The Mark of the Assassin

more about the IRA than anyone else on earth. Her cramped
    cubicle was hung with brooding photographs of Irish guerrillas,
    including the boy who blew off her brother's hand with a pipe bomb. She
    gazed at them throughout the day, the way a girl might stare at a poster
    of the latest teen heartthrob. There was Stephen, alias Eurotrash, whose
    task was to monitor the various terrorist and nationalist movements of
    Western Europe. And there was Blaze, a six-foot-four-inch gringo from
    New Mexico who spoke Spanish, Portuguese, and at least ten Indian
    dialects. Blaze focused on the guerrillas and terrorists of Central and
    South America. He dressed like his targets in sandals and loose-fitting
    Indian garb, despite repeated written warnings from Personnel. He
    considered himself the modern equivalent of the samurai, a true warrior
    poet, and he practiced martial arts with Cynthia when the work was slow.
    Michael sat in the corner next to Gigabyte, a flaking, pimply boy of
    twenty-two who surfed the Internet all day, searching the ether world
    for terrorist communication. Alternative rock music blared from his
    headphones, and Michael had seen things on his screen that awakened him
    in the middle of the night. He erected a barrier of old files to shield
    the view, but when Gigabyte snickered, or when his rock music grew
    suddenly louder, Michael knew it was best to close his eyes and place
    his head face down on the desk.
    THE WALL CLOCK hung next to a three-foot cardboard gunman in silhouette,
    stamped with the circular red international symbol for no. It was nearly
    8 p. M., and Michael had been working since five that morning. The bull
    pen was far from deserted. Peru's Shining Path had kidnapped a
    government minister, and Blaze was pacing, working the telephones.
    France's Direct Action had bombed a Paris Metro station; Eurotrash was
    hunched over his computer terminal reading message traffic. The IRA had
    murdered a Protestant developer in front of his wife and children;
    Cynthia was on the secure line to London, feeding intelligence to
    Britain's MI5. Thankfully, Gigabyte had gone to a nightclub with a group
    of friends who believed he created Web sites for a living. Michael had
    fifteen minutes before he briefed the executive director on developments
    in the case. The claim of responsibility for the attack on the jetliner
    had been forwarded to Langley an hour ago. Michael read it for the fifth
    time. He reviewed the preliminary forensic studies performed by the FBI
    lab on the Boston Whaler found adrift off Long Island that morning. He
    studied the photographs of the corpse found on the boat. Ten minutes
    left. He could run downstairs to the swill pit and grab a bite to eat,
    or he could telephone Elizabeth. He had missed her appointment at
    Georgetown, and he knew they would very likely quarrel. It was not a
    conversation he wanted to conduct on an Agency telephone. He shut down
    his computer and stepped out of the bullpen. The corridor was starkly
    lit and quiet. The Agency's Fine Arts Commission had tried to brighten
    the hallway with a display of Indonesian folk art, but it was still as
    cold and sterile as intensive care. He followed the corridor to a bank
    of large elevators, took one down to the basement, then followed another
    anonymous hall to the swill pit. It was late, the selection worse than
    usual. Michael ordered a fish sandwich and French fries from the
    bleary-eyed woman behind the counter. She punched at the cash register
    as if she wanted to do it harm, snatched Michael's money, and gave him
    the change. Michael ate while he walked. It was dreadful--cold, cooked
    hours earlier--but it was better than yet another bag of chips. He
    finished half the sandwich and a few of the fries and tossed the rest in
    a trash can. He glanced at his watch: five minutes. Enough time for a
    cigarette. He took the elevator up one level, then walked through a
    glass doorway giving onto a large center courtyard. William Webster had
    outlawed smoking inside the building. Those still afflicted with the
    habit were forced to huddle like refugees in the courtyard or around the
    exits. After years of working undercover in Europe and the Middle East,
    cigarettes and smoking had become part of his tradecraft. Michael was
    unable and unwilling to give them up just because he was now at
    headquarters.
    Dead leaves swirled across the expanse of the courtyard. Michael turned
    his back to the wind and lit a cigarette. It was