The Mark of the Assassin

Delaroche with the
    nylon duffel slung across his back, Astrid with her hands over her face
    against the cruel Arctic air. Stephens never shut down the engines. As
    soon as Astrid and Delaroche were clear of the aircraft, he raced down
    the road once more, and the Gulfstream lifted into the clear Canadian
    morning.
    A black Range Rover waited for them on the shoulder of the road, filled
    with cold-weather outdoor gear--snowshoes, backpacks, parkas, and
    dehydrated foods--and a packet of detailed travel instructions. They
    climbed in and closed the doors against the bitter air. Delaroche turned
    the key. The engine groaned, struggled, then died. Delaroche felt his
    heart sink. The jet was gone. They were completely alone. If the truck
    didn't start they could not survive long. He turned the key once more,
    and this time the engine started. Astrid, typically German for an
    instant, said, "Thanks God."
    "I thought you were a good communist atheist," Delaroche cracked. "Shut
    up and turn the heat on."
    He did as she asked. Then he opened the packet and tried to read the
    instructions, but it was no good. He removed a pair of half-moon reading
    glasses from the breast pocket of his coat and thrust them onto his
    face. "I've never seen you wear those before, Jean-Paul."
    "I don't like to wear them in front of people, but sometimes it can't be
    helped."
    "You look like a professor instead of a professional killer."
    "That's the point, my love."
    "How do you kill people so well if you can't see?"
    "Because I'm shooting them, not reading them. If there were words
    written across their foreheads, I'd need my glasses."
    "Please, Jean-Paul, drive the bloody car. I'm freezing to death."
    "I have to know where I'm going before I drive."
    "Do you always read the instructions first?"
    He looked at her quizzically, as if he found the question mildly
    offensive. "Of course you do. That's why you're so bloody good at
    everything you do. Jean-Paul Delaroche, methodical man."
    "We all have our vices," he said, putting away the instructions. "I
    don't ridicule yours." He dropped the Range Rover into gear. "Where are
    we going?" Astrid asked. "A place called Vermont."
    "Is it near our beach?"
    "Not quite."
    "Shit," she said, closing her eyes. "Wake me when we're there."
    CHAPTER 35.
    Washington, D.C.
    THE FIRST DAY of Michael's exile was appalling. At dawn, when the alarm
    awakened him, he rushed into the shower and turned on the water before
    realizing he had nowhere to go. He went downstairs to the kitchen, made
    toast and coffee for Elizabeth, and brought it up to her. She had
    breakfast in bed and read the Post. A half hour later, Elizabeth was
    letting herself out the front door, dressed for work with her two
    briefcases and two cell phones. Michael stood in the front window,
    waving like an idiot, as she drove off in her silver Mercedes. All he
    needed was a cardigan and a pipe to complete the picture. He finished
    the newspaper. He tried to read a book but couldn't concentrate on the
    pages. He tried to put the time to good use by checking all the door
    locks and replacing batteries in the alarm system. That took a total of
    twenty minutes. Maria, the Peruvian housekeeper, came at ten o'clock and
    chased him from room to room with her industrial-strength vacuum and
    toxic furniture polish. "It is a beautiful day outside, Senior Miguel,"
    she said, shouting at him in Spanish over the roar of the vacuum. Maria
    spoke to him only in her native language. "You should go out and do
    something instead of sitting around the house all day."
    Michael understood his own housekeeper had just dismissed him. He went
    upstairs, dressed in a nylon warm-up suit and running shoes, and went
    back downstairs. Maria thrust a piece of paper into his hand, a list of
    cleaning supplies she needed from the store. He stuck the list in his
    pocket and went out the front door onto N Street. It was a warm day for
    early December, the kind of afternoon that always made Michael think
    there was no neighborhood in the world more beautiful than Georgetown.
    The sky was clear, the air breezy and soft and scented with wood smoke.
    N Street lay beneath a blanket of red and yellow autumn leaves. They
    crunched beneath Michael's feet as he jogged lightly along the redbrick
    sidewalk. Reflexively, he looked through the windows of the parked cars
    to see if anyone was sitting inside. A van bearing the name of a
    Virginia kitchen supply store was parked on the corner.