The Mark of the Assassin (4 page)
James Beckwith detested the business of politics, but he was savvy enough to realize that the terrorists had handed him a golden opportunity. For the past year his approval ratings had hovered below fifty percent, death for an incumbent president. His acceptance speech at the Republican National Convention had been flat and lifeless. The Washington press corps had branded his vision for a second term “warmed-over first term.” Some of its elite members had begun writing his political obituary. With just one month before the election, he trailed his opponent, Democratic Senator Andrew Sterling of Nebraska, by three to five points in most national polls.
The electoral map looked different, though. Beckwith had conceded New York, New England, and the industrial Midwest to Sterling. His support remained solid in the South, the crucial states of Florida and Texas, and California, the mountain West. If Beckwith could capture them all, he could win. If any one of them fell to Sterling, the election was lost.
He knew the downing of Flight 002 would change everything. The campaign would freeze; Beckwith would cancel a swing through Tennessee and Kentucky to return to Washington to deal with the crisis. If he managed it well, his approval ratings would rise and he would close the gap. And he could do it all from the comfort and security of the White House, not racing around the country in Air Force One or some godforsaken campaign bus, shaking hands with old people, making the same goddamned speech over and over again.
Great men are not born great, he told himself. Great men
become
great because they seize opportunity.
become
great because they seize opportunity.
He carried his coffee back to the window. He thought, But do I really want a second term? Unlike most of his predecessors, he had given that question serious consideration. He wondered whether he had the endurance for one last national campaign: the endless fund-raising, the microscopic scrutiny of his record, the constant travel. He and Anne had come to detest living in Washington. He had never been accepted by the city’s ruling elite—its rich journalists, lawyers, and lobbyists—and the Executive Mansion had become more like a prison than a home. But to leave office after one term was unacceptable. To lose reelection to a second-term senator from Nebraska and leave Washington in defeat . . . ?
Beckwith shuddered at the thought.
They would be coming for him soon. There was a private bathroom just off his study. An aide had left his clothes on a hook on the back of the door. The President went inside and cast his eyes over the clothing. He knew the outfit had been selected personally by his chief of staff and longtime friend, Paul Vandenberg. Paul saw to the details; Paul saw to everything. Beckwith would be lost without him.
Sometimes, even Beckwith was embarrassed by the extent to which Paul Vandenberg ran his affairs. The media routinely referred to him as “the prime minister” or “the power behind the throne.” Beckwith, ever conscious of his image in history, worried he would be written off as a pawn of Paul Vandenberg. But Vandenberg had given Beckwith his word; he would never portray himself in that manner. The President trusted him. Paul Vandenberg knew how to keep secrets. He believed in the quiet exercise of power. He was intensely private, kept a low profile, and leaked to reporters only when it was absolutely necessary. He reluctantly appeared on the Sunday morning talk shows, but only when the White House press secretary begged. Beckwith thought he was a horrible guest; the confidence and brilliance he displayed in private planning and policy meetings evaporated once the red light of the television camera came on.
He removed his faded jeans and cotton pullover and dressed in the clothes Paul had chosen for him: gray woolen trousers, blue button-down shirt, lightweight crewneck sweater, blue blazer. Dignified yet comforting. His national security staff was meeting in ten minutes in the dining room downstairs. There would be no video cameras, just a White House still photographer who would capture the moment for the press and for history. James Beckwith, confronting the most important crisis of his presidency. James Beckwith, casting aside his reelection campaign to deal with the responsibilities of his office. James Beckwith, leader.
He looked at his reflection in the mirror one last time.
Great men are not born great. Great men become great because they seize opportunity.
3
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Elizabeth Osbourne had been dreading this moment all week. She turned her silver Mercedes into the parking lot at Georgetown University Medical Center and found a space not far from the entrance. She looked at the dashboard clock. It was four-thirty; she was fifteen minutes early. She shut off the engine. A tropical storm had moved up from the Gulf of Mexico and settled over the city. Heavy rains fell all afternoon. Gusty winds uprooted trees all across Northwest Washington, shut down National Airport, and drove the tourists from the monuments and museums along the Mall.
Rain drummed on the roof and ran in rivers down the windshield. After a moment, the rest of the world vanished behind a blurry curtain of water. Elizabeth liked the sensation of being able to see nothing else around her. She closed her eyes. She liked to fantasize about changing her life, about slowing down, about leaving Washington and settling somewhere slow and quiet with Michael. She knew it was a silly, unrealistic dream. Elizabeth Osbourne was one of Washington’s most respected lawyers. Her husband, while professing to be an international business consultant, was a senior officer at the Central Intelligence Agency.
Her cellular phone rang softly. She picked up the handset, eyes still closed, and said, “Yes, Max.”
Max Lewis was her twenty-six-year-old executive secretary. The previous night, sitting alone in her bedroom with a glass of wine and a stack of legal briefs, Elizabeth had realized she spoke to Max more than anyone else in the world. This depressed her greatly.
“How did you know it was me?” he asked.
“Because you and my husband are the only people who have this number, and I knew it couldn’t be him.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“No, just a little tired. What’s up?”
“David Carpenter’s on the line from Miami.”
“Tell Mr. Carpenter I’ll call him as soon as I get home. It’s been my experience that conversations with David Carpenter should rarely be conducted on cellular telephones.”
“He says it’s urgent.”
“It usually is.”
“What time should I tell him to expect your call?”
“About seven o’clock, but it may slip a little bit depending on how things go here.”
“Braxton’s secretary telephoned.”
