The Mark of the Assassin Read online

  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.

  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.

  There was no lift, just a broad staircase. Delaroche mounted the first step and walked quickly upward. The place was quiet, no other tenants moving about. Delaroche arrived at the third floor without being spotted. Arbatov had instructed him not to ring the bell. The door opened immediately, and the wrestler invited Delaroche inside with a wave of his thick paw.

  Delaroche eyed his surroundings while the other man conducted a slow and methodical search of his body, first by hand, then with a magnetometer. The furnishings were masculine and comfortable: black informal couches and chairs grouped around a glass coffee table, teak bookshelves filled with histories, biographies, and thrillers by American and English writers. The remaining portions of exposed wall were bare, with faint outlines where framed paintings had once hung. The books were the only personal items; no photographs of family and friends, no stack of mail, no message pad next to the telephone on the desk.

  “Coffee?” the wrestler asked when he was finished.

  Delaroche had been right. He was an American—from the South, by the sound of his accent.

  Delaroche nodded. He removed his sunglasses, while the American went into the all-black modern kitchen and busied himself with the coffee. Delaroche sat down and scanned the rest of the flat. Next to the kitchen was a small dining area, and beyond that a short hall leading to a bedroom. On the table was a black laptop computer.

  The American returned with two mugs of coffee, handing one to Delaroche and keeping the other for himself.

  “The job is four hits,” he began without preamble, “to be carried out before the end of January. You will be paid one million dollars in advance. For each successful hit, you will immediately be paid an additional one million dollars. That adds up to five million dollars, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  The American shook his head. “I am instructed to say that I work for the same group that hired you for the airliner operation. You already know they are a professional outfit and their word is good.”

  Delaroche lit a cigarette. “You have the dossiers on the targets?”

  The American produced a compact disk. “It’s all here, but you get to see the files only if you accept the assignment. Reasons of security, Mr. Delaroche. Surely a man of your reputation can understand that.”

  Delaroche held out his hand for the disk.

  The American smiled. “We thought you’d see it our way. The first million has already been wired to your bank in Zurich. Check it out for yourself. Phone’s right over there.”

  Delaroche conducted the conversation in rapid German. Herr Becker, his solicitous Swiss bank manager in Zurich, confirmed that, yes, one million dollars had been wired into the account overnight. Delaroche said
he would call again later with wiring instructions of his own and hung up.

  “The contents are encrypted,” the American said, as he handed Delaroche the disk. “Your KGB code name will unlock the files.”

  Delaroche was stunned. Since entering the freelance market he had never divulged his KGB credentials, and he had never used his old code name. Only Arbatov and a handful of senior officers at Moscow Center ever knew it. The men who had just retained his services were obviously very well connected. The fact that they knew his KGB code name was proof.

  “I trust you know how to run one of those,” the American said, gesturing at the laptop. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I’m not allowed to see the contents of the dossier. You’re on your own.”

  Delaroche carried the disk to the dining room table and sat down. He inserted the disk into the internal drive of the laptop and typed seven letters.

  The computer screen flickered to life.

  The dossiers were the best Delaroche had ever seen: personal and professional histories, sexual habits, daily routines, addresses, telephone numbers, digital voice samples, surveillance photographs, even digitized videotape.

  For two hours he slowly and systematically worked his way through all the information contained on the disk. He made no notes; Delaroche had a mind capable of storing, categorizing, and recalling immense amounts of information.

  The American was stretched out on the couch, enjoying the 500-channel satellite television system. First he watched an American football game, then an inane quiz show. Now he had settled on Swedish pornography. Delaroche was treated to sounds of lesbian lovemaking as he worked.

  The hits would be the most challenging of his career. The targets were all professionals; one was under the periodic protection of his government. The job would also require carrying out an assassination in the United States, where Delaroche had never set foot, let alone worked. If successful, the killings would be his last for some time; the assassin who carried out this assignment would have to go into hiding for a very long time. The men who had hired him understood this, which is why the fee was a lifetime’s worth of money.

  Delaroche opened the last computerized dossier.

  It contained only one item, a photograph of the man watching television in the next room. Delaroche closed out the file and exited the program. The screen read:

  IF YOU BETRAY US WE

  WILL HAND YOU OVER TO THE FBI OR WE

  WILL KILL YOU.

  Delaroche removed the disk and stood up.

  The American was engrossed in the pornography. Delaroche walked from the dining room into the sitting room and collected his coat, which was tossed over a chair.

  The American stood up. This pleased Delaroche. It would make his next task easier.

  “One last piece of business. How do we contact you once you’ve gone operational?”

  “You don’t. No more face-to-face meetings, no more contact with Arbatov.”

  “You still have your address on the Internet?”

  Delaroche nodded and removed his sunglasses from his coat pocket.

  “Any additional instructions will be sent there—encrypted, of course—and the same code word will serve as the key.”

  “I don’t need to tell you that the Internet is vast but highly insecure. It should be used only in an emergency.”

  “Understood.”

  Delaroche held out the disk. Just as the American was reaching for it, Delaroche let it tumble from his fingertips. The American’s eyes moved from Delaroche to the disk just for an instant, yet he realized he had made a fatal mistake.

