The Mark of the Assassin

by Daniel Silva

  A few seconds later the alarm sounded again, then a third time. Two motion detectors had been triggered, one in the dining room, one in the living room. The detectors were several feet apart. Unless October was moving through the house very rapidly it was unlikely that he set off both; the house was dark and unfamiliar to him. Michael assumed Astrid Vogel was in the house too. He turned to Elizabeth and said, “Go to the guest cottage and wait there until the police come.”

  “Michael, I don’t want to leave you in—”

  “Just do it, Elizabeth,” Michael snapped. “If you want to live, just do what I say.”

  She nodded.

  “The police will be here in a few minutes. When you see them, run for them. It’s me he wants, not you. Do you understand me?”

  She nodded. Michael said, “Good.”

  He punched in the disarm code and opened the door. Elizabeth kissed his cheek and started up the stairs. At the top she paused and looked in all directions. The night was pitch-black; she could barely make out the faint outline of the guest cottage overlooking the water.

  She ran across the lawn, windblown rain beating against her face, until she reached the door of the cottage. She opened the door, stepped inside, then turned and took one last look at Michael.

  The basement door closed, and he was gone. She closed the door and locked it, leaving the lights off. Then she went to the window and looked in the direction of the front gate.

  It was Astrid Vogel, standing in the living room, who spotted something moving across the lawn toward the guest cottage—a light-colored sweater, a woman, judging by the slightly awkward stride.

  “Jean-Paul,” she whispered, and gestured toward the lawn. “The woman.”

  “Take her,” Delaroche whispered. Then he laid a hand on her arm and said, “Alive, Astrid. She’s no good to us dead. And hurry. We don’t have much time.”

  Astrid slipped out the French doors, crossed the veranda, and set off across the lawn.

  Michael reset the alarm system. He found a rechargeable flashlight plugged into an outlet—the senator had flashlights positioned throughout the house because of the island’s frequent power outages. Michael switched on the light and played the beam back and forth across the walls until he found the fuse box. He opened it and shone the light inside. The master switch was the largest. He threw the switch and killed power to the entire house. The alarm system ran on batteries, so it would remain functional. He set the alarm on silent.

  He followed the beam of light up the stairs and returned to the kitchen. On the wall, next to the telephone, was an intercom box for the front gate. The intercom operated on the telephone system, and the gate had a separate power source. He pressed a button and went quickly to a living room window overlooking the lawn. Outside, at the head of the property, he could see the metal gate rolling open on its track.

  The guest cottage felt like an icehouse. Elizabeth couldn’t remember the last time someone had stayed in the place. The thermostat was set to the lowest level to keep the pipes from bursting in a hard freeze. The wind tore at the shingled roof and beat against the windows overlooking Shelter Island Sound. Something scratched against the side of the house. Elizabeth emitted a short scream, then realized it was only the old oak tree that she had climbed countless times as a child.

  It wasn’t the guest cottage; in the lexicon of the Cannon family it was known as Elizabeth’s cottage. The place was comfortable and modestly furnished. There were light-finished hardwood floors and, in the living room, rustic furniture arranged around the large picture window overlooking the harbor. The kitchen was tiny, just a small refrigerator and a stove with two burners, the bedroom simple. When she was a child, the cottage had been hers. When the main house was filled with her father’s staff, or some delegation from a strange country, Elizabeth would come here to hide among her possessions. She adored the cottage, cared for it, spent summer nights in it. She smoked her first dope in the bathroom and lost her virginity in the bedroom.

  She thought, If I could choose a place to die it would be here.

  She blew on her hands and wrapped her arms tightly around herself against the cold.

  Reflexively, she touched her lower abdomen.

  She again thought, Are the babies all right? God, let them be all right!

  She went to the window and looked out. A tall woman was running toward the cottage, gun in hand. She could see enough of the face to realize it was the same woman who had pursued her in Washington. She walked backward from the window and nearly toppled over an armchair.

  It’s me he wants, not you.

  She knew Michael was lying to her. They would use her to get to Michael, but they would kill her too. Just the way they killed Max. Just the way they killed Susanna.

