The Mark of the Assassin

I didn't mean that."
    "There's just one thing I want to do before I go. I want to know what
    really happened to that jetliner. I want the truth."
    "And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set ye free, eh,
    Michael?"
    "Something like that."
    "Is she gone?"
    "Is who gone?"
    "Sarah. Is she gone?"
    "She was never there to begin with."
    "That's clever, Michael, but answer my question."
    "Sometimes, I'll think about what happened to her. But I don't love her,
    Elizabeth, and I don't wish she were lying there instead of you."
    A tear rolled down her face. She punched it away and said, "Come here,
    Michael. Come to bed."
    She lay in his arms for a long time, crying. He held her until the
    shaking stopped. She looked up at him, face damp, and said, "Mind if I
    tell you a little about my day now, darling?"
    "I'd love to hear about your day."
    "Four of the eggs fertilized. They implanted them this morning. I'm
    supposed to take it easy for a couple of days. They'll do a pregnancy
    test and see if it worked."
    He laid the palm of his hand on her stomach. She kissed his mouth.
    "Michael Osbourne, that's the first time I've seen you smile in weeks."
    "It's the first good news I've had in weeks."
    She trailed a finger through his hair. "Will they come for you?"
    "I don't know. If I'm out, I'm no threat to them anymore."
    "Will you quit tomorrow? For me?"
    "I don't think I'm going to be given a choice." And the truth shall set
    ye free," she said. "Amen."
    CHAPTER 32.
    Cyprus.
    THE SMALL GULFSTREAM JET sat on the isolated runway, engines whining in
    the darkness. The pilot was named Roger Stephens, a former officer of
    the Royal Navy's Fleet Air Arm who was decorated in the Falklands War.
    He now worked for the Transport Section of the Society. As he
    mechanically went through the preflight checks, Stephens was missing one
    crucial piece of information: a flight plan. The passengers, a man and a
    woman, were supposed to supply that on boarding.
    He assumed it would be a long flight, though; he had been ordered to
    take on a full complement of fuel. Thirty minutes later a black Range
    Rover turned onto the runway and headed toward the Gulfstream at high
    speed, headlights dark. It stopped at the foot of the stairway,
    deposited two people, and sped quickly away. Stephens had flown several
    missions for the Society, for which he was well compensated, and he knew
    the rules. He was not to look at the faces of the passengers, nor was he
    to speak to them. The arrangement suited Stephens fine. The Society and
    the men they employed were a rough lot, and he wanted as little to do
    with them as possible. The passengers boarded the plane and took their
    seats. A black nylon duffel bag had been left on board for them, and the
    refrigerator was well stocked with food and wine. Stephens heard the rip
    of a zipper, the metallic crack of an experienced gunman checking the
    action of an automatic weapon, the pop of a champagne cork, the murmur
    of a woman speaking German-accented French. A moment later the man
    entered the cockpit and stood behind Stephens. "The flight plan," he
    said simply. The language was English with a vague accent Stephens could
    not quite place. The flight plan was thrust before his face, along with
    a silenced Beretta handgun. Stephens took the flight plan. Delaroche
    said, "Stay in the cockpit, and don't look at either one of us. If you
    look at us, I'll kill you and land the plane myself. Do you hear me?"
    Stephens nodded. A chill ran down the back of his neck.
    Delaroche left the cockpit and took his seat in the passenger
    compartment. Stephens reached back, without turning around, and closed
    the cockpit door. A moment later the engines fired and the Gulfstream
    lifted into the Mediterranean night.
    CHAPTER 33.
    CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia.
    MICHAEL ALWAYS THOUGHT
    environmentalists would have a field day with Monica Tyler's office.
    Perched on the seventh floor, it was large and airy and overlooked the
    trees along the river. Monica had scoffed at the idea of decorating her
    lair with government furniture and had brought her own from her New York
    office instead: a large mahogany desk, mahogany file cabinets, mahogany
    bookshelves, and a mahogany conference table surrounded by cozy leather
    chairs. Trinkets of ivory and silver were scattered about, and fine
    Persian rugs covered much of the ugly gray-blue government carpeting.
    One wall was dedicated entirely to photographs of Monica with