The Mark of the Assassin

Elizabeth Osbourne. My husband is Michael Osbourne."
    She could hear the rattle of a computer keyboard over the line. "How did
    you get this number?" the voice asked. "Michael gave it to me."
    "What can I do for you?"
    "I want to speak to my husband."
    "Your telephone number, please."
    Elizabeth gave him the number for the cell phone, and she could hear the
    keyboard rattling again.
    "Someone will be calling you."
    One of the technicians appeared in the stairwell and said, "You're next,
    Mrs. Osbourne. We need you inside now."
    Elizabeth said to the man on the phone, "I want to know if he was on
    that ferry in the Channel."
    "Someone will be calling you," the voice said again, maddening in its
    lack of emotion. It was like talking to a machine. "Dammit, answer me!
    Was he on that boat?"
    "Someone will be calling you," he repeated.
    The technician said, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Osbourne, but you really need to
    come inside now."
    "Are you saying he's on that boat?"
    "Please hang up now and keep this telephone free."
    Then the line went dead.
    A NURSE SHOWED ELIZABETH to a small changing room and gave her a sterile
    gown. Elizabeth was clutching the cell phone in her hand. The nurse
    said, "I'm afraid you'll have to leave that here."
    "I can't," Elizabeth said. "I'm expecting a very important call."
    The nurse looked at her incredulously. "I've seen a lot of Type-A women
    in this program, Mrs. Osbourne, but you certainly take the cake. You're
    having surgery in there. It's not a time for making business calls."
    "It's not a business call. It's an emergency."
    "It doesn't matter. In three minutes you're going to be sleeping like a
    baby."
    Elizabeth changed into the gown. Ring, dammit. Ring! She climbed onto
    the gurney, and the nurse wheeled her into the operating room. The
    surgical team was waiting. Her doctor's mask was lowered and he was
    smiling pleasantly. "You look a little nervous, Elizabeth. Everything
    all right?"
    "I'm fine, Dr. Melman."
    "Good. Why don't we get started then."
    He nodded at the anesthesiologist, and a few seconds later Elizabeth
    felt herself drifting into a pleasant sleep.
    CHAPTER 27.
    Calais, France.
    THE PORT BURNED with blue and red emergency lights as the ferry
    approached the French coast. Michael stood on the bridge, surrounded by
    the captain and his senior officers, smoking one cigarette after the
    next, watching the coastline draw nearer. He was alternately freezing
    cold and sweltering hot. His chest hurt like hell, as though someone
    very strong had punched him twice. Graham Seymour was on the other side
    of the bridge, surrounded by his own group of crew members.
    They were vaguely in custody. Michael had told the captain he and Graham
    were from U.S. and British law enforcement and that someone from London
    would meet the ferry in Calais and explain everything. The captain was
    dubious, as Michael would be in his place. Michael closed his eyes, and
    the whole thing played out again. He saw it as news footage, with
    himself as an actor on a stage. He saw the gunman approaching and Odette
    scrambling for her weapon, eyes wild. The man with the balaclava and the
    gun was not from the Sword of Gaza, and Muhammad Awad had not been the
    target. Michael was the target. Awad was just in the way. He closed his
    eyes once more and pictured the two men on the motor yacht. Slowly,
    their faces grew clearer, as if he were focusing on them with the
    long-range lens of a surveillance camera. He saw the men firing at him
    from the stern deck. He had the annoying feeling he had seen them in
    passing somewhere before--a restaurant or a cocktail party or the
    chemist shop in Oxford Street. Or was it a petrol station on the M40 in
    Oxfordshire, pretending to put air in the rear tire of a white Ford
    minivan? The ferry landed at Calais. Michael and Seymour were shepherded
    past the news crews and shouting reporters to an office inside the
    terminal. Wheaton and a dozen Agency and diplomatic officers were
    waiting. They had flown from London by helicopter, courtesy of the Royal
    Navy. "Who in God's name is this?" Wheaton asked, looking at Graham, who
    had forsaken his guitar case but still looked like an aging student in
    his jeans and Venice Beach sweatshirt. Seymour smiled and stuck out his
    hand. "Graham Seymour, SIS."
    "Graham who and what?" Wheaton asked incredulously. "You heard him
    right," Michael said. "He's a friend of mine. By coincidence he was on
    the ferry."
    "Bullshit!"
    "Well, it was worth