The Mark of the Assassin

made a mistake because of the pressure of the situation,
    but she doubted it. It was intentional. It was for a reason. He wanted
    her to stay in the cottage, but he wanted October to think she was
    heading for the boat. She watched the main house through the window. She
    listened to the sirens draw nearer. She wanted to get out. She wanted a
    cigarette to mask the smell of Astrid Vogel's blood. She wanted this
    nightmare to he over. A few seconds later she saw the screened door of
    the veranda swing open and the man called October running across the
    lawn toward the dock.
    DELAROCHE PLUNGED through the darkness. Wind ripped at the trees and
    nearly knocked him from his feet. The dock stretched before him into the
    darkness. Fifty yards from shore the sailboat swayed at its mooring,
    mast swinging like a pendulum in the whitecaps, halyards screaming in
    the wind. Michael Osbourne's voice, distant and metallic, ran through
    his head like recorded announcements in a train station. I called you
    Nicolai Mikhailovich. It's your real name. Delaroche thought, Goddammit!
    How could he know? The KGB had made him one promise: His existence in
    the West would be so secret only a handful of people within the
    hierarchy would know the truth. So secret he had been permitted to kill
    his escorts to the West that night in Austria. Had they lied? Had
    someone betrayed him? Was it Vladimir? Or Arba-tov? Or the traitor
    Drozdov? Had Drozdov found the truth buried in the files at Moscow
    Center and sold it to his new masters in the West? Delaroche vowed to
    kill Drozdov if he ever got off Shelter Island alive.
    The revelation that the CIA had a dossier made Delaroche feel physically
    sick. Did they have a photograph, too? Usually, it was Delaroche who
    used the dossiers, Delaroche who leafed through the dark pages of a
    man's life until he found the weakness that would prove to be his
    undoing. Now, Delaroche knew his enemies had assembled a dossier on his
    life, and Osbourne had used it against him. I called you Nicolai
    Mikhailovich. Reflexively, the killings ran through his mind. He tried
    to shut it off, but the faces appeared one by one, first vibrant and
    alive, then burst by three bullet wounds. Hassan Mahmoud, the
    Palestinian boy. Colin Yardley and Eric Stoltenberg. Sarah Randolph ...
    He could hear Michael Osbourne's screams echoing along the Chelsea
    Embankment. It's your real name. Some nights Delaroche had a dream, and
    the dream played out in his imagination now. The men he had killed would
    confront him, armed with silenced automatics, and he would reach for his
    Glock pistol or his Beretta and find only paint brushes. Then he would
    reach for his backup weapon and find only a palette. "We know who you
    are," they would say and begin to laugh. And Delaroche would raise his
    hands and shield his face, and the bullets would tear through his palms
    and bore through his eyes, and he would sit up in bed and tell himself
    it was only a dream, just a stupid fucking dream. Delaroche charged
    across the sloping lawn, feet flying over the wet springy turf, until
    the smack of his feet along the wooden dock shattered the nightmare
    image of his own death. He could hear the dinghy banging against the
    pylons of the dock, but the engine was silent. A few seconds later he
    reached the end of the dock and looked down, gun leveled into the
    darkness. The dinghy was empty.
    "DROP THE GUN? Michael shouted over the wind. "Lie flat on the dock,
    facedown, and do it very slowly."
    Michael stood at the foot of the dock, October at the end, fifty feet
    away. His left arm hung at his side; his right arm was bent at the
    elbow, and the gun was near his face. He was motionless. By the sound of
    the sirens the police were on Shore Road now. They would arrive in a
    matter of seconds. "Drop the gun now." Michael yelled. "It's over. Just
    do what I say."
    October lowered his right arm until it hung straight at his side. The
    police reached the front gate. Michael heard the cottage door swing
    open. He turned in the direction of the sound and caught a glimpse of
    Elizabeth's beige sweater, flashing through the darkness. He shouted,
    "Stay back, Elizabeth!"
    October dropped into a crouch and pivoted. The arm swung up. Michael
    fired several shots with the Browning but they all sailed over October's
    head. The assassin fired three times through the darkness. One shot
    found its mark, tearing into the right side of Michael's chest. The
    Browning tumbled