The Mark of the Assassin

drink. He had never
    needed a drink before in his life, but God he needed one now. He closed
    his eyes. His right hand trembled, so he covered it with his left and
    stared out at the river flowing beneath the bridge.
    CHAPTER 25.
    London.
    THE NEXT MORNING, Michael rose before dawn and dressed quietly in the
    appalling bedroom of the safe flat. The place was quiet except for the
    grumble of morning traffic near Paddington Station and the prattle of
    Wheaton's minders in the next room. He drank vile instant coffee from a
    chipped mug but ignored a plate of stale croissants. Michael was usually
    calm before a meeting, but now he was nervous and edgy, the way he had
    felt when he was a new recruit, sent into the field for the first time
    after his training course at the Farm. He rarely smoked before noon, but
    he was already working on his second cigarette. He had slept little,
    tossing in the sagging single bed, troubled by his fight with Elizabeth.
    Theirs had been a calm marriage for the most part, free from the
    constant fighting and tension that afflicted so many Agency marriages.
    Small arguments unsettled them both deeply; a battle like last night's,
    with threats of revenge, was unheard of. He put on a bulletproof vest
    over his thin turtleneck and pulled on a gray woolen crew-neck sweater.
    He picked up the telephone and dialed the number of the Fifth Avenue
    apartment one last time. It was still busy. He replaced the receiver in
    the cradle and went out. Wheaton was waiting downstairs at curbside in
    the back of an anonymous Agency sedan. They drove to Charing Cross
    Station, Wheaton droning on about the rules of engagement for the
    meeting with the intensity of one who had spent a career strapped
    securely to a desk. "If it's not Awad, under no circumstances are you to
    make the meeting," Wheaton said. "Just wait until the boat reaches
    Calais, and we'll pull you out."
    "I'm not dropping behind enemy territory," Michael said. "If Awad
    doesn't show, I'll just take the next ferry back to Britain."
    "Stay on your toes," Wheaton said, ignoring Michael's remark. "The last
    thing we need is for you to walk up to some Sword of Gaza true believer
    with a wooden key around his neck."
    Members of the Sword of Gaza--and many other Islamic terrorists--usually
    wore a wooden key beneath their clothing during suicide missions because
    they believed their actions would be rewarded with martyrdom and a place
    in heaven. Wheaton said, "Carter doesn't want you going in there naked."
    He popped open an attach case and removed a Browning high-powered
    automatic pistol with a fifteen-shot magazine, the Agency's
    standard-issue handgun. Michael said, "What am I supposed to do with
    this?" Like most case officers he could count on one hand the times he
    had carried a weapon in the line of duty. A case officer could rarely
    shoot himself out of trouble. Drawing a gun in self-defense was the
    ultimate sign of failure. It meant that either the officer had been
    betrayed somewhere along the line or he had been plain sloppy. "We're
    not sending you onto that ferry so you can be assassinated or taken
    hostage," Wheaton said. "If it looks like you're walking into a trap,
    fight back. You'll be on your own out there."
    Michael snapped the magazine into the butt and pulled the slider,
    chambering the first round. He set the safety and slipped the gun into
    the waistband of his trousers beneath the sweater. Wheaton dropped
    Michael at the station. Michael purchased a first-class ticket for Dover
    and a stack of morning newspapers, then found the platform. He boarded
    the train with five minutes to spare and picked his way down the crowded
    corridor. He found a seat in a compartment with two businessmen who were
    already hammering away on laptop computers. As the train pulled out of
    the station a woman entered the compartment. She had long dark hair,
    dark eyes, and pale skin. Michael thought she looked vaguely like Sarah.
    For nearly an hour the train clattered through London's southeastern
    suburbs, then entered the rolling farmland of Kent. In the buffet
    Michael purchased coffee and a ham and cheese sandwich. He returned to
    his compartment and sat down. The businessmen were in shirtsleeves and
    braces, peering at an earnings report as though it were a sacred scroll.
    The woman said nothing the entire journey. She smoked one cigarette
    after the next, until the compartment felt like a gas chamber. Her
    attractive brown eyes flickered