The Mark of the Assassin

did Mr. Osbourne. And on top of that, he's damned good."
    "He needs to be eliminated, especially after what he learned this
    morning on that ferry."
    "I'm well aware of that, Mr. Elliott."
    "When do you plan to mount another attempt?"
    "As soon as possible," the Director said, pausing for a nip of the
    scotch. "But I want to make a substitution. Osbourne is rather good.
    Therefore, the opposition needs to be very good indeed. I'd like to give
    the task to October."
    "His price is very steep."
    "So are the stakes at this point, Mr. Elliott. I hardly think now is the
    time to quibble over an extra million or two, do you?"
    "No, you're right."
    "I'll prepare a detailed dossier on Osbourne and send it to October, via
    encrypted electronic mail. If he chooses to accept the target, the game
    will be on, and I anticipate Mr. Osbourne will be eliminated in short
    order."
    "I hope so," Elliott said. "Count on it, Mr. Elliott. Good night."
    The Director replaced the receiver. Daphne stood behind him and rubbed
    his shoulders. "Will there be anything else this evening, sir?" she
    asked. "No, Daphne, I'll just see to a little paperwork, then turn in."
    "Very well, sir," she said and went out. The Director worked in his
    study for twenty minutes, finishing the scotch, watching American news
    accounts of the ferry explosion on his satellite system. He shut off the
    television and went upstairs to his bedroom suite. Daphne lay on her
    back on the bed, blouse unbuttoned, one long leg crossed over the other,
    twirling a strand of hair round a stiletto forefinger. The Director
    undressed silently and put on a silk robe. Some wealthy men amused
    themselves with horses or motorcars. The Director had his Daphne. She
    had removed her clothing; it lay next to her on the bed. She was gently
    stroking her nipples, her stomach, the tops of her thighs. Daphne was a
    tease, even with herself. The Director climbed into the bed and trailed
    a finger at her throat. "Anything, my love?" she asked. "No, petal."
    The Director's ability to make love to a woman had been severely
    impaired, the by-product, he assumed, of a lifetime of lies and
    betrayal. She reached beneath his robe, taking him inside her long
    hands. "Nothing at all?"
    "Afraid not, my love."
    "Pity," she said. "Shall I?"
    "If you're in the mood."
    "You are a silly boy, sir. Want to help or just watch?"
    "Just watch," he said, lighting a cigarette. Her hand slipped between
    her thighs. She gasped sharply, her head rolled back, her eyes closed.
    For the next ten minutes he took her the only way possible, with his
    eyes, but after a while his mind drifted. He thought of Michael
    Osbourne. Of the failed assassination on the ferry. Of the man called
    October. It would be an interesting fight. One would not survive. If it
    was Osbourne who died, the Society would endure and Mitchell Elliott
    would make his billions. If it was October ... The Director shuddered
    at the thought. He had worked too long, too hard, for it all to fall
    apart.
    Too much at stake, too much invested, for failure now. He turned his
    gaze on Daphne once more and found her brown eyes fixed on him. She had
    the straight, unobstructed gaze of a small child. "You went away for a
    few minutes," she said. Surprise flickered across his face; Daphne
    robbed him of all his old defenses.
    "I watch too, you know. I want to know if I'm making you happy."
    "You make me very happy."
    "Is everything all right, love?"
    "Everything is fine."
    "You sure?"
    "Yes, quite sure."
    CHAPTER 28.
    Cairo.
    "MY GOD, THIS FUCKING CITY."
    Astrid Vogel stood at the French doors, open to the cool winter's dusk.
    There was a small balcony with a rusted wrought-iron railing, but Mr.
    Fahmy, the desk clerk, had warned that balconies had a way of falling
    off these days so, please, it is best you not stand on it. They had been
    in the hotel two days, and the toilet had stopped working three times.
    Three times Mr. Fahmy appeared, in jacket and tie, armed with a roll of
    packing tape and a coil of copper wire. The hotel had no handy man, he
    explained. All the good handymen were in the Gulf in Kuwait or Saudi
    Arabia or the Emirates--working for oil sheikhs. Same with the teachers
    and the lawyers and the accountants. The professionals and the rich had
    fled. Cairo was a crumbling city of peasants, and there was no one
    qualified to repair it. Then the toilet would flush, as if on cue, and
    he would smile sadly and say, "It is fixed, inshallah," even