The Mark of the Assassin

ever know."
    Elizabeth looked at him incredulously. "Michael, every time someone hits
    a deer on this island, it gets written up in the local newspaper.
    Believe me, people will know."
    Adrian Carter said, "I'll take care of the newspaper."
    The helicopter's rotors stopped turning. The door opened, and the three
    of them climbed out. Charlie came out of the caretaker's cottage,
    flashlight in hand, retrievers scrambling at his ankles. Sea wind tore
    at the leafless trees. An osprey screamed and broke into flight over
    their heads. Fifty yards from shore, the Athena clung to her mooring in
    the wind-tossed waters of the bay. "Where's the senator?" Carter asked
    as they walked the gravel drive toward the main house. "In London,"
    Michael said. "He's taking part in a panel discussion on Northern
    Ireland at the London School of Economics."
    "Good. One less person to worry about."
    "I don't want to turn this place into an armed camp," Elizabeth said. "I
    don't intend to. I'll have two security officers on the lawn all night.
    They'll be relieved in the morning by two more from New York Station.
    Shelter Island police have agreed to watch the north and the south
    ferries. They have a good description of October and Astrid Vogel.
    They've been told they're wanted in connection with the murder of two
    people in Virginia, but nothing more."
    "Let's keep it that way," Elizabeth said. "The last thing I want is for
    the people of Shelter Island to think we've brought terrorists to this
    place."
    "The truth won't come out," Carter said. "Go inside, get some sleep.
    Call me at Langley in the morning, Michael. And don't worry--October is
    long gone by now."
    Carter shook Michael's hand and kissed Elizabeth's cheek. "I'm so sorry
    about Max," he said. "I wish there was something we could have done."
    "I know, Adrian."
    Elizabeth turned and walked toward the house. Carter looked at Michael
    and said, "Any weapons in there?"
    Michael shook his head. "Cannon hates guns."
    Carter handed Michael a high-powered Browning automatic and a half-dozen
    fifteen-shot magazines. Then he turned and climbed aboard the
    helicopter. Thirty seconds later it lifted off Cannon Point, turned, and
    disappeared over the bay.
    "CARTER GAVE YOU A GUN, didn't he?" Elizabeth said, as Michael entered
    the bedroom. She was standing before an open armoire, choosing a flannel
    nightgown. The room was dark except for a small reading lamp burning on
    a bedside table. Michael displayed the Browning. He snapped a magazine
    into the butt and clicked the safety. "God, I hate that sound," she
    said, undressing. She slipped on the nightgown and lay down on the bed.
    Michael was standing at the window, smoking a cigarette, watching the
    bay. Rain dashed against the glass. One of the security men was
    inspecting the bulkhead along the point by flashlight. Elizabeth placed
    her hands on her lower abdomen. She wondered if the babies were all
    right. She thought, Listen to you, Elizabeth. Already calling them
    babies when they're nothing more than a cluster of cells. Her doctor had
    told her to take it easy, to stay off her feet. She had hardly done
    that. She had spent the day on the run from a pair of terrorists,
    driving for hours and flying on a helicopter through a buffeting storm.
    She pressed her hands tighter to her abdomen and thought, Please, God,
    let them be well. She looked at Michael, standing straight as a sentinel
    in the window. "You know, Michael, I think you actually want him to try
    again."
    "After what he did to Max--"
    "He tried to kill you today, too, Michael."
    "Believe me, I haven't forgotten."
    "And Sarah?" she said. He was silent. "It's healthy to want revenge,
    Michael. But trying to get revenge is something altogether different.
    It's a dangerous thing. People get hurt. And in this case they could get
    killed. For all our sakes I hope he's far away."
    "It's not in his makeup. It's not in his training."
    "What's not?"
    "To give up. To run away. I've read his file. I probably know more about
    him than he knows about himself."
    "You think he's out there, Michael?"
    "I know he's out there. I just don't know where."
    CHAPTER 45.
    North Haven, Long Island.
    DELAROCHE CLIMBED OUT OF THE RANGE
    ROVER and stared across the narrow channel toward Shelter Island. It was
    nearly midnight. It had taken eight hours to make the drive from
    Washington, because Delaroche had meticulously kept to the speed limit
    the entire way. He turned up the collar of his coat