He felt the first signs of leg weariness as he entered the village of Brignogan-Plage. Beyond the village, down a narrow path, lay a beach of sand so white it might have been snow. An ancient upright stone, known in Brittany as a menhir, stood like a sentinel over the entrance. Delaroche dismounted and pushed his bicycle along the pathway, sipping the remains of the café au lait as he walked. On the beach he leaned the bike against a large rock and walked along the tidal line, smoking a cigarette.
The signal site was a large outcropping of rock about two hundred meters from the place where he left the bike. He walked slowly, aimlessly, watching the sea rushing against the sand. A large wave broke over the beach. Delaroche deftly sidestepped to avoid the frigid water. He smoked the last of the cigarette, tossed the butt a few feet ahead of him, and ground it into the white sand with the toe of his cycling shoe.
He stopped walking and crouched at the base of the rock. The mark was there, two bone-white strips of medical tape, fashioned into an X. Any professional would have guessed that the person who had left the mark was trained in the tradecraft of the KGB, which indeed he was.
Delaroche tore the tape from the stone, wadded it into a tight ball, and tossed it into the gorse bordering the beach. He walked back to the bike and pedaled home to Brélés through the brilliant sun.
By midday the weather was still good, so Delaroche decided to paint. He dressed in jeans and a heavy fisherman’s sweater and loaded his things into the back of the Mercedes: his easel, a Polaroid camera, his box of paint and brushes. He went back inside the cottage, made coffee, and poured it into a shiny metal thermos bottle. From the refrigerator he took two large bottles of Beck’s and went back out. He drove into the village and parked outside the charcuterie. Inside he purchased ham, cheese, and a lump of local Breton pâté while Mademoiselle Plauché flirted with him shamelessly. He left the shop, accompanied by the tinkle of the little bell attached to the doorway, and went next door to the boulangerie for a baguette.
He drove inland, the harsh rocky terrain of the coastline giving way to soft wooded hills as he moved deeper into the Finistère. He turned off onto a small unmarked side road and followed it two miles until it turned to a pitted track. The Mercedes bucked wildly, but after a few minutes he arrived at his destination, a quaint stone farmhouse—seventeenth century, he guessed—set against a stand of splendid trees with leaves of ruby and gold.
Delaroche did most things slowly and carefully, and preparing to paint was no exception. He methodically unpacked his supplies from the back of the Mercedes while taking in the view of the farmhouse. The autumn light brought out sharp contrasts in the stonework of the house and in the trees beyond. Capturing the quality of the light on paper would be a challenge.
Delaroche ate a sandwich and drank some of the beer while he studied the scene from several different perspectives. He found the spot he liked the best and made a half dozen photographs with his camera, three in color, three black-and-white. The owner of the house emerged, a stout little figure with a black-and-white dog racing in circles at his feet. Delaroche called out that he was an artist, and the man waved enthusiastically. Five minutes later he came bearing a glass of wine and a plate piled with cheese and thick slices of spicy sausage. He wore a patched jacket that looked as though it had been purchased before the war. The dog, which had just three legs, begged Delaroche for food.
When they were gone, Delaroche settled in behind his easel. He studied the photos, first the black-and-white, to see essential form and lines within the image, then the color. For twenty minutes he made sketches with a charcoal pencil until the composition of the work felt right. He worked with a simple palette—Winsor red, Winsor blue, Hooker’s green, Winsor yellow, raw sienna—on heavy paper stretched over a plywood backing.
