The Mark of the Assassin (24 page)
“Be careful, Michael.”
“I will.”
He waited until her taillights vanished into the darkness; then he went inside the terminal.
Michael came awake as the jetliner slipped below the cloud cover and descended into the gray London morning. London Station had offered to send a car, but Michael wanted as little to do with London Station as possible, so he took a taxi instead. He pulled down the window. The raw air felt good against his face, despite the stink of diesel fumes. London had been his home for eight years; he had made the journey from Heathrow to central London a thousand times. The dreary western suburbs sweeping past him were more familiar than Arlington or Chevy Chase.
He checked into his hotel, a modest independent establishment on Knightsbridge, overlooking Hyde Park. He preferred it because each room came with a small sitting room in addition to the bedroom. He ordered a full English breakfast and picked at it until it was late enough to phone Elizabeth. He awakened her, and they had a disjointed two-minute conversation beffore she drifted back to sleep.
Michael was tired, so he slept until early afternoon. When he awoke, he dressed in a waterproof jogging suit. He hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door and for insurance left a telltale, a tiny piece of paper, wedged between the door and the jamb. If it was still there when he returned, it was likely the room had not been entered. If it was gone, someone had probably been there.
He set out on the footpaths of Hyde Park under clouds the color of pewter, heavy with rain. Ten minutes into the run the skies opened up. The Londoners rushing past beneath windblown umbrellas glared at him as though he were an escaped mental patient. After fifteen minutes his breath turned ragged, and he stopped to walk. Over the years he had been able to maintain his physical fitness, despite being a moderate smoker. But now the cigarettes were taking their toll. And Elizabeth was right—he was getting thicker around the waist.
He ran back to the hotel. The telltale fell to the floor as he opened the door to his room. He showered and changed into a blue business suit. He took a taxi to Grosvenor Square and flashed his identification to the Marine guard at the entrance. Michael felt uncomfortable in embassies; he was a NOC, through and through. When he was based in London he came to the embassy only in emergencies and only “black,” meaning he arrived underground in the back of a van. He wished he didn’t have to come at all, but Center doctrine demanded a courtesy call to the local chief of station.
The COS in London was a man named Wheaton, an unabashed Anglophile with a pencil-thin mustache, a Savile Row chalk-stripe suit, and an annoying habit of toying with a tennis ball when he didn’t know quite what to say. Wheaton was old school: Princeton, Moscow, five years as head of the Russia desk before scoring the plum career-ending assignment in London. He said he had known Michael’s father, but he didn’t say he liked him. He also made it clear he didn’t think London Station needed any help from the CTC on this one. Michael promised to brief him on his findings. Wheaton politely told Michael he’d like him to get out of town as quickly as possible.
The taxi dropped Michael at the white Georgian terrace in Eaton Place. Helen and Graham Seymour owned a pleasant apartment, and from the street Michael could see them like actors on a multilevel stage—Graham upstairs in the drawing room, Helen below street level in the kitchen. He descended the steps and rapped on the paned-glass kitchen door. Helen looked up from her cooking and smiled broadly. Opening the door to him, she kissed his cheek and said, “God, Michael, it’s been too long.” She dumped Sancerre into a goblet and thrust it into his hand. “Graham’s upstairs. You boys can talk shop while I finish supper.”
Graham Seymour was fidgeting with the gas fire when Michael entered the room. It was wood-paneled and wood-floored, with an exquisite array of Oriental rugs and Middle Eastern decorations. Graham stood up, smiled, and stuck out his hand. They regarded each other as only men of identical size and shape can do. Graham Seymour was like Michael’s negative. Where Michael was olive complected, Graham was fair. Where Michael was dark-haired and green-eyed, Graham was blond and gray-eyed. Michael wore a blue business suit; Graham was dressed for safari in khaki trousers and a khaki bush shirt.
They sat down and talked about old times. They had lived nearly identical lives. Like Michael, Graham’s father had worked in intelligence—MI5’s Double Cross operation during the war, then MI6 for twenty-five years after that. Like Michael, Graham followed his father from posting to posting and joined the Secret Intelligence Service immediately after graduating from Cambridge. The two men had worked side by side over the years, though Graham always functioned under official cover. They had developed a professional respect and personal friendship. Indeed, they were closer than either of their services would prefer if they knew.
The smell of Helen’s cooking drifted upstairs into the drawing room.
“What’s she making?” Michael asked cautiously.
“Paella,” Graham said and frowned. “Perhaps you should run to the chemist’s now before it closes.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“You say that now, but you haven’t had Helen’s paella.”
“That bad?”
“I don’t want to spoil the surprise. Perhaps you should have some more wine.”
Graham went downstairs to the kitchen, returning a moment later with glasses filled with white Bordeaux.
“Tell me about Colin Yardley.”
Graham grimaced. “Curious thing happened a couple of months ago. A Lebanese arms dealer named Farouk Khalifa decided to set up shop in Paris. We found out about it and notified our French friends. They put Mr. Khalifa under watch.”
“That was nice of the French.”
“He sells weapons to people we don’t like.”
“He’s a bad man.”
“He’s a very bad man. He opens up the bazaar and starts receiving clients. The French photograph everyone who comes and goes.”
“I get the picture.”
“In September a man calls on Mr. Khalifa. The French are unable to identify him, but they suspect he’s a Brit, so they send us a copy of the photo by secure fax.”
“Colin Yardley?”
“In the flesh.”
“The top floor confronted him. They demanded to know what the fuck he was doing meeting with a chap like Khalifa. Yardley made up some bullshit story about how he was bored with his desk job and was itching to do field work again. He worked in Paris for a time. Said he was freelancing. The top floor weren’t happy, to say the least. Yardley got his wrists slapped in a very big way.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Now, guess which weapon Farouk Khalifa has in great abundance.”
