The Mark of the Assassin (10 page)
“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.
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.
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.
One of Vandenberg’s three secretaries poked her head in the office. “Coffee, Mr. Vandenberg?”
“Thanks, Margaret.”
At seven-thirty the senior staff filed into his office : the press secretary, the budget director, the communications director, the domestic policy adviser, the congressional liaison, and the deputy national security adviser. Vandenberg liked meetings quick and informal. Each staff member carried a notebook, a cup of coffee, and a doughnut or bagel. Vandenberg presided. He moved quickly around the room, getting updates, giving instructions, dispensing with problems. The meeting broke up on schedule at seven-forty-five. He had fifteen minutes before his meeting with Beckwith.
“Margaret, no visitors or phone calls, please.”
“Yes, Mr. Vandenberg.”
Paul Vandenberg had been at James Beckwith’s side for twenty years—on Capitol Hill and in Sacramento—but this would be their most crucial encounter ever. He opened the French doors and stepped out onto the sunlit patio, breathing the chill October air. The media droned on about his power, but even the jaded Washington press corps would be shocked by Paul Vandenberg’s real influence. Most of his predecessors had believed it was their job to help the President arrive at decisions by making certain he saw the right people and read the right information. Vandenberg saw his job differently: He made the decisions and sold them to the President. Their meetings never strayed far from the script. Beckwith would listen intently, blink, nod, and scribble a few notes. Finally he would say, “What do you think we should do, Paul?” And Vandenberg would tell him.
He hoped this morning would go the same way. Vandenberg would write the script and choreograph the scenes; the President would deliver the lines. If they were damned lucky, and if Beckwith didn’t fuck it up, they just might get a second term.
Elizabeth Osbourne stood on the corner of 34th and M streets, dressed in a colorful warm-up and running shoes. It was still early, but traffic poured over Key Bridge into Georgetown. She bent over and stretched the back of her legs. A man in a passing car blew his horn and puckered his lips at her suggestively. Elizabeth ignored him, resisting the temptation to make an obscene gesture of her own. Carson arrived first, scampering down the short hill from Prospect Street. Susanna arrived a moment later.
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