The Mark of the Assassin

o'clock and took his usual seat
    at the bar. Astrid Vogel was waiting for him.
    SHE WAS NOT the same woman Delaroche had seen in the Amsterdam bookshop
    ten days earlier. She had spent the afternoon at Harrods and the
    glittering shops in Bond Street, armed with a stack of Delaroche's
    money. She now wore a black cocktail dress, black stockings, a gold
    watch, and a double strand of exquisite pearls around her throat. The
    simple black clasp was gone from her hair, which had been trimmed and
    blown out by a fussy Italian stylist at a salon off Knightsbridge. Now
    it fell dramatically about her face and neck. Astrid knew how to play
    down her natural good looks, but she also knew how to attract attention
    when necessary. Delaroche sat on a bench in Sloane Square, pretending to
    read a copy of The Evening Standard purchased from a newsstand outside
    the Sloane Square Underground station. He watched the performance inside
    the restaurant as pantomime. Astrid sits at the bar alone, the eternal
    cigarette burning between her long, slender fingers. Yardley, tall,
    gray, distinguished, asks if the seat next to her is free. A drink
    appears before Yardley automatically--his regular--and by his expression
    he thinks she is impressed by this. He gestures to the bartender to
    bring her another glass of white wine. Astrid, grateful, turns her body
    to face him, one long leg crossed suggestively over the other, her skirt
    riding high on her thigh. She belongs to him now. The frightened, lonely
    woman from the houseboat in Amsterdam is gone. She is a confident and
    cosmopolitan Dutch woman whose husband makes money and ignores her too
    much and, yes, you can light my cigarette for me, darling. After an hour
    of this, she rises and puts on her coat. They shake hands formally. She
    allows her fingers to linger on his an instant too long. He asks her
    where she's staying? The Dorchester. Can he give her a lift? No, that's
    not necessary. Can he get her a taxi? No, I can manage. Could he see her
    again before she leaves London? Come back tomorrow night, and if you're
    very lucky, darling, I'll be here.
    SHE WALKED QUICKLY across the square, passing Delaroche, who was
    engrossed in his newspaper. She headed north, up Sloane Street.
    Delaroche watched Yardley hail a taxi and disappear inside. He stood up
    and strolled across the square to Sloane Street. Astrid was waiting for
    him. "How did it go?"
    "He would have fucked me right there at the bar if I had let him."
    "So he was interested?"
    "He asked me to come to his place for a drink and a take-away curry. I
    told him my husband might be a little upset if I wasn't back at the
    hotel by the time his meeting was over."
    "Good, I don't want him to think you're a whore. Besides, he can't be as
    stupid as he looks. What about tomorrow night?"
    "I left the strong impression I'd be back at the bar."
    "He'll be back."
    "Please, Jean-Paul, I just don't want to kiss him. His breath smells
    like shit."
    "That part of the operation is in your hands."
    "God, I hope he doesn't try to kiss me. I swear if he tries to kiss me,
    I'll kill him myself."
    YARDLEY ARRIVED FIRST the next night. Delaroche, watching from his bench
    in Sloane Square, stifled laughter as the highly trained British
    intelligence officer cast a series of expectant glances toward the door.
    After half an hour Delaroche decided Yardley had waited long enough for
    his reward. He signaled Astrid, who was sitting in the window of a wine
    bar across the square. Five minutes later she was striding through the
    door of the restaurant, straight into the arms of Colin Yardley.
    SHE TAUNTED him. She toyed with him. She hung on his every word. She ran
    her fingers through her hair. She allowed him to buy her too many
    glasses of Sancerre. She leaned forward so he could look down her blouse
    and see she was wearing no brassiere. She stroked the inside of his calf
    with the toe of her expensive Bruno Magli shoe. She tried several times
    to leave-- my husband will want to know where I am, darling--but he
    would signal the bartender, and another glass of Sancerre would arrive,
    and somehow she just couldn't find the willpower to drag herself away
    from this terribly interesting man, and be a love and get me another
    pack of cigarettes please. Marlboro Light 100s. Astrid the seductress.
    Astrid the needy. Astrid the silly sex-starved Dutch tart who would do
    anything for the attention of a middle-aged Englishman with a Savile Row
    suit and an