The Mark of the Assassin

back into circulation on a very limited basis."
    "Were you allowed to see it?"
    Carter nodded. "Dammit, Adrian. While I was trying to piece Sarah's
    murder together with half clues and conjecture, you had the answer all
    the time. Why didn't you tell me?"
    Carter pulled a face that said sometimes intelligence work required
    lying to one's friends. "These are the rules by which we live, Michael.
    They protect the people who risk their lives by betraying their own
    country. They protect people like you who work undercover in the field."
    "So why did you break the rules now and give me October's file?"
    "Because in this case the rules sucked. It made no sense."
    "Who wanted October's file to remain restricted?"
    Carter jerked a thumb at the factotum outside his door and whispered,
    "Monica Tyler."
    Elizabeth finally telephoned, and the emergency switchboard put the call
    through to Carter's office. "What happened? Are you all right?"
    "I'm fine," she said. "I did everything you told me. That suitcase of
    yours worked perfectly. It even looked a little like you. I'm in the car
    now. I'm going where you told me to go."
    Osbourne smiled in utter relief. "Thank God," he said. "Have you heard
    from Max yet?"
    "No, not yet. He should be here any minute."
    Carter's secretary poked her head in the door and said there was another
    call. Carter took it on an extension outside. Os-bourne said,
    "Elizabeth, I'm so proud of you. I love you so much."
    "I love you too, Michael. Is this nightmare over yet?"
    "Not quite, but soon. Keep driving. We'll figure out how and when to
    bring you in."
    "I love you, Michael," she said, and the connection was broken. Carter
    came into the office, face ashen. Michael said, "What's wrong?"
    "Max Lewis and a Virginia state trooper were just shot to death on the
    George Washington Parkway."
    Michael slammed down the telephone.
    CHAPTER 44.
    Washington, D.C.
    DELAROCHE CROSSED KEY BRIDGE and headed back into Georgetown. He drove
    quickly along M Street and pulled into the drive of the Four Seasons
    Hotel. He waited outside in the Rover while Astrid went to get their
    things from the room. It gave him a moment to collect his thoughts and
    plan their next move. The easiest thing to do was abort--call for an
    extraction and get out of the country before they were captured.
    Delaroche felt confident the shootings on the parkway had gone
    unwitnessed; the killings took seconds, and they were gone before
    another car passed the scene. But he had tried once to kill Michael
    Osbourne, and Osbourne obviously knew he was here. The stunt his wife
    pulled with the inflatable dummy was proof of that. Fulfilling the terms
    of his contract--killing Osbourne--would be very difficult now.
    Delaroche wanted to continue, though, for two reasons. One was money. If
    he failed to kill Osbourne he would forfeit three quarters of a million
    dollars. Delaroche wanted to live out his days with Astrid free from
    financial and security concerns. That would require a great deal of
    money: money to buy a large house with property and sophisticated
    surveillance systems, money to bribe local law enforcement officials so
    he could remain hidden from the security services of the West. He also
    wanted to live a comfortable existence. He had lived like a monk in
    Breles for years, unable to spend his money for fear of attracting
    attention. It had been even worse when he was with the KGB; Arbatov had
    made him live like a pauper in Paris on the little bit of money he
    earned from his paintings. The second reason--indeed, the important
    reason--was pride. Osbourne had beaten him on the footpath along the
    river, outsmarted Delaroche at his own game. He had never blown an
    assignment, and he didn't want to end his career with a failure. Killing
    was his job--he had been born and bred to do it--and failure was
    unacceptable. Osbourne was the first target to fight back successfully,
    and Delaroche had bungled the hit. He had reacted like an amateur on his
    first job. He was embarrassed and angry with himself, and he wanted
    another chance.
    He thought of Osbourne's dossier. He recalled that Elizabeth Osbourne's
    father, a United States senator, had a home on a secluded island in New
    York. He thought, If I were scared, I would go somewhere I felt safe.
    Somewhere far away. Somewhere the authorities could provide the illusion
    of security. I would leave Washington as quickly as possible and go to a
    secluded island. Astrid came out of the