  She heard the scrape of boots on the wooden steps to the front door. She heard the metallic clicking of Astrid Vogel trying the doorknob. She heard a loud thud as Astrid Vogel tried to kick the door down, and she summoned every ounce of self-control she had to keep from screaming. She moved to the bedroom and closed the door. She heard a series of low thuds—three or four, she couldn’t be certain—and the sound of splintering wood: Astrid Vogel, shooting her way through the lock. Another kick, and this time the door crashed open, slamming into the adjoining wall.

  It’s me he wants, not you.

  And you’re a liar, Michael Osbourne, she thought. They were merciless and sadistic. There would be no reasoning with them and certainly no negotiating.

  She backpedaled into the corner, eyes on the closed door. God, how many times had she been here before? On beautiful summer mornings. On chilly autumn afternoons. The books on the shelves were hers, and so were the clothes in the closet. Even the threadbare rug at the foot of the bed. She thought of the afternoon she and her mother bought it together at an auction in Bridgehampton.

  She thought, I can’t let her take me. They’ll kill us both.

  She heard the woman walking through the cottage, the footfalls of her boots on the hardwood floors. She heard the wind rushing through the trees, the screaming of gulls. She stepped forward and put the hook on the door.

  Hide in the closet, she thought. Maybe she won’t look.

  Don’t be silly, Elizabeth. Think!

  Then she heard the woman call out. “I know you’re in here, Mrs. Osbourne. I don’t want to hurt you. Just come out now.”

  The voice was low and strangely pleasant, the accent German.

  Don’t listen to her!

  She opened the closet door and slipped inside. She closed the door halfway—she couldn’t bear the thought of being sealed in the tiny dark room. Finally, she heard the wail of sirens, far off, carried by the wind. She wondered where they were—Winthrop Road, Manhanset Road if they were coming from mid-island. Either way, Elizabeth knew she would be dead before they arrived.

  She backed away from the door. Something sharp dug into her shoulder blade—an arrow, sitting on the shelf. She groped along the wall; she knew it was here somewhere, the bow her father had given her when she turned twelve. It was hanging from a hook on the wall, next to an ancient set of golf clubs.

  The woman tried the bedroom door and discovered it was locked.

  Elizabeth thought, Now she knows I’m in here.

  Panic shot through her. She forced herself to breathe.

  Softly, she beat her palms along the wall until she touched something cold and hard.

  Elizabeth took down the bow. It was five and a half feet long, standard length. She reached up and grabbed hold of the arrow. The shaft was aluminum with feather fletchings. She took the arrow between the first two fingers on her right hand and with her thumb felt for the string notch behind the fletchings. She had done this countless times, so doing it in the dark was not a problem, even with shaking hands.

  The woman kicked the door, but the old hook held.

  Elizabeth fixed the arrow to the string and braced the shaft against the fingers of her left hand, which was clutching the bow. She p
ulled the arrow back halfway, then took a deep breath. The bowstring was old and brittle; it might simply snap when she pulled it to the tension required to shoot an arrow. Please, Elizabeth thought, fingering the string. I need one more shot from you.

  But could she really do this? She had never killed a living thing, never dreamed of hunting. Her father wouldn’t hear of it, in any case. Once he caught one of her boyfriends stalking a deer with her bow and arrow and banished him from the house for the rest of the summer.

  The woman kicked the door. The latch broke and the door crashed open.

  Elizabeth’s body went rigid. She felt as if she were made of stone. She forced herself to breathe slowly. Do it for Michael, she thought. Do it for the children inside you.

  She drew the arrow back hard on the string and pushed open the door with her foot. She saw Astrid Vogel, framed against the doorway, both hands on her gun, near her face. Astrid turned toward the sudden noise and leveled the gun with outstretched arms.

  Elizabeth released the arrow.

  The arrowhead struck Astrid in the base of her throat and drove her back, pinning her to the open door. Elizabeth screamed. Astrid’s eyes opened wide and her lips parted.

