The Mark of the Assassin

rather
    exotic-looking, like an Italian or a Turk or a Spaniard. He followed her
    back into the city that night along Route 50, and she took him home to
    her bed. She was thirty-four years old and had almost given up on the
    idea of marriage. But that night, taking him inside her body for the
    first time, she fell desperately and hopelessly in love with a man who
    she had met just eight hours earlier and about whom she knew next to
    nothing.
    HE TOLD HER two months later, during a long weekend alone 'at her
    father's summer home on Shelter Island. It was late September. The days
    were warm, but at night when the wind came up there was a bite of autumn
    in the air. After dinner they put on sweaters and long pants and drank
    coffee in Adirondack chairs on the beach. "I need to talk to you about
    my work," he said without warning, and even in the dying twilight she
    could see his face had gone suddenly serious. His work had been
    troubling her for weeks. She found it odd that he never discussed it
    unless she asked him. She was also troubled by the fact that he never
    called her during the day and never asked her to lunch. When she rang
    him at the office, a woman answered the phone and dutifully took down
    the message, but it was a different woman each time. Sometimes it was
    hours before he returned her call. When he did he could never speak for
    longer than a minute or two. "I'm not an international business
    consultant, and I've never been one," he began. "I work for the CIA. I
    had to deceive you until I felt I could trust you enough to tell you.
    You have to understand, Elizabeth, I didn't want to hurt you--"
    She reached out and slapped him across the face. "You bastard." she
    screamed, so loudly that a group of gulls standing on the beach broke
    into flight over the water. "You lying bastard! I'll drive you to the
    ferry in the morning. You can take the bus back into the city. I never
    want to see you again. Damn you, Michael Osbourne!"
    She stayed on the beach until the cold drove her inside. The bedroom was
    dark. She let herself inside without knocking and found him lying on the
    bed in the darkness. She undressed silently and pressed her body to his.
    He tried to speak, but she covered his lips with her mouth and said,
    "Not now. No talking allowed."
    Afterward, she said, "I don't care who you are or what you do for a
    living." She brushed her mouth against his chest. "I love the person
    that's inside here, and I don't ever want to lose you."
    "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I couldn't."
    "Is Michael Osbourne your real name?"
    "Yes."
    "You've never killed anyone, have you?"
    "No. We only kill people in the movies."
    "Have you ever seen anyone killed?"
    "Can you talk about it?"
    "No, not yet."
    "You'll never lie to me, will you, Michael?"
    "I'll never lie to you, but there will be things I won't be able to tell
    you. Can you live with that?"
    "I don't know yet, but promise me you'll never lie to me."
    "I'll never lie to you."
    She kissed his mouth. "Why did you become a spy?"
    "We don't call ourselves spies. We call ourselves case officers."
    "Fine. So why did you become a case officer?"
    He laughed his quiet, controlled laugh. "I have no idea."
    HER FATHER THOUGHT she was a fool to marry a CIA officer. He had served
    on the Senate Select Intelligence Committee, and while he detested
    sweeping generalizations in principle he believed the nation's spies
    were the biggest collection of kooks and oddballs he had ever seen. With
    Michael he made an exception. The two men spent a day sailing together
    on Gardiners Bay, and the senator gave his enthusiastic blessing to the
    union. There was much about Michael's work Elizabeth loathed: the long
    hours, the travel to dangerous places, the fact that she really didn't
    know exactly what he did all day. She knew most women would find a
    marriage like hers unacceptable. She liked to think she was stronger
    than most women, more self-possessed, more independent. But at times
    like these she wished her husband had a normal job.
    THE ROOM WAS QUIET except for a large television set that continuously
    played an infomercial hosted by a television anchorwoman Elizabeth
    detested. She wanted something to read, but all the magazines dealt with
    raising children, not a pleasant subject for a childless woman of forty.
    She tried to change the channel to watch the news, but the television
    wouldn't change channels. She tried to turn down the volume, but the
    volume was preset.