Nearly an hour passed before the message on the beach at Brignogan-Plage intruded on his thoughts. It was a summons, telling him that he was to meet Arbatov on the seawall in Roscoff tomorrow afternoon. Arbatov had been Delaroche’s case officer when he worked for the KGB. For twenty years Delaroche had worked with Arbatov and no one else. Once, when Arbatov was beginning to slow, Moscow Center tried to replace him with a younger man named Karpov. Delaroche refused to work with Karpov and threatened to send him back to Moscow in a box unless Arbatov was reinstated as his handler. One week later in Salzburg, Arbatov and Delaroche reunited. To punish the grunts at Moscow Center they had a celebratory feast of Austrian veal washed down by three costly bottles of Bordeaux. Delaroche did not stand up for Arbatov out of love or loyalty; he loved no one and was loyal to nothing but his art and his profession. He wanted Arbatov back on the job because he trusted no one else. He had survived twenty years without being arrested or killed because Arbatov had done his job well.
As he painted the idyllic scene, he thought very hard about ignoring Arbatov’s summons. Arbatov and Delaroche no longer worked for the KGB because there was no KGB, and men in their line of work were not absorbed by its more presentable successor, the Foreign Intelligence Service. When the Soviet Union collapsed and the KGB was abolished, Delaroche and Arbatov were set adrift. They remained in the West—Arbatov in Paris and Delaroche in Brélés—and entered private practice together. Arbatov served, in effect, as Delaroche’s agent. If someone wanted a job done they came to Arbatov. If Arbatov approved he would put it to Delaroche. For his services, Arbatov was paid a percentage of the substantial fee Delaroche commanded on the open market.
Delaroche had earned enough money to consider getting out of the game. It had been more than a month since his last job, and for the first time he was not bored and restless with inactivity. The last job had paid him a million dollars, enough to live comfortably in Brélés for many years, but it had also taken something out of him. During his long career as an assassin—first for the KGB, then as a freelance professional—Delaroche had only one rule: He did not kill innocent people. The attack on the airliner off Long Island had violated that rule.
He had not actually fired the missile, but he had been a key player in the operation. His job was to get the Palestinian in place, kill him when it was done, and scuttle the motor yacht before being extracted by helicopter at sea. He had carried out his assignment perfectly, and for that he was rewarded with one million dollars. But at night, when he was alone in the cottage with nothing but the sound of the sea, he saw the burning jetliner tumbling toward the Atlantic. He imagined the screams of the passengers as they waited to die. In all his previous jobs he knew the targets intimately. They were evil people involved in evil things who knew the risks of the game they played. And he had killed each of them face-to-face. Blowing up a civilian jetliner had violated his rule.
He would keep his date with Arbatov and listen to the offer. If it was good, and lucrative, he would consider taking it. If not, he would retire and paint the Breton countryside and drink wine in his stone cottage by the sea and never speak to another person again.
One hour later he finished the painting. It was good, he thought, but he could make it better. The sun was setting, and a scarlet twilight settled over the farm. With the sun gone, the air turned suddenly cold, fragrant with wood smoke and frying garlic. He smeared pâté on a hunk of bread and drank beer while he packed away his things. The Polaroids and sketches he placed in his pocket; he would use them to produce another version of the work, a better one, in his studio. He left the wineglass, the half-empty plate, and the still-damp watercolor at the door of the cottage and silently walked back to the Mercedes. The three-legged dog yelped at him as he drove away, then devoured the last of the sausage.
A heavy rain was falling the following morning as Delaroche drove from Brélés to Roscoff. He arrived at the seawall at precisely ten o’clock and found Arbatov, a picture of misery, pacing in the downpour. Delaroche parked the car and watched for a moment before making his approach.
Mikhail Arbatov looked more like an aging professor than a KGB spymaster, and, as always, Delaroche found it hard to imagine he had pre
sided over countless murders. Obviously, life in Paris was treating him well, because he was fatter than Delaroche remembered, and his cheeks had a deceptive healthy glow about them from too much wine and cognac. He wore his customary black rollneck sweater and army-style mackintosh coat, which looked as if it belonged to a taller, thinner man. On his head he wore a waterproof brimmed hat typical of retired men everywhere. His spectacles were steel-rimmed goggles and always seemed to do more harm than good. Now they were fogged with the rain and slipping down the steep slope of his pugilist’s nose.
