The Mark of the Assassin

by Daniel Silva

  Delaroche charged across the sloping lawn, feet flying over the wet springy turf, until the smack of his feet along the wooden dock shattered the nightmare image of his own death. He could hear the dinghy banging against the pylons of the dock, but the engine was silent. A few seconds later he reached the end of the dock and looked down, gun leveled into the darkness.

  The dinghy was empty.

  “Drop the gun!” Michael shouted over the wind. “Lie flat on the dock, facedown, and do it very slowly.”

  Michael stood at the foot of the dock, October at the end, fifty feet away. His left arm hung at his side; his right arm was bent at the elbow, and the gun was near his face. He was motionless. By the sound of the sirens the police were on Shore Road now. They would arrive in a matter of seconds.

  “Drop the gun now!” Michael yelled. “It’s over. Just do what I say.”

  October lowered his right arm until it hung straight at his side. The police reached the front gate. Michael heard the cottage door swing open. He turned in the direction of the sound and caught a glimpse of Elizabeth’s beige sweater, flashing through the darkness.

  He shouted, “Stay back, Elizabeth!”

  October dropped into a crouch and pivoted. The arm swung up. Michael fired several shots with the Browning but they all sailed over October’s head. The assassin fired three times through the darkness. One shot found its mark, tearing into the right side of Michael’s chest.

  The Browning tumbled from his hand and clattered along the dock. Michael fell onto his back. His right arm went numb; then he felt an intense, searing pain in his chest.

  The rain beat down on his face. Tree limbs twisted in the wind, and in his dementia Michael thought they were giant hands clawing at his body. He drifted toward unconsciousness. He saw Sarah walking toward him on the Chelsea Embankment, her long skirt dancing across buckskin boots. He saw her exploded face. He heard Elizabeth’s voice, calling from a long way off, incomprehensible. Finally, it cut through the fog of shock.

  “Michael! He’s coming! Michael, please, God! Michael!”

  Michael lifted his head and saw October slowly advancing toward him. The Browning lay on the dock, a few feet away. Michael tried to reach out with his right hand, but it would not obey his command to move. He rolled onto his right side and reached out with his left hand. He felt the cold metal of the Browning, the butt slick with rain. He grabbed hold of it, slipped his finger in the trigger guard, and fired down the dock.

  Delaroche saw the muzzle flash of Osbourne’s gun. He raised his Beretta as the first series of shots whizzed harmlessly past and took aim at Osbourne’s prone body. He took a step closer. He wanted to shoot him in the face. He wanted to avenge Astrid’s death. He wanted to leave his mark.

  Osbourne fired again. This time a bullet ripped through Delaroche’s right hand, shattering bone. The Beretta tumbled from his grasp and fell into the swirling water below the dock. He looked down and saw fragmented bone jutting from the ugly exit wound on the back of his hand.

  He wanted to kill Osbourne with his one good hand—break his neck or crush his windpipe—but Osbourne still had his gun, and the police had entered the grounds. He turned, ran quickly down the dock, and leaped into the dinghy.

  He pulled the starter cord four times until the little outboard motor turned over. He untied the line and guided the boat away from the dock into Shelter Island Sound.

  Cannon Point was ablaze with flashing lights. Sirens filled the air. Above it all, Delaroche heard one thing—the screams of Elizabeth Osbourne, begging her husband not to die.

  49

  LONDON

  “Is Osbourne going to live?” the Director asked, from the library of his home in St. John’s Wood.

  “His condition stabilized this evening,” Mitchell Elliott said. “There was some additional bleeding around midday, so the surgeons had to go back in. Unfortunately, it looks as though he’s going to survive.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Officially, his location is secret. My source in Langley confirms Osbourne is in the intensive care unit at Stonybrook Hospital on Long Island.”

  “I hope you realize Osbourne is untouchable at this point. For the moment, at least.”

  “Yes, I realize that, Director.”

  “He’s survived two attempts on his life. Under no circumstances is there to be a third.”

  “Of course, Director.”

  “He is a very worthy opponent, our Mr. Osbourne. I have to say I admire him very much. I wish there were some way to entice him into working for me.”

  “He’s a Boy Scout, Director, and Boy Scouts don’t fit well into your organization.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “What’s the status of October?” Elliott asked.

  “I’m afraid he received a rather rude welcome from the extraction team.”

  “And the advance payments we made to his Swiss bank account?”

  “All gone, I’m afraid. It seems October transferred the money from the account as quickly as it came in.”

  “That’s a pity.”

  “Yes, but surely a man of your means isn’t worried about a little loose change like that.”

  “Of course not, Director.”

  “There’s still one target to be dealt with.”

  “I’ve already set those wheels in motion.”

  “Excellent. Do it skillfully, though. There’s a great deal at stake.”

  “It will be done very skillfully.”

  “Mr. Elliott, I know I don’t need to remind you that your first duty at this point is to protect the Society at all costs. You must do nothing that would place the Society in any harm whatsoever. I know I’ll have your cooperation on that matter.”

  “Of course, Director.”

