The Mark of the Assassin

that."
    "What's happening at your end?"
    "Osbourne and his wife discovered a computer disk containing Susanna
    Dayton's notes and a copy of her story. They apparently were able to
    unlock her encryption code. They've given all the material to the
    editors at The Washington Post."
    "An unfortunate development," the Director said, coughing gently. "It
    would seem to me that Mrs. Osbourne is also in a position to do serious
    damage."
    "I've placed her under watch."
    "I hope your men conduct themselves in a more professional manner this
    time. The last thing we need at this stage of the game is for Susanna
    Dayton's best friend to end up dead also. Her husband is another story.
    He's made his share of enemies during his career. It might be fortuitous
    if one of those enemies would surface and exact his revenge."
    "I'm certain that could be arranged."
    "You have the Society's blessing, Mr. Elliott."
    "Thank you, Director."
    "As long as this remains an issue of campaign finance, I suspect you'll
    weather the storm. Oh, it will be embarrassing and messy. There might be
    a heavy fine, some uncomfortable media speculation, but your project
    will survive. If, however, Mr. Osbourne uncovers something approaching
    the truth Well, I suppose I needn't explain the consequences to you."
    "Of course not, Director. What about the defector, Ivan Drozdov? Does he
    present us with a problem?"
    "I'm not certain, but I'm not willing to take that chance. Mr. Drozdov
    is being dealt with at this moment."
    "A wise move."
    "I thought so. Good afternoon, Mr. Elliott."
    IN ASTON MAGNA, Ivan Drozdov was sitting next to the fire, reading by
    the weak light from the French doors, when he heard the knocking. The
    corgis bounced out of their basket and bounded to the front door of the
    cottage, barking wildly. Droz-dov followed after them slowly, legs stiff
    from sitting. He opened the door to find a young man in a blue coverall,
    face like an altar boy. "What can I do for you?" Drozdov asked. The boy
    pulled out a silenced gun. "Say your prayers."
    Drozdov stiffened. "I'm an atheist," he said calmly. "Pity," said the
    boy. He raised the gun and shot Drozdov twice through the heart.
    Heathrow Airport, London THE GUNMAN NEAREST MICHAEL was firing wildly
    into the crowd. He spotted Michael charging, leveled the automatic, and
    opened fire. Michael dived behind a bureau de change kiosk as rounds
    ricocheted on the floor next to him. Two people huddled next to him, a
    woman screaming in German and a French priest murmuring the Lord's
    Prayer. The gunman lost interest in Michael and once again turned his
    gun on the helpless passengers. Michael leaned out and looked. The
    attack had lasted less than fifteen seconds, but to V Michael, crouched
    behind the kiosk, it seemed like an eternity. The floor was covered with
    the dead and dying and with terrified people vainly trying to protect
    themselves behind luggage and ticket counters.
    Michael thought, Goddammit! Where are the security forces? One of the
    attackers paused to reload. He reached inside his grip, pulled the pin
    from another grenade, and lobbed it behind the Transatlantic counter.
    The building shook with the concussion. Michael saw a pair of bodies
    hurled into the air, limbs blown away. The air stank of smoke and blood.
    The screams of the victims nearly masked the rattle of the automatic
    weapons. Michael wished he had a gun. He looked to his right. Four
    British antiterrorist police were moving into firing position behind
    another ticket counter. Two rose, took aim, and fired. The head of one
    gunman exploded in a pink flash of blood and brain. The two surviving
    gunmen returned fire, hitting one of the police officers. The policemen
    rose from behind their barrier, guns blazing. A second gunman fell, body
    riddled with rounds. The last terrorist gave up the fight. He
    backpedaled toward the doorway, firing wildly as he went. He crashed
    through the automatic door, safety glass shattering around him. Michael
    could see a fourth member of the team sitting behind the wheel of the
    escape vehicle, a silver Audi. He rose, went through a set of parallel
    doors, and ran along the departure-level walkway, leaping over travelers
    and airport employees lying on the ground. The terrorist behind the
    wheel gunned the engine nervously. A half-dozen security men were
    running across the terminal guns drawn. Michael pounded his feet
    savagely on the pavement, hands out. The last gunman was twenty