Delaroche climbed out of the car and approached him from behind. Arbatov, the consummate professional, did not flinch as Delaroche fell into step next to him. They walked in silence for a time, Delaroche struggling to keep cadence with Arbatov’s teetering waddle. Arbatov seemed forever on the verge of capsizing, and several times Delaroche resisted the impulse to reach out and steady him.
Arbatov stopped walking and turned to face Delaroche. He studied him with a straight, slightly bemused gaze, gray eyes magnified by the immense spectacles. “Jesus Christ, but I’m too old for this streetcraft bullshit,” he said, in his impeccable, accentless French. “Too old and too tired. Take me someplace warm with good food.”
Delaroche drove him to a good café on the waterfront. Arbatov complained about the paint mess in the Mercedes the entire way. Five minutes later they were tucking into Gruyère and mushroom omelets and mugs of café au lait. Arbatov devoured his food and lit a wretched Gauloise before Delaroche had finished his second bite. Complaining of the cold, Arbatov ordered a cognac. He drank it in two gulps and had another cigarette, blowing slender streams of smoke at the dark-stained wood of the beamed ceiling. The two men sat in silence. A stranger might have mistaken them for a father and son who had breakfast together daily, which suited Delaroche fine.
“They want you back again,” Arbatov said, when Delaroche finished eating. Delaroche did not have to ask who they were; they were the men who had hired him for the airliner operation.
“What’s the job?”
“All they said was that it was extremely important and they wanted the best.”
Delaroche did not require flattery. “The money?”
“They wouldn’t tell me, except to say that it was more than the fee for the last job.” Arbatov crushed out his Gauloise with the cracked fingernail of his thick thumb. “ ‘Substantially more’ was the term they used.”
Delaroche gestured for the waiter to clear away his plate. He ordered another coffee and lit his own cigarette.
“They gave you no details at all about the work?”
“Just one. It is a multiple hit, and all the targets are professionals.”
Delaroche’s interest was suddenly piqued. For the most part his work bored him. Most jobs required far less skill than Delaroche possessed. They took little preparation and even less creativity. Killing professionals was another matter.
“They want to meet with you tomorrow,” Arbatov said. “In Paris.”
“Whose turf?”
“Theirs, of course.” He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a soggy slip of paper. The ink had run but the address was legible. “They want to meet with you face-to-face.”
“I don’t do face-to-face meetings, Mikhail. You of all people should know that.”
Delaroche protected his identity with a care bordering on paranoia. Most men in his line of work dealt with the problem by having plastic surgeons give them a new face every few years. Delaroche dealt with it another way—he rarely permitted anyone who knew what he really did to see his face. He had never allowed anyone to take his photograph, and he always worked alone. He had made just one exception—the Palestinian on the airliner operation—but he had been paid an exorbitant amount of money and he had killed him when the job was done. The extraction team aboard the helicopter had not seen his face, because he had worn a black woolen mask.
“Be reasonable, my dear boy,” Arbatov was saying. “It’s a brave new world out there.”
“I’m still alive because I’m careful.”
“I realize that. And I want you to remain alive so I can continue to make money. Believe me, Jean-Paul, I wouldn’t send you into a situation where I thought you could get hurt. You pay me to field offers and give you sound advice. I advise you to hear what these people have to say, on their terms.”
Delaroche looked at him. Was he slipping? Was the prospect of an enormous payday clouding his judgment?
“How many people will be there?”
“I’m told just one.”
“Weapons?”
Arbatov shook his head. “You’ll be searched as you enter the flat.”
“Weapons come in all shapes and sizes, Mikhail.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“I’ll think about it.”
Delaroche gestured toward the waiter.
“C’est tout.”
14
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Michael left the house very early and drove along the deserted parkway toward headquarters in the gray half-light of dawn. He picked up coffee and a stale bagel from the swill pit and walked upstairs to the Center. The last of the shakedown night shift was there, bleary-eyed, hunched over computer screens and old paper files like medieval monks trapped in the wrong time. Eurotrash was reading the morning cables. Blaze was showing Cynthia how to kill with a piece of paper. Michael sat down at his desk and switched on his computer.