Samuel Braxton was the managing partner at Braxton, Allworth & Kettlemen and the firm’s biggest rainmaker. He had served two Republican administrations—once as deputy White House chief of staff and once as deputy secretary of the Treasury—and was on the short list to be secretary of state if Beckwith managed to win a second term. He viewed Elizabeth with suspicion because he didn’t like her politics; her father was Douglas Cannon, a liberal Democrat from New York who served four terms in the Senate, and she had twice left the firm to work for Democratic senators. Braxton routinely referred to her as “our in-house lefty.” At meetings, when working his way around the table on an issue, he frequently managed to break up the room by turning to Elizabeth and saying, “And now, with the view from the ACLU, Elizabeth Cannon-Osbourne.”
There was a more serious side to her conflict with Samuel Braxton; he had fought to prevent her from making partner and had relented only when the other partners convinced him he would be setting the firm up for a gender-discrimination lawsuit. Now, three years later, their relationship had settled into an uneasy truce. Braxton generally treated her with respect and made a genuine effort to consult her on all major decisions concerning the future and direction of the firm. He regularly invited her to social functions, and last year, at the White House Christmas party, he referred to her as “one of our real stars” when introducing her to Chief of Staff Paul Vandenberg.
“What does Lord Braxton desire, Max?”
Max laughed. She would trust him with her life. It was mutual. Six months earlier Max had told her something he had told no one else—he was HIV-positive.
“The Lord would like you to attend a dinner party Thursday evening.”
“Is it being held at the manor?”
“No, one of his big clients is throwing it. The Lord’s secretary made it sound as if attendance was not optional.”
“Who’s the client?”
“Mitchell Elliott.”
“Mitchell Elliott of Alatron Defense Systems?”
“He’s the one.”
“Where’s the party?”
“At Elliott’s home in Kalorama. California Street, to be precise. You have a pen handy?”
Elizabeth fished a pen and her calendar from her briefcase and jotted down the address as Max read it to her.
“What time?”
“Seven-thirty.”
“Am I allowed to bring a date?”
“Spouses are permitted. Elizabeth, you’re going to be late for your appointment.”
She glanced at the dashboard clock. “Oh, shit! Anything else?”
“Nothing that can’t hold till morning.”
“Where am I going tomorrow?”
“Chicago. I put the tickets in the outside flap of your briefcase.”
She pulled open the flap and saw the American Airlines first-class ticket jacket.
“I’d be lost without you, Max.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t hear from Michael, did you?”
“Not a peep.”
“I’ll call you from the plane tomorrow morning.”
“Great,” he said. “And good luck, Elizabeth. I’ll be thinking about you.”
She severed the connection and punched in the speed-dial code for Michael’s car phone. The phone rang five times before a recorded voice announced that the customer was not available at this time. Elizabeth angrily snapped the receiver back into its cradle. She sat very still for a moment, listening to the rattle of the rain.
She whispered, “Michael Osbourne, if you don’t drive into this parking lot in the next five minutes, so help me God, I’ll . . .”
She waited five minutes; then she struggled into her raincoat and stepped outside the warmth of the car into the storm. She threw up her umbrella and started across the parking lot, but the wind gusted and ripped it from her grasp. She watched it for a moment, tumbling toward Reservoir Road. Something about it made her laugh helplessly. She clutched her raincoat tightly against her throat and hurried across the parking lot through the rain.
“The doctor is running a few minutes behind schedule.”
The receptionist smiled, as though it was the most interesting thing she’d said all day. Elizabeth went inside, removed her wet raincoat, and sat down. She was the last patient of the afternoon and, thankfully, she was alone. The last thing she wanted now was to make idle conversation with another woman suffering from the same problem. Rain pattered against the window overlooking the parking lot. She turned and peered out. A line of trees shed leaves to the onslaught of the wind. She looked for Michael’s Jaguar but saw no sign of it.
She reached in her bag and removed one of her pocket cellular telephones—she carried two with her at all times to make certain she could conduct two conversations at once—and punched in Michael’s number. Again, there was no answer. She wanted to phone his office, but if he was still at Langley he would never make it in time anyway.
She stood up and slowly paced the room. It was at times like these that Elizabeth Osbourne detested the fact that she was married to a spy. Michael hated it when she called him a spy. He patiently explained he was a case officer, not a spy. She thought it was a silly term for what Michael did. “It sounds as if you’re some kind of counselor or social worker,” Elizabeth had said, the night Michael tried to explain his work to her for the first time. He smiled his careful smile and replied, “Well, that’s not very far from the truth.”
She had fallen in love with Michael before she learned he worked for the CIA. A friend had invited her sailing on the Chesapeake, and Michael had been invited too. It was a sweltering day in late July with very little wind. As the boat drifted over the still water, Elizabeth and Michael lay in the shade of the limp sails, drinking icy beer and talking. Unlike most men in Washington, he spoke little about his work. He said he was an international business consultant, he had lived in London for a number of years, and he had just transferred to the firm’s Washington office.
That night they ate crab cakes and drank cold white wine at a small waterfront restaurant in Annapolis. She found herself staring at him throughout the meal. He was simply the most beautiful man she had ever seen. The day of sailing had changed him. The sun had tanned his skin and left streaks of gold in his dark hair. His eyes were deep green, flecked with yellow, like wild summer grass. He had a long, straight nose, and several times she had to restrain herself from reaching out and touching his perfect lips. She thought he was rather exotic-looking, like an Italian or a Turk or a Spaniard.
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