Read Online The Mark of the Assassin by Daniel Silva - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Daniel Silva
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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 deadbolt. 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 them, wounded, forever.
He shut out the lights and carried the rest of the beer upstairs to the bedroom. Elizabeth was sitting up in bed, knees beneath her chin, arms wrapped around her legs. An overhead light burned softly high in the cathedral ceiling. Dying embers glowed in the fireplace. Her short blond hair was tousled; her eyes betrayed she had not slept. Her gaze was somewhere else. Three half-smoked cigarettes lay in the ashtray on her nightstand. A pile of briefs was strewn across his side of the bed. He could tell she was angry, and she had dealt with it the way she always did—throwing herself into her work. Michael undressed silently.
“What time is it?” she asked, without looking at him.
“Late.”
“Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be so late tonight?”
“There were developments in the case. I thought you’d be asleep.”
“I don’t care if you wake me up, Michael. I needed to hear your voice.”
“I’m sorry, Elizabeth. The place was crashing. I couldn’t get away.”
“Why didn’t you come to the appointment?”
Michael was unbuttoning his shirt. He stopped and turned to look at her. Her face was red, her eyes damp.
“Elizabeth, I’m the officer assigned to the terrorist group that may have shot down that jetliner. I can’t walk out in the middle of the day and come to Washington for a doctor’s appointment.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t, that’s why.
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 deadbolt. 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 them, wounded, forever.
He shut out the lights and carried the rest of the beer upstairs to the bedroom. Elizabeth was sitting up in bed, knees beneath her chin, arms wrapped around her legs. An overhead light burned softly high in the cathedral ceiling. Dying embers glowed in the fireplace. Her short blond hair was tousled; her eyes betrayed she had not slept. Her gaze was somewhere else. Three half-smoked cigarettes lay in the ashtray on her nightstand. A pile of briefs was strewn across his side of the bed. He could tell she was angry, and she had dealt with it the way she always did—throwing herself into her work. Michael undressed silently.
“What time is it?” she asked, without looking at him.
“Late.”
“Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you tell me you were going to be so late tonight?”
“There were developments in the case. I thought you’d be asleep.”
“I don’t care if you wake me up, Michael. I needed to hear your voice.”
“I’m sorry, Elizabeth. The place was crashing. I couldn’t get away.”
“Why didn’t you come to the appointment?”
Michael was unbuttoning his shirt. He stopped and turned to look at her. Her face was red, her eyes damp.
“Elizabeth, I’m the officer assigned to the terrorist group that may have shot down that jetliner. I can’t walk out in the middle of the day and come to Washington for a doctor’s appointment.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t, that’s why.
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