The Mark of the Assassin

rearview
    mirror. Still no sign of the Range Rover. For a mad instant he was
    actually enjoying himself. Then he thought of Elizabeth and how
    frightened she had been, and he regained a healthy dose of nerves.
    Elizabeth had told him to drive straight to the main entrance of the
    CIA. Someone would meet him there and take him inside. He pressed down
    on the accelerator, and the speedometer needle jumped to seventy-five.
    The Mercedes flowed easily over the rolling hills and gentle turns of
    the parkway.
    The Potomac sparkled below in the brilliant December sunlight. Max
    looked at the mannequin again. "Listen, Mr. Jib, since we're going to be
    spending some time together, I think now would be a good opportunity to
    get to know more about each other. My name is Max and, yes, I'm gay. I
    hope that doesn't bother you."
    He looked into the rearview mirror and saw the flashing blue light of a
    Virginia state trooper. He looked at the speedometer and saw he was
    driving nearly eighty miles per hour. "Oh, shit," Max said, gently
    pressing the brake and pulling into a scenic river overlook. The trooper
    climbed out of the car and put on his hat. Max lowered the window. The
    trooper said, "You were driving well over seventy back there, sir, and
    probably closer to eighty. May I see your driver's license please." Then
    he noticed the inflatable figure on the passenger seat. "What's that,
    sir?"
    "It's a very long story, officer."
    "Your driver's license, please."
    Max beat the breast pockets of his coat. He had rushed out of the
    Osbournes' house so quickly he had forgotten his briefcase and his
    wallet. He said, "I'm sorry, officer, but I don't have my license on
    me."
    "Shut off the engine and step out of the car, please," the officer said
    in a dull monotone, but at that moment he was distracted by the sight of
    a black Range Rover pulling into the overlook. Max said, "Officer,
    you're going to think I'm nuts, but you'd better listen to what I have
    to say."
    DELAROCHE CLIMBED OUT OF THE Range Rover and walked toward the trooper.
    Astrid got out and stepped to the front of the Mercedes. The trooper
    unsnapped his holster and was reaching for his weapon
    "Get back in the car, sir, now!"
    Delaroche reached beneath his cycling jersey and took hold of the
    silenced Beretta. His arm swung up, and he fired twice. The first shot
    struck the officer in the shoulder, spinning him around. The second
    struck him in the back of the head, and he collapsed onto the shoulder
    of the road. Astrid stood in front of the Mercedes, gun in outstretched
    hands. She looked first at the man behind the wheel, then at the
    mannequin sitting where Elizabeth Osbourne had been. She was overcome
    with rage. She had been taken in by one of the oldest tricks in the
    book. The engine started, and the Mercedes dropped into gear. Astrid
    calmly fired three shots through the windshield. The glass shattered and
    was instantly red with blood. The body collapsed forward onto the
    steering column, and the afternoon was filled with the blaring of the
    car's horn.
    MICHAEL MAINTAINED A TENSE VIGIL in Adrian Carter's office, pacing and
    smoking cigarettes. Carter putted golf balls to relieve his nerves. One
    of Monica Tyler's factotums waited outside Carter's office like a
    schoolboy in detention. Michael closed the door so they could talk. "Why
    was I never allowed to see the file on October?"
    "Because it was restricted," Carter said tonelessly, head bowed in
    concentration. He stroked the ball, but missed the target by six inches.
    "Shit," Carter murmured. "Pushed it."
    "Why was it restricted?"
    "This is an intelligence agency, Michael, not a Christian Science
    reading room. During the time October was an active KGB agent, you
    probably had no need to know of his existence." Carter stroked another
    putt. This one landed on the mark. Michael said, "Why was the
    information on October so tightly held?"
    "To protect the identity of the source, I assume. That's usually the
    case."
    "Dammit, he killed Sarah Randolph right in front of me. Why couldn't
    someone in this fucking place just show me the file at some point and
    help me put it to rest?"
    "Because that would have been the sensible thing to do. But sensibility
    and intelligence work rarely go hand in hand. Surely, you've learned
    that by now."
    "How did you get it?"
    "We had some evidence a couple of years ago that October was working
    again on a freelance basis," Carter said. "The file was dusted off and
    put