The Mark of the Assassin

through pursed
    lips. "Drozdov worked for Department Five of the First Chief Directorate
    of the KGB, the assassins. I've been working on something for several
    months and I wanted to discuss it with him. I assure you he was alive
    and well when I left."
    "I'm glad you think this is amusing, Michael, because we don't," Monica
    said. "I want you on the first flight back to Washington tomorrow
    morning. Consider yourself on administrative leave pending an
    investigation of your conduct in this affair." The screen went blank.
    Wheaton wordlessly held out his hand. Michael reached beneath his
    sweater and handed Wheaton the loaded Browning automatic.
    WHEATON HAD WANTED Michael in the safe flat for his last night in
    London, but Michael told him in no uncertain terms to fuck off, and he
    had returned to his small hotel in Knightsbridge overlooking the park.
    Early that evening, slipping out onto rainy pavement, he immediately
    spotted two of Wheaton's watchers, dozing in a parked Rover. Shopping
    for Elizabeth in Harrods, he spotted two more. Walking south on Sloane
    Street, he picked off a fifth watcher on foot. There were also two men
    in a Ford, this time dark blue. Who are you ? Who hired you ? If not
    Wheaton, then who ? Shaking surveillance was not difficult, even
    professionals. Michael held the advantage, for he had trained with them
    at the Farm and he knew their tactics. For one hour he moved about the
    West End in gentle rain--by foot, by bus, by taxi, the tube--through
    Berkeley Square, Oxford Street, Bond Street, Leicester Square, and the
    outer reaches of Soho. He found himself at Sarah's flat. The Lebanese
    take-away had gone vegetarian, a monument to Sarah, perhaps. Bob Marley
    throbbed through a half-open window hung with dirty drapes. Sarah's
    window. Sarah's drapes, probably. Sarah Randolph made one terrible
    mistake, Drozdov had said. She fell in love with her quarry. She had
    been a lie, a myth created by his enemies, tragically heroic in her
    boundless naivete She had betrayed him, but she was not real. He could
    not love her, nor could he hate her. He only felt sorry for her.
    Wheaton's watchers were long gone, so he took a taxi to Belgravia. Field
    men, like thieves, develop clandestine ways of penetrating their own
    homes for the inevitable day when a lifetime of betrayal comes calling.
    Michael knew Graham Seymour's method: through a mews and over the
    whitewashed garden wall with the help of a rope ladder left for such an
    occasion. Michael used the ladder now to scale the wall, then dropped
    through the darkness onto Graham's stone terrace. Graham answered
    Michael's rap at the French doors armed with one of Helen's Swiss-made
    kitchen machetes. They talked upstairs in the drawing room, Michael's
    drenched coat steaming at the gas fire, Graham's German stereo blasting
    Rakhmani-noff to cover the conversation. They talked for nearly an hour.
    They talked about what happened on the ferry. They talked about Sarah.
    About Colin Yardley and Astrid Vogel and the man in the dark who fired
    three bullets into Yardley's face. About the men on the motor yacht and
    in the Fords--the white minivan and now the blue one. Michael needed
    money. Helen was rich, and Graham always kept a spare thousand or two in
    the safe for emergencies. Passports were no problem. Over the years
    Michael had used his contacts inside friendly services to build a
    collection of false travel documents. He could travel as a Frenchman or
    a Spaniard, a Greek or a German. Even an Israeli. Call Elizabeth,
    Michael said. Tell her I'll explain everything when I get back. Be
    careful of what you say on the line. Don't tell her where I'm going or
    what I'm doing. Tell her I love her. Tell her to take care. They ate
    penne puttanesca and salad and drank red wine. Helen and Graham spoke as
    if Michael weren't there. Michael felt as if he were watching a horrid
    daytime drama on television. He devoured two plates of the pasta, which
    was surprisingly good. After dinner, Graham announced suddenly that he
    wanted to see a new film showing at the Leicester Square cinema. Helen
    enthusiastically agreed. They cleared away the dishes and went out.
    Michael watched them climb into Graham's BMW from the darkened drawing
    room window and pull away from the curb. A car engine turned over
    somewhere in the darkness. Michael watched as it slipped into the quiet
    street, headlights doused. He went out through the French doors, across
    the garden, up the