The Mark of the Assassin

  “Just put air in the tires and give it to me.”

  “Suit yourself. Will this be cash or charge, sir?”

  But Delaroche was already counting out hundred-dollar bills.

  The next hour, Delaroche spent shopping along Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. In a clothing store, he purchased a bandanna for his head; in an electronics store, a small battery-powered tape player with headphones. In a jewelry store he purchased several gaudy gold chains for his neck and had both his ears pierced and hoop earrings inserted.

  He changed in a gas station toilet. He removed his street clothing and put on the long cycling britches and winter-weight jersey. He tied the bandanna over his head and put the gold chains around his neck. He attached the tape player to the waistband of his britches and placed the headphones around his neck. He stuffed his street clothes into the backpack, along with the silenced Beretta, and looked at himself in the mirror. Something was missing. He put on his Ray-Ban sunglasses, the same glasses he had used to kill the man in Paris, and looked at his reflection once more. Now it was right.

  He stepped outside. A man in a leather jacket was about to steal his bike.

  “Hey, motherfucker,” Delaroche said, mimicking the dialect of the couriers on Dupont Circle, “the last thing you want to do is mess with my ride.”

  “Hey, be cool. I was just checkin’ it out,” the man said, backing rapidly away. “Peace and love and all that bullshit.”

  Delaroche climbed on the bicycle and pedaled toward Michael Osbourne’s home.

  Delaroche reviewed his plan to kill Osbourne one last time as he pedaled along the leafy streets of west Georgetown. Killing him would be difficult. He was a married man with no serious vices; he would not succumb to a sexual advance from Astrid. He was a professional intelligence officer who had spent many years in dangerous situations; instinctively, he would be personally vigilant at all times. Delaroche considered simply knocking on Osbourne’s door, on the pretense of delivering a package, and shooting him when he answered. But there was a chance Osbourne would recognize Delaroche—he had been on the Chelsea Embankment, after all—and shoot him first. He considered trying to enter Osbourne’s home by stealth, but surely a large, expensive home in a crime-ridden city like Washington was protected by a security system. He decided he would have to kill him by surprise, somewhere in the open, which was why Delaroche was dressed as a bicycle courier.

  N Street presented Delaroche with his first serious problem. There were no shops, no cafés, and no telephone booths—no place for Delaroche to kill time inconspicuously—just large Federal-style brick homes set tightly against the sidewalk.

  Delaroche waited on the corner of 33rd and N streets, outside a large home with a grand pillared porch, thinking about what to do. He had but one option: ride back and forth along N Street and hope he spotted Osbourne entering or leaving the house. This was alien to Delaroche—whenever possible he preferred to kill by being in exactly the right place at exactly the right time—but he had no other choice.

  He mounted the bicycle, pedaled to 35th Street, turned around, and pedaled back to 33rd Street, watching Osbourne’s house as closely as possible.

  After twenty minutes of this a man emerged from the house, dressed in a gray and white tracksuit. Delaroche looked carefully at the face. It was the same face as the photograph in the dossier. It was the same face he had seen that night on the Chelsea Embankment. It was Michael Osbourne.

  Osbourne bent over and stretched the back of his legs. He leaned against a lamppost and stretched his calf muscles. Delaroche, watching him from two blocks away, could see Osbourne’s eyes flickering over the street and the parked cars.

  Finally, Osbourne stood and broke into a light run. He turned left on 34th Street, right on M Street, and headed across Key Bridge toward Virginia. Delaroche dialed Astrid at the Four Seasons and spoke to her as he pedaled steadily in Osbourne’s wake.

  Michael reached the Virginia side of the Potomac and headed south on the Mount Vernon Trail. His muscles were stiff and sore and the cold December weather wasn’t helping, but he quickened his pace and lengthened his stride, and after a few minutes of fast running he felt sweat beneath his tracksuit.