  Somehow, she managed to hold on to the gun. She raised the weapon and started firing. The silencer damped the explosions to a dull thud. Elizabeth threw herself back into the closet. The shots splintered the door, shattered the bedroom window, and tore plaster from the walls. She fell to the floor and curled herself into a ball.

  Then it stopped. The room was quiet except for the wind and the clicking of Astrid Vogel attempting to fire an empty gun. Elizabeth got to her feet, took down another arrow, and stepped out of the closet.

  Astrid had ejected the spent cartridge and was digging in her coat pocket for another clip of ammunition. Blood pumped from the wound in her throat. She managed to pull the new clip from her pocket.

  Elizabeth said, “No, please don’t. Don’t make me do it again.”

  Astrid looked at her, then at the arrow in her throat. The clip fell from her grasp; then the gun tumbled to the floor. She breathed deeply twice. Blood gurgled in her throat.

  Finally, her gaze went blank.

  Elizabeth fell to her knees and was violently sick.

  Michael, back downstairs in the basement, could hear October’s footsteps above him, picking his way through the living room furniture. Michael knew October would be methodical and careful. He would search the house, room by room, until he found his target. To survive, Michael would have to outsmart October once again, the way he did on the footpath in Virginia. October was operating in alien territory. Michael could find his way through the house with his eyes closed. He would use that to his advantage.

  October had moved from the living room to the kitchen. He called out, “I have your wife, Mr. Osbourne. If you come down now, unarmed, with your hands in the air, no harm will come to her. If you make me hunt you down like an animal, I’ll kill her too.”

  Michael said nothing, just listened to October’s progress through the first level of the house.

  After a moment October said, “I remember that night in London too, Mr. Osbourne. I remember the sound of your screams along the river. She was a beautiful woman. You must have loved her very much. It was a pity she had to die. She was the first and only woman I ever killed, but I will not hesitate to kill your wife if you persist in this nonsense. Give yourself up, or she dies with you.”

  Michael felt anger rising within him. Just hearing the man’s voice after all these years filled him with horror. He tried to suppress it; he knew that was exactly the reaction October was trying to incite. If he lost his composure—if he acted with emotion instead of intelligence—he would die. He also knew October had no intention of allowing Elizabeth to live.

  “It must have hurt very badly to lose your lover like that, shot down like a dog, right before your eyes,” October said. “I heard they had to pull you from the field. Send you back to headquarters. I heard it ruined you. Just think how you’ll feel if I kill another one of your women. You won’t want to live after that, I assure you. So just give yourself up, Mr. Osbourne. Make it easy for both of us.”

  Michael heard a scream from the guest cottage: Elizabeth’s scream.

  “Sounds like things are getting interesting outside, Mr. Osbourne. Pick up the telephone, call the cottage. Tell your wife to give herself up, and she won’t be harmed. You have my word on that.”

  Michael walked across the room and pressed the TALK button on the intercom. Very calmly he said, “Your word means nothing to me, Nicolai Mikhailovich.”

  “What did you call me?” October yelled back, after a moment’s hesitation.

  “I called you Nicolai Mikhailovich. It’s your real name, or did the wonderful people of the KGB keep that information from you? Nicolai Mikhailovich Voronstov. Your father was General Mikhail Voronstov, head of the First Chief Directorate of the KGB. You were his bastard child. Your mother was his mistress. As soon as you were old enough, your father gave you to the KGB to raise. Your mother ended up in the gulag. Would you like me to continue, Nicolai Mikhailovich?”

  Michael released the button and waited for October’s reaction. He heard a door being kicked open, a ceramic lamp crashing to the floor, the dull thump of a silenced weapon being discharged. Michael was getting to him.

  “Your teacher was a man you knew only as Vladimir. You treated him like a father. For all intents and purposes, he was your father. When you were sixteen you were infiltrated into the West through Czechoslovakia. You were ordered to kill your escorts. One of them was a woman, which makes you a liar as well as a murderer. You buried yourself in the West. Ten years later, when you were a man, you started killing. I could name most of your victims if you’d like, Nicolai Mikhailovich.”

