The Mark of the Assassin

by Daniel Silva

A steward entered, cleared away the dishes, and poured coffee. The President lit a cigarette. Anne made him quit twenty years ago but allowed him one each night with coffee. Beckwith, in an astonishing display of self-discipline, smoked his one cigarette each night and only one. When the steward was gone, Elliott said, “We still have a month before the election, Anne. We can turn this thing around.”

  “Mitchell Elliott, you sound like those surrogates who go on mindless television talk shows and spew spin and talking points about how the American people haven’t focused on the election yet. You know as well as I do that the polls aren’t going to change between now and Election Day.”

  “Normally, that’s the case, I’ll concede that. But two nights ago an Arab terrorist blew an American jetliner from the sky. The President has the stage to himself now. Sterling is out of the picture. The President has been presented with a marvelous opportunity to showcase his experience at managing a crisis.”

  “My God, Mitchell Elliott, two hundred and fifty people are dead, and you’re excited because you think it will help us finally move the polls!”

  “Mitchell didn’t say that, Anne,” Beckwith said. “Just listen to the media. Everything that takes place in an election year is viewed through the prism of politics. To pretend otherwise would be naïve.”

  Anne Beckwith rose abruptly. “Well, this naïve old lady has had enough for one evening.” The President and Elliott stood up. Anne kissed her husband’s cheek and held out her hand to their guest. “He’s tired, Mitchell. He hasn’t slept much since being presented with this marvelous political opportunity of yours. Don’t keep him up long.”

  When Anne was gone, the two men walked downstairs and along the covered outdoor walkway to the Oval Office. A fire was burning, and the lights were dimmed. Paul Vandenberg was there, waiting. Beckwith sat in a wing chair near the fire, and Vandenberg sat next to him. That left one of the deep white couches to Elliott. When he sat down he sank into the soft cushion. He felt shorter than the other two men and didn’t like it. Vandenberg, sensing Elliott’s discomfort, allowed a smile to flicker across his face.

  Beckwith glared, first at his chief of staff, then at Elliott. “All right, gentlemen,” he said. “Suppose you tell me what this is all about.”

  Elliott said, “Mr. President, I want to help you win reelection—for the good of this marvelous country of ours and for the good of the American people. And I believe I know how to do it.”

  The President raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Let’s hear it, Mitchell.”

  “In a moment, Mr. President,” Elliott said. “First, I think a brief prayer to the Almighty is in order.”

  Mitchell Elliott rose from his seat, dropped to his knees in the Oval Office, and began to pray.

  “Do you think he’ll go through with it, Paul?”

  “Hard to say. He wants to sleep on it. That’s a good sign.”

  During the short trip from the White House they had chatted briefly or said nothing at all. Neither man liked to talk in enclosed places, including moving government cars. Now they walked side by side up the gentle grade of California Street past the grand, brightly lit mansions of Kalorama. A wet wind moved in the trees. Leaves of ruby and gold tumbled gently through the pale yellow lamplight. The night was quiet except for the wind and the soggy grumble of traffic along Massachusetts Avenue. The car pulled ahead and parked outside Elliott’s house, engine dead, lights off. Elliott’s bodyguard drifted a few paces behind them, out of earshot.

  Elliott said, “His mood is worse than I’ve ever seen it.”

  “He’s tired.”

  “Even if he decides to go forward, I hope he has the energy and passion to make the case to the voters and the Congress.”

  “He’s the best performer to sit in that office since Ronald Reagan. If we give him a good script, he’ll deliver his lines and hit his toe marks.”

  “Just make damned sure you give him a good script.”

  “I’ve already commissioned the speech.”

  “Jesus Christ! Then I’m sure we’ll be reading about it in the Post in the morning.”

  “I’ve got my best speechwriter working on the drafts. She’s doing it at home. Nothing on the White House computer system, where snoopers and leakers might get their hands on it.”

  “Very good, Paul. I’m relieved to know your tradecraft is as sharp as ever.”