  It was good to be free of the house. Carter had called earlier and informed Michael that Monica Tyler had formally ordered Personnel to begin an investigation into his conduct. Elizabeth had finally acceded to her doctor’s wishes and was working from home. Their bedroom had been turned into a law office, complete with Max Lewis.

  The clouds broke, and a warm winter’s sun shone along the banks of the river. Michael passed the entrance to Roosevelt Island. A wooden footbridge stretched before him, running over several hundred yards of marsh and reed grass.

  Michael increased his pace, feet thumping on the cross boards of the bridge. It was a weekday, and he was alone on the trail. He played a game with himself, running an imaginary race. He broke into a sprint, driving his arms, lifting his knees. He rounded a corner and the end of the bridge appeared, about two hundred yards away.

  Michael forced himself to run still faster. His arms burned, his legs felt like dead weight, and his breath was raspy with the cold air and too many cigarettes. He reached the end of the footbridge, stumbled to a stop, and turned around to see the ground he had covered with his dash.

  Only then did he see the man pedaling toward him on a mountain bike.

  44

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Astrid Vogel telephoned downstairs and asked the valet to have the Range Rover waiting. She left the hotel room and took the elevator down to the lobby. She carried a handbag, and inside the bag was a silenced Beretta pistol. The Range Rover stood beneath the covered entrance of the hotel. Astrid gave the valet the claim ticket and a five-dollar bill. She climbed inside and drove off. Delaroche had kept her up half the night memorizing street maps. Five minutes later she was backing into a parking space a few blocks away on N Street. She shut down the engine, lit a cigarette, and waited for Delaroche to call.

  Michael stood bolt upright as adrenaline shot through his body. Suddenly his arms and legs didn’t ache any longer, and his breath came in short, quick bursts. He stared at the man approaching on the bicycle. A helmet covered the head, sunglasses the eyes. Michael stared at the exposed portion of his face. He had seen it before—in Colin Yardley’s bedroom, on the Cairo airport video, on the Chelsea Embankment. It was October.

  The assassin was reaching inside a nylon bag mounted on the handlebars of the bike. Michael knew he was reaching for his gun. If he turned and tried to run away, October would easily overtake and kill him. If he stood his ground, the result would be the same.

  He sprinted directly toward the oncoming bicycle.

  The move took the gunman by surprise. He was twenty yards away; the two men were approaching each other rapidly on a collision course. October frantically dug through the nylon bag, grabbing for the butt of the gun, trying to get his finger inside the trigger guard. He took hold of the gun, ripped it from the bag, and tried to level it at Michael.

  Michael arrived as the silenced Beretta emitted a dull thud. He lowered his shoulder and drove it into October’s chest. The blow knocked October from the bike, and he landed on the wooden footbridge with a heavy thump. Michael managed to stay on his feet. He turned around and saw October, lying on his back, still holding the gun.

  Michael had two options—rush October, try to disarm and capture him, or run away and get help. October was a ruthless assassin, trained in the martial arts. Michael had gone through rudimentary training at the Farm, but he realized he would be no match for someone like October. Besides, he was holding one gun and probably had a second hidden somewhere on his body.

  Michael turned, ran a few yards along the footbridge, then leaped over the side into the mud and reed grass at the river’s edge. He scrambled across a hillside slick with wet autumn leaves and disappeared into a stand of trees.

  Delaroche sat up and collected his bearings. The blow h
ad knocked the breath from him, but he had escaped serious injury. He stuck the Beretta inside the waistband of his riding britches and pulled his jersey over the butt. Two men with army sweatsuits rounded the corner as Delaroche was bending to pick up his bike. For an instant he considered shooting them both; then he realized the Pentagon was nearby, and the soldiers were simply out for a harmless midday run.

  “You all right?” one of them asked.

  “Just a ruffian who tried to rob me,” Delaroche said, allowing his French accent to come through. “When I explained to the man that I had nothing of value he knocked me from my bicycle.”