  Michael heard a window shatter and more rounds embedding themselves in the wall. He heard an empty cartridge fall to the floor and a fresh one rammed into place. Then he heard sirens a long way off and another scream from the cottage.

  He pressed the intercom again and said, “Who hired you?”

  More shots.

  “Who hired you, goddammit? Answer me!”

  “I don’t know who hired me!”

  “You’re lying. Your entire life is a lie.”

  “Shut up!”

  “You’re trapped here. You’ll never get off this island alive.”

  “Neither will you, and neither will your wife.”

  “Astrid’s been gone a long time. I wonder what’s keeping her.”

  “Call the cottage. Tell your wife to give herself up.”

  Michael set down his cellular telephone and picked up the receiver of the regular hard-line phone. He heard October pick up an extension. The telephone rang once and Elizabeth answered, breathless.

  “Michael! My God, she’s dead. I killed her. I shot her with an arrow. Michael, God, I don’t want to be here with her. Oh, Michael, it’s horrible. Please, I don’t want to stay here with her.”

  “Go to the dock. Take the dinghy out to the Alexandra. Wait there until the police arrive.”

  “Michael, what are you—”

  “Just do what I say. Go to the Alexandra! Now!”

  Elizabeth set down the telephone and walked to the window. She had known Michael more than six years. He had sailed on the boat countless times with her father. He knew it was called the Athena, not the Alexandra. It was possible he made a mistake because of the pressure of the situation, but she doubted it. It was intentional. It was for a reason. He wanted her to stay in the cottage, but he wanted October to think she was heading for the boat.

  She watched the main house through the window. She listened to the sirens draw nearer. She wanted to get out. She wanted a cigarette to mask the smell of Astrid Vogel’s blood. She wanted this nightmare to be over. A few seconds later she saw the screened door of the veranda swing open and the man called October running across the lawn toward the dock.

  Delaroche plunged
through the darkness. Wind ripped at the trees and nearly knocked him from his feet. The dock stretched before him into the darkness. Fifty yards from shore the sailboat swayed at its mooring, mast swinging like a pendulum in the whitecaps, halyards screaming in the wind.

  Michael Osbourne’s voice, distant and metallic, ran through his head like recorded announcements in a train station.

  I called you Nicolai Mikhailovich. It’s your real name.

  Delaroche thought, Goddammit! How could he know?

  The KGB had made him one promise: His existence in the West would be so secret only a handful of people within the hierarchy would know the truth. So secret he had been permitted to kill his escorts to the West that night in Austria. Had they lied? Had someone betrayed him? Was it Vladimir? Or Arbatov? Or the traitor Drozdov? Had Drozdov found the truth buried in the files at Moscow Center and sold it to his new masters in the West? Delaroche vowed to kill Drozdov if he ever got off Shelter Island alive.

  The revelation that the CIA had a dossier made Delaroche feel physically sick. Did they have a photograph, too? Usually, it was Delaroche who used the dossiers, Delaroche who leafed through the dark pages of a man’s life until he found the weakness that would prove to be his undoing. Now, Delaroche knew his enemies had assembled a dossier on his life, and Osbourne had used it against him.

  I called you Nicolai Mikhailovich.

  Reflexively, the killings ran through his mind. He tried to shut it off, but the faces appeared one by one, first vibrant and alive, then burst by three bullet wounds. Hassan Mahmoud, the Palestinian boy. Colin Yardley and Eric Stoltenberg. Sarah Randolph. . . .

  He could hear Michael Osbourne’s screams echoing along the Chelsea Embankment.

  It’s your real name.

  Some nights Delaroche had a dream, and the dream played out in his imagination now. The men he had killed would confront him, armed with silenced automatics, and he would reach for his Glock pistol or his Beretta and find only paintbrushes. Then he would reach for his backup weapon and find only a palette. “We know who you are,” they would say and begin to laugh. And Delaroche would raise his hands and shield his face, and the bullets would tear through his palms and bore through his eyes, and he would sit up in bed and tell himself it was only a dream, just a stupid fucking dream.