The Mark of the Assassin

drifting over the gardens. He ran at a fast pace for forty-five
    minutes, the gravel of the footpaths crunching beneath his feet. He
    pushed himself hard for the last mile. When he finished he stood on the
    rue de Rivoli, doubled over and gasping for air, as Parisians hustled
    past on their way to work. Upstairs in his room he showered and changed.
    The Glock 9mm was within easy reach the entire time. Leaving it behind
    was alien to him, but Delaroche would abide by the rules of the meeting.
    He pulled on his sweater, locked the gun away in the small room safe,
    and went downstairs. He took breakfast in the hotel restaurant, a
    pleasant room with windows on the rue de Rivoli, and lingered over the
    morning newspapers. He was the last guest to leave the dining room. From
    the front desk he took a Paris street map and a tourist guide. The
    morning clerk wondered if Delaroche would like to leave his room key.
    Delaroche shook his head and pushed through the doors to the street.
    HE TOOK A TAXI to the rue de Tournefort and got out at the corner bistro
    where he had eaten dinner the previous night. The rain had stopped, so
    he sat outside. Despite the clouds, he wore Ray-Ban sunglasses with
    thick stems. It was 9:45. Delaroche ordered coffee and brioche and
    watched the window of the third-floor flat across the street. Twice, the
    man with the wrestler's body appeared in the front window. The first
    time he wore a bathrobe and clutched a mug of coffee as though he were
    hung over. The second time, at 9:55, he wore a blue executive business
    suit, and his thinning blond hair was combed neatly in place. Delaroche
    scanned the street. The sidewalk was jammed with Parisians rushing to
    work and students heading to the Sorbonne. On the rue de Tournefort, a
    pair of city workers was preparing to descend into a manhole. Another
    city worker was sweeping up dog droppings. The tables had filled around
    him. He could be surrounded by surveillance and would never know it. At
    ten o'clock he left money on the table and walked across the street. He
    casually pressed the bell and turned his back to the camera over the
    doorway. The electronic lock snapped back, and he pushed through the
    door into the entrance hall. There was no lift, just a broad staircase.
    Delaroche mounted the first step and walked quickly upward. The place
    was quiet, no other tenants moving about. Delaroche arrived at the third
    floor without being spotted. Arbatov had instructed him not to ring the
    bell. The door opened immediately, and the wrestler invited Delaroche
    inside with a wave of his thick paw.
    DELAROCHE EYED HIS SURROUNDINGS while the other man conducted a slow and
    methodical search of his body, first by hand, then with a magnetometer.
    The furnishings were masculine and comfortable: black informal couches
    and chairs grouped around a glass coffee table, teak bookshelves filled
    with histories, biographies, and thrillers by American and English
    writers. The remaining portions of exposed wall were bare, with faint
    outlines where framed paintings had once hung. The books were the only
    personal items; no photographs of family and friends, no stack of mail,
    no message pad next to the telephone on the desk. "Coffee?" the wrestler
    asked when he was finished. Delaroche had been right. He was an
    American--from the South, by the sound of his accent. Delaroche nodded.
    He removed his sunglasses, while the American went into the all-black
    modern kitchen and busied himself with the coffee. Delaroche sat down
    and scanned the rest of the flat. Next to the kitchen was a small dining
    area, and beyond that a short hall leading to a bedroom. On the table
    was a black laptop computer. The American returned with two mugs of
    coffee, handing one to Delaroche and keeping the other for himself. ,
    "The job is four hits," he began without preamble, "to be carried out
    before the end of January. You will be paid one million dollars in
    advance. For each successful hit, you will immediately be paid an
    additional one million dollars. That adds up to five million dollars, if
    I'm not mistaken."
    "Who do you work for?"
    The American shook his head. "I am instructed to say that I work for the
    same group that hired you for the airliner operation. You already know
    they are a professional outfit and their word is good."
    Delaroche lit a cigarette. "You have the dossiers on the targets?"
    The American produced a compact disk. "It's all here, but you get to see
    the