The Mark of the Assassin (28 page)

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Authors: Daniel Silva

Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller, #Suspense

BOOK: The Mark of the Assassin
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“He’s already taken a dozen boxes of presidential M and Ms,” Beckwith said, clearly enjoying himself.
Carter finally smiled. “If you’re going to start acting like some kind of American hero, I’m going to be sick. Remember, I was with you from the beginning, Michael. I know where the bodies are buried,
literally.
I’d be careful, if I were you.”
When the laughter died away, Beckwith said, “Michael, there’s something else we need to discuss with you. I’m going to let Adrian and Director Clark brief you on the details.”
“Michael, I won’t beat around the bush,” Clark began.
The CIA director was a politician, a patrician former senator from New Hampshire who prided himself on the fact that he spoke like a common man. As a result, the lexicon of intelligence work forever baffled him. He was tall and thin, with undisciplined gray locks and a bow tie. He looked better suited to a well-endowed chair at Dartmouth than to the executive suite of Langley.
“As crazy as this might sound, the Sword of Gaza would like to meet with us.” Clark gently cleared his throat. “Let me be more specific. The Sword of Gaza doesn’t want to meet with
us—
they want to meet with
you.
”
“How did they make the request?”
“Through our embassy in Damascus, about an hour ago.”
“Why me?”
“They apparently know exactly who you are and what your job is. They say they want to meet with the man who knows the most about their group, and they know that’s you.”
“How’s the meeting supposed to go down?”
“Tomorrow morning on the first Dover-to-Calais car ferry. They want you to wait on the port deck, midship, and their man will make the approach. No watchers, no recording devices, no cameras. If they see anything they don’t like, the meeting is blown.”
“Who’s their man going to be?”
“Muhammad Awad.”
“Awad is the second-highest ranking member of the organization. The fact that they want to put him on a ferry and meet face-to-face with an officer of the CIA is remarkable.”
“Therefore it’s probably too good to be true,” Carter said, the camera panning to capture his image. “I don’t like it. It violates all our rules for meetings like this. We control the site. We set the terms. You of all people should know that.”
Michael said, “I take it you’re against going forward with it.”
“One hundred and ten percent.”
Beckwith said, “I’m interested in hearing your reaction, Michael.”
“Adrian is right, Mr. President. Usually, we don’t meet with known terrorists under situations like these. Agency doctrine says we control the meeting—the time, the place, the ground rules. Having said that, I think we should seriously consider tearing up the rule book in this case.”
Clark said, “What if their intention is to assassinate you?”
“If the Sword of Gaza wants me dead, there are much easier ways than arranging an elaborate meeting aboard the Dover-to-Calais car ferry. I’m afraid all they would have to do is send a gunman to Washington and wait outside headquarters.”
“Point well taken,” Clark said.
“I think they want to talk,” Michael said. “And I think we’d be fools not to listen to what they have to say.”
Carter said, “I disagree, Michael. This is one of the most vicious terrorist groups in the business. They speak with their actions every day. Frankly, I don’t give a good goddamn what they might have to say.” Carter looked at Beckwith and said, “My apologies for the rough language, Mr. President.”
Michael said, “I told you he wasn’t fit for polite company, Mr. President.”
National Security Adviser William Bristol waited for the laughter to die away and then said, “I think I’m going to side with Michael on this one, Mr. President. True, Muhammad Awad is a dangerous terrorist who should not be granted an audience simply because he asks for one. But quite frankly, I’d like to hear what he has to say. The meeting might pay dividends. Surely, it might provide the CIA with some valuable insight into the group’s personnel and mind-set. I agree with Michael on another point—if the Sword of Gaza wants him dead, there are easier ways to go about it.”
The President turned to Vandenberg. “What do you think, Paul?”
“I hate to disagree with you, Bill, since foreign policy is your area of expertise and not mine, but I think we have nothing to gain by meeting with the leader of a bunch of bloodthirsty thugs like the Sword of Gaza. Adrian is right: The Sword of Gaza speaks with actions, not words. There’s something else to consider. I wouldn’t want to be the one to explain to the American people why we met with Muhammad Awad at a time like this. Your handling of this crisis has been exemplary, and the American people have rewarded you for it. I wouldn’t want to see all that goodwill go to waste because a terrorist like Muhammad Awad wanted to have a little chat.”
Beckwith fell into a long speculative silence. Michael knew it was not a good sign. He had never been in the President’s presence, but he had heard stories of Paul Vandenberg’s power. If Vandenberg didn’t want the meeting to go forward, the meeting probably wouldn’t go forward.
Finally, Beckwith looked up into the camera, addressing Michael in London rather than the men seated around him. “Michael, if you’re willing to go through with this, I’m interested in hearing what Muhammad Awad has to say. I know this is not without risk, and I know you have a wife.”
“I’ll do it,” Michael said simply.
“Very well,” Beckwith said. “I wish you the best of luck. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Then the image from Washington turned to black.
24
 
