The Mark of the Assassin

corner table in the cellar bar.
    Elizabeth desperately wanted a cigarette but chewed her nails instead.
    "I've never seen him before," Max said. "But that doesn't mean much. The
    people in those jobs come and go all the time."
    "You've never seen him before, Max, because he's not a fucking janitor,
    and he's not Carlos from fucking Ecuador. I know what I saw." She looked
    at Michael. "Remember what you said about that feeling you get when
    someone's watching you? Well, I have that feeling right now."
    "SHE'S NOT AN IDIOT," Henry Rodriguez reported over the phone. "She's a
    big-time lawyer. I tried to talk my way out of it. Did my best Freddie
    Prinze from Chico and the Man, but I know she made me."
    "Why the fuck were you wearing the ring?" Calahan said.
    "I forgot. Shoot me."
    "Don't give me any ideas. Where are they now?"
    "Restaurant called The Childe Harold. Twentieth Street, north of Dupont
    Circle."
    "Where are you?"
    "Pay phone on the other side of Connecticut Avenue. I can't get any
    closer."
    "Stay put. I'll have someone there in five minutes."
    Calahan hung up and looked at Elliott. "We have another small problem,
    sir."
    CHAPTER 41.
    Washington, D.C.
    THE FOLLOWING MORNING DELAROCHE sat on a bench in Dupont Circle,
    watching the crowd of bicycle couriers taking their morning coffee. He
    found them vaguely amusing--the way they laughed and joked and threw
    things at each other--but he was not watching them simply to pass the
    time. He carefully noted the way they dressed, the kinds of satchels
    they carried, the manner in which they walked. Shortly after nine
    o'clock the couriers began receiving calls over their radios, and each
    reluctantly mounted a bike and pedaled off to work.
    Delaroche waited until the last was gone, then flagged down a taxi, and
    gave the driver an address. The taxi took Delaroche along M Street into
    Georgetown and deposited him at the base of Key Bridge. He entered the
    shop. A salesman asked if he needed help, and Delaroche shook his head.
    He started with the clothing. He selected the most flamboyant and
    colorful jersey and riding britches he could find. Next he selected
    shoes, socks, a helmet, and a backpack. He carried everything to the
    front of the store and stacked it on the checkout counter. "Anything
    else?" the salesman asked. Delaroche pointed to the most expensive
    mountain bike in the store. The attendant lifted it from the display
    rack and wheeled it toward the service counter. "Where are you taking
    that?" Delaroche asked quietly, conscious of his accented English. "We
    need to check out the bike, sir. It's going to take an hour or so."
    "Just put air in the tires and give it to me."
    "Suit yourself. Will this be cash or charge, sir?"
    But Delaroche was already counting out hundred-dollar bills.
    THE NEXT HOUR, Delaroche spent shopping along Wisconsin Avenue in
    Georgetown. In a clothing store, he purchased a bandanna for his head;
    in an electronics store, a small battery-powered tape player with
    headphones. In a jewelry store he purchased several gaudy gold chains
    for his neck and had both his ears pierced and hoop earrings inserted.
    He changed in a gas station toilet. He removed his street clothing and
    put on the long cycling britches and winter-weight jersey. He tied the
    bandanna over his head and put the gold chains around his neck. He
    attached the tape player to the waistband of his britches and placed the
    headphones around his neck. He stuffed his street clothes into the
    backpack, along with the silenced Beretta, and looked at himself in the
    mirror. Something was missing. He put on his Ray-Ban sunglasses, the
    same glasses he had used to kill the man in Paris, and looked at his
    reflection once more. Now it was right. He stepped outside. A man in a
    leather jacket was about to steal his bike. "Hey, motherfucker,"
    Delaroche said, mimicking the dialect of the couriers on Dupont Circle,
    "the last thing you want to do is mess with my ride."
    "Hey, be cool. I was just checkin' it out," the man said, backing
    rapidly away. "Peace and love and all that bullshit."
    Delaroche climbed on the bicycle and pedaled toward Michael Osbourne's
    home.
    DELAROCHE REVIEWED HIS PLAN to kill Osbourne one last time as he pedaled
    along the leafy streets of west Georgetown. Killing him would be
    difficult. He was a married man with no serious vices; he would not
    succumb to a sexual advance from Astrid. He was a professional
    intelligence officer who had spent many