The Mark of the Assassin

15.
    DELAROCHE DROVE TO BREST and took a late train to Paris. He traveled
    with two bags, a small overnight grip with a change of clothes and a
    large flat rectangular case containing a dozen watercolors. His work was
    sold in a discreet Paris gallery, providing him with enough income to
    justify his unpretentious lifestyle in Breles. From the train station he
    took a taxi to a modest hotel on the rue de Rivoli and registered as a
    Dutchman named Karel van der Stadt--Dutch was one of his languages, and
    he had three excellent Dutch passports. His room had a small balcony
    overlooking the Tuileries Garden and the Louvre. The night was cold and
    very clear. To his right he could see the Eiffel Tower, ablaze with
    light; to his left Notre Dame, standing guard over the black shimmer of
    the Seine. It was late, but he had work to do, so he pulled on a sweater
    and a leather jacket and went out. The front desk clerk asked Delaroche
    if he would like to leave his key. Delaroche shook his head and, in
    Dutch-accented French, said he preferred to keep it with him. The
    meeting was to take place in a flat in the Fifth Arrondissement on the
    rue de Tournefort. Spotting professional surveillance was difficult
    under the best of circumstances, but it was even more difficult at night
    in a city like Paris. Delaroche walked for a time, crossing the Seine
    and strolling along the Quai de Montebello. He made several sudden
    stops. He browsed among the book kiosks. He purchased the evening papers
    from a newsagent. He made a false call from a public telephone. Each
    time he carefully checked to see if he was being pursued but saw no
    signs of a tail. For fifteen minutes Delaroche wound his way through the
    narrow streets of the Latin Quarter. The cold night air smelled of spice
    and cigarettes. Delaroche went into a bar and drank beer while leafing
    through a newspaper. Again, there was no visible surveillance. He
    finished his beer and went out. The apartment was just the way Arbatov
    had described it, in an old building on the rue de Tournefort
    overlooking the Place de la Contrescarpe. The flat was on the third
    floor. From the sidewalk, Delaroche could see the front windows were
    dark. He could also see a small camera mounted over the doorway for
    tenants to check the faces of arriving guests.
    There was a bistro on the corner with a good view of the flat and the
    entrance. Delaroche took a window table and ordered roast chicken and a
    half bottle of Cetes-du-Rhene. It was a good neighborhood bistro, warm
    and clamorous, mostly locals and students from the Sorbonne. While he
    ate, Delaroche read an analysis story from the Washington correspondent
    of Le Monde. It said that the American air strikes on Sword of Gaza
    targets in Syria and Libya had dealt a major blow to the cause of peace
    in the Middle East. Syria and Libya were arming themselves with newer
    and more dangerous weaponry, some of it French-made. Negotiations
    between the Palestinians and the Israelis were at a standstill after
    weeks of unrest in Gaza and the West Bank. Intelligence experts warned
    of a new round of international terror. Western European diplomats
    complained that the Americans had taken their revenge with no regard for
    the consequences. Delaroche laid his paper on the table and ate. It
    always amazed him how little journalists knew of the secret world. The
    man entering the apartment house caught his attention. Delaroche looked
    him over carefully: short, thinning blond hair, a squat wrestler's
    physique gone soft with debauchery. The offensive cut of his overcoat
    said he was an American. On his arm was a pretty French prostitute,
    taller than he was, with dark shoulder-length hair and crimson lips. The
    American opened the door, and they disappeared into the dark entrance
    hall. A moment later, light burned in the third-floor flat. Delaroche
    felt his spirits lift. He had feared he was walking into a trap. Alone
    in a strange flat, with no avenues of escape, he would be easy prey if
    it was one of his enemies who had actually arranged the meeting. But an
    operative who was so corrupt as to bring a prostitute to a safe house
    surely posed little threat to him. Only an amateur or an undisciplined
    professional would take such a risk. Delaroche, at that moment, decided
    he would make the meeting.
    THE FOLLOWING MORNING Delaroche rose early and went running through the
    Tuileries. He wore a dark blue anorak to shield himself from the gentle
    rain