  Vandenberg made no reply. A car passed them, a small Toyota. It turned left on 23rd Street. The taillights vanished into the darkness. The wind gusted. Vandenberg turned up the collar of his raincoat.

  “That was quite a presentation you made, Mitchell. The President was clearly moved. He’ll wake up in the morning and see the wisdom of your approach, I’m sure. I’ll contact the networks and arrange live coverage of a presidential address from the Oval Office.”

  “Will the networks go for it?”

  “Of course. They’ve grumbled in the past, when they think we’re using the privilege of an Oval Office speech for overtly political purposes. But no one can reasonably make that case at a time like this. Besides, your little initiative is going to be the second item of business. The first item will be an announcement that the United States military has just carried out a devastating attack on the Sword of Gaza and its sponsors. I doubt even the network presidents would be arrogant enough to deny Beckwith live coverage at a time like this.”

  “I would have thought someone with your track record would never underestimate the arrogance of the media, Paul.”

  “They say I’m the power behind the throne. I get blamed when things go wrong, but I get the credit when they go right.”

  “I suggest you make damned sure that this one goes right.”

  “I will. Don’t worry.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Leave town as quickly and as quietly as possible.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t.”

  “Jesus Christ, I asked you to keep a low profile.”

  “Just a small dinner party tomorrow night. Braxton, a few of his senior partners, and a senator whose ass I need to kiss.”

  “Add me to the list.”

  “I would have thought you’d be busy, Paul.”

  “The speech will run from nine to nine-fifteen. I’ll come over immediately afterward. Save me a place at the table.”

  Vandenberg climbed into the back of the White House car. The ignition of the engine shattered the quiet of California Street. The car pulled away, turned left onto Massachusetts, and was gone. A few seconds later a Toyota swept past the house, the same one they had seen a few minutes earlier.

  Mitchell Elliott waited for Mark Calahan to accompany him to the walk to his front door.

  “Did you get the license number of that car?”

  “Of course, Mr. Elliott.”

  “Run a check on it. I want to know who owns it.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Elliott was reading in the library when his assistant walked in twenty minutes later.

  “The car’s registered to a Susanna Dayton. She lives in Georgetown.”

  “Susanna Dayton is the Washington Post reporter who’s doing a piece on my connections to Beckwith.”

  “Could be coincidence, Mr. Elliott, but I’d say she’s watching the house.”

  “Put her under surveillance. Bring in as many men as you need to do the job right. I want to know what she’s doing and whom she’s seeing. Get inside her house as quickly as possible. Bug the rooms and the telephones. No fucking around on this one.”

  The aide closed the door behind him as he left. Mitchell Elliott picked up the telephone and dialed the White House. Thirty seconds later, the call was routed through to Paul Vandenberg’s car.

  “Hello, Paul. I’m afraid we have a small problem.”

  8

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Pomander Walk is a touch of France hidden within the heart of Georgetown, ten small cottages off Volta Place, reached by an alley too narrow for cars
. Susanna Dayton fell in love with the little street the first time she saw it: the whitewashed brick exteriors, the brightly painted window frames, the flowers spilling from pots on the front steps. Volta Park was located just across the way, a perfect place to run her golden retriever. When one of the ten houses had finally come on the market two years ago, she sold her Connecticut Avenue apartment and moved in.

  She parked her car on Volta Place, grabbed her bag, and climbed out. The rain had ended, and the street was buried beneath a carpet of slick leaves. Susanna closed the door and crossed the street. Pomander Walk was quiet as usual. The soft light of a television flickered in the living room window of the house directly opposite hers.

  Carson barked loudly as Susanna walked up the front steps of her house and shoved her key in the lock. He scampered into the kitchen and came back with his leash in his mouth.

  “In a minute, sweetheart. Let me do a little work and change clothes.”

