The Mark of the Assassin

was
    leaning her head out, waiting for a kiss good-bye. "Be careful,
    Michael."
    "I will."
    He waited until her taillights vanished into the darkness; ' then he
    went inside the terminal.
    MICHAEL CAME AWAKE as the jetliner slipped below the cloud cover and
    descended into the gray London morning. London Station had offered to
    send a car, but Michael wanted as little to do with London Station as
    possible, so he took a taxi instead. He pulled down the window. The raw
    air felt good against his face, despite the stink of diesel fumes.
    London had been his home for eight years; he had made the journey from
    Heathrow to central London a thousand times. The dreary western suburbs
    sweeping past him were more familiar than Arlington or Chevy Chase. He
    checked into his hotel, a modest independent establishment on
    Knightsbridge, overlooking Hyde Park. He preferred it because each room
    came with a small sitting room in addition to the bedroom. He ordered a
    full English breakfast and picked at it until it was late enough to
    phone Elizabeth. He awakened her, and they had a disjointed two-minute
    conversation before she drifted back to sleep. Michael was tired, so he
    slept until early afternoon. When he awoke, he dressed in a waterproof
    jogging suit. He hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door and for
    insurance left a telltale, a tiny piece of paper, wedged between the
    door and the jamb. If it was still there when he returned, it was likely
    the room had not been entered. If it was gone, someone had probably been
    there. He set out on the footpaths of Hyde Park under clouds the color
    of pewter, heavy with rain. Ten minutes into the run the skies opened
    up. The Londoners rushing past beneath windblown umbrellas glared at him
    as though he was an escaped mental patient. After fifteen minutes his
    breath turned ragged, and he stopped to walk. Over the years he had been
    able to maintain his physical fitness, despite being a moderate smoker.
    But now the cigarettes were taking their toll. And Elizabeth was
    right--he was getting thicker around the waist. He ran back to the
    hotel. The telltale fell to the floor as he opened the door to his room.
    He showered and changed into a blue business suit. He took a taxi to
    Grosvenor Square and flashed his identification to the Marine guard at
    the entrance. Michael felt uncomfortable in embassies; he was a NOC,
    through and through. When he was based in London he came to the embassy
    only in emergencies and only "black," meaning he arrived underground in
    the back of a van. He wished he didn't have to come at all, but Center
    doctrine demanded a courtesy call to the local chief of station.
    The COS in London was a man named Wheaton, an unabashed Anglophile with
    a pencil-thin mustache, a Savile Row chalk-stripe suit, and an annoying
    habit of toying with a tennis ball when he didn't know quite what to
    say. Wheaton was old school: Princeton, Moscow, five years as head of
    the Russia desk before scoring the plum career-ending assignment in
    London. He said he had known Michael's father, but he didn't say he
    liked him. He also made it clear he didn't think London Station needed
    any help from the CTC on this one. Michael promised to brief him on his
    findings. Wheaton politely told Michael he'd like him to get out of town
    as quickly as possible.
    THE TAXI DROPPED MICHAEL at the white Georgian terrace in Eaton Place.
    Helen and Graham Seymour owned a pleasant apartment, and from the street
    Michael could see them like actors on a multilevel stage--Graham
    upstairs in the drawing room, Helen below street level in the kitchen.
    He descended the steps and rapped on the paned-glass kitchen door. Helen
    looked up from her cooking and smiled broadly. Opening the door to him,
    she kissed his cheek and said, "God, Michael, it's been too long." She
    dumped Sancerre into a goblet and thrust it into his hand. "Graham's
    upstairs. You boys can talk shop while I finish supper."
    Graham Seymour was fidgeting with the gas fire when Michael entered the
    room. It was wood-paneled and wood-floored, with an exquisite array of
    Oriental rugs and Middle Eastern decorations. Graham stood up, smiled,
    and stuck out his hand. They regarded each other as only men of
    identical size and shape can do. Graham Seymour was like Michael's
    negative. Where Michael was olive complected, Graham was fair. Where
    Michael was dark-haired and green-eyed, Graham was blond and gray-eyed.
    Michael wore a blue business