The Mark of the Assassin

Elliott."
    "Mitchell Elliott of Alatron Defense Systems?"
    "He's the one."
    "Where's the party?"
    "At Elliott's home in Kalorama. California Street, to be precise. You
    have a pen handy?"
    Elizabeth fished a pen and her calendar from her briefcase and jotted
    down the address as Max read it to her. "What time?"
    "Seven-thirty."
    Am I allowed to bring a date?"
    "Spouses are permitted. Elizabeth, you're going to be late for your
    appointment."
    She glanced at the dashboard clock. "Oh, shit! Anything else?"
    "Nothing that can't hold till morning."
    "Where am I going tomorrow?"
    "Chicago. I put the tickets in the outside flap of your briefcase."
    She pulled open the flap and saw the American Airlines first-class
    ticket jacket. "I'd be lost without you, Max."
    "I know."
    "You didn't hear from Michael, did you?"
    "Not a peep."
    "I'll call you from the plane tomorrow morning."
    "Great," he said. "And good luck, Elizabeth. I'll be thinking about
    you."
    She severed the connection and punched in the speed-dial code for
    Michael's car phone. The phone rang five times before a recorded voice
    announced that the customer was not available at this time. Elizabeth
    angrily snapped the receiver back into its cradle. She sat very still
    for a moment, listening to the rattle of the rain. She whispered,
    "Michael Osbourne, if you don't drive into this parking lot in the next
    five minutes, so help me God, I'll ..."
    She waited five minutes; then she struggled into her raincoat and
    stepped outside the warmth of the car into the storm'. She threw up her
    umbrella and started across the parking lot, but the wind gusted and
    ripped it from her grasp. She watched it for a moment, tumbling toward
    Reservoir Road. Something about it made her laugh helplessly. She
    clutched her raincoat tightly against her throat and hurried across the
    parking lot through the rain.
    "THE DOCTOR IS RUNNING a few minutes behind schedule." The receptionist
    smiled, as though it was the most interesting thing she'd said all day.
    Elizabeth went inside, removed her wet raincoat, and sat down. She was
    the last patient of the afternoon and, thankfully, she was alone. The
    last thing she wanted now was to make idle conversation with another
    woman suffering from the same problem. Rain pattered against the window
    overlooking the parking lot. She turned and peered out. A line of trees
    shed leaves to the onslaught of the wind. She looked for Michael's
    Jaguar but saw no sign of it. She reached in her bag and removed one of
    her pocket cellular telephones--she carried two with her at all times to
    make certain she could conduct two conversations at once--and punched in
    Michael's number. Again, there was no answer. She wanted to phone his
    office, but if he was still at Langley he would never make it in time
    anyway. She stood up and slowly paced the room. It was at times like
    these that Elizabeth Osbourne detested the fact that she was married to
    a spy. Michael hated it when she called him a spy. He patiently
    explained he was a case officer, not a spy. She thought it was a silly
    term for what Michael did. "It sounds as if you're some kind of
    counselor or social worker," Elizabeth had said, the night Michael tried
    to explain his work to her for the first time. He smiled his careful
    smile and replied, "Well, that's not very far from the truth."
    She had fallen in love with Michael before she learned he worked for the
    CIA. A friend had invited her sailing on the Chesapeake, and Michael had
    been invited too. It was a sweltering day in late July with very little
    wind. As the boat drifted over the still water, Elizabeth and Michael
    lay in the shade of the limp sails, drinking icy beer and talking.
    Unlike most men in Washington, he spoke little about his work. He said
    he was an international business consultant, he had lived in London for
    a number of years, and he had just transferred to the firm's Washington
    office. That night they ate crab cakes and drank cold white wine at a
    small waterfront restaurant in Annapolis. She found herself staring at
    him throughout the meal. He was simply the most beautiful man she had
    ever seen. The day of sailing had changed him. The sun had tanned his
    skin and left streaks of gold in his dark hair. His eyes were deep
    green, flecked with yellow, like wild summer grass. He had a long,
    straight nose, and several times she had to restrain herself from
    reaching out and touching his perfect lips. She thought he was