The Mark of the Assassin

inches of hard frozen snow. Astrid
    struggled up and down the hillsides and through the dense trees. She was
    slightly awkward and ungainly in the best of circumstances; her long
    body was thoroughly unsuited to the rigors of winter mountain hiking.
    Once, she slipped down a hillside and came to rest flat on her back with
    her legs propped against a tree. Delaroche was not certain exactly when
    they left Canada and entered the United States. There was no border
    demarcation, no fence, no visible electronic surveillance of any kind.
    His employers had selected the spot well. Delaroche remembered a night a
    long time ago, when as a young boy he had crossed into the West from
    Czechoslovakia to Austria accompanied by two KGB agents. He remembered
    the warm night, arc lights and razor wire, the thick scent of manure on
    the air. He remembered raising his gun and shooting his escorts. Even
    now, walking through the freezing Vermont morning, he closed his eyes at
    the thought of it, his first assassinations. He had been acting on
    orders from Vladimir. To describe Vladimir as his case officer would be
    an understatement. Vladimir was his world. Vladimir was everything to
    De-laroche--his teacher, his priest, his tormentor, his father. He
    taught him to read and to write. He taught him language and history. He
    taught him tradecraft and killing. When it was time to go to the West,
    Vladimir handed Delaroche to Arbatov the way a parent entrusts a child
    to a relative. Vladimir's last order was to kill the escorts. The act
    instilled something very important in Delaroche: He would never trust
    anyone, especially someone from his own service. When he was older he
    realized that was exactly what Vladimir had intended. The terrain
    softened as they came down from the ridge. De-laroche, using the map and
    a compass, guided them to the outskirts of a village called Highgate
    Springs, two miles south of the border. The second Range Rover was
    waiting for them, parked in a stand of pine bordering a snow-covered
    cornfield. Delaroche placed the gear in the back, and they climbed
    inside. This time the engine started on the first try. Delaroche drove
    carefully along the icy two-lane road. Astrid, exhausted from the hike,
    immediately fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Forty minutes later
    Delaroche came to Interstate 89 and headed south.
    CHAPTER 37.
    Washington, D.C .
    "WHY WOULD ADRIAN LIE to you about the existence of October?"
    Elizabeth's question sounded strange to Michael. It was like a child
    asking about sex for the first time. Their new openness was alien to
    him, and he felt awkward discussing agency matters candidly with his
    wife. Still, he did enjoy it. Elizabeth, with her lawyer's intellect and
    secretive nature, would have made a good intelligence officer if she had
    not chosen the law.
    "All intelligence services run on the concept of need to know. The
    argument could be made that I had no need to know about October's
    existence, and therefore I was never told of it."
    "But, Michael, he murdered Sarah in front of your eyes. If anyone should
    be allowed to see what the Agency had on him, it's you."
    "Good point, but information is kept from intelligence officers all the
    time for all kinds of different reasons."
    "The Soviet Union has been dead and buried for ages. Why would his file
    still be so restricted?"
    "We give up our dead slowly in the intelligence community, Elizabeth.
    There's nothing an intelligence service likes more than a good pile of
    useless secrets."
    "Maybe someone wanted it restricted."
    "I've considered that possibility."
    Michael stopped in front of the Washington Post building on 15th Street.
    Tom Logan, Susanna Dayton's editor, had asked to meet with Elizabeth.
    Michael had planned to wait in the car but now said, "Mind if I tag
    along?"
    "Not at all, but we have to hurry. We're late."
    "Where are you supposed to meet him?"
    "In his office. Why?"
    "I'm just not crazy about enclosed places, that's all."
    "Michael, this isn't East Berlin. Cut it out."
    But Michael had already snatched the cell phone from its cradle. "What's
    his extension?"
    "Fifty-six eighty-four."
    The telephone rang, and Logan's secretary answered. "This is Michael
    Osbourne. May I speak to Mr. Logan, please."
    Logan came on the line and said, "Hello, Mike."
    "Elizabeth and I are downstairs. Mind if we change the venue?"
    "Of course not."
    "We're on Fifteenth Street, silver Jaguar."
    "I'll be down in five minutes."
    Michael