The Mark of the Assassin (42 page)
“Can I help you?” Elizabeth said. She thought it was best to take the offensive.
“I heard a noise,” the man said in thickly accented English. Elizabeth knew he was lying, because she had been very careful not to make any sound.
“Why didn’t you call security?” she shot back.
The man shrugged and said, “I thought I’d check it out myself first. You know, catch a thief, be a big hero, get a reward or something.”
She made a show of looking at the name tag on his coverall. “Are you an American, Carlos?”
He shook his head. “I am from Ecuador.”
“Where did you get that ring?”
“Pawnshop in Adams Morgan.
Muy bonito,
don’t you think?”
Muy bonito,
don’t you think?”
“It’s lovely, Carlos. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
She walked past him and entered the exterior office.
“Find what you’re looking for?” he said to her back.
“Actually, I was just putting something back.”
“Okay. Good night, señora.”
“Maybe he was telling the truth,” Michael said. “Maybe he really is Carlos from Ecuador, and he got the ring at a pawnshop in Adams Morgan.”
“Bullshit,” Elizabeth said.
Max had taken them to a restaurant in Dupont Circle called The Childe Harold. It was popular with journalists and young congressional staff. They sat at a corner table in the cellar bar. Elizabeth desperately wanted a cigarette but chewed her nails instead.
“I’ve never seen him before,” Max said. “But that doesn’t mean much. The people in those jobs come and go all the time.”
“You’ve never seen him before, Max, because he’s not a fucking janitor, and he’s not Carlos from fucking Ecuador. I know what I saw.” She looked at Michael. “Remember what you said about that feeling you get when someone’s watching you? Well, I have that feeling right now.”
“She’s not an idiot,” Henry Rodriguez reported over the phone. “She’s a big-time lawyer. I tried to talk my way out of it. Did my best Freddie Prinze from
Chico and the Man,
but I know she made me.”
Chico and the Man,
but I know she made me.”
“Why the fuck were you wearing the ring?” Calahan said.
“I forgot. Shoot me.”
“Don’t give me any ideas. Where are they now?”
“Restaurant called The Childe Harold. Twentieth Street, north of Dupont Circle.”
“Where are you?”
“Pay phone on the other side of Connecticut Avenue. I can’t get any closer.”
“Stay put. I’ll have someone there in five minutes.”
Calahan hung up and looked at Elliott. “We have another small problem, sir.”
43
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The following morning Delaroche sat on a bench in Dupont Circle, watching the crowd of bicycle couriers taking their morning coffee. He found them vaguely amusing—the way they laughed and joked and threw things at each other—but he was not watching them simply to pass the time. He carefully noted the way they dressed, the kinds of satchels they carried, the manner in which they walked. Shortly after nine o’clock the couriers began receiving calls over their radios, and each reluctantly mounted a bike and pedaled off to work.
Delaroche waited until the last was gone, then flagged down a taxi, and gave the driver an address.
The taxi took Delaroche along M Street into Georgetown and deposited him at the base of Key Bridge. He entered the shop. A salesman asked if he needed help, and Delaroche shook his head. He started with the clothing. He selected the most flamboyant and colorful jersey and riding britches he could find. Next he selected shoes, socks, a helmet, and a backpack. He carried everything to the front of the store and stacked it on the checkout counter.
“Anything else?” the salesman asked.
Delaroche pointed to the most expensive mountain bike in the store. The attendant lifted it from the display rack and wheeled it toward the service counter.
“Where are you taking that?” Delaroche asked quietly, conscious of his accented English.
“We need to check out the bike, sir. It’s going to take an hour or so.”
“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 had 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.”
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