  “Maybe you should see a doctor,” the other said.

  “No, a bruise, perhaps, but nothing serious. I’ll find a police officer and file a report.”

  “Okay, be careful.”

  “Thank you for stopping, gentlemen.”

  Delaroche waited for the soldiers to vanish from sight. He took hold of the bike by the handlebars and brought it upright. He was angry and excited. He had never blown an assassination, and he was angry with himself for not reacting better. Osbourne had proven himself a worthier opponent than Delaroche expected. His dash toward Delaroche demonstrated both bravery and cunning. His second decision, to escape rather than fight, also demonstrated intelligence, for Delaroche surely would have killed him.

  That was why Delaroche was excited. Most of his victims never knew what hit them. He appeared unexpectedly and killed without warning. Most of the time his work was less than challenging. Obviously, that would not be the case with Osbourne. Delaroche had lost the element of surprise. Osbourne was aware of his presence, and he would never allow Delaroche to get near him again. Delaroche would have to bring Osbourne to him.

  Delaroche remembered the night on the Chelsea Embankment. He remembered shooting the woman named Sarah Randolph three times in the face and hearing the anguished screams of Michael Osbourne as he slipped away. A man who lost a woman in that manner would do almost anything to prevent it from happening again.

  He mounted the bicycle and pedaled north toward Key Bridge. He dialed Astrid’s number. She answered on the first ring. Delaroche calmly told her what to do as he cycled over the bridge toward Georgetown.

  Michael reached the shoulder of the George Washington Parkway. At midday there was little traffic. He crossed the parkway and ran up another hillside. The glass and steel office buildings of the Rosslyn section of Arlington stood before him. He found a public telephone outside a convenience store and rapidly dialed his own number.

  Max Lewis answered the phone.

  “Get me Elizabeth, now!”

  She came on the line a few seconds later. “Michael, what’s wrong?”

  “They’re here, Elizabeth,” Michael said, gasping for air. “October just tried to kill me on the Mount Vernon Trail. Now, listen very carefully and do exactly as I say.”

  45

  WASHINGTON, D.C

  Elizabeth rushed into Michael’s study and threw open the closet door. The briefcase was on the top shelf, a brown rectangular box so ugly it could only have been created by the Agency’s Office of Technical Services. The shelf was beyond her reach, so she ripped Michael’s chair away from his desk and rolled it into the closet. She stood on the chair and pulled down the briefcase.

  Max was in the bedroom. Elizabeth sat at the foot of the bed, pulled on a pair of brown suede cowboy boots and then went to the closet and put on a thigh-length leather jacket. For some reason she looked at her face in the mirror and ran a hand through her uncombed hair.

  Max looked at her. “Elizabeth, dammit! What the hell’s going on?”

  Elizabeth forced herself to be calm. “I can’t explain everything now, Max, but a man just tried to kill Michael while he was running. Michael thinks that man is coming here, and he wants us to get out now.”

  Max looked at the briefcase. “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s called a jib,” she said. “I’ll explain in a few minutes. But right now I need you to help me.”

  “I’ll do anything, Elizabeth, you know that.”

  “Now, listen to me carefully, Max,” she said, taking his hand. “We’re going to walk out the front door very slowly, very calmly, and we’re going to get in my car.”

  Two minutes after hanging up with Delaroche, Astrid Vogel saw the front door of the Osbournes’ house swing open and two figures emerge into the December sunlight. The first was Elizabeth Osbourne—Astrid recognized her photograph from Delaroche’s dossier—and the second was a white man of medium height and build. The woman carried a man’s attaché case, the man nothing. They climbed into a silver E-class Mercedes-Benz—the woman in the passenger seat, the man behind the wheel—and started the engine.

  Astrid considered what to do. Delaroche had told her to wait for him to return; then they would enter the house and take the woman hostage. She couldn’t allow the woman to escape. She decided to follow them and tell Delaroche where they were going.