  The house was small but comfortable for one person: two bedrooms above, kitchen and living room below. When she was still married, she and her husband lived in a larger town house two blocks away on 34th Street. It was sold in the divorce settlement and the money divided between them. Jack and his new wife, an aerobics instructor at his health club, bought a house overlooking Rock Creek in Bethesda. Susanna was glad he had moved. She wanted to stay in Georgetown without having to worry about bumping into Jack and his trophy wife every other day.

  She used the spare bedroom as an office. Papers and files littered the floor. Books crammed the built-in shelves. She placed her laptop on the desk and switched on the power. For five minutes she typed rapidly. Carson sat in the doorway, eyes locked on her, his leash in his mouth. It had been an amazing night. Mitchell Elliott had spent three hours inside the White House, presumably with the President. And then she had seen him walking outside his California Street home with the President’s chief of staff, Paul Vandenberg. Taken in isolation, the information was not damning. If she could fit it into the rest of the puzzle, she might have a real story. There was nothing more to do tonight. She would talk to her editor in the morning, tell him what she had learned, and decide where to look next.

  She encrypted the file and saved it to her hard drive and two floppy disks. She removed the second disk and carried it into her bedroom. It was late, after eleven, but she was keyed up from sitting in the car and the café all night. She removed her sweater, stepped out of her skirt, and pulled off her stockings and her underwear. From her dresser drawer she took a pair of blue Lycra running pants and a cotton turtleneck pullover and quickly put them on. A nylon jacket hung on a hook in the bathroom. She pulled it on, then bent over the sink and scrubbed off the makeup she had put on fifteen hours earlier.

  She dried her face and looked at her reflection in the mirror. At forty, Susanna Dayton still considered herself a moderately attractive woman: dark curly hair that fell about her shoulders, deep brown eyes, olive skin. The hours were beginning to show on her face, though. She had thrown herself into her work since the divorce from Jack. Sixteen-hour days were normal, not an exception. She had dated a few men casually—even slept with a couple—but work came first now.

  Carson paced the upstairs hallway. “Come on, boy. Let’s go.”

  Susanna took the disk and followed the dog downstairs. While she stretched, she picked up the cordless telephone and punched in the number for her neighbor, an environmental lobbyist named Harry Scanlon.

  “I’m going out for a run with Carson,” she said. “If I’m not back in a half hour, send for help.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Dupont Circle and back.”

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  “Working, as usual. I’m going to drop one through the slot on my way out.”

  “Fine.”

  “Good night, darling.”

  “Good night, my love.”

  She hung up. She placed her beeper and a cellular phone in a fanny pack, put it around her waist, and let herself out. She knew it was foolish to run so late at night—her friends constantly lectured her about it—but she always carried a cellular phone and took Carson along for protection.

  She walked up the steps to Harry’s house and slipped the disk through his mail slot. Susanna believed in having backups to her backups, and if her house ever burned down or was robbed, at least Harry would have a copy of her notes. Harry thought she was out of her mind, but he indulged her. They had a system: When Susanna slipped a new floppy through Harry’s mail slot, Harry would return the old one through hers, usually the next morning.

  She slipped out Pomander Walk. Carson relieved himself against the side of a tree. Then she zipped up her jacket against the cold and started running eastward across Georgetown through the darkness, Carson at her side.

  The man in the parked car on Volta Place watched the woman leave. He knew he wouldn’t have much time. It was late; she probably wouldn’t run for very long. He would have to work quickly.

  He climbed out, softly closed the door, and crossed the street. He wore black trousers, a dark shirt, and a black leather jacket and carried a small leather attaché in his right hand. Mark Calahan was not wasting any time. He had served in the Special Forces—Navy SEALs, to be precise. He knew how to penetrate buildings quietly. He knew how to leave without a trace.

  Pomander Walk was quiet. Only one of the small houses showed any signs of life. Thirty seconds after entering the street he had picked Susanna Dayton’s lock and was inside the house.

  He stayed there for fifteen minutes and left as quietly as he came.