LONDON
 
The ambassador allowed Michael to use his office to telephone Elizabeth in Washington. Michael dialed her private line, but it was Max, her secretary, who answered. Max expressed relief at hearing Michael’s voice; then he explained that Elizabeth had left for New York already and could be reached later at her father’s Fifth Avenue apartment. Michael felt a momentary flash of anger—how could she leave her office without waiting to hear his voice?—but then he felt like a complete fool. She had left work early because in the morning she was having her eggs extracted and fertilized at Cornell Medical Center in New York. In the turmoil of the attack at Heathrow, Michael had completely forgotten. And he had agreed to meet Muhammad Awad in the middle of the English Channel, which would delay his arrival in New York by another two days. Elizabeth would be furious, and rightly so. Michael told Max he would call her in New York later, then hung up.
Actually, Michael was relieved not to have reached her. The last thing he wanted was to hold a conversation like this over a monitored embassy line. He went to Wheaton’s office and found him sitting at his desk, squeezing his tennis ball, a Dunhill between bloodless lips.
“I lost my bag at Heathrow,” Michael said. “I need to do some shopping before the stores close.”
“Actually, you can’t,” Wheaton said disdainfully. Wheaton didn’t like Michael operating on his turf to begin with; the fact that Michael was now flavor of the day didn’t help. “Carter wants you on ice somewhere nice and secure. We have a safe flat near Paddington Station. I’m sure you’ll find it comfortable.”
Michael groaned inwardly. Agency safe flats were the intelligence equivalent of an Econo Lodge. He knew the flat near Paddington Station all too well; he had used it to hide several frightened penetration agents over the years. The last thing he wanted was to spend the night there as a guest instead of a babysitter. Michael knew there was no fighting it. He was making the meeting with Muhammad Awad against Carter’s wishes, and he didn’t want to alienate him further by bitching about spending a night in the Paddington safe flat.
“I still need some clothes,” Michael said.
“Make a list, and I’ll send someone.”
“I need to get some air. I need to
do
something. If I have to spend the next twelve hours locked up in a safe flat watching television, I’m going to go fucking stir-crazy.”
Wheaton picked up the receiver of his internal telephone, clearly annoyed, and murmured a few unintelligible words into the mouthpiece. A moment later two officers appeared in the door, dressed in matching light gray suits.
“Gentlemen, Mr. Osbourne would like to spend the afternoon at Harrods. Make sure nothing happens to him.”
“Why don’t you just send a few of the Marine guards in full uniform?” Michael said. “And actually, Marks and Spencer will be just fine.”
 
