The Mark of the Assassin

had been filed to a sharp point, which allowed
    the blow to penetrate the brain's protective cover and sever a branch of
    the carotid artery behind the eye. The blood loss was rapid and
    catastrophic. The man quickly lost consciousness. He would be dead in a
    moment or two. Delaroche placed him in front of the television and his
    pornography. He removed the sunglasses from the ruined eye and washed
    them carefully in the kitchen sink. He collected the disk from the
    coffee table and placed it in his coat pocket. Then he put on the
    sunglasses and went out into the Paris morning.
    DELAROCHE DECIDED TO KILL ARBATOV as he sat in the Musae de l'orangerie
    des Tuileries, surrounded by Monet's Nymphas. It was not a difficult
    decision, really. Once Delaroche carried out the assignment, he would be
    one of the most wanted men on the planet. The world's most powerful law
    enforcement and intelligence agencies would be searching for him. The
    person who could harm him most was Arbatov. Ifarbatov was discovered-if
    pressure was applied--he might betray Delaroche to save himself. It was
    a risk Delaroche was no longer willing to take. He contemplated the soft
    blues and greens and yellows of Monet's work and thought of the action
    he had just carried out. Delaroche took no pleasure from killing, yet it
    left him with no remorse. He was trained to carry out assassinations
    with brutal and mechanical swiftness. The quickness with which he killed
    insulated him from any guilt or remorse. It was as if someone else were
    performing the act. He was not the murderer; the men who ordered the
    death were the real killers. De-laroche was just the weapon: the knife,
    the gun, the blunt object. If he had not carried out the contract,
    someone else would have.
    He spent the rest of the day relaxing. He took lunch in the hotel
    restaurant, transforming himself once again into Karel van der Stadt,
    Dutch tourist, and slept for an hour in his room. In the afternoon he
    went to his gallery and left the paintings. The owner pronounced them
    spectacular and produced a check for two hundred thousand francs,
    Delaroche's share of the proceeds from his last batch of work. Late that
    afternoon he telephoned Zurich. Herr Becker, the fussy Swiss bank
    manager, confirmed that, yes, a second deposit of one million dollars
    had been made to the gentleman's account. That meant the body of the
    American operative had been found. Or, more likely, the men who had
    hired Delaroche had witnessed the entire scene with surveillance cameras
    and microphones. Delaroche requested a current balance, and after a
    moment's calculation Becker announced gravely that the account now
    contained slightly more than three and a half million dollars. Delaroche
    instructed him to prepare a withdrawal of half a million dollars, bills
    of various denominations, to be collected in forty-eight hours. He then
    instructed Becker to wire three million dollars to three separate
    accounts in the Bahamas. "One million dollars for each account, Monsieur
    Delaroche?"
    "Yes."
    "Account numbers, please?"
    Delaroche recited them from memory.
    RETIREMENT HAD ROBBED ARBATOV of his edge. Like most old men who live
    alone, he had settled into a carefully scripted daily routine from which
    he rarely strayed. It included walking his dog each night before dinner.
    The only thing more predictable than Arbatov was the dog; each night it
    pissed on the same tree and shit on the same patch of grass in the park
    near Arbatov's flat. Delaroche waited there, hidden by darkness. Arbatov
    approached right on schedule. It was cold, and a light rain was starting
    up again. The park was deserted. Even if there were people about,
    Delaroche knew he could carry out the act so swiftly and silently he
    would never be detected. Arbatov passed. Delaroche fell in quietly
    behind him. The dog stopped to piss, same tree, right on schedule.
    Delaroche paused and resumed walking when the dog finished. He glanced
    around to see if he was alone. Satisfied, he closed the ground between
    himself and Arbatov with a few quick steps. Arbatov, alarmed by the
    noise, turned around in time to see Delaroche, arm raised. He swung down
    with brutal swiftness and struck Arbatov on the side of his neck,
    instantly, shattering his spine. The old man collapsed. The dog barked
    wildly, thrashing about on his leash, which Arbatov still clutched in
    his hand. Delaroche reached inside Arbatov's coat and took his wallet.
    Street thugs don't