  “Very well. It’s been a pleasure doing business with you. I only hope it wasn’t all for naught. It’s going to take all your considerable skills to ensure the survival of your missile defense contract.”

  “I’m confident that goal can be accomplished.”

  “Wonderful. Good night, Mr. Elliott.”

  “Good night, Director.”

  The Director replaced the receiver in its cradle.

  “You’re a very good liar,” Daphne said.

  She let her silk gown fall from her shoulders and slipped into bed next to him.

  “I’m afraid it’s necessary in this line of work.”

  She kissed him on the mouth and pressed her breasts against his body. Then she reached between his legs and took him in her hands. “Anything, my love?” she whispered.

  He kissed her and said, “Perhaps if you tried a little harder, petal.”

  50

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Paul Vandenberg parked on Ohio Drive, overlooking the Washington Channel, and shut down the engine. He had come alone, in his private car, just as Elliott asked. The meeting was supposed to take place at 10 p.m., but Elliott was uncharacteristically late. Another car pulled in behind him, a large black four-wheel-drive vehicle, its tinted windows pulsating to the beat of gangsta rap music. Vandenberg started his engine and let it idle as he waited. The four-wheel-drive left at ten-fifteen. Five minutes later a black sedan pulled next to him, and the rear window descended.

  It was Mark Calahan, Mitchell Elliott’s personal aide.

  “Mr. Elliott is terribly sorry, but there has to be a change of venue,” Calahan said. “Come with me, and I’ll bring you back to your car when the meeting is done.”

  Vandenberg got out of his car and climbed into the back of the black sedan. They drove for ten minutes—around Mains Point, across the Memorial Bridge to Virginia, then north along the parkway. Calahan remained silent the entire time. It was one of Elliott’s rules, no small talk between staff and clients. Finally, the car pulled into a parking lot overlooking Roosevelt Island.

  “Mr. Elliott is waiting for you on the island, sir,” Calahan said politely. “I’ll take you to him.”

  The two men
climbed out.

  The driver, Henry Rodriguez, waited behind the wheel.

  Two minutes later, Rodriguez heard the snap of a single gunshot.

  A jogger found the body at seven-fifteen the following morning. It lay next to a marble bench at the memorial to Theodore Roosevelt, which the media deemed fitting, since Paul Vandenberg had always admired TR. The gun had been placed in the mouth. A large section of the back of Vandenberg’s head was gone. The slug was embedded in a tree trunk sixty feet away.

  The suicide note was found in the breast pocket of his woolen overcoat. It bore the hallmarks of all good Vandenberg memos: concise, economical, to the point. He had taken his own life, the note said, because he was aware the Washington Post was preparing a devastating account of his fund-raising activities over the years on behalf of James Beckwith. Vandenberg admitted guilt. Beckwith and Mitchell Elliott bore none of the responsibility; Vandenberg had planned and executed everything. He had taken his own life, the note said, because death by gunshot was preferable to death by independent counsel.

  A shaken James Beckwith appeared in the White House briefing room late in the afternoon, in time for the evening newscasts. He professed profound shock and sadness at the death of his closest aide. He then announced that the Justice Department would immediately commence a full and thorough investigation of all of Vandenberg’s fund-raising activities on Beckwith’s behalf. He left the briefing room without taking questions and spent a quiet evening with Anne in the family quarters of the mansion.

  The following morning the Post devoted much of page one to the apparent suicide of Paul Vandenberg. The coverage included a lengthy account of the financial relationship between James Beckwith and Mitchell Elliott. The piece disputed the claim, made in Vandenberg’s suicide note, that he alone was the architect of the complex web of financial arrangements that had enriched the Beckwiths over the years. It also implicated Mitchell Elliott’s Washington attorney, Samuel Braxton, Beckwith’s nominee to be secretary of state.

  The piece had a double byline: Tom Logan and Susanna Dayton, Washington Post Staff Writers.

  JANUARY

  51

  SHELTER ISLAND, NEW YORK

  Some nights were better than others. Some nights Elizabeth would see it all again in her dreams and she would wake up screaming, trying to rub the imaginary bloodstains from her hands. Some nights Michael would awaken, having dreamed that October shot him three times in the face instead of once in the chest. The guest cottage was repaired and repainted, but Elizabeth never went there again. Sometimes, Michael sat at the end of the dock and peered into the swirling waters. Sometimes, an hour would pass before he would awaken from his trance. Sometimes, Elizabeth would watch him from the lawn and wonder exactly what he was thinking.

  Of the aftermath, Michael knew only what he read in the newspapers or saw on television, but like any man born to the secret world he generally regarded the news media as annoying background music. Each morning the new caretaker would drive to the pharmacy in Shelter Island Heights and pick up the newspapers—the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, Newsday—and leave them on Michael’s bedside table. By New Year’s Day Michael felt strong enough to make the journey too. He would sit in the front passenger seat of his Jaguar and stare silently out the window at the water and the bare winter trees. His interest receded as January wore on, and by Inauguration Day he had stopped reading the papers altogether.

