The Mark of the Assassin

files only if you accept the assignment.
    reasons of security, Mr. Delaroche. Surely a man of your reputation can
    understand that."
    Delaroche held out his hand for the disk. The American smiled. "We
    thought you'd see it our way. The first million has already been wired
    to your bank in Zurich. Check it out for yourself. Phone's right over
    there."
    Delaroche conducted the conversation in rapid German. Herr Becker, his
    solicitous Swiss bank manager in Zurich, confirmed that, yes, one
    million dollars had been wired into the account overnight. Delaroche
    said he would call again later with wiring instructions of his own and
    hung up. "The contents are encrypted," the American said, as he handed
    Delaroche the disk. "Your KGB code name will unlock the files."
    Delaroche was stunned. Since entering the freelance market he had never
    divulged his KGB credentials, and he had never used his old code name.
    Only Arbatov and a handful of senior officers at Moscow Center ever knew
    it. The men who had just retained his services were obviously very well
    connected. The fact that they knew his KGB code name was proof. "I trust
    you know how to run one of those," the American said, gesturing at the
    laptop. "You'll have to excuse me, but I'm not allowed to see the
    contents of the dossier. You're on your own ."
    Delaroche carried the disk to the dining room table and sat down. He
    inserted the disk into the internal drive of the laptop and typed seven
    letters. The computer screen flickered to life.
    THE DOSSIERS WERE THE BEST Delaroche had ever seen: personal and
    professional histories, sexual habits, daily routines, ad dresses,
    telephone numbers, digital voice samples, surveillance photographs, even
    digitized videotape. For two hours he slowly and systematically worked
    his way through all the information contained on the disk. He made no
    notes; Delaroche had a mind capable of storing, categorizing, and
    recalling immense amounts of information. The American was stretched out
    on the couch, enjoying the 500-channel satellite television system.
    First he watched an American football game, then an inane quiz show. Now
    he had settled on Swedish pornography. Delaroche was treated to sounds
    of lesbian lovemaking as he worked. The hits would be the most
    challenging of his career. The targets were all professionals; one was
    under the periodic protection of his government. The job would also
    require carrying out an assassination in the United States, where
    Delaroche had never set foot, let alone worked. If successful, the
    killings would be his last for some time; the assassin who carried out
    this assignment would have to go into hiding for a very long time. The
    men who had hired him understood this, which is why the fee was a
    lifetime's worth of money. Delaroche opened the last computerized
    dossier. It contained only one item, a photograph of the man watching
    television in the next room. Delaroche closed out the file and exited
    the program. The screen read:
    IF YOU BETRAY US WE WILL HAND YOU OVER TO THE FBI OR WE WILL KILL YOU.
    Delaroche removed the disk and stood up.
    THE AMERICAN WAS ENGROSSED in the pornography. Delaroche walked from the
    dining room into the sitting room and collected his coat, which was
    tossed over a chair. The American stood up. This pleased Delaroche. It
    would make his next task easier. "One last piece of business. How do we
    contact you once you've gone operational?"
    "You don't. No more face-to-face meetings, no more contact with
    Arbatov."
    "You still have your address on the Internet?"
    Delaroche nodded and removed his sunglasses from his coat pocket. "Any
    additional instructions will be sent there--encrypted, of course--and
    the same code word will serve as the key."
    "I don't need to tell you that the Internet is vast but highly insecure.
    It should be used only in an emergency."
    "Understood."
    Delaroche held out the disk. Just as the American was reaching for it,
    Delaroche let it tumble from his fingertips. The American's eyes moved
    from Delaroche to the disk just for an instant, yet he realized he had
    made a fatal mistake. Delaroche's left hand clamped over the American's
    mouth with an iron grip. He turned the man's face slightly in order to
    increase his chances of killing him with one strike. Then he rammed the
    stem of the sunglasses through his right eye. The search had been
    thorough, but the wrestler had failed to notice that the right stem of
    Delaroche's sunglasses