The Mark of the Assassin

years in dangerous situations;
    instinctively, he would be personally vigilant at all times. Delaroche
    considered simply knocking on Osbourne's door, on the pretense of
    delivering a package, and shooting him when he answered. But there was a
    chance Osbourne would recognize Delaroche--he had been on the Chelsea
    Embankment, after all--and shoot him first. He considered trying to
    enter Osbourne's home by stealth, but surely a large, expensive home in
    a crime-ridden city like Washington was protected by a security system.
    He decided he would have to kill him by surprise, somewhere in the open,
    which was why Delaroche was dressed as a bicycle courier. N Street
    presented Delaroche with his first serious problem. There were no shops,
    no cafes, and no telephone booths--no place for Delaroche to kill time
    inconspicuously--just large Federal-style brick homes set tightly
    against the sidewalk. Delaroche waited on the corner of 33rd and N
    streets, outside a large home with a grand pillared porch, thinking
    about what to do. He had but one option: ride back and forth along N
    Street and hope he spotted Osbourne entering or leaving the house. This
    was alien to Delaroche--whenever possible he preferred to kill by being
    in exactly the right place at exactly the right time--but he had no
    other choice. He mounted the bicycle, pedaled to 35th Street, turned
    around, and pedaled back to 33rd Street, watching Osbourne's house as
    closely as possible. After twenty minutes of this a man emerged from the
    house, dressed in a gray and white tracksuit. Delaroche looked carefully
    at the face. It was the same face as the photograph in the dossier. It
    was the same face he had seen that night on the Chelsea Embankment. It
    was Michael Osbourne. Osbourne bent over and stretched the back of his
    legs. He leaned against a lamppost and stretched his calf muscles.
    De-laroche, watching him from two blocks away, could see Os-bourne's
    eyes flickering over the street and the parked cars. Finally, Osbourne
    stood and broke into a light run. He turned left on 34th Street, right
    on M Street, and headed across Key Bridge toward Virginia. Delaroche
    dialed Astrid at the Four Seasons and spoke to her as he pedaled
    steadily in Osbourne's wake.
    MICHAEL REACHED THE VIRGINIA SIDE of the Potomac and headed south on the
    Mount Vernon Trail. His muscles were stiff and sore and the cold
    December weather wasn't helping, but he quickened his pace and
    lengthened his stride, and after a few minutes of fast running he felt
    sweat beneath his tracksuit. It was good to be free of the house. Carter
    had called earlier and informed Michael that Monica Tyler had formally
    ordered Personnel to begin an investigation into his conduct. Elizabeth
    had finally acceded to her doctor's wishes and was working from home.
    Their bedroom had been turned into a law office, complete with Max
    Lewis. The clouds broke, and a warm winter's sun shone along the banks
    of the river. Michael passed the entrance to Roosevelt Island. A wooden
    footbridge stretched before him, running over several hundred yards of
    marsh and reed grass. Michael increased his pace, feet thumping on the
    cross boards of the bridge. It was a weekday, and he was alone on the
    trail. He played a game with himself, running an imaginary race. He
    broke into a sprint, driving his arms, lifting his knees. He rounded a
    corner and the end of the bridge appeared, about two hundred yards away.
    Michael forced himself to run still faster. His arms burned, his legs
    felt like dead weight, and his breath was raspy with the cold air and
    too many cigarettes. He reached the end of the footbridge, stumbled to a
    stop, and turned around to see the ground he had covered with his dash.
    Only then did he see the man pedaling toward him on a mountain bike.
    CHAPTER 42.
    Washington, D.C.
    ASTRID VOGEL TELEPHONED DOWNSTAIRS and asked the valet to have the Range
    Rover waiting. She left the hotel room and took the elevator down to the
    lobby. She carried a handbag, and inside the bag was a silenced Beretta
    pistol. The Range Rover stood beneath the covered entrance of the hotel.
    Astrid gave the valet the claim ticket and a five-dollar bill. She
    climbed inside and drove off. Delaroche had kept her up half the night
    memorizing street maps. Five minutes later she was backing into a
    parking space a few blocks away on N Street. She shut down the engine,
    lit a cigarette, and waited for Delaroche to call.
    MICHAEL STOOD