They took a taxi to Oxford Street, one officer next to Michael on the bench, the other squeezed onto a jump seat. Michael went into Marks & Spencer and purchased two pairs of corduroy trousers, two turtleneck cotton pullovers, a gray woolen sweater, underwear and socks, and a dark green waterproof coat. The watchers trailed after him, picking through stacks of sweaters and rows of suits like a pair of communists on their first voyage to the capitalist West. Next he went to a chemist’s shop and bought a new shaving kit: razors, shaving cream, toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant. He wanted to walk, so he carried his things along Oxford Street, gazing in shop windows like a bored businessman killing time, instinctively checking his tail for signs of surveillance. He saw no one but the Agency men, twenty yards behind.
Gentle rain fell. Dusk descended like a veil. Michael picked his way through the crowds pouring in and out of the Tottenham Court Road tube stop. Late-autumn evening in London; he loved the smell of it. Rain on pavement. Diesel fumes. Lager and cigarettes in the pubs. He remembered nights like these when he would leave his office, dressed in a blue suit and salesman’s tan overcoat, and go to Soho to find Sarah at her coffeehouse or wine bar, surrounded by her dancers or her writers or her actors. Michael was an outsider in their world—a symbol of convention and everything they despised—yet in their presence Sarah focused only on him. She flaunted the romantic regulations of her clan. She held his hand. She kissed his mouth. She shared whispered intimacies and refused to divulge them when pressed.
Michael, crossing Shaftesbury Avenue, wondered how much was real and how much was invention. Had she ever loved him? Was it an act from the first moment? Why did she tell the Russians she wanted out? He pictured Sarah in her appalling flat, body rising to him in candlelight, long hair falling over her breasts. He smelled her hair, her breath, tasted salt on translucent skin. Their lovemaking had been religious; if it was a complete lie, then Sarah Randolph was the finest agent he had ever encountered.
He wondered whether she had learned anything of value. Perhaps he should have declared her to Personnel. They would have looked into her background, put her under surveillance, spotted her meeting with her Russian controller, and the whole thing could have been avoided. He wondered what he would tell Elizabeth.
Promise you’ll never lie to me, Michael. You can keep things from me, but never lie to me.
I wish I could tell you the truth, he thought, but I’m damned if I know what it is.
Michael sat down on a bench in Leicester Square and waited for his watchers to catch up. They caught a taxi to the safe flat, located in an offensive white building overlooking Paddington Station. The interior was worse than Michael remembered—stained clubhouse furniture, dusty drapes, plastic cups and dishes in a wartime kitchen. The stink of the rooms reminded Michael of his Dartmouth fraternity house. Wheaton had stocked the fridge with cold cuts and beer from Sainsbury’s. Michael showered and changed into a set of his new clothing. When he emerged, his minders were eating sandwiches and watching English football on a flickering television. Something about the scene depressed him terribly. He needed to telephone Elizabeth in New York, but he knew they would quarrel, and he didn’t want to do it with the Agency listening in.
“I’m going out,” Michael announced.
“Wheaton says you’re supposed to stay put,” one of them said, through a mouthful of ham, cheddar, and French bread.
“I don’t give a damn what Wheaton says. I’m not going to sit here with you two clowns all night.” Michael paused. “Now, we can go together, or I can lose you both in about five minutes, and you’ll have to call Wheaton at home and tell him about it.”
 
They drove to Belgravia and parked outside the Seymours’ apartment in Eaton Place. The watchers waited in the Agency sedan. The street shone with rain and light from the ivory facades of the Georgian terrace. Through the windows Michael could see Helen in her kitchen, attention focused on that evening’s culinary disaster, and Graham upstairs in the drawing room, reading a newspaper. He walked down the steps, wet with rain, and rapped on the paned glass of the kitchen door. Helen opened the door and kissed his cheek. “What a wonderful surprise,” she said.
“Mind if I impose?”
“Of course not. I’m making bouillabaisse.”
“Have enough for one extra?” Michael asked, bile reflexively rising at the back of his throat.
“But of course, darling,” Helen purred. “Go upstairs and drink with Graham. This attack at Heathrow has upset him terribly. God, what a nasty business that was.”
“I know,” Michael said. “Unfortunately, I was there.”

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