The Mark of the Assassin

found Arbatov, a picture of misery, pacing in the downpour.
    Delaroche parked the car and watched for a moment before making his
    approach. Mikhail Arbatov looked more like an aging professor than a KGB
    spymaster, and, as always, Delaroche found it hard to imagine he had
    presided over countless murders. Obviously, life in Paris was treating
    him well, because he was fatter than De-laroche remembered, and his
    cheeks had a deceptive healthy glow about them from too much wine and
    cognac. He wore his customary black rollneck sweater and army-style
    mackintosh coat, which looked as if it belonged to a taller, thinner
    man. On his head he wore a waterproof brimmed hat typical of retired men
    everywhere. His spectacles were steel-rimmed goggles and always seemed
    to do more harm than good. Now they were fogged with the rain and
    slipping down the steep slope of his pugilist's nose. Delaroche climbed
    out of the car and approached him from behind. Arbatov, the consummate
    professional, did not flinch as Delaroche fell into step next to him.
    They walked in silence for a time, Delaroche struggling to keep cadence
    with Arbatov's teetering waddle. Arbatov seemed forever on the verge of
    capsizing, and several times Delaroche resisted the impulse to reach out
    and steady him. Arbatov stopped walking and turned to face Delaroche. He
    studied him with a straight, slightly bemused gaze, gray eyes magnified
    by the immense spectacles. "Jesus Christ, but I'm too old for this
    streetcraft bullshit," he said, in his impeccable, accentless French.
    "Too old and too tired. Take me someplace warm with good food."
    Delaroche drove him to a good cafe on the waterfront. Arbatov complained
    about the paint mess in the Mercedes the entire way. Five minutes later
    they were tucking into Gruyere and mushroom omelets and mugs of cafe au
    lait. Arbatov devoured his food and lit a wretched Gauloise before
    Delaroche had finished his second bite. Complaining of the cold, Arbatov
    ordered a cognac. He drank it in two gulps and had another cigarette,
    blowing slender streams of smoke at the dark-stained wood of the beamed
    ceiling. The two men sat in silence. A stranger might have mistaken them
    for a father and son who had breakfast together daily, which suited
    Delaroche fine. "They want you back again," Arbatov said, when Delaroche
    finished eating. Delaroche did not have to ask who they were; they were
    the men who had hired him for the airliner operation. "What's the job?"
    "All they said was that it was extremely important and they wanted the
    best."
    Delaroche did not require flattery. "The money?"
    "They wouldn't tell me, except to say that it was more than the fee for
    the last job." Arbatov crushed out his Gauloise with the cracked
    fingernail of his thick thumb."
    "Substantially more' was the term they used."
    Delaroche gestured for the waiter to clear away his plate. He ordered
    another coffee and lit his own cigarette. "They gave you no details at
    all about the work?"
    "Just one. It is a multiple hit, and all the targets are professionals."
    Delaroche's interest was suddenly piqued. For the most part his work
    bored him. Most jobs required far less skill than De-laroche possessed.
    They took little preparation and even less creativity. Killing
    professionals was another matter. "They want to meet with you tomorrow,"
    Arbatov said. "In Paris."
    "Whose turf?."
    "Theirs, of course." He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a soggy
    slip of paper. The ink had run but the address was legible. "They want
    to meet with you face-to-face."
    "I don't do face-to-face meetings, Mikhail. You of all people should
    know that."
    Delaroche protected his identity with a care bordering on paranoia. Most
    men in his line of work dealt with the problem by having plastic
    surgeons give them a new face every few years. Delaroche dealt with it
    another way--he rarely permitted anyone who knew what he really did to
    see his face. He had never allowed anyone to take his photograph, and he
    always worked alone. He had made just one exception--the Palestinian on
    the airliner operation but he had been paid an exorbitant amount of
    money and he had killed him when the job was done. The extraction team
    aboard the helicopter had not seen his face, because he had worn a black
    woolen mask. "Be reasonable, my dear boy," Arbatov was saying. "It's a
    brave new world out there."
    "I'm still alive because I'm careful."
    "I realize that. And I want you to remain alive