The Mark of the Assassin

Airport, and you were involved in the
    bombing on that Channel ferry. I know you may find this hard to believe,
    Michael, but even people in your outfit like to talk to reporters. We
    didn't publish the information, because we didn't want to place you in
    any danger."
    Logan turned and looked at Elizabeth. "I won't do anything that will get
    you hurt. You can trust me, Elizabeth."
    CHAPTER 38.
    Bethesda, Maryland.
    DELAROCHE BECAME NERVOUS for the first time when he left Interstate 95
    and headed onto the Capital Beltway. He had driven some of the most
    demanding roads of Europe--winding highways in France and Italy, deadly
    mountain roads in the Alps and the Pyrenees--but nothing had prepared
    him for the madness of the Washington evening rush hour. The trip from
    Vermont had gone smoothly. The weather had been good, except for a brief
    snowstorm in upstate New York and a patch of freezing drizzle along the
    New Jersey Turn pike. The temperatures warmed the farther south they
    traveled, and the rain had ended at Philadelphia. Now it was the other
    drivers Delaroche feared most. Cars were roaring by him at 85 miles per
    hour--thirty miles above the speed limit--and the truck behind him was
    riding six feet from his bumper. Delaroche thought how easy it would be
    to have a collision under circumstances like these. The results would be
    disastrous. Because he was a foreigner the police would want to see his
    passport. If the officer was alert and knew anything about passports, he
    would notice that Delaroche's bore no entrance visa. He would probably
    be taken into custody and questioned by immigration authorities and the
    FBI. His identity would crumble and he would be arrested, all because of
    some nut trying to get home from work. The cars in front of him braked
    suddenly.
    The traffic came to a standstill. Delaroche found an all-news station on
    the radio and listened to the traffic update. Somewhere ahead of him a
    tractor-trailer rig had overturned. Traffic was snarled for miles.
    Delaroche thought of his home in Breles. He thought of the sea smashing
    against the rocks and of pedaling his Italian racing bike along the
    quiet back roads of the Finistre. He must have been daydreaming, because
    the man in the car behind him blared his horn and waved his arms
    frantically. The driver changed lanes, pulled alongside Delaroche, and
    made a vulgar gesture with his hand. "Please, Jean-Paul," Astrid said.
    "Let me get my gun from the back and shoot him."
    Thirty minutes later they approached the scene of the accident. A
    Maryland state trooper stood in the roadway, directing traffic around
    the overturned truck. Delaroche tensed reflexively in the presence of a
    police officer. The fire trucks and ambulances disappeared behind them,
    and the traffic began moving again. Delaroche exited at Wisconsin Avenue
    and headed south. He sped through downtown Bethesda, past the exclusive
    shops of the Mazza Galleria, the towering spires of the National
    Cathedral. Wisconsin Avenue fell away into Georgetown. Shoppers moved
    quickly through the cold evening air, and the bars and restaurants were
    beginning to fill. He turned left at M Street, drove a few blocks, and
    turned into the entrance of the Four Seasons Hotel. Delaroche checked
    them in, refusing the bellman's offer to help with the bags. He closed
    the door and they both fell onto the bed, exhausted from the two long
    drives and the hike across the border. Delaroche awoke after two hours,
    ordered coffee from room service, and sat down at his laptop computer.
    While Astrid slept, he opened Michael Osbourne's dossier and began
    planning his death.
    CHAPTER 39.
    Washington, D.C.
    ELIZABETH TELEPHONED MAX LEWIS at the office late in the afternoon.
    "How are you feeling?" he said over the rustle of papers. It was after 5
    P.M., and he was preparing to leave the office for the day, which is why
    Elizabeth called then. "I'm fine, but the doctor says I really have to
    stay off my feet as much as possible during the next week or so.
    Actually, that's why I'm calling. I was wondering if you could bring me
    some papers on your way home tonight."
    "No problem. What do you need?"
    "The McGregor case file. It's on my desk."
    "Actually, it's back in your file room. I took the liberty of cleaning
    off your desk today. Honestly, Elizabeth, I don't know how you get any
    work done in there. I also threw out all your cigarettes."
    "Don't worry, I've given them up. No more Chardonnay in the