The Mark of the Assassin

Hertz map lay unopened on the passenger
    seat. Michael had no need for it; he knew the roads well. Sarah's family
    had owned a large cottage in the Cotswolds village of Chipping Campden.
    Limestone walls, covered in clematis and variegated ivy, surrounded the
    cottage. Michael and she spent several weekends there during the months
    they were together. The countryside changed her. She shed the black
    leather uniform of her Soho clan. She wore faded jeans and sweaters in
    winter and girlish sundresses in summer. In the mornings they walked the
    footpaths outside the village, through pastures thick with sheep and
    pheasant. Afternoons they made love. In summer, when it was warm, they
    made love in the garden, concealed by limestone and flowers. Sarah liked
    it best outside. She liked the sensation of Michael inside her and the
    sun on her fair skin. Secretly she hoped people were watching. She
    wanted the world to know how their lovemaking looked. She wanted
    everyone to be jealous. She danced, she modeled, she read many books.
    Sometimes she acted; sometimes she made photographs. Her politics were
    atrocious and as flexible as her long body. She was Labour, she was a
    communist. She was Green, she was an anarchist. She lived in a Soho room
    above a Lebanese take-away, strewn with secondhand clothing and
    leotards. She listened to the Clash and the Stones. She listened to
    recordings of ocean and forest noises and Gregorian chant. She was
    vegetarian, and the smell of grilling lamb from the take-away made her
    want to puke. To cover the smell she burned incense and candles. The
    first time she took Michael to her bed he had the uneasy sensation of
    making love in a Catholic church. She introduced him to a world he never
    knew. She took him to strange parties. She took him to experimental
    theater. She took him to readings and exhibitions. She picked out
    different clothing for him. She couldn't sleep nights unless she made
    love to him first. She loved to look at their bodies in candlelight.
    "Look at us," she would say. "I'm so white, and you're so dark. I'm
    good, and you're evil."
    His work bored her, and she never asked about it. The idea that someone
    would travel the world selling things seemed to confound her. She asked
    only where he was going and when he was coming back. Adrian Carter was
    Michael's control officer. He was obligated to tell Carter and Personnel
    about the relationship with Sarah, but they would dig into her past--her
    politics, her work, her friends, her lovers--and they might very well
    uncover things Michael would rather not know. He kept Sarah secret from
    the Agency and the Agency secret from Sarah. He feared she would leave
    him if he told her the truth. He feared she would tell her friends, and
    his cover in London would be jeopardized. He was lying to his employer
    and his lover. He was happy and miserable at the same time.
    HE WAS NEARING OXFORD. A white commercial Ford minivan had been
    shadowing him for twenty miles, staying three or four car lengths
    behind. It was possible the Ford was simply traveling the same
    direction, but Michael was trained not to believe in coincidence. He
    slowed and allowed traffic to pass. The Ford remained in the same place.
    He approached a roadside cafe and petrol station. He exited the motorway
    and parked outside the restaurant. The Ford followed and entered the
    petrol station. The driver climbed out and pretended to put air in the
    front passenger-side tire while he watched the Rover. Michael wondered
    who might be tailing him. Wheaton from London Station? Graham Seymour
    and mi-6? He went inside the cafe, ordered a bacon and fried egg
    sandwich and coffee, and went to the toilet. He collected the food, paid
    for it, and went back out. The Ford was still at the petrol station; the
    driver was preparing to put air in the rear tire. Michael went into a
    public telephone and called his hotel. He told the woman at the desk
    that he had left a pair of valuable cuff links in the bathroom. He gave
    her a false address in Miami, which she dutifully took down while
    Michael watched the Ford. He hung up and climbed back inside the Rover.
    He started the engine and drove off, slipping into traffic on the
    motorway.
    He glanced in the rearview mirror while he ate the sandwich. The Ford
    was there, three car lengths behind.
    THE CAR FOLLOWED MICHAEL to Moreton-in-Marsh, a large village by
    Gloucestershire standards, straddling the intersection of the A44