The Mark of the Assassin

secrets for money. The truth was far less interesting: Elizabeth
    earned $500,000 a year, at Braxton, Allworth & Kettlemen, and Michael
    had inherited a million dollars when his mother died. He unlocked the
    front door, first the latch, then the dead-bolt. The alarm chirped
    quietly as he stepped inside. He closed the door softly, locked it
    again, and disarmed the alarm system. Upstairs, he could hear Elizabeth
    stir in bed. He left his briefcase on the island counter in the kitchen,
    took a beer from the refrigerator, and drank half of it in the first
    swallow. The air smelled faintly of cigarettes. Elizabeth had been
    smoking, a bad sign. She had given up cigarettes ten years ago, but she
    smoked when she was angry or nervous. The appointment at Georgetown must
    not have gone well. Michael felt like a complete ass for missing it. He
    had a convenient excuse--his work, the downing of the jetliner but
    Elizabeth had an all-consuming job too, and she had changed her schedule
    in order to see the doctor. He looked around at the kitchen; it was
    bigger than his entire first apartment. He thought back to the afternoon
    five years ago when they signed the papers on the house. He remembered
    walking through the large empty rooms, Elizabeth talking excitedly about
    what would go where, how the rooms would be decorated, what color they
    would be painted. She wanted children, lots of children, running around
    the house, making noise, breaking things. Michael wanted them too. He
    had lived an enchanted childhood, growing up in exotic places all over
    the world, but he'd had no siblings and he felt there was something
    missing in his life. Their inability to have children had taken a toll.
    Sometimes the place seemed empty and cheerless, far too large for just
    the two of them, more like a museum than a home. Sometimes he felt as
    though children had been there once but had been taken away. He felt
    they had been sentenced to live there together, just the two of them,
    wounded, forever. He shut out the lights and carried the rest of the
    beer upstairs to the bedroom. Elizabeth was sitting up in bed, knees
    beneath her chin, arms wrapped around her legs. An overhead light burned
    softly high in the cathedral ceiling. Dying embers glowed in the
    fireplace. Her short blond hair was tousled; her eyes betrayed she had
    not slept. Her gaze was somewhere else. Three half-smoked cigarettes lay
    in the ashtray on her nightstand. A pile of briefs was strewn across his
    side of the bed. He could tell she was angry, and she had dealt with it
    the way she always did--throwing herself into her work. Michael
    undressed silently.
    "What time is it?" she asked, without looking at him. "Late."
    "Why didn't you call? Why didn't you tell me you were going to be so
    late tonight?"
    "There were developments in the case. I thought you'd be asleep."
    "I don't care if you wake me up, Michael. I needed to hear your voice."
    "I'm sorry, Elizabeth. The place was crashing. I couldn't get away."
    "Why didn't you come to the appointment?"
    Michael was unbuttoning his shirt. He stopped and turned to look at her.
    Her face was red, her eyes damp. "Elizabeth, I'm the officer assigned to
    the terrorist group that may have shot down that jetliner. I can't walk
    out in the middle of the day and come to Washington for a doctor's
    appointment."
    "Why not?"
    "Because I can't, that's why. The President of the United States is
    making decisions based on what we tell him, and in a situation like this
    it's impossible for me to leave the office, even for a couple of hours."
    "Michael, I have a job too. It may not be as important as working for
    the CIA, but it is damned important to me. I'm juggling three cases
    right now, I've got Braxton breathing down my neck, and I'm trying
    desperately to have a--"
    Her composure cracked, just for an instant. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth. I
    wanted to come, but I couldn't. Not on a day like today. I felt horrible
    about missing the appointment. What did the doctor say?"
    She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Michael crossed
    the room, sat down beside her on the bed, and pulled her close. She put
    her head against his shoulder and cried softly. "He's not sure what the
    problem is exactly. I can't get pregnant. Something might be wrong with
    my tubes. He's not certain. He wants to try one more thing: IVE He says
    Cornell in New York is the best. They can take us next month."
    Elizabeth looked up at him, her face wet with