Read Online The Mark of the Assassin by Daniel Silva - Free Book Online
Authors: Daniel Silva
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wants answers. Gentlemen, in your opinion, did the Sword of Gaza shoot down that airliner?”
Michael looked first at Carter, then at McManus. Carter took it upon himself to answer the question, since he was the senior man there. He cleared his throat gently before speaking.
“Monica, for all we know as of this moment, it might have been the Sword of Gaza, or it might have been the Washington Redskins.”
“That last remark was a thing of beauty,” Michael said, as they walked out the front doors and into the night. He turned up his collar against the cold and lit a cigarette.
Carter walked next to him, one hand clutching a briefcase, the other rammed into his pocket. Carter always managed to look slightly lost and vaguely irritated. Those who did not know him tended to underestimate him, a quality that served him well both in the field and in the bureaucratic trenches of Langley. He spoke six languages and could melt into the backstreets of Warsaw or Athens or Beirut with equal ease.
Someone must have told him to spruce up his wardrobe for headquarters, because he was always immaculately turned out in costly English and Italian suits. Fine clothing did not hang naturally on Carter’s short, slouching frame; a thousand-dollar Armani ended up looking like a cheap knockoff from one of the suspect boutiques along Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. Michael always thought he looked slightly ridiculous, like a clerk in an exclusive men’s shop who wore suits he could not afford. But Carter was an obsessive who never did anything halfway—his tradecraft, his wife and family, his jazz. His newest passion was golf, and he restlessly practiced his stroke with plastic golf balls in his small glass-enclosed office. Once Michael slipped a real ball among the replicas. Carter promptly launched it through his office window during a conference call with Monica Tyler and the Director. The following day Carter received a bill for the repairs and a reprimand from Personnel.
“She drives me nuts sometimes,” Carter muttered softly. He had served as Michael’s control officer when Michael was working without official cover and couldn’t come to embassies. Even now, walking toward the west parking lot of headquarters, they moved as though they were conducting a debriefing under hostile surveillance. “She thinks gathering intelligence is as easy as putting together a quarterly earnings report.”
“She has the Director’s complete trust and therefore should be handled carefully.”
“Listen to you—the headquarters man all of a sudden.”
Michael tossed his cigarette into the dark. “There’s something about this attack that stinks.”
“More than the fact that two hundred and fifty people are lying on the bottom of the Atlantic?”
“That body in the boat makes no sense.”
“None of it makes sense.”
“And there’s something else.”
“Oh, Christ. I’ve been waiting for this.”
“The way Mahmoud was shot in the face like that.”
They stopped walking. Carter turned and looked up at Osbourne. “Michael, let me give you a piece of advice. Now is not the time to go chasing after your Jackal again.”
They walked in silence until they reached Michael’s car.
“Why is it that you drive a silver Jaguar and live in Georgetown and I drive an Accord and live in Reston?”
“Because I have better cover than you do, and I’m married to a rich lawyer.”
“You’re the luckiest man I know, Osbourne. If I were you I wouldn’t fuck it up.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means what’s done is done. Go home and get some sleep.”
Michael’s father ended up hating the Agency, but somewhere along the line, whether it was his intention or not, he created in his son the makings of a perfect intelligence officer. Michael came to the attention of the Agency during his junior year at Dartmouth. The talent spotter was a professor of American literature who had worked for the Agency in Berlin
Michael looked first at Carter, then at McManus. Carter took it upon himself to answer the question, since he was the senior man there. He cleared his throat gently before speaking.
“Monica, for all we know as of this moment, it might have been the Sword of Gaza, or it might have been the Washington Redskins.”
“That last remark was a thing of beauty,” Michael said, as they walked out the front doors and into the night. He turned up his collar against the cold and lit a cigarette.
Carter walked next to him, one hand clutching a briefcase, the other rammed into his pocket. Carter always managed to look slightly lost and vaguely irritated. Those who did not know him tended to underestimate him, a quality that served him well both in the field and in the bureaucratic trenches of Langley. He spoke six languages and could melt into the backstreets of Warsaw or Athens or Beirut with equal ease.
Someone must have told him to spruce up his wardrobe for headquarters, because he was always immaculately turned out in costly English and Italian suits. Fine clothing did not hang naturally on Carter’s short, slouching frame; a thousand-dollar Armani ended up looking like a cheap knockoff from one of the suspect boutiques along Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. Michael always thought he looked slightly ridiculous, like a clerk in an exclusive men’s shop who wore suits he could not afford. But Carter was an obsessive who never did anything halfway—his tradecraft, his wife and family, his jazz. His newest passion was golf, and he restlessly practiced his stroke with plastic golf balls in his small glass-enclosed office. Once Michael slipped a real ball among the replicas. Carter promptly launched it through his office window during a conference call with Monica Tyler and the Director. The following day Carter received a bill for the repairs and a reprimand from Personnel.
“She drives me nuts sometimes,” Carter muttered softly. He had served as Michael’s control officer when Michael was working without official cover and couldn’t come to embassies. Even now, walking toward the west parking lot of headquarters, they moved as though they were conducting a debriefing under hostile surveillance. “She thinks gathering intelligence is as easy as putting together a quarterly earnings report.”
“She has the Director’s complete trust and therefore should be handled carefully.”
“Listen to you—the headquarters man all of a sudden.”
Michael tossed his cigarette into the dark. “There’s something about this attack that stinks.”
“More than the fact that two hundred and fifty people are lying on the bottom of the Atlantic?”
“That body in the boat makes no sense.”
“None of it makes sense.”
“And there’s something else.”
“Oh, Christ. I’ve been waiting for this.”
“The way Mahmoud was shot in the face like that.”
They stopped walking. Carter turned and looked up at Osbourne. “Michael, let me give you a piece of advice. Now is not the time to go chasing after your Jackal again.”
They walked in silence until they reached Michael’s car.
“Why is it that you drive a silver Jaguar and live in Georgetown and I drive an Accord and live in Reston?”
“Because I have better cover than you do, and I’m married to a rich lawyer.”
“You’re the luckiest man I know, Osbourne. If I were you I wouldn’t fuck it up.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means what’s done is done. Go home and get some sleep.”
Michael’s father ended up hating the Agency, but somewhere along the line, whether it was his intention or not, he created in his son the makings of a perfect intelligence officer. Michael came to the attention of the Agency during his junior year at Dartmouth. The talent spotter was a professor of American literature who had worked for the Agency in Berlin
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