The Mark of the Assassin

OPERATIONAL DETAILS WILL BE DOWNLOADED ONTO YOUR COMPUTER. THE FILE
    WILL BE ENCRYPTED, OF COURSE, AND YOUR CODE NAME WILL UNLOCK IT. IF YOU
    WISH TO DECLINE, PRESS ESCAPE. Delaroche looked away from the screen and
    thought for a moment. With that fee, he would have an extraordinary
    amount of money, more than enough to guarantee comfort and security the
    rest of his life. He knew it was not without risk, though. The
    assassinations would grow more difficult--Eric Stoltenberg was proof of
    that--and now he was being asked to carry out another killing. He
    wondered too whether Astrid could go on; the confrontation in Cairo with
    Stoltenberg had taken a heavy toll on her. Delaroche realized, however,
    that Astrid's life was now tied inexorably to his. She would do what he
    wanted her to do. He pushed the ENTER key. The file downloaded onto his
    laptop over the high-speed modem. He glanced at the dossier and shut
    down the computer. He knew the man; he had confronted him once before.
    He put away the computer and dialed his bank in Zurich. Herr Becker came
    on the line. Yes, two deposits had been made to the account: one for a
    million dollars, a second for three-quarters of a million moments ago.
    Delaroche instructed Becker to wire the money to the Bahamian accounts.
    He left the telephone center and went out to collect Astrid's bicycle. A
    thief was working the lock. Delaroche politely informed him that the
    bicycle was his. The thief told De-laroche to fuck off. Delaroche drove
    a foot into his kidney. As he rode off on the bicycle, the thief still
    lay on the ground, writhing silently.
    ASTRID SLEPT until after sunset. They had coffee in a cafe near the
    Krista and walked the canals until dinner. Astrid inhaled the cold clear
    air of Amsterdam, trying to cleanse her lungs of the dust and smoke of
    Cairo. Her nerves were brittle from sleeping pills and coffee. A man
    with gray-blond hair bumped into her. Astrid was reaching inside her bag
    for her gun before Delaroche put a hand on her arm and whispered that it
    was nothing, just a stranger in a hurry. They ate like spent lovers in
    the restaurant on the Heren-gracht where Delaroche had taken her the
    first night. She had eaten nothing in Cairo, so she devoured her own
    food and most of Delaroche's. Her complexion, bone-white with exhaustion
    and nerves, took on color with the food and the wine and the night air.
    He told her over dessert. Her face registered nothing more than mild
    annoyance, as if Delaroche had informed her he would be working late at
    the office that evening. "You don't have to do it," he said. "I don't
    want to be without you."
    They made love beneath Krista's skylight to the screams of skaters on
    the Prinsengracht. Afterward, Delaroche confessed he had shot down the
    airliner off New York, along with a Palestinian boy whom he had killed.
    He told her he believed the men they had killed were involved in the
    attack as well, or that they somehow knew the truth. "Who are the men
    that hired you?" she asked, touching his lips. "I honestly don't know."
    "You must know they will kill you, Jean-Paul. When you finish the
    contract they'll come after you. And me, too."
    "I'm aware of that."
    "Where will we go?"
    "To our house on the beach."
    "Will it be safe there?"
    "It will be as safe as anywhere else."
    She lit a cigarette and blew a slender stream of smoke at the skylight.
    He reached for his laptop, turned on the power, and punched a few keys.
    The hard drive whirred, then the image of a dark-haired man appeared on
    the screen. "Why does this man have to die?"
    "I suspect he knows too much."
    Another image appeared, Elizabeth Osbourne. "His wife is beautiful."
    "Yes."
    "A pity."
    "Yes," Delaroche said, and he closed the laptop.
    CHAPTER 31.
    Shelter Island, New York.
    MICHAEL MADE THE LAST FERRY of the night. For a few moments he stood at
    the rail in the cold air, but the wind and sea spray drove him back
    inside the rented Buick from JFK. He had called Adrian Carter from the
    Long Island Expressway and told him he was back in the country. Carter
    wanted to know where the hell he had been. Michael said he would come to
    headquarters tomorrow afternoon and explain everything. When Carter
    demanded an explanation now, Michael lied and said the cellular
    connection was bad and hung up. The last thing he heard was Adrian
    Carter uncharacteristically screaming obscenities as he replaced the
    phone in its cradle. Rollers broke over the prow, dousing