“According to our files, it’s Stinger missiles.” Michael drank some of the wine. “I don’t suppose your service passed any of this along to my service?”
Graham shook his head. “We were a little embarrassed about it. You understand, don’t you, Michael? The top floor just wanted it to go away, so they made it go away.”
Helen appeared at the top of the stairs.
“Dinner’s ready.”
“Wonderful,” Graham said a little too enthusiastically. “Well, I guess the video will have to wait.”
Helen Seymour cooked elaborately but dreadfully. She believed that “British cuisine” was an oxymoron, and her specialty was the food of the Mediterranean: Italian, Greek, Spanish, North African. Tonight she served a ghastly paella of raw fish and burned shrimp, so spicy Michael felt dampness at the back of his neck as he forced fork after fork into his mouth. He bravely finished his first helping. Helen insisted he have another. Graham choked back laughter as his wife piled two heaping spoonfuls onto Michael’s outstretched plate. “It’s divine, isn’t it?” Helen purred. “I think I’ll have a little more myself.”
“Once again, you’ve outdone yourself, darling,” Graham said. He had learned long ago how to deal with his wife’s unique brand of exotic cooking. He grabbed takeaway sandwiches and hamburgers on the way home from work and devoured them descending into the Underground. Three years ago he professed a sudden devotion to bread. Each night Helen brought home new and different varieties, which Graham ate in vast amounts. He had grown pudgy around the middle from eating too many carbohydrates late at night. He scheduled important telephone calls at the dinner hour and pretended they were unexpected. Like an impetuous child, he had become a master at distributing uneaten food about his plate to create the illusion of consumption. For a time Graham refused to allow Helen to cook for guests; they entertained in restaurants instead. Now he took a certain pleasure at having friends for dinner, the way the condemned take comfort from companionship in the hours before death.
Graham dragged a chunk of coarse Spanish bread through a plate of virgin olive oil and shoved it into his mouth. “Helen, Michael and I have a little more work to do. Do you mind if we take coffee upstairs?”
“Of course not. I’ll bring you dessert in a few minutes.” She turned to Michael, a rapturous smile on her face. “Michael, I’m so glad you enjoyed the paella.”
“Helen, I can’t remember the last time I had a meal like that.”
Graham choked on a crust of bread.
Michael came out of the bathroom. Graham said, “You all right, mate? You look a little green around the gills.”
“Jesus Christ, how do you eat like that every night?”
“You ready to watch a movie?”
“Sure.”
They sat down on the couch in the drawing room. Graham picked up the remote control from the coffee table. “Mr. Yardley had another problem,” he said. “He liked women.”
“Did the Service know about this, too?”
“Yeah, Personnel told him to cool it. He told them to go fuck themselves. He was single, and he had a few years left till retirement, and he was going to enjoy himself.”
“Good attitude.”
“The Service discovered the body. We went in before the police and had a go at his house. We discovered the lovely Colin Yardley had installed a secret video taping system in his bedroom so he could record his conquests and replay them at his leisure. Had quite a collection, our Yardley. The watchers have been using them to relieve the boredom between assignments.”
Graham aimed the remote at the video machine and pressed PLAY. The camera was mounted somewhere above the headboard. Yardley lay on the bed, undressed, slowly masturbating, while a tall woman performed a sultry striptease. She unbuttoned her blouse, ran her hands over her breasts and inside the waistband of her panty hose.
Graham froze the image.
“Who is she?” Michael asked.
“We think she’s Astrid Vogel.”
“According to our information, she’s living in Damascus.”
“Ours too. In fact, we thought she’d left the Red Army Faction altogether, which makes her involvement in this affair all the more puzzling.” Graham pressed the remote, and the image came alive again. “Here’s the good part. I won’t spoil the ending.”
Astrid Vogel’s striptease grew more intense. Her hands were between her legs, her head rolled back, feigning ecstasy. “She’s good,” Graham said. “Damned good.”
Helen walked in bearing a tray of coffee and apple tart. “Oh, isn’t this lovely. I leave you boys alone for ten minutes and you run out and rent a porno flick.”
She set the tray on the coffee table, gaze fixed on the screen. “Who is that creature?”
“A former RAF assassin named Astrid Vogel.”
A look of terror flashed across Yardley’s face.
Graham stopped the video. “This part’s a little gruesome, my dear. Perhaps you should go downstairs.”
Helen sat down on the couch.
“Suit yourself,” Graham said, and started the video again.
A dark figure strode into the room, appearance shrouded by a billed hat and sunglasses. He reached behind his back, drew a silenced gun, and shot Colin Yardley rapidly three times in the face. Yardley’s body tumbled from the bed. The woman stepped forward, kicked the corpse in the head, and spit on him.
Graham stopped the tape.
“Christ almighty,” Helen said.
“It’s him,” Michael said.
“How can you tell? His face was covered the entire time.”
“I don’t need to see his face. I’ve seen him handle a gun. It’s him, Graham. I’d stake my life on it. It’s him.”
“I know I needn’t say this, but the usual rules apply, Michael. The information I gave you is for your background purposes only. You may not share it with any member of your service or any other service.”
“I’ll sign a copy of the Official Secrets Act if that would make you sleep easier.”
Michael turned up the collar of his coat and shoved his hands into his pockets. The rain had ended, and he wanted to walk. Graham had agreed to accompany him halfway. They drifted through the quiet Georgian canyons of Belgravia, the distant rush of evening traffic on the King’s Road the only sound.
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