The Mark of the Assassin

hit you."
    MICHAEL WALKED BACK TO MORETON through driving rain. By the time he
    reached the village, he was soaked to the skin and numb with cold. He
    found the Rover in the parking lot and pretended to drop his keys trying
    to open the door. He got down on all fours and quickly inspected the
    undercarriage. Seeing nothing unusual, he climbed in and started the
    engine. He turned the heat on full, closed his eyes, and rested his
    forehead against the wheel. He didn't know whether to hate her because
    she lied to him or love her even more because she wanted out of it and
    paid with her life. Images of her flashed through his thoughts. Sarah
    flowing toward him, smiling, long skirt over buckskin boots. Luminous
    skin, gold with candlelight. Her body arched to him. Her exploded face!
    He slammed his fist against the dash and drove off, tires slipping over
    wet pavement. The white Ford minivan followed him and remained there
    until Michael returned the Rover at Heathrow Airport.
    MICHAEL TOOK THE RENTAL CAR BUS to Terminal Four and hurried inside. The
    check-in line at the Transatlantic Airlines ticket counter was
    unbearable, so he found a telephone kiosk and called Elizabeth at the
    office. Max Lewis, her secretary, answered and asked Michael to hold
    while he pulled Elizabeth out of a meeting. Michael wondered what to say
    to her. He decided to tell her nothing for now. It was too complicated,
    too emotional, to discuss by phone. She came on the line. Michael said,
    "I'm at the airport. I'm getting on the plane soon, and I just wanted to
    tell you that I love you."
    "Everything all right, Michael? You sound upset about something."
    "Just a long morning. I'll tell you all about it when I get home
    tonight. How are you doing? Are you ready for tomorrow?"
    As ready as I'm ever going to be. I'm just trying not to think about it
    too much right now. I have a ton of work to get done today, so that
    helps."
    Michael turned around to see if the check-inn line had grown any
    shorter. A hundred people stood in line like refugees at a processing
    center, baggage at their feet, exasperation on their faces. Three young
    men entered the terminal. Each wore a baseball cap; each carried an
    identical black leather grip bag. They were dressed casually in jeans
    and athletic shoes, dark hair beneath the caps, olive complexions.
    Michael watched them. He lost track of what Elizabeth was saying. The
    three men stopped walking and set down their bags. They squatted next to
    the bags and unzipped the compartments. "Hold on, Elizabeth," Michael
    said. "Michael, what's wrong?"
    Michael made no response, just watched. "Michael, answer me, goddammit!
    What's wrong?"
    Simultaneously the men reached beneath the brims of their caps, and
    their faces vanished behind veils of black silk. Michael yelled, "Get
    down. Get down!"
    He dropped the receiver. The men stood up, automatic weapons and
    grenades in hand. Michael shouted, "Gun! Gun! Get down!"
    The attackers tossed grenades into the crowd and started firing. Michael
    ran toward them, shouting wildly.
    IN DOWNTOWN WASHINGTON, Elizabeth was screaming into the telephone. She
    heard Michael shouting, then gunfire, then explosions. Then the line
    went dead. "Oh, God, Michael! Michael!"
    She fumbled for the remote, turned on the television in her office, and
    switched to CNN. They were in the middle of some silly report about the
    health benefits of avocados. She paced wildly. She chewed her nails. Max
    sat with her and waited, holding her hand. After ten minutes she sent
    him away and did something she hadn't done in twenty years. She closed
    her eyes, folded her hands, and prayed.
    CHAPTER 22.
    London.
    THE DIRECTOR TELEPHONED Mitchell Elliott on a secure line from the
    upstairs study of his home in St. John's Wood. "I believe Mr. Osbourne
    may present us with a bit of a problem, Mr. Elliott. He had an
    interesting conversation with a man from the Intelligence Service last
    night, which we monitored with a directional microphone from the street.
    This morning he met with one Ivan Drozdov, a KGB defector who once
    supervised the activities of our assassin."
    Elliott sighed heavily on the other end of the line.
    The Director said, "Suffice it to say he knows a good deal, and he
    probably suspects a good deal more. He is a very worthy opponent, our
    Mr. Osbourne. In my opinion, to take him lightly would be a serious
    miscalculation."
    "I don't take him lightly, Director. You can be certain of