The Mark of the Assassin

services."
    "So I'll do it in an unofficial capacity."
    "What's your plan? Just sort of bump into him and say, "Hey, wait a
    moment. Aren't you Ivan Drozdov, former KGB assassin? Mind if I ask you
    a few questions?" Come on, Michael."
    "I thought I'd use a slightly more subtle approach."
    "If it falls apart, I'll deny any involvement. In fact, I'll denounce
    you as a Russian spy."
    "I would expect nothing less."
    "He's living in the Cotswolds. A hamlet called Aston Magna. He takes tea
    and reads the newspapers every morning in a cafe in Moreton, a few miles
    away."
    "I know it well," Michael said. "He's the one with the corgis and the
    knotted walking stick. Looks more English than Prince Philip. You can't
    miss him."
    skipGRAHAM SEYMOUR WALKED MICHAEL as far as Sloane Street before
    saying good night and heading back to Eaton Place. Michael should have
    walked north, toward Hyde Park and his hotel, but instead he went south
    toward Sloane Square when Graham vanished from sight. He crossed the
    square and drifted through the quiet side streets of Chelsea until he
    came to the Embankment, overlooking the Thames. The luxury fiats above
    burned with light. The pavement shone with river mist. Michael had the
    place to himself except for a small bald man, who hurried past, hands
    rammed inside a battered mackintosh, limping like a toy soldier no
    longer in good working order. He leaned against the railing, looked out
    at the river, then turned and stared toward Battersea Bridge, the bright
    lights of the Albert Bridge beyond. He could see Sarah walking to him,
    through darkness and mist, coal-black hair pulled back, skirt dancing
    across buckskin boots. She smiled at him as though he was the most
    important person on earth--as though she had been thinking about nothing
    but him all day. It was the same smile she gave him every time he
    entered her flat, every time he met her for drinks at her wine bar or
    for espresso at her favorite cafe. He thought of the last time he was
    with her. It was the previous afternoon, when he popped by her flat and
    found her sprawled on the floor in a white leotard, slender torso bent
    over long bare legs. He remembered how she rose to him and kissed his
    mouth and pulled her leotard off her shoulders so he could touch her
    breasts.
    Later, in bed, she confessed to fantasizing about fucking him to relieve
    the boredom of her stretching exercises. How it always left her terribly
    tense and how she always had to solve the problem alone because he was
    working. He fell completely in love with her that moment. He made love
    to her one last time. She lay on her back, perfectly still, eyes closed,
    face passive, for as long as she could, until the physical pleasure
    became too much and she opened her eyes and mouth and pulled his face to
    hers and kissed him until they came together. It was this image of her,
    and the sight of her flowing toward him in the light of the Chelsea
    Embankment, that was shattered by the man with the gun. He remembered
    her face exploding, remembered her body crumbling before his eyes. He
    remembered the killer--pale skin, short-cropped hair, slender nose. He
    saw again the way he drew the silenced pistol from his waistband at the
    small of his back, the way the arm swung straight out, the way he fired
    three times without an instant of hesitation. Michael went to her, even
    though he knew she was dead. Sometimes, he wished he had chased her
    killer, though he realized it probably would have cost him his life.
    Instead, he knelt /
    beside her and held her, pressing her head against his chest so he
    couldn't see her ruined face. It started to rain. He took a taxi back to
    the hotel. He undressed, climbed into bed, and telephoned Elizabeth. She
    must have sensed something in his voice, because she choked as she said
    good night and hung up. Michael felt a hot flash of guilt pour over him,
    as though he had just betrayed her.
    CHAPTER 21.
    London.
    EARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Michael checked out of his hotel and rented
    a silver Rover sedan from a Hertz outlet north of Marble Arch. He
    entered the A40 near Paddington Station and drove westward against the
    early-morning rush. It was still dark, a gentle rain falling. Michael
    switched on the radio and listened to the 6 A.M. newscast on the BBC.
    The A40 turned to the M40 as he flashed through the northwest suburbs of
    London. Dirty dawn light came up as he rose into the gentle hills of the
    Chilterns. The complimentary