According to Belgian police, two suspected Sword of Gaza action agents were spotted aboard a train crossing into the Netherlands. Britain’s security service, MI5, intercepted a phone call from an Islamic intellectual living in London that suggested a retaliatory attack somewhere in Europe was imminent. Satellite photographs of the ruined training camp in Iran revealed hasty reconstruction. The most important piece of overnight intelligence came last. Syrian intelligence officials traveled to Tehran the previous week to meet with their Iranian counterparts.
Michael had seen movements like these in the past. The Sword of Gaza was planning to strike an American target in Europe, probably soon. He picked up his internal telephone and dialed Carter’s office, but there was no answer.
He hung up and stared at his computer terminal.
Why don’t you run Vandenberg’s name through that fancy computer you have at Langley and see if anything comes up?
Michael typed in Vandenberg’s name and instructed the computer to search the database.
Ten seconds later he received a reply.
FILE RESTRICTED. ACCESS UNAUTHORIZED.
“What the fuck do you think you were doing?”
Carter was angrier than Michael had ever seen him. He was seated at his desk, rapping a thick pen on his leather blotter, his normally pallid complexion red with exertion. McManus sat behind him, silent, as if awaiting his turn with an uncooperative suspect.
“It was just a hunch I had,” Michael said weakly, and immediately regretted it, for he could see by Carter’s reaction that he had only made matters worse.
“A hunch? You had a hunch, so you decided to run the name of the White House chief of staff through Agency personnel files? Osbourne, you are a counterterrorism officer. What did you think Vandenberg was going to do, blow up the White House? Shoot his boss? Hijack Air Force One?”
“No.”
“I’m waiting.”
Michael wondered exactly why he was here. The geeks down in the computer room must have blown the whistle on him. Either someone was watching the activity of his computer log-in or a trip wire had been placed on Vandenberg’s file. When Michael tried to read it, an alarm sounded somewhere in the system. The whole thing smelled like a Monica Tyler production. Michael had but one recourse now: tell part of the truth and hope his relationship with Carter would spare further bloodshed.
“I heard from someone I trust that he had an Agency background, and I wanted to check it out. It was a mistake, Adrian. I’m sorry.”
“You’re go
ddamned right it was a mistake. Let me make something clear to you. The Agency’s files are not here for your reading enjoyment. They are not to be surfed. They are not for you to take out on a joy ride. Am I making myself clear, Michael?”
“Crystal.”
“You’re not in the field anymore, where you operate on your own terms. You work at headquarters, and you play by the rules.”
“Understood.”
Carter looked at McManus, and McManus closed the door.
“Now, between us girls, I know you’re a damned good officer, and you wouldn’t have tried to read that file unless it was important. Do you have something you want to tell us at this time?”
“Not yet, Adrian.”
“All right. Get the fuck out of here.”
15
PARIS
Delaroche drove to Brest and took a late train to Paris. He traveled with two bags, a small overnight grip with a change of clothes and a large flat rectangular case containing a dozen watercolors. His work was sold in a discreet Paris gallery, providing him with enough income to justify his unpretentious lifestyle in Brélés.
From the train station he took a taxi to a modest hotel on the rue de Rivoli and registered as a Dutchman named Karel van der Stadt—Dutch was one of his languages, and he had three excellent Dutch passports. His room had a small balcony overlooking the Tuileries Garden and the Louvre. The night was cold and very clear. To his right he could see the Eiffel Tower, ablaze with light; to his left Notre Dame, standing guard over the black shimmer of the Seine. It was late, but he had work to do, so he pulled on a sweater and a leather jacket and went out. The front desk clerk asked Delaroche if he would like to leave his key. Delaroche shook his head and, in Dutch-accented French, said he preferred to keep it with him.