The Mark of the Assassin

Lanildut. In a caf he purchased
    two croissants and filled his bottles, one with orange juice and the
    second with steaming caf au lait. Delaroche devoured the croissant as he
    cycled. He passed the Presqu'ile de Sainte-Marguerite, a rocky finger of
    land jutting into the sea, blessed with some of the most magnificent
    seascapes in all Europe. Next came the Cete des Abers, the coast of
    estuaries--a long flat run over a series of rivers running from the
    highland of the Finistre down to the sea. He felt the first signs of leg
    weariness as he entered the village of Brignogan-Plage. Beyond the
    village, down a narrow path, lay a beach of sand so white it might have
    been snow. An ancient upright stone, known in Brittany as a menhir,
    stood like a sentinel over the entrance. Delaroche dismounted and pushed
    his bicycle along the pathway, sipping the remains of the caf au lait as
    he walked. On the beach he leaned the bike against a large rock and
    walked along the tidal line, smoking a cigarette. The signal site was a
    large outcropping of rock about two hundred meters from the place where
    he left the bike. He walked slowly, aimlessly, watching the sea rushing
    against the sand. A large wave broke over the beach. Delaroche deftly
    sidestepped to avoid the frigid water. He smoked the last of the
    cigarette, tossed the butt a few feet ahead of him, and ground it into
    the white sand with the toe of his cycling shoe. He stopped walking and
    crouched at the base of the rock. The mark was there, two bone-white
    strips of medical tape, fashioned into an X. Any professional would have
    guessed that the person who had left the mark was trained in the
    tradecraft of the KGB, which indeed he was.
    Delaroche tore the tape from the stone, wadded it into a tight ball, and
    tossed it into the gorse bordering the beach. He walked back to the bike
    and pedaled home to Breles through the brilliant sun.
    BY MIDDAY THE WEATHER was still good, so Delaroche decided to paint. He
    dressed in jeans and a heavy fisherman's sweater and loaded his things
    into the back of the Mercedes: his easel, a Polaroid camera, his box of
    paint and brushes. He went back inside the cottage, made coffee, and
    poured it into a shiny metal thermos bottle. From the refrigerator he
    took two large bottles of Beck's and went back out. He drove into the
    village and parked outside the charcuterie. Inside he purchased ham,
    cheese, and a lump of local Breton pat while Mademoiselle Plaucha
    flirted with him shamelessly. He left the shop, accompanied by the
    tinkle of the little bell attached to the doorway, and went next door to
    the boulangerie for a baguette. He drove inland, the harsh rocky terrain
    of the coastline giving way to soft wooded hills as he moved deeper into
    the Fin-istare. He turned off onto a small unmarked side road and
    followed it two miles until it turned to a pitted track. The Mer-cedes
    bucked wildly, but after a few minutes he arrived at his destination, a
    quaint stone farmhouse--seventeenth century, he guessed--set against a
    stand of splendid trees with leaves of ruby and gold. Delaroche did most
    things slowly and carefully, and preparing to paint was no exception. He
    methodically unpacked his supplies from the back of the Mercedes while
    taking in the view of the farmhouse. The autumn light brought out sharp
    contrasts in the stonework of the house and in the trees beyond.
    Capturing the quality of the light on paper would be a challenge.
    Delaroche ate a sandwich and drank some of the beer while he studied the
    scene from several different perspectives. He found the spot he liked
    the best and made a half-dozen photographs with his camera, three in
    color, three black-and-white. The owner of the house emerged, a stout
    little figure with a black-and-white dog racing in circles at his feet.
    Delaroche called out that he was an artist, and the man waved
    enthusiastically. Five minutes later he came bearing a glass of wine and
    a plate piled with cheese and thick slices of spicy sausage. He wore a
    patched jacket that looked as though it had been purchased before the
    war. The dog, which had just three legs, begged Delaroche for food. When
    they were gone, Delaroche settled in behind his easel. He studied the
    photos, first the black-and-white, to see essential form and lines
    within the image, then the color. For twenty minutes he made sketches
    with a charcoal pencil until the composition of the work felt right. He
    worked with a