The Mark of the Assassin

talented."
    "He's gone into private practice? He's a contract killer now?"
    "Among the best in the world, very much in demand. Arba-tov was his
    agent. They'd grown quite rich together. I hear there was a good deal of
    jealousy over the way Arbatov had cashed in on October's talents.
    Arbatov had many enemies, many people who would wish him harm. But if
    you're looking for his killer, I would start with October."
    The sun vanished once more, and the clouds thickened, black with rain.
    They passed a large limestone manor house surrounded by broad green
    lawns. Michael told him about Colin Yardley. About the videotape of the
    killing. About Astrid Vogel. Drozdov shook his head slowly. "You'd think
    someone in Yardley's line of work would know the pitfalls of placing a
    camera in a bedroom. I must say it's the one thing about growing old I
    don't mind. The eternal craving for female flesh has finally left me in
    peace. I have my dogs and my books and my Cotswolds countryside."
    Michael laughed quietly. "He worked once with the Red Army Faction. He
    met Astrid Vogel on that assignment. She spent many years in
    hiding--Tripoli, Damascus, the Shouf Mountains. She paid dearly for her
    idealism. Something has drawn her back into the game. I suspect it's
    probably money."
    "Why would October kill Colin Yardley?"
    "Perhaps you should pose the question this way: What did Colin Yardley
    do in order for someone to take out a contract on his life with the
    world's best assassin?"
    Michael thought, Maybe he purchased a Stinger missile from a
    black-market arms dealer named Farouk Khalifa and supplied it to the men
    who shot down Flight 002. Gentle rain fell, and the air turned cold. The
    dogs scampered around Drozdov's Wellington boots, eager for home and a
    spot next to a hot fire. The village of Aston Magna appeared ahead of
    them, a clump of cottages scattered about the intersection of two narrow
    roads. Drozdov said, "I'd offer to take you back to Moreton, but I don't
    drive."
    "Thank you, but I'll walk."
    "I apologize for the shoes," he said, jabbing his walking stick at
    Michael's ruined loafers. "They were a poor choice for a winter walk
    through the Cotswolds."
    "A small price for the help you've given me."
    Michael stopped walking. Drozdov continued a few feet ahead of him, then
    stopped and turned around. "There's one killing you haven't mentioned,"
    he said. "The murder of Sarah Randolph. I suppose it's not related to
    your current case. I admire your professionalism, Mr. Osbourne."
    Michael said nothing, just waited. "She was a committed communist, a
    revolutionary," he said, opening his arms and gazing at the sky. "God
    save us please from the idealists. Your Sarah was a friend to the
    oppressed everywhere: the Irish, the Arabs, the Basque. She also
    willingly worked for my service. We knew your real identity. We knew you
    ran penetration agents against guerrilla organizations friendly to our
    cause. We wanted to know more about your movements, so we placed Sarah
    Randolph in your path."
    Michael felt his head swimming. His heart beat faster. He felt he was
    losing the ability to hear. Drozdov seemed to be moving away from him, a
    vertical line at the end of a long dark tunnel. He tried to regain
    control of his emotions. He feared Drozdov would see it and shut down.
    He wanted to hear it all. After so many years he wanted to know the
    truth, no matter how painful. "Sarah Randolph made one terrible
    mistake," Drozdov said. "She fell in love with her quarry. She told her
    handlers she wanted out. She threatened to tell you everything. She
    threatened to go to the police and confess. Her control officer
    concluded she was too unstable to continue the assignment. Moscow Center
    wanted her eliminated, and the job fell to me. Perhaps I should
    apologize to you, but you understand, it was only business, not
    personal."
    Michael struggled to free a cigarette from his pack and stick it in his
    mouth. His hands were trembling. Drozdov stepped forward and lit the
    cigarette with a battered silver lighter. "I felt you deserved to know
    the truth, Mr. Osbourne, which is why I told you everything else. But
    it's over. It's part of the past, just like the Cold War. Go back to
    your wife and forget about Sarah Randolph. She wasn't real. And whatever
    you do, keep your wits about you," he added, mouth close to Michael's
    ear. "If you go after October and you make a single mistake, he will
    kill you so quickly you'll never know what