The Mark of the Assassin

suit; Graham was dressed for safari in
    khaki trousers and a khaki bush shirt. They sat down and talked about
    old times. They had lived nearly identical lives. Like Michael, Graham's
    father had worked in intelligence--MI-5's Double Cross operation during
    the war, then mi-6 for twenty-five years after that. Like Michael,
    Graham followed his father from posting to posting and joined the Secret
    Intelligence Service immediately after graduating from Cambridge. The
    two men had worked side by side over the years, though Graham always
    functioned under official cover. They had developed a professional
    respect and personal friendship. Indeed, they were closer than either of
    their services would prefer if they knew. The smell of Helen's cooking
    drifted upstairs into the drawing room. "What's she making?" Michael
    asked cautiously. "Paella," Graham said and frowned. "Perhaps you should
    run to the chemist's now before it closes."
    "I'll be all right."
    "You say that now, but you haven't had Helen's paella."
    "That bad?"
    "I don't want to spoil the surprise. Perhaps you should have some more
    wine."
    Graham went downstairs to the kitchen, returning a moment later with
    glasses filled with white Bordeaux. "Tell me about Colin Yardley."
    Graham grimaced. "Curious thing happened a couple of months ago. A
    Lebanese arms dealer named Farouk Khalifa decided to set up shop in
    Paris. We found out about it and notified our French friends. They put
    Mr. Khalifa under watch."
    "That was nice of the French."
    "He sells weapons to people we don't like."
    "He's a bad man."
    "He's a very bad man. He opens up the bazaar and starts receiving
    clients. The French photograph everyone who comes and goes."
    "I get the picture."
    "In September a man calls on Mr. Khalifa. The French are unable to
    identify him, but they suspect he's a Brit, so they send us a copy of
    the photo by secure fax."
    "Colin Yardley?"
    "In the flesh."
    "The top floor confronted him. They demanded to know what the fuck he
    was doing meeting with a chap like Khalifa. Yardley made up some
    bullshit story about how he was bored with his desk job and was itching
    to do field work again. He worked in Paris for a time. Said he was
    freelancing. The top floor weren't happy, to say the least. Yardley got
    his wrists slapped in a very big way."
    "Jesus Christ."
    "Now, guess which weapon Farouk Khalifa has in great abundance."
    "According to our files, it's Stinger missiles." Michael drank some of
    the wine. "I don't suppose your service passed any of this along to my
    service?"
    Graham shook his head. "We were a little embarrassed about it. You
    understand, don't you, Michael? The top floor just wanted it to go away,
    so they made it go away."
    Helen appeared at the top of the stairs. "Dinner's ready."
    "Wonderful," Graham said a little too enthusiastically. "Well, I guess
    the video will have to wait."
    HELEN SEYMOUR COOKED elaborately but dreadfully. She believed that
    "British cuisine" was an oxymoron, and her specialty was the food of the
    Mediterranean: Italian, Greek, Spanish, North African. Tonight she
    served a ghastly paella of raw fish and burned shrimp, so spicy Michael
    felt dampness at the back of his neck as he forced fork after fork into
    his mouth. He bravely finished his first helping. Helen insisted he have
    another. Graham choked back laughter as his wife piled two heaping
    spoonfuls onto Michael's outstretched plate. "It's divine, isn't it?"
    Helen purred. "I think I'll have a little more myself."
    "Once again, you've outdone yourself, darling," Graham said. He had
    learned long ago how to deal with his wife's unique brand of exotic
    cooking. He grabbed take-away sandwiches and hamburgers on the way home
    from work and devoured them descending into the Underground. Three years
    ago he professed a sudden devotion to bread. Each night Helen brought
    home new and different varieties, which Graham ate in vast amounts. He
    had grown pudgy around the middle from eating too many carbohydrates
    late at night. He scheduled important telephone calls at the dinner hour
    and pretended they were unexpected. Like an impetuous child, he had
    become a master at distributing uneaten food about his plate to create
    the illusion of consumption. For a time Graham refused to allow Helen to
    cook for guests; they entertained in restaurants instead. Now he took a
    certain pleasure at having friends for dinner, the way the condemned
    take comfort from companionship in the hours