The Assassin: A Novel by Stephen Coonts

Author:Stephen Coonts [Coonts, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General, Thrillers, Espionage
ISBN: 9780312323578
Google: xVD89ao1lXUC
Amazon: 031299446X
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2008-08-05T05:00:00+00:00

The butler opened the door at my knock and ushered me in. We crossed the giant foyer and tackled the stairs. Marisa was seated at a small round table in a dayroom on the second floor, reading a newspaper and sipping something hot. A television provided background noise, which would make it more difficult for the NSA wizards to wring conversation from the bugs, but not impossible. The old madame wasn’t in sight.

Marisa didn’t get up. She gestured toward a chair across from her. “Is this seating okay?” she asked innocently. “Or should we sit somewhere else for better reception?”

I dropped into the indicated chair. “I relayed your message to Jake Grafton, and he sent me back for more. Do you want to confess to me or wait to tell him in person?”

Before she could answer, the maid came in. She was actually wearing a French maid’s uniform—I kid you not—and carrying a jug of something hot on a tray.

“Chocolat, monsieur?” she asked as she refilled Marisa’s cup. I shook my head. I wouldn’t have swallowed anything in that house for all the money in Switzerland.

When the maid was out of the room, Marisa said, “You and I need to stop needling each other—that is the word for it, isn’t it? Needling?”

“That word fits,” I admitted.

“We need to sign a peace treaty.”

“Smoke the pipe and bury the hatchet, eh?”

“Smoke . . . ?”

I waved it away and looked her over as I tried to spin the brain up to speed. She had wide cheekbones, deep brown eyes set wide apart and a magnificent mane of dark brown hair brushed over to her left side, exposing her right ear, upon which a small diamond earring could be seen. She wasn’t wearing any rings on her hands. I didn’t know the protocol for widows, but I didn’t recall ever seeing her with rings. She had long, slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails, of course. Whatever Marisa’s problems were, they didn’t include nail-biting.

So what were her problems? Presumably she had inherited enough money to live on. If she didn’t get prosecuted for killing ol’ Jean, life should be looking up. And I seriously doubted that a murder prosecution was in her future, not unless the French fuzz had a digitalis bottle with her fingerprints on it.

I sat there musing about her problems and enjoying the view—she was a beautiful woman—while she sipped chocolate.

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