The Mark of the Assassin

"Besides, it's nice to have something beautiful to look
    at. Make yourself useful, Michael, and pour me some more wine.
    Elizabeth?"
    She shook her head. "I'm off booze and cigarettes for a while."
    Carter drank some wine and said, "We received a report from the French
    service two days ago. They believe they've discovered the cover identity
    of October. He was living along the Breton coast under the name
    Jean-Paul Delaroche. A village called Breles."
    "Jesus, we've been there, Michael."
    "He lived quietly in a cottage overlooking the Channel. It seems he was
    also a talented painter. The French are keeping it quiet, as only the
    French can do. We have a worldwide alert for him, but so far we've had
    no sightings. We've also heard from a number of different sources that
    he's actually dead."
    "Dead? How?"
    "Apparently, whoever hired him to kill you wasn't pleased that he failed
    to fulfill the contract."
    "I hope they tortured him first," Elizabeth said. Michael was looking
    out the window, toward the dock and the white-capped bay beyond.
    Elizabeth said, "What are you thinking about, Michael?"
    "I'd just like to see a body, that's all."
    "We all would," Carter said. "But these things usually don't work like
    that."
    He finished the wine and held out his glass for more. Elizabeth opened
    another bottle. The senator came into the room, face red, hair
    windblown. "I see you've raided the cellar," he said. "Pour me a vast
    amount, please."
    Carter said, "I have one other piece of serious business before we get
    too drunk."
    "If you must," Michael said. "Monica has agreed to drop all disciplinary
    proceedings against you. She thinks they're inappropriate at this point,
    given what you and Elizabeth have endured."
    "Oh, isn't that nice of Monica."
    "Come on, Michael. She's serious. She thinks the whole thing got out of
    hand. She wants to put it behind us and move on."
    Michael looked at Elizabeth, then back at Carter. "Tell her thanks, but
    no thanks," he said. "You want the disciplinary proceedings to go
    forward?"
    "No, I want out," Michael said. "I've decided to leave the Agency."
    "You're not serious!"
    "Dead serious," Michael said. "Sorry, poor choice of words. Okay, now we
    can get drunk."
    Elizabeth crossed the room, leaned down, and kissed Michael's lips. "Are
    you sure, Michael? Don't do it for me."
    "I've never been so sure about anything in my entire life. And I'm not
    doing it for you. I'm doing it for us." Then he touched her stomach.
    "And for them."
    She kissed him again and said, "Thank you, Michael. I love you. I hope
    you know that."
    "I know," he said. "God, I know."
    Carter looked at his watch and said, "Oh, shit!"
    "What?" Michael and Elizabeth said in unison. "We missed Beckwith's
    address."
    And they all burst out laughing.
    EPILOGUE Mykonos, Greece IT WAS THE villa no one wanted. It clung to a
    cliff top overlooking the sea, exposed to the eternal wind. Stavros, the
    real estate agent, had given up on the idea of selling the property. He
    simply rented it each year to the same clan of young British
    stockbrokers who pillaged the island each August for three drunken
    weeks. The Frenchman with the injured hand spent just five minutes in
    the house. He toured the bedrooms and the living room and inspected the
    views from the stone terrace. He paid particular attention to the
    kitchen, which made him frown. "I know men who can do the work for you,
    if you wish to undertake renovations," Stavros said. "That won't be
    necessary," the Frenchman said. "I'll do the work myself."
    "But your hand," Stavros said, nodding at the bandage. "It's nothing,"
    the Frenchman said. "A kitchen accident. It will heal soon."
    Stavros frowned, as though he found the story unconvincing. "It's a
    popular rental," he continued. "If you wish to leave the island at the
    high season, I'm certain I can fetch a good price for it, especially if
    you make repairs."
    "The villa is no longer for rent."
    "Very well. When would you like to--"
    "Tomorrow," the Frenchman said. "Give me an account number, and I'll
    have the money wired this afternoon."
    "But, monsieur, you are not Greek. It's not so easy for a foreigner to
    buy property. There are forms to fill out, legal documents. These things
    take time."
    "See to it, Mr. Stavros. But I'm moving in here tomorrow morning."
    HE SPENT THE REMAINDER OF WINTER inside. When his hand had healed
    sufficiently he went to work, mending the villa with the devotion of a
    monk copying the ancient