The Mark of the Assassin

identity. And most of all it made them
    money, a good deal of money.
    SOME ARRIVED ALONE, some in pairs. Some came without protection, some
    had a personal bodyguard. Ari Shamron came in the midafternoon and
    played three sets of tennis against the head of a Colombian cocaine
    cartel. The drug lord's black-suited, heavily armed security detail
    scampered after the loose balls in the scorching Caribbean sun.
    Constantin Kalnikov arrived an hour later. He lay by the pool for two
    hours, until his pale Slavic skin turned crimson with the sun, and then
    retired to his room for an afternoon of sex with one of the girls. The
    Director had flown them in from Brazil. Each had been carefully
    screened. Each was well schooled in the art of physical pleasure. Each
    had undergone extensive blood testing to make certain they carried no
    sexually transmitted disease. Mitchell Elliott had no time and no taste
    for such activities. He detested the members of the Society. He would
    deal with them professionally in order to achieve his ends, but he would
    not frolic and whore with them on a Caribbean island. The conference was
    scheduled for nine o'clock. Elliott's Gulfstream touched down at the
    airport at 8:30 P.M. A helicopter was waiting. He boarded it immediately
    with Mark Calahan and two other security men and flew up the
    mountainside to the villa.
    FOR THE FIRST HOUR the executive council dealt with routine housekeeping
    matters. Finally, the Director came to the first real item of business
    on the agenda. He peered at Mitchell Eliott over his gold half-moon
    reading glasses. "You have the floor, sir."
    Elliott remained seated. "First of all, gentlemen, I wish to thank you
    for your assistance. The operation went very smoothly, and it has had
    its intended results. President Beck-with was reelected, and the United
    States is going to build its missile defense project, a development that
    will prove beneficial to all of us gathered here."
    Elliott paused until the polite boardroom applause died away. "Needless
    to say, if a leak occurred and the Society's involvement in this matter
    ever came to light, the results would be disastrous. Therefore, I come
    before you tonight to request your permission to eliminate any operative
    outside this room who knows the truth."
    The Director looked up, face vaguely irritated, as though disappointed
    by a plate of Dover sole. "By my count, that's four men."
    "Precisely."
    And how do you recommend we carry out this assignment?"
    "I propose using the asset who took part in the operation off New York."
    "The one who's still alive, I take it?"
    Elliott permitted himself a rare smile. "Yes, Director."
    "Obviously, this man knows at least part of the truth--that the Sword of
    Gaza is not responsible for the attack."
    "I agree, but he is one of the best assassins in the world, and an
    assignment such as this requires someone of his abilities."
    "And when the job is done?"
    "He will be liquidated, just like the others."
    The Director nodded. He appreciated clarity and decisiveness over all
    else. "How do you propose to finance the liquidation? An operation such
    as the one you've described will be costly. You've just experienced a
    substantial windfall. Perhaps the expense should be borne by you."
    "I agree, Director. I ask for no financial support from the Society,
    only its blessing."
    The Director peered over his reading glasses at the other men gathered
    around the table. "Any objections?"
    There was silence. "Very well, you have the support of the executive
    council to carry out this assignment." The Director looked down at his
    papers, as though slightly confused. "All right, gentlemen, item number
    two. Mr. Hussein of Iraq is interested in acquiring some additional real
    estate, and once again he'd like our assistance."
    THE CONFERENCE ENDED at four that morning. Mitchell Elliott left the
    villa immediately, flew down the mountain in the helicopter, and boarded
    the Gulfstream at the airport. The rest of the executive committee
    stayed and caught a few hours of sleep. Constantin Kalnikov, desperate
    for a few hours of sun before his return to dreary Moscow, napped in a
    chaise by the pool. Shamron and the drug lord adjourned to the tennis
    court for a grudge match, for Shamron had beaten him handily the first
    time, and the drug lord, as was his habit, wanted revenge. When it was
    time to leave, they made the journey down the mountain in the Range
    Rovers. The Director left with the security