  Delaroche’s left hand clamped over the American’s mouth with an iron grip. He turned the man’s face slightly in order to increase his chances of killing him with one strike.

  Then he rammed the stem of the sunglasses through his right eye.

  The search had been thorough, but the wrestler had failed to notice that the right stem of Delaroche’s sunglasses had been filed to a sharp point, which allowed the blow to penetrate the brain’s protective cover and sever a branch of the carotid artery behind the eye. The blood loss was rapid and catastrophic. The man quickly lost consciousness. He would be dead in a moment or two.

  Delaroche placed him in front of the television and his pornography. He removed the sunglasses from the ruined eye and washed them carefully in the kitchen sink. He collected the disk from the coffee table and placed it in his coat pocket.

  Then he put on the sunglasses and went out into the Paris morning.

  Delaroche decided to kill Arbatov as he sat in the Musée de l’Orangerie des Tuileries, surrounded by Monet’s Nymphéas. It was not a difficult decision, really. Once Delaroche carried out the assignment, he would be one of the most wanted men on the planet. The world’s most powerful law enforcement and intelligence agencies would be searching for him. The person who could harm him most was Arbatov. If Arbatov was discovered—if pressure was applied—he might betray Delaroche to save himself. It was a risk Delaroche was no longer willing to take.

  He contemplated the soft blues and greens and yellows of Monet’s work and thought of the action he had just carried out. Delaroche took no pleasure from killing, yet it left him with no remorse. He was trained to carry out assassinations with brutal and mechanical swiftness. The quickness with which he killed insulated him from any guilt or remorse. It was as if someone else were performing the act. He was not the murderer; the men who ordered the death were the real killers. Delaroche was just the weapon: the knife, the gun, the blunt object. If he had not carried out the contract, someone else would have.

  He spent the rest of the day relaxing. He took lunch in the hotel restaurant, transforming himself once again into Karel van der Stadt, Dutch tourist, and slept for an hour in his room. In the afternoon he went to his gallery and left the paintings. The owner pronounced them spectacular and produced a check for two hundred thousand francs, Delaroche’s share of the proceeds from his last batch of work.

  Late that afternoon he telephoned Zurich. Herr Becker, the fussy Swiss bank manager, confirmed that, yes, a second deposit of one million dollars had been made to the gentleman’s account. That meant the body of the American operative had been found. Or, more likely, the men who had hired Delaroche had witnessed the entire scene with surveillance cameras and microphones.

  Delaroche requested a current balance, and after a moment’s calculation Becker announced gravely that the account now contained slightly more than three and a half million dollars.

  Delaroche instructed him to prepare a withdrawal of half a million dollars, bills of various denominations, to be collected in forty-eight hours. He then instructed Becker to wire three million dollars to three separate accounts in the Bahamas.

  “One million dollars for each account, Monsieur Delaroche?”

  “Yes.”

  “Account numbers, please?”

  Delaroche recited them from memory.

  Retirement had robbed Arbatov of his edge. Like most old men who live alone, he had settled into a carefully scripted daily routine from which he rarely strayed. It included walking his dog each night before dinner. The only thing more predictable than Arbatov was the dog; each night it pissed on the same tree and shit on the same patch of grass in the park near Arbatov’s flat.

  Delaroche waited there, hidden by darkness.

  Arbatov approached right on schedule. It was cold, and a light rain was starting up again. The park was deserted. Even if there were people about, Delaroche knew he could carry out the act so swiftly and silently he would never be detected.

  Arbatov passed. Delaroche fell in quietly behind him.

  The dog stopped to piss, same tree, right on schedule.

  Delaroche paused and resumed walking when the dog finished. He glanced around to see if he was alone. Satisfied, he closed the ground between himself and Arbatov with a few quick steps. Arbatov, alarmed by the noise, turned around in time to see Delaroche, arm raised. He swung down with brutal swiftness
and struck Arbatov on the side of his neck, instantly shattering his spine.

  The old man collapsed. The dog barked wildly, thrashing about on his leash, which Arbatov still clutched in his hand. Delaroche reached inside Arbatov’s coat and took his wallet. Street thugs don’t kill with a single blow to the neck, he told himself. Only professionals do. Street thugs maul and bludgeon. He kicked Arbatov in the face several times and walked away.

  The rain fell harder. The barking of the dog faded into the wet night. Delaroche walked at a normal pace. He removed the cash and the credit cards from Arbatov’s wallet and threw it into a flower bed bordering the footpath.

  In the pale yellow light of the street he noticed blood on his right shoe. He wiped it away with old newspaper and caught a taxi back to his hotel. He still had time to make his train. He packed quickly and checked out.

  On the platform, waiting for the train, he threw Arbatov’s credit cards in a rubbish bin. The carriage was crowded. He found a seat and ordered a sandwich and a beer from the porter. Then he pillowed his head on his leather coat and slept until the train arrived in Brest.

  16

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Susanna Dayton worked all Sunday afternoon from noon until eight without a break, except to answer the door sometime late in the afternoon to take delivery of a pizza. Tom Logan, her editor at the Post, had demanded more, and she had found it. The piece was airtight. She had real estate and bank documents to support the most damaging charges. She had double and triple human sources to support the others. No one mentioned in the piece would be able to question her reporting. The facts spoke for themselves, and Susanna had the facts.