  At four o’clock, Michael awakened with the rain. He tried to sleep again, but it was no good. Each time he closed his eyes he saw the plane hurtling down to the sea and the face of Hassan Mahmoud, blown apart by three bullets. He slipped quietly from bed and walked down the hall to the study, switched on his computer, and sat down.

  The files passed before his eyes—photographs, police reports, Agency memos, reports from friendly intelligence services. He reviewed them one more time. The murder of a government official in Spain, claimed by the Basque separatist movement ETA but later denied. The murder of a French police official in Paris, claimed by the militant Direct Action, later denied. The murder of a BMW official in Frankfurt, claimed by the Red Army Faction, later denied. The murder of a senior PLO commander in Tunis, claimed by a rival Palestinian faction, later denied. The murder of an Israeli businessman in London, claimed by the PLO, later denied. All the attacks came at critical times and served to worsen tensions. All had one other thing in common—the victims received three gunshot wounds to the face.

  Michael opened another file. The victim was Sarah Randolph. She was a wealthy, beautiful art student with leftist politics, and Osbourne, against all better judgment, had fallen hopelessly in love with her while he was working from London. He knew Personnel Security would get the jitters about her politics, so he broke Agency rules and chose not to declare the relationship. When she was murdered on the Chelsea Embankment, the Agency took it as a sign that Michael’s cover had been blown and that he could no longer operate as a NOC in the field.

  He clicked open her photograph. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever known, but an assassin had taken her beauty and her life: three bullets to the face, 9mm rounds, just like the others. Michael had seen her killer, just for an instant. He believed it was the same man who killed the others, the same man who killed Hassan Mahmoud.

  Who was he? Did he work for a government, or was he a freelancer? Why did he always kill the same way? Michael lit a cigarette and asked himself something else: Does he really exist, or is he a figment of my imagination, a ghost in the files? Carter thought Michael was seeing things. Carter would have his ass if he peddled his theory now. So would Monica Tyler. He shut off the computer and went back to bed.

  9

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The following morning Paul Vandenberg leafed through a stack
of newspapers as his chauffeured black sedan sped along the George Washington Parkway toward the White House. Most administration officials preferred to scan a digest of news clips prepared each morning by the White House press office, but Vandenberg, a rapid and prodigious reader, wanted the real thing. He liked to see how a story was played. Was it above the fold or below? Was it on the front page or buried inside? Besides, he distrusted summaries. He liked raw intelligence, raw data. He had a mind capable of storing and processing immense amounts of information, unlike his boss, who needed bite-size portions.

  Vandenberg liked what he saw. The downing of Flight 002 dominated the front pages of every major newspaper in the country. The presidential campaign seemed no longer to exist. The Los Angeles Times had the big scoop of the morning: U.S. law enforcement and intelligence officials had pinned responsibility on the Sword of Gaza. The paper laid out that case in detail, complete with precise graphics on how the attack was carried out and a profile of the terrorist involved, Hassan Mahmoud. Vandenberg smiled; the idea to leak to the Los Angeles Times was his. It was the most important newspaper in California, and they would need a chit or two in the stretch drive before Election Day.

  The rest of it was just as good. Beckwith’s trip to Long Island received prominent coverage. The New York Times and the Washington Post published complete transcripts of his remarks at the memorial service. Every newspaper printed the same Associated Press photo of Beckwith consoling the mother of one of the young victims. Beckwith as father figure. Beckwith as mourner in chief. Beckwith as the avenging angel. Sterling was frozen out. His campaign swing through California received virtually no coverage. It was perfect.

  The car arrived at the White House. Vandenberg climbed out and entered the West Wing. His office was large and tastefully furnished, with French doors opening onto a small flagstone patio overlooking the South Lawn. He sat down at his desk and thumbed through a stack of telephone messages. He glanced at the President’s schedule. Vandenberg had cleared the decks of anything unrelated to Flight 002. He wanted Beckwith rested and relaxed when he went before the cameras that night. It was arguably the most important moment in his presidency—indeed, in his career.