  Beckwith successfully weathered the storm. Credit was given to his wife, Anne. Anne had become the President’s most important adviser since the death of Paul Vandenberg. Newsweek put her on the cover Christmas week. Inside was a glowing article about her political acumen; Anne would have to play a critical role from the shadows if the second Beckwith term was to succeed. It was Anne, according to Washington’s chattering class, who goaded the President into pressing for sweeping campaign finance reform. With the fervency of the newly converted, Beckwith called for a ban on unregulated contributions to the parties—the “soft money”—and pressed broadcasters to give candidates free airtime. By Inauguration Day his approval ratings had reached sixty percent.

  Two of Beckwith’s closest friends and supporters did not fare as well. Samuel Braxton was forced to withdraw his nomination to be secretary of state. He denied all wrongdoing but said he did not want to tie American foreign policy in knots by engaging in a long and divisive confirmation fight. It was Anne, according to the media, who pushed Braxton off the cliff.

  Alatron Defense Systems voluntarily withdrew from the national missile defense project after Andrew Sterling, Beckwith’s defeated rival and chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, promised to conduct “the congressional equivalent of a rectal exam” on Mitchell Elliott. The contract was awarded to another California defense contractor, and Sterling gave his reluctant support, ensuring the system would be funded and deployed.

  Two days before the inauguration, the FBI and U.S. Park Police released the findings of their investigation into the death of White House Chief of Staff Paul Vandenberg. Investigators found no evidence to suggest his death was anything but a suicide. The investigation into the murders of Max Lewis and Virginia state trooper Dale Preston produced no arrests. The Washington Metropolitan Police Department quietly ended its investigation into the murder of Susanna Dayton. The case file remained technically open.

  Elizabeth spent long weekends on the island. She worked three days a week from the New York office of Braxton, Allworth & Kettlemen while she gradually shed her case load and auditioned new firms. Because of her record and her political connections, she had no shortage of suitors. The venerable New York firm Titan, Webster & Leech offered the most money and, more important, the most flexibility. She accepted their offer and faxed Samuel Braxton her letter of resignation that same afternoon.

  * * *

  Michael healed faster than his doctors expected. Snow fell the first week of January, and the weather turned bitterly cold. But the following week the air warmed, and his doctors ordered him out of the house for gentle walks.

  The first two days he gingerly strolled the grounds of Cannon Point, his right arm in a sling because October’s bullet had shattered his collarbone and cracked his shoulder blade. On the third day he walked in the wind on Shore Road, a pair of Adrian Carter’s security men trailing softly behind him. In a week’s time he walked to the village and back in the morning, and in the late afternoon he would walk the long, rocky beaches of Ram Head.

  In the evenings he wrote in Douglas Cannon’s library overlooking Dering Harbor. After three days he showed the first draft to his father-in-law. Cannon edited with a red pencil, sharpening Michael’s stiff bureaucratic prose, honing the logic of the arguments and conclusions. When it was finished he overnighted it to Adrian Carter at Langley.

  “There’s nothing I hate more than Washington on Inauguration Day,” Carter said the following evening. “I could use some sea air and some of Cannon’s wine. Mind if I come up for a couple of days?”

  “How much longer do I have to put up with these goons?” Michael asked the next afternoon as he bumped along the sixth fairway of the Gardiners Bay Country Club in a golf cart. A pair of CIA security officers in matching Patagonia parkas rode in a cart behind them, muttering into handheld radios.

  “Shit, I trickled into the rough,” Carter said, as he lurched to a stop next to his ball and climbed out of the cart. He pulled a nine-iron from his bag and prepared for a 140-yard shot to the green.

  “Are you going to answer my question?” Michael said.

  “Jesus, Michael, come on. Not while I’m addressing the ball.”

  Carter struck the shot. The ball plopped into the left bunker.

  “Goddammit, Osbourne!”

  “Go easy on yourself, Tiger. It’s thirty-eight degrees out here.”

  Carter climbed into the cart and drove toward the green.

  “Those goons, as you put it, are here to protect you and your family, Michael, and they’ll stay
until I’m satisfied your life is no longer in any danger.”

  “Right now my life is in danger because I’m riding in an open golf cart in the middle of winter.”

  “I’ll take you home after nine and play the back alone.”

  “You’re insane.”

  “You should take up the game.”

  “I have enough frustration in my life. Self-inflicted wounds I can live without. Besides, I’ll be lucky if I can ever raise a beer with this arm, let alone swing a golf club.”

  “How’s Elizabeth doing?”

  “As well as can be expected, Adrian. Killing takes its toll, even when it’s in self-defense. The fact that you were able to keep it from going public has made it easier for her. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “She’s a gem,” Carter said. “I’ve always said you’re the luckiest man I know.”

  Carter’s chip rolled past the cup, leaving him with a ten-foot putt for bogie. “Fuck it,” he said. “It’s too goddamned cold for golf. Let’s spend the afternoon by the fire getting drunk.”

  “Did you read it?” Michael asked, as Carter pulled the cork from an Italian merlot and poured two glasses.

  “Yes, I read it. I had one of two choices—shit-can it or pass it up the line.”

  “Which choice did you make?”

  “I chose the coward’s route. Passed it up the line with no comment.”