The Assassins by Gayle Lynds

coat, probably to cool off.
    Amused, she realized she was assessing him just as she did her shadows. And then she saw he was watching, too—but other people.
    “Tucker Andersen sends his regards,” he said. His lips had barely moved, and his face remained in profile as he continued to face the shelves.
    His quiet voice seemed to float on the air a few seconds before Eva computed he had spoken to her.
    “Don’t look directly at me,” he continued. “You realize you’ve given Gretchen Hilton cardiac arrest. How she ever lasted in the field twenty years is beyond me. She’ll get even with you, though. You can expect descriptive words like unsavory and voyeur and sophomoric antics about you in her report. Of course, there are some who will be delighted by her discomfort.”
    “Who are you?”
    He slid the movie he had been examining back into its slot. “Frank Smith. That’s my real name. I understand you’re operating under the alias Debora Lane. Nice name. Let’s go outside and walk while we talk. That way we’ll minimize the annoyance of eavesdroppers, busybodies, and professional spooks like ourselves.” Without waiting for her response, he walked past the counter and out the glass door.
    Eva snapped up a Washington Post from a stack on the counter and paid the cashier. Pausing at the door, she scanned the sidewalk and trees. Seeing no sign of her shadow, she left the store, too. She did not bother to look for Frank Smith; if he were serious about talking with her, he would find her.
    She turned back the way she had come to retrieve her rental car—all the trainees were required to use rental cars, at government expense. They were useful for changing identities and losing tails.
    Before she had walked twenty feet, Frank Smith stepped out from the side of a building. How had he managed to hide himself so completely?
    She turned to face him.
    He gave an enormous smile. “Ah, yes, the Farm. By now you no doubt have done paramilitary training and conquered that ridiculous obstacle course. I assume you’ve created a bomb using Clorox, although I’ve never been certain exactly why we needed to know that—”
    Eva walked toward him. As she forced a smile, she let her ankle turn just enough that she stumbled. Falling into him, she pressed The Washington Post against his chest. Hidden by the newspaper, her hand flew under his shearling coat, found a wallet, and with two fingers confiscated it.
    Grinning, he grabbed her elbows, supporting her.
    “I’m so sorry.” She straightened. “I’m usually not so clumsy.” The wallet was now safely hidden under the newspaper.
    “On the contrary,” he said genially as he guided her down the sidewalk. “That was an expert dip. I’d heard you were a pickpocket in your youth. You must’ve been quite successful, if that maneuver on me was any indication. Now you’ll see I’m not carrying any additional papers under another name, and the ones in your hand are in order. Please do check.”
    Eva fought to keep surprise from her face, and annoyance. The only other person to make her had been Tucker Andersen, but then he, like Frank Smith, had been forewarned.
    “I intend to.” She kept her tone businesslike. Tucking the newspaper under her arm, she opened the leather wallet. Inside were credit cards, a Virginia driver’s license, CIA identification, and a membership card in the Westwood Country Club in Vienna, Virginia.
    “I’m a golfer,” he explained, indicating the country club card. “Because of the sort of work we do, I’ve been fortunate to play some of the best courses on the planet. Of course, my favorite is St. Andrews. Scotland, you know.” He rubbed his gloved hands together in delight. “And the whiskey is like velvet.”
    She handed him his wallet. He talked a lot but said little. “Why are you here?” she asked.
    “Tucker Andersen needs you for a job. He’s cleared it with the Farm, and I was ordered to collect you. Your supervisor is sending