Read Online The Assassin by Stephen Coonts - Free Book Online Page B

calling Grafton on my cell phone to deliver the happy news about Marisa, then decided to wait. God only knew who might overhear my side of the conversation.
    “So, Mr. Smooth, are you married or divorced or shacked up?”
    She had one eyebrow raised. Fortunately I was taking her home to her husband in about an hour. “Dear Mrs. Pocock, my deepest apologies. If I seem preoccupied tonight, it’s because I am. I’m thinking of my three little waifs at home with their mother, desperately awaiting my return. I humbly beg your pardon, gracious lady.”
    “You are the biggest American bullshitter I’ve had the misfortune to meet, Carmellini. The things I do for a free restaurant meal!”
    “My sincere condolences.”
    “How’s your dinner?”
    “What is this yellow gooey stuff?”
    “I’m not really sure.”
    “Now that we have become better acquainted, I can diagnose your problem, dear Kerry. You’re a bum magnet.”
    She smiled at me. “I love you, too,” she said and poured herself another glass of wine.
    The dinner proceeded without incident. Surkov and friends were served, no one else approached their table, and they didn’t go to the men’s until they had finished eating, when they went one at a time. Kerry and I lingered over coffee and dessert and, since Surkov and friends were still in earnest conversation, ordered an after-dinner cognac. She still had about a quarter of a bottle of wine left, but with my fellow taxpayers footing the bill, I wasn’t counting pennies.
    Marisa and her man finished their dinner and left. She gave me no hint that she saw me—not that she would recognize me instantly, but she might. If she glanced my way I didn’t see her do it.
    When Surkov and company departed, I went to the men’s, retrieved my recorder, then came back and settled up.
    I drove Kerry home and said good-bye in the car.
    “What, no kiss on the doorstep?”
    “The neighbors might talk. Say hello to your husband for me.”
    “Trot on home to your three little waifs.” She opened the door and climbed out. With the door open, she paused and said in a high-pitched, old-woman’s voice, “See you tomorrow, dearie.” She slammed the door and headed for her stoop.
    “Right,” I said. I waited until she was inside her row house, then put the car in motion.
    As I drove I called Jake Grafton on my cell phone. This was a hazardous undertaking—driving on the wrong side of the road and talking on a cell phone took every brain cell I have. I told him about the evening, and about Marisa.
    “She see you?” he asked conversationally.
    “Don’t think so.”
    “We’ll listen to the recorder tomorrow. See you at the office.”
    He didn’t seem surprised that I had run across Marisa. Did he expect me to see her there?
    I went home to my flat, which I shared with a guy from Detroit who worked for General Motors, and crashed.
    The next morning I was up bright and early at nine o’clock. My roommate was long gone, off to do some capitalism. After I drank my two cups of real American coffee—I had brought the Mr. Coffee with me from the States—I dined on toast and jam and got dressed. Read the morning paper, checked the e-mails on my computer, then went to the garage for my car, an agency sedan, small. Actually, very small. When in Rome … After wending my perilous way through London’s narrow streets I parked at a public garage and took a subway downtown.
    At eleven I was strolling by Harrod’s department store in the beating heart of London, watching pedestrians and generally hanging out. I went inside one of the shops across the street that sold high-end ladies’ wear and did some shopping near the front window, where I was behind a display and could watch the street. Sure enough, right on the dot I saw an elderly British woman in a nice dress get out of a taxi, cross the sidewalk and go inside.
    As I was sorting through dresses and checking pedestrians on the street, the clerk came over and asked if she