Read Online The Mark of the Assassin by Daniel Silva - Free Book Online
Authors: Daniel Silva
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anxiety he felt every time he entered his own home, the fear
his enemies would finally take their revenge. Michael had always lived
with an element of personal risk because of the way he did his job. In
the lexicon of the CIA, he was a NOC, the Agency acronym for nonofficial
cover. It meant that instead of working out of an embassy, with a State
Department cover, like most operations officers, Michael was on his own.
He had been a business major at Dartmouth, and his cover usually
involved international consulting or sales. Michael preferred it that
way. Most of the CIA officers operating from an embassy were known to
the other side. That made conducting the business of espionage all the
more difficult, especially when the target was a terrorist organization.
Michael didn't have the albatross of the embassy hanging around his
neck, but he also didn't have it for protection. If an officer operating
under official cover got into trouble, he could always run to the
embassy and claim diplomatic immunity. If Michael got into trouble--if a
recruitment went bad or the opposing service learned the true nature of
his work--he could be thrown in jail or worse. The anxiety had receded
gently after so many years at headquarters, but it never really left
him. His overwhelming fear was that his enemies would go after the thing
he cared about most. They had done it before. He climbed out of the car,
locked it, and set the alarm. He walked west to 34th Street, examining
the cars, checking the tags. At 34th he crossed the street and did the
same on the other side. Curved brick steps rose from the sidewalk to the
front door of their wide Federal-style house. Michael used to be
sensitive about living in a two-million-dollar Georgetown home; most of
his colleagues lived in the less-expensive Virginia suburbs around
Langley. They kidded him relentlessly about his lavish home and his car,
wondering aloud whether Michael had gone the way of Rick Ames and was
selling secrets for money. The truth was far less interesting: Elizabeth
earned $500,000 a year, at Braxton, Allworth & Kettlemen, and Michael
had inherited a million dollars when his mother died. He unlocked the
front door, first the latch, then the dead-bolt. The alarm chirped
quietly as he stepped inside. He closed the door softly, locked it
again, and disarmed the alarm system. Upstairs, he could hear Elizabeth
stir in bed. He left his briefcase on the island counter in the kitchen,
took a beer from the refrigerator, and drank half of it in the first
swallow. The air smelled faintly of cigarettes. Elizabeth had been
smoking, a bad sign. She had given up cigarettes ten years ago, but she
smoked when she was angry or nervous. The appointment at Georgetown must
not have gone well. Michael felt like a complete ass for missing it. He
had a convenient excuse--his work, the downing of the jetliner but
Elizabeth had an all-consuming job too, and she had changed her schedule
in order to see the doctor. He looked around at the kitchen; it was
bigger than his entire first apartment. He thought back to the afternoon
five years ago when they signed the papers on the house. He remembered
walking through the large empty rooms, Elizabeth talking excitedly about
what would go where, how the rooms would be decorated, what color they
would be painted. She wanted children, lots of children, running around
the house, making noise, breaking things. Michael wanted them too. He
had lived an enchanted childhood, growing up in exotic places all over
the world, but he'd had no siblings and he felt there was something
missing in his life. Their inability to have children had taken a toll.
Sometimes the place seemed empty and cheerless, far too large for just
the two of them, more like a museum than a home. Sometimes he felt as
though children had been there once but had been taken away. He felt
they had been sentenced to live there together, just the two of
his enemies would finally take their revenge. Michael had always lived
with an element of personal risk because of the way he did his job. In
the lexicon of the CIA, he was a NOC, the Agency acronym for nonofficial
cover. It meant that instead of working out of an embassy, with a State
Department cover, like most operations officers, Michael was on his own.
He had been a business major at Dartmouth, and his cover usually
involved international consulting or sales. Michael preferred it that
way. Most of the CIA officers operating from an embassy were known to
the other side. That made conducting the business of espionage all the
more difficult, especially when the target was a terrorist organization.
Michael didn't have the albatross of the embassy hanging around his
neck, but he also didn't have it for protection. If an officer operating
under official cover got into trouble, he could always run to the
embassy and claim diplomatic immunity. If Michael got into trouble--if a
recruitment went bad or the opposing service learned the true nature of
his work--he could be thrown in jail or worse. The anxiety had receded
gently after so many years at headquarters, but it never really left
him. His overwhelming fear was that his enemies would go after the thing
he cared about most. They had done it before. He climbed out of the car,
locked it, and set the alarm. He walked west to 34th Street, examining
the cars, checking the tags. At 34th he crossed the street and did the
same on the other side. Curved brick steps rose from the sidewalk to the
front door of their wide Federal-style house. Michael used to be
sensitive about living in a two-million-dollar Georgetown home; most of
his colleagues lived in the less-expensive Virginia suburbs around
Langley. They kidded him relentlessly about his lavish home and his car,
wondering aloud whether Michael had gone the way of Rick Ames and was
selling secrets for money. The truth was far less interesting: Elizabeth
earned $500,000 a year, at Braxton, Allworth & Kettlemen, and Michael
had inherited a million dollars when his mother died. He unlocked the
front door, first the latch, then the dead-bolt. The alarm chirped
quietly as he stepped inside. He closed the door softly, locked it
again, and disarmed the alarm system. Upstairs, he could hear Elizabeth
stir in bed. He left his briefcase on the island counter in the kitchen,
took a beer from the refrigerator, and drank half of it in the first
swallow. The air smelled faintly of cigarettes. Elizabeth had been
smoking, a bad sign. She had given up cigarettes ten years ago, but she
smoked when she was angry or nervous. The appointment at Georgetown must
not have gone well. Michael felt like a complete ass for missing it. He
had a convenient excuse--his work, the downing of the jetliner but
Elizabeth had an all-consuming job too, and she had changed her schedule
in order to see the doctor. He looked around at the kitchen; it was
bigger than his entire first apartment. He thought back to the afternoon
five years ago when they signed the papers on the house. He remembered
walking through the large empty rooms, Elizabeth talking excitedly about
what would go where, how the rooms would be decorated, what color they
would be painted. She wanted children, lots of children, running around
the house, making noise, breaking things. Michael wanted them too. He
had lived an enchanted childhood, growing up in exotic places all over
the world, but he'd had no siblings and he felt there was something
missing in his life. Their inability to have children had taken a toll.
Sometimes the place seemed empty and cheerless, far too large for just
the two of them, more like a museum than a home. Sometimes he felt as
though children had been there once but had been taken away. He felt
they had been sentenced to live there together, just the two of
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