The Mark of the Assassin

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    from him, about to climb into the car. The driver threw open the rear
    door. The gunman was about to climb inside when he looked up and saw
    Michael rushing toward him. He turned and tried to raise the automatic.
    Michael lowered his shoulder and drove the gunman to the ground. The
    blow broke the attacker's hold on his weapon. Michael grabbed the man by
    the throat and delivered two brutal blows to his face. The first crushed
    his nose, the second shattered his cheekbone and rendered him
    unconscious. The terrorist behind the wheel threw open his door and was
    climbing out, automatic pistol in gloved hand. Michael reached out
    frantically and grabbed for the fallen machine gun. He took hold of it
    and fired through the Audi's windshield. The gunman managed to get off
    two wild shots before he collapsed onto the pavement, dead. Michael,
    heart racing, saw a flash of dark color and what he thought was a gun.
    He pivoted on his knee and leveled the gun at one of the British
    security forces. "Put the gun down, nice and easy, mate," the officer
    said calmly. "It's all over. Just put the gun down."
    WHEATON, THE CIA'S LONDON STATION CHIEF, collected Michael from Heathrow
    Airport and took him into the city in the back of a chauffeured
    government sedan. Michael leaned his head against the window and closed
    his eyes. He had endured an hour of questioning by a senior British
    police official and two men from MI5. For a time Michael stayed with his
    cover--an American businessman returning to New York after a brief
    meeting in London. Finally, someone from the embassy arrived. Michael
    asked to speak to Wheaton, and Wheaton called the police and MI5 and
    told them the truth. Michael had never killed before, and he was
    unprepared for his reaction. In the moments after the fight he felt a
    wild exhilaration, a strange thrill approaching blood lust. The
    terrorists were evil men who had slaughtered innocent people; they
    deserved to die a violent, painful death. He was glad he had blown one
    away and smashed the other's face. He had spent a career pursuing
    terrorists using only his intellect and his wits for weaponry. For once
    he had been able to use his fists and a gun--indeed, the gun that had
    been used to massacre innocent people--and it felt good. Now, exhaustion
    overtook him. It pressed on his chest, squeezed his head. His hands no
    longer trembled; adrenaline dissipated from his veins. Nausea came and
    went. He closed his eyes and saw blood flying, heads exploding, screams,
    and the rattle of automatics. He saw the getaway driver blown backward,
    felt the gun surging in his grasp. He had taken a life, an evil life but
    a life regardless. It didn't feel good anymore. He felt dirty. Michael
    was rubbing his right hand. "Perhaps you should have that looked at,"
    Wheaton said, as if Michael were suffering from a recurring flare-up of
    tennis elbow. Michael ignored him. "What was the count?"
    "Thirty-six dead, more than fifty wounded, some of them quite seriously.
    The Brits expect the death toll to go higher."
    "Americans?"
    At least twenty of the dead are Americans. Most of the people waiting at
    the check-in line were boarding the New York flight. The rest of the
    dead are British. We've spoken to your wife, by the way. She knows
    you're all right."
    Michael remembered how he had left her. One second they were talking,
    the next he had dropped the telephone and was shouting. He wondered what
    Elizabeth had heard over the line. Had she heard the whole thing--the
    explosions, the gunfire, the screams--or had the line mercifully gone
    dead? He pictured her at the office, worried sick, and he felt awful. He
    desperately wanted to talk to her but not in front of Wheaton. They had
    entered London and were driving east on the Cromwell Road. Wheaton said,
    "Obviously, the baying hounds of the media are desperate to talk to you.
    Witnesses have told them about the hero in the blue business suit who
    killed one of the terrorists and subdued another. The police are telling
    them that the man wishes to remain anonymous because he fears the Sword
    of Gaza will retaliate. They're buying it for now, but God knows how
    many London police officers know the truth. All it takes is one leaker,
    and we're going to have a serious problem."
    "Did the Sword of Gaza claim responsibility yet?"
    "They sent a fax to The Times a few minutes ago. The Brits are having a
    go at it, and we've sent a copy to the CTC in Langley. Smells