The Mark of the Assassin

20.
    McLean, Virginia.
    "I DON'T KNOW WHY Carter has to send you to London. Why the hell can't
    someone else go?"
    Elizabeth had picked Michael up at headquarters and was driving him to
    Dulles Airport, twenty miles from Washington on the western edge of
    northern Virginia's suburban sprawl. It was 7 P.M. The rush hour was
    technically over, but traffic still jammed the Capital Beltway.
    Elizabeth tended to tailgate when she was tense. As a result they were
    riding two feet from the rear bumper of a hunter-green Ford Explorer,
    traveling forty-five miles per hour. "I thought you talked to him about
    our situation, Michael. I thought he agreed to let you work from New
    York. I thought he was going to let you cut back for a couple of weeks."
    Michael thought, Maybe I should have taken an Agency car to the airport.
    The last thing he wanted to do was quarrel with his wife before boarding
    an international flight. He was not a superstitious man--nor was he a
    nervous flier--just realistic. "I'll only be a day," he said. "Over and
    back, with a couple of meetings in between."
    "If it's so routine why can't Carter send someone else?"
    Elizabeth was not a litigator--she practiced law in the quiet of
    corporate shadows--but she was skilled at the art of cross-examination.
    She hammered on the horn. Michael knew he had just been declared a
    hostile witness. "A British intelligence officer was murdered in London
    last night," Michael said calmly. "It may have something to do with a
    case I've been working for a long time."
    "I read about it in the Post this morning. The IRA claimed
    responsibility. Since when have you dealt with the IRA? thought your
    portfolio was strictly Arab terrorism."
    "It is, but we think there may be a tie-in."
    Michael hoped she would let it drop. The trip to London was his idea,
    not Carter's. Carter wanted the liaison work handled by an officer from
    London Station, but Michael convinced Carter to send him instead. "In
    two days I have my eggs harvested. At that time they'll be fertilized
    with sperm. Hopefully it will be yours, Michael."
    "I'll be back. Don't worry. And if something comes up we've got an ace
    in the hole. On ice."
    Because of the nature of his work and the possibility of sudden
    mandatory travel, the doctors at Cornell Medical Center had recommended
    that some of Michael's sperm be frozen. Elizabeth said, "I would like
    you there for emotional support, Michael. I thought you case officers
    were supposed to be good at that kind of thing. The least you could do
    is be there with me."
    "I'll be there. I promise."
    "Be careful what you promise, Michael."
    She exited the Beltway, turning onto the Dulles access road. The traffic
    cleared away. Elizabeth accelerated to sixty-five. A full moon hung over
    the Virginia countryside, shrouded behind a transparent layer of cloud.
    Michael lit a cigarette and cracked the window. Elizabeth drove
    aggressively, changing lanes without signaling, tailgating, flicking her
    high beams at anyone who dared to drive under seventy in the passing
    lane. Michael knew the real reason for Elizabeth's bad temper. He was
    going to London to investigate an act of terrorism, and she knew it
    would trigger thoughts of Sarah's murder. Her stubborn pride would not
    allow her to say it aloud, but it was written in the anxious expression
    on her face. She would be more upset if he told her the truth: He
    suspected Sarah and the British officer were murdered by the same man.
    Elizabeth said, "I gave Tom Logan the material from Susanna's disk."
    "Is he going to publish the piece?"
    "He says he can't, not without confirming all the details first. He says
    the allegations are too explosive to print without being reviewed by
    their lawyers. And since the reporter who wrote it is now dead, there
    can't be a thorough review."
    "What's he going to do?"
    "He's assigned a team of his best reporters to match the story.
    Unfortunately, Susanna's not going to be much help to them from the
    grave. Her notes don't contain many clues about the identity of her
    sources. So Logan's team has to basically start from scratch."
    "That could take a very long time."
    "It took Susanna three months to do it alone."
    They arrived at Dulles. Elizabeth drove to the departure level and
    pulled over to the curb. Michael climbed out and collected a lightly
    packed garment bag from the trunk. He closed it, then walked to the
    driver's side of the Mercedes. Elizabeth had let down the window and