  The Mercedes pulled away from the curb and entered the quiet street. Astrid started the engine of the Rover and followed them. She punched in Delaroche’s number and quickly brought him up to date.

  “He’s here!” Michael yelled into the phone.

  “Who’s here?” Adrian Carter said.

  “October’s here. He just tried to kill me on the Mount Vernon Trail.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Adrian, what kind of fucking question is that? Of course I’m sure!”

  “Where are you?”

  “Rosslyn.”

  “Give me the address. I’ll send a team to collect you.”

  Michael looked for a street sign and gave Carter his location.

  “Where’s Elizabeth? I’ll pick her up too.”

  “She was at the house, but I told her to get out.”

  “Why the hell did you do that?”

  “Because October and Astrid Vogel have been working as a pair throughout this thing. She’s probably here too. If I didn’t get Elizabeth out of there, Vogel would have gone in and grabbed her. I’m sure of it.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  Michael told him.

  “Jesus Christ! Who’s the driver?”

  “Her secretary. Kid named Max Lewis.”

  “Goddammit, Michael. Do you know what October’s going to do to that guy when he finds out?”

  “Shut up, Adrian. Just hurry up and bring me in.”

  Elizabeth pulled down her sun visor and glanced into the vanity mirror as they headed south on Wisconsin Avenue. The black Range Rover was there, a woman behind the wheel, talking on a cellular telephone.

  Max said, “Who are we running from?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “At this point I’d believe just about anything.”

  “Her name is Astrid Vogel, and she’s a terrorist from the Red Army Faction.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “Make a left, and drive normally.”

  Max made a left onto M Street. At 31st Street the light changed from green to yellow when he was fifty feet from the intersection.

  Elizabeth said, “Go through it.”

  Max punched the accelerator. The Mercedes responded, dropping down a gear and gaining speed rapidly. They swept through the intersection to the angry blare of horns. Elizabeth glanced at the mirror and saw that the Range Rover was still there.

  “Shit!”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just keep driving.”

  At 28th Street, Max had no choice but to stop at a red light. The Range Rover pulled directly behind them. Elizabeth watched the woman in the vanity mirror, and Max did the same in the rearview mirror.

  “Who do you think she’s talking to?”

  “She’s talking to her partner.”

  “Is her partner Red Army Faction too?”

  “No, he’s a former KGB assassin code-named October.”

  The light turned green. Max pressed the acce
lerator so hard the tires squealed on the pavement.

  “Elizabeth, the next time you ask me to come to your house to work, I think I’ll decline, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Shut up and drive, Max.”

  “Where?”

  “Downtown.”

  Max headed east on L Street, the Range Rover shadowing them. Elizabeth toyed with the handle of the briefcase. She remembered Michael’s words. Get out of the car, then throw the latch. Make sure the case is right side up. Walk calmly away. Whatever you do, don’t run. The traffic thickened as they moved deeper into downtown Washington.

  “You sure that thing is going to work?” Max asked.

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “Maybe it’s been in the closet too long. See if it has an expiration date on it or something.”

  Elizabeth looked at him and saw he was smiling.

  “It’s going to be all right, Elizabeth. Don’t worry.”

  He turned right on Connecticut Avenue. The midday traffic was heavy, cars rushing at high speed along the broad street, big trucks double-parked outside the exclusive shops. A half-dozen cars had slipped between them and Astrid Vogel.

  Elizabeth said, “I think this is our spot. Make the right onto K Street. Use the service lane.”

  “Got it.”

  He punched the accelerator and turned the wheel hard to the right.

  Astrid said to Delaroche, “They just made a right on K Street. Dammit, I can’t see them!”

  She made the turn and spotted the Mercedes slipping from the service lane into the heavy traffic on K Street.

  “I have them. They’re heading west on K Street. Where are you?”

  “Twenty-third Street, heading south. We’re very close.”