The Mark of the Assassin

interested
    in hearing what Muhammad Awad has to say. I know this is not without
    risk, and I know you have a wife."
    "I'll do it," Michael said simply. "Very well," Beckwith said. "I wish
    you the best of luck. We'll talk tomorrow."
    Then the image from Washington turned to black.
    CHAPTER 23.
    London.
    THE AMBASSADOR ALLOWED Michael to use his office to telephone Elizabeth
    in Washington. Michael dialed her private line, but it was Max, her
    secretary, who answered. Max expressed relief at hearing Michael's
    voice; then he explained that Elizabeth had left for New York already
    and could be reached later at her father's Fifth Avenue apartment.
    Michael felt a momentary flash of anger--how could she leave her office
    without waiting to hear his voice?--but then he felt like a complete
    fool. She had left work early because in the morning she was having her
    eggs extracted and fertilized at Cornell Medical Center in New York. In
    the turmoil of the attack at Heathrow, Michael had completely forgotten.
    And he had agreed to meet Muhammad Awad in the middle of the English
    Channel, which would delay his arrival in New York by another two days.
    Elizabeth would be furious, and rightly so. Michael told Max he would
    call her in New York later, then hung up. Actually, Michael was relieved
    not to have reached her. The last thing he wanted was to hold a
    conversation like this over a monitored embassy line. He went to
    Wheaton's office and found him sitting at his desk, squeezing his tennis
    ball, a Dun-hill between bloodless lips. "I lost my bag at Heathrow,"
    Michael said. "I need to do some shopping before the stores close."
    "Actually, you can't," Wheaton said disdainfully. Wheaton didn't like
    Michael operating on his turf to begin with; the fact that Michael was
    now flavor of the day didn't help. "Carter wants you on ice somewhere
    nice and secure. We have a safe flat near Paddington Station. I'm sure
    you'll find it comfortable."
    Michael groaned inwardly. Agency safe fiats were the intelligence
    equivalent of an Econo Lodge. He knew the flat near Paddington Station
    all too well; he had used it to hide several frightened penetration
    agents over the years. The last thing he wanted was to spend the night
    there as a guest instead of a baby-sitter. Michael knew there was no
    fighting it. He was making the meeting with Muhammad Awad against
    Carter's wishes, and he didn't want to alienate him further by bitching
    about spending a night in the Paddington safe flat. "I still need some
    clothes," Michael said. "Make a list, and I'll send someone."
    "I need to get some air. I need to do something. If I have to spend the
    next twelve hours locked up in a safe flat watching television, I'm
    going to go fucking stir-crazy."
    Wheaton picked up the receiver of his internal telephone, clearly
    annoyed, and murmured a few unintelligible words into the mouthpiece. A
    moment later two officers appeared in the door, dressed in matching
    light-gray suits. "Gentlemen, Mr. Osbourne would like to spend the
    afternoon at Harrods. Make sure nothing happens to him."
    "Why don't you just send a few of the Marine guards in full uniform?"
    Michael said. "And actually, Marks and Spencer will be just fine."
    THEY TOOK A TAXI to Oxford Street, one officer next to Michael on the
    bench, the other squeezed onto a jump seat. Michael went into Marks &
    Spencer and purchased two pairs of corduroy trousers, two turtleneck
    cotton pullovers, a gray woolen sweater, underwear and socks, and a dark
    green waterproof coat. The watchers trailed after him, picking through
    stacks of sweaters and rows of suits like a pair of communists on their
    first voyage to the capitalist West. Next he went to a chemist's shop
    and bought a new shaving kit: razors, shaving cream, toothbrush and
    toothpaste, deodorant. He wanted to walk, so he carried his things along
    Oxford Street, gazing in shop windows like a bored businessman killing
    time, instinctively checking his tail for signs of surveillance. He saw
    no one but the Agency men, twenty yards behind. Gentle rain fell. Dusk
    descended like a veil. Michael picked his way through the crowds pouring
    in and out of the Totten-ham Court Road tube stop. Late-autumn evening
    in London; he loved the smell of it. Rain on pavement. Diesel fumes.
    Lager and cigarettes in the pubs. He remembered nights like these when
    he would leave his office, dressed in a blue suit and salesman's tan
    overcoat, and go to Soho to find Sarah