The Mark of the Assassin

Glock--and checked and rechecked the firing
    mechanisms and the silencers. He had a third gun that he kept strapped
    to his ankle in a Velcro holster, a small Browning automatic designed to
    fit in a woman's purse. In the event a gun was not appropriate, he would
    carry a knife, a stout six-inch double-bladed knife with automatic
    release. Next he gathered his false passports--French, Italian, Dutch,
    Spanish, Swedish, Egyptian, and American--and saw to his finances. He
    had the two hundred thousand francs from the gallery in Paris, and in
    Zurich he would collect the half million dollars. It was more than
    enough to finance the job. He went out while it still was light and
    walked to the village. He bought bread from the boulangerie and sausage,
    cheese, and para from Mademoiselle Plauche. Didier and his friends were
    drinking wine at the cafe He gestured for Delaroche to join them and,
    uncharacteristically, Delaroche agreed. He ordered more wine and ate
    bread and olives with them until the sun was gone. That evening he had a
    simple meal outside on the stone terrace overlooking the sea. He had
    agreed to kill three more men in four weeks. Only a fool would accept
    such an assignment. He would be lucky to survive it. Even if he did, he
    might never be able to return to Breles. Delaroche had always been
    dispassionate about killing, but for the first time in longer than he
    could remember he felt an excitement rising within him. It was not
    unlike the feeling he had when he was sixteen, the night he killed for
    the first time. He cleared away his dishes and washed them in the sink.
    Then, for the next hour, he systematically worked his way through the
    cottage and burned anything that suggested he ever existed.
    DELAROCHE TOOK THE MORNING TRAIN from Brest to Paris and a midday train
    from Paris to Zurich. He arrived one hour before his bank closed. He
    left his small grip in a locker at the station and converted some of his
    French francs at a bureau de change. He walked along a glittering street
    lined with brightly lit, exclusive shops. In a Gucci boutique he used
    cash to purchase a simple black attache case. He told the clerk he did
    not require a bag, and a moment later he was walking along the sidewalk
    again, the attache dangling from his right arm. It was snowing lightly
    by the time he reached the austere front entrance of his bank. The only
    clue as to the nature of the establishment was the small gold plaque
    beside the door. De-laroche pressed the buzzer and waited while the
    security guard inspected him through the lens of the video camera
    mounted over the door. The door lock snapped open, and he was let inside
    a small secure entrance room. He picked up a black telephone and
    announced he had an appointment with Herr Becker. Becker arrived a
    moment later, immaculately dressed and polished, shorter than Delaroche
    by a bald head that shone in the fluorescent light. Delaroche followed
    him down a silent, dimly lit, beige-carpeted hall. Becker led him into
    another secure room and locked the door behind them. Delaroche felt
    claustrophobic. Becker opened a small vault and withdrew the money.
    De-laroche smoked while Becker counted it out for him. The entire
    transaction took less than ten minutes. De-laroche signed the receipt
    for the money, and Becker helped him stack it neatly inside the case. In
    the entrance room, Becker looked out at the street and said, "One can
    never be too careful, Monsieur Delaroche. There are thieves about."
    "Thank you, Herr Becker, I think I can handle myself. Have a pleasant
    evening."
    "Same to you, Monsieur Delaroche."
    Delaroche did not want to walk a long distance with the money, so he
    took a taxi back to the station. He collected his bag from the locker
    and purchased a first-class ticket on an overnight train to Amsterdam.
    DELAROCHE ARRIVED at Amsterdam's Centraalstation early the following
    morning. He moved quickly through the crowded hall, eyes red-rimmed from
    a night of fitful sleep, and stepped outside into the bright sunlight.
    The sight of the bicycles struck him: thousands of them, row upon row.
    Delaroche took a taxi to the Hotel Ambassade in the Central Canal Ring
    and checked in as Sefior Armifiana, a Spanish businessman. He spent an
    hour on the telephone, varying his languages in case the hotel operator
    might be listening, speaking in the coded lexicon of the criminal
    underground. He slept for a time, and by late morning he was seated in
    the