killed you," Delaroche said, "but he
    didn't because you behaved perfectly. You stalled, you told him nothing.
    You were never alone. I was right behind you the entire time."
    "If he wanted to kill me, you couldn't have stopped him."
    "This work is not without risk. You know that."
    Stoltenberg's words ran through her head. He's very sloppy, this
    Frenchman of yours. He sent you into a very dangerous situation. "I'm
    not sure I can go on, Jean-Paul."
    "You took the assignment. You took the money. You can't back out now."
    "I want to go back to Amsterdam, to the Prinsengracht."
    "That door is closed to you now."
    She took inventory of her injuries once more: split lip, bruised
    cheekbone, a mark like a handprint on her right breast. She had never
    been in a situation where she was helpless, and she didn't like it. "I
    don't want to die like an animal in the desert."
    "Nor do I," he said. "I won't let that happen to either of us."
    "Where will you go, when this business is finished?"
    "Back to Breles if I can. If not, the Caribbean."
    "And where will I go, now that the door to Amsterdam has been closed to
    me?"
    He put down his guns and lay on top of her. "You can come with me to the
    Caribbean."
    "And what will I do there?"
    "Whatever you like, or nothing at all."
    "And what will I be to you? Will I be your wife?"
    Delaroche shook his head. "No, you will not be my wife."
    "Will there be other women?"
    He shook his head again. "No, there will be no other women."
    "I'll be whatever you want me to be, but you mustn't humiliate me with
    other women."
    "I would never humiliate you, Astrid."
    He kissed