The Mark of the Assassin

at her coffeehouse or wine bar,
    surrounded by her dancers or her writers or her actors. Michael was an
    outsider in their world--a symbol of convention and everything they
    despised--yet in their presence Sarah focused only on him. She flaunted
    the romantic regulations of her clan. She held his hand. She kissed his
    mouth. She shared whispered intimacies and refused to divulge them when
    pressed. Michael, crossing Shaftesbury Avenue, wondered how much was
    real and how much was invention. Had she ever loved him? Was it an act
    from the first moment? Why did she tell the Russians she wanted out? He
    pictured Sarah in her appalling flat , body rising to him in
    candlelight, long hair falling over her breasts. He smelled her hair,
    her breath, tasted salt on translucent skin. Their lovemaking had been
    religious; if it was a complete lie, then Sarah Randolph was the finest
    agent he had ever encountered. He wondered whether she had learned
    anything of value. Perhaps he should have declared her to Personnel.
    They would have looked into her background, put her under surveillance,
    spotted her meeting with her Russian controller, and the whole thing
    could have been avoided. He wondered what he would tell Elizabeth.
    Promise you'll never lie to me, Michael. You can keep things from me,
    but never lie to me. I wish I could tell you the truth, he thought, but
    I'm damned if I know what it is. Michael sat down on a bench in
    Leicester Square and waited for his watchers to catch up. They caught a
    taxi to the safe flat, located in an offensive white building
    overlooking Paddington Station. The interior was worse than Michael
    remembered--stained clubhouse furniture, dusty drapes, plastic cups and
    dishes in a wartime kitchen. The stink of the rooms reminded Michael of
    his Dartmouth fraternity house. Wheaton had stocked the fridge with cold
    cuts and beer from Sains-bury's. Michael showered and changed into a set
    of his new clothing. When he emerged, his minders were eating sandwiches
    and watching English football on a flickering television. Something
    about the scene depressed him terribly. He needed to telephone Elizabeth
    in New York, but he knew they would quarrel, and he didn't want to do it
    with the Agency listening in. "I'm going out," Michael announced.
    "Wheaton says you're supposed to stay put," one of them said, through a
    mouthful of ham, cheddar, and French bread. "I don't give a damn what
    Wheaton says. I'm not going to sit here with you two clowns all night."
    Michael paused. "Now, we can go together, or I can lose you both in
    about five minutes, and you'll have to call Wheaton at home and tell him
    about it."
    THEY DROVE TO BELGRAVI and parked outside the Seymours' apartment in
    Eaton Place. The watchers waited in the Agency sedan. The street shone
    with rain and light from the ivory facades of the Georgian terrace.
    Through the windows Michael could see Helen in her kitchen, attention
    focused on that evening's culinary disaster, and Graham upstairs in the
    drawing room, reading a newspaper. He walked down the steps, wet with
    rain, and rapped on the paned glass of the kitchen door. Helen opened
    the door and kissed his cheek. "What a wonderful surprise," she said.
    "Mind if I impose?"
    "Of course not. I'm making bouillabaisse."
    "Have enough for one extra?" Michael asked, bile reflexively rising at
    the back of his throat. "But of course, darling," Helen purred. "Go
    upstairs and drink with Graham. This attack at Heathrow has upset him
    terribly. God, what a nasty business that was."
    "I know," Michael said. "Unfortunately, I was there."
    "You're joking!" she exclaimed. Then she looked at his face and said,
    "Oh, no, you're not joking, are you, Michael? You look terrible, poor
    lamb. The bouillabaisse will make you feel better."
    When Michael entered the sitting room, Graham looked up and said, "Well,
    if it isn't the hero of Heathrow." He set down his copy of The Evening
    Standard. The headline read TERROR T TERMINAL FOUR.
    A plate of brie and coarse country pate sat on the coffee table, next to
    a large loaf of bread. Graham had devoured half of it. Michael smeared
    some of the cheese on a piece of bread and looked cautiously at the pate
    "Don't worry, love. I bought it from a shop off Sloane Square. She's
    been threatening to learn how to make it at home. Next she'll start
    baking bread, and I'll be finished."
    In the background Michael could hear the BBC news on Graham's fine
    German stereo