The Mark of the Assassin (17 page)
“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 goddamned 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.
The meeting was to take place in a flat in the Fifth Arrondissement on the rue de Tournefort. Spotting professional surveillance was difficult under the best of circumstances, but it was even more difficult at night in a city like Paris. Delaroche walked for a time, crossing the Seine and strolling along the Quai de Montebello. He made several sudden stops. He browsed among the book kiosks. He purchased the evening papers from a newsagent. He made a false call from a public telephone. Each time he carefully checked to see if he was being pursued but saw no signs of a tail.
For fifteen minutes Delaroche wound his way through the narrow streets of the Latin Quarter. The cold night air smelled of spice and cigarettes. Delaroche went into a bar and drank beer while leafing through a newspaper. Again, there was no visible surveillance. He finished his beer and went out.
The apartment was just the way Arbatov had described it, in an old building on the rue de Tournefort overlooking the Place de la Contrescarpe. The flat was on the third floor. From the sidewalk, Delaroche could see the front windows were dark. He could also see a small camera mounted over the doorway for tenants to check the faces of arriving guests.
There was a bistro on the corner with a good view of the flat and the entrance. Delaroche took a window table and ordered roast chicken and a half bottle of Côtes-du-Rhône. It was a good neighborhood bistro, warm and clamorous, mostly locals and students from the Sorbonne.
While he ate, Delaroche read an analysis story from the Washington correspondent of
Le Monde.
It said that the American air strikes on Sword of Gaza targets in Syria and Libya had dealt a major blow to the cause of peace in the Middle East. Syria and Libya were arming themselves with newer and more dangerous weaponry, some of it French-made. Negotiations between the Palestinians and the Israelis were at a standstill after weeks of unrest in Gaza and the West Bank. Intelligence experts warned of a new round of international terror. Western European diplomats complained that the Americans had taken their revenge with no regard for the consequences. Delaroche laid his paper on the table and ate. It always amazed him how little journalists knew of the secret world.
Le Monde.
It said that the American air strikes on Sword of Gaza targets in Syria and Libya had dealt a major blow to the cause of peace in the Middle East. Syria and Libya were arming themselves with newer and more dangerous weaponry, some of it French-made. Negotiations between the Palestinians and the Israelis were at a standstill after weeks of unrest in Gaza and the West Bank. Intelligence experts warned of a new round of international terror. Western European diplomats complained that the Americans had taken their revenge with no regard for the consequences. Delaroche laid his paper on the table and ate. It always amazed him how little journalists knew of the secret world.
The man entering the apartment house caught his attention.
Delaroche looked him over carefully: short, thinning blond hair, a squat wrestler’s physique gone soft with debauchery. The offensive cut of his overcoat said he was an American. On his arm was a pretty French prostitute, taller than he was, with dark shoulder-length hair and crimson lips. The American opened the door, and they disappeared into the dark entrance hall. A moment later, light burned in the third-floor flat.
Delaroche felt his spirits lift. He had feared he was walking into a trap. Alone in a strange flat, with no avenues of escape, he would be easy prey if it was one of his enemies who had actually arranged the meeting. But an operative who was so corrupt as to bring a prostitute to a safe house surely posed little threat to him. Only an amateur or an undisciplined professional would take such a risk.
Delaroche, at that moment, decided he would make the meeting.
The following morning Delaroche rose early and went running through the Tuileries. He wore a dark blue anorak to shield himself from the gentle rain drifting over the gardens. He ran at a fast pace for forty-five minutes, the gravel of the footpaths crunching beneath his feet. He pushed himself hard for the last mile. When he finished he stood on the rue de Rivoli, doubled over and gasping for air, as Parisians hustled past on their way to work.
Upstairs in his room he showered and changed. The Glock 9mm was within easy reach the entire time. Leaving it behind was alien to him, but Delaroche would abide by the rules of the meeting. He pulled on his sweater, locked the gun away in the small room safe, and went downstairs.
He took breakfast in the hotel restaurant, a pleasant room with windows on the rue de Rivoli, and lingered over the morning newspapers. He was the last guest to leave the dining room.
From the front desk he took a Paris street map and a tourist guide. The morning clerk wondered if Delaroche would like to leave his room key. Delaroche shook his head and pushed through the doors to the street.
He took a taxi to the rue de Tournefort and got out at the corner bistro where he had eaten dinner the previous night. The rain had stopped, so he sat outside. Despite the clouds, he wore Ray-Ban sunglasses with thick stems.
It was 9:45. Delaroche ordered coffee and brioche and watched the window of the third-floor flat across the street. Twice, the man with the wrestler’s body appeared in the front window. The first time he wore a bathrobe and clutched a mug of coffee as though he were hung over. The second time, at 9:55, he wore a blue executive business suit, and his thinning blond hair was combed neatly in place.
Delaroche scanned the street. The sidewalk was jammed with Parisians rushing to work and students heading to the Sorbonne. On the rue de Tournefort, a pair of city workers was preparing to descend into a manhole. Another city worker was sweeping up dog droppings. The tables had filled around him. He could be surrounded by surveillance and would never know it.
At ten o’clock he left money on the table and walked across the street. He casually pressed the bell and turned his back to the camera over the doorway. The electronic lock snapped back, and he pushed through the door into the entrance hall.
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