The Mark of the Assassin (5 page)
He followed her back into the city that night along Route 50, and she took him home to her bed. She was thirty-four years old and had almost given up on the idea of marriage. But that night, taking him inside her body for the first time, she fell desperately and hopelessly in love with a man who she had met just eight hours earlier and about whom she knew next to nothing.
He told her two months later, during a long weekend alone at her father’s summer home on Shelter Island. It was late September. The days were warm, but at night when the wind came up there was a bite of autumn in the air. After dinner they put on sweaters and long pants and drank coffee in Adirondack chairs on the beach.
“I need to talk to you about my work,” he said without warning, and even in the dying twilight she could see his face had gone suddenly serious. His work had been troubling her for weeks. She found it odd that he never discussed it unless she asked him. She was also troubled by the fact that he never called her during the day and never asked her to lunch. When she rang him at the office, a woman answered the phone and dutifully took down the message, but it was a different woman each time. Sometimes it was hours before he returned her call. When he did he could never speak for longer than a minute or two.
“I’m not an international business consultant, and I’ve never been one,” he began. “I work for the CIA. I had to deceive you until I felt I could trust you enough to tell you. You have to understand, Elizabeth, I didn’t want to hurt you—”
She reached out and slapped him across the face. “You bastard!” she screamed, so loudly that a group of gulls standing on the beach broke into flight over the water. “You lying bastard! I’ll drive you to the ferry in the morning. You can take the bus back into the city. I never want to see you again. Damn you, Michael Osbourne!”
She stayed on the beach until the cold drove her inside. The bedroom was dark. She let herself inside without knocking and found him lying on the bed in the darkness. She undressed silently and pressed her body to his. He tried to speak, but she covered his lips with her mouth and said, “Not now. No talking allowed.”
Afterward, she said, “I don’t care who you are or what you do for a living.” She brushed her mouth against his chest. “I love the person that’s inside here, and I don’t ever want to lose you.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I couldn’t.”
“Is Michael Osbourne your real name?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve never killed anyone, have you?”
“No. We only kill people in the movies.”
“Have you ever seen anyone killed?”
“Yes.”
“Can you talk about it?”
“No, not yet.”
“You’ll never lie to me, will you, Michael?”
“I’ll never lie to you, but there will be things I won’t be able to tell you. Can you live with that?”
“I don’t know yet, but promise me you’ll never lie to me.”
“I’ll never lie to you.”
She kissed his mouth. “Why did you become a spy?”
“We don’t call ourselves spies. We call ourselves case officers.”
“Fine. So why did you become a case officer?”
He laughed his quiet, controlled laugh. “I have no idea.”
Her father thought she was a fool to marry a CIA officer. He had served on the Senate Select Intelligence Committee, and while he detested sweeping generalizations in principle he believed the nation’s spies were the biggest collection of kooks and oddballs he had ever seen. With Michael he made an exception. The two men spent a day sailing together on Gardiners Bay, and the senator gave his enthusiastic blessing to the union. There was much about Michael’s work Elizabeth loathed: the long hours, the travel to dangerous places, the fact that she
really
didn’t know exactly what he did all day. She knew most women would find a marriage like hers unacceptable. She liked to think she was stronger than most women, more self-possessed, more independent. But at times like these she wished her husband had a normal job.
really
didn’t know exactly what he did all day. She knew most women would find a marriage like hers unacceptable. She liked to think she was stronger than most women, more self-possessed, more independent. But at times like these she wished her husband had a normal job.
The room was quiet except for a large television set that continuously played an infomercial hosted by a television anchorwoman Elizabeth detested. She wanted something to read, but all the magazines dealt with raising children, not a pleasant subject for a childless woman of forty.
She tried to change the channel to watch the news, but the television wouldn’t change channels. She tried to turn down the volume, but the volume was preset. She thought, An airliner has just been shot down, and I’m trapped with this insipid blonde trying to sell me baby lotion. She went back to the window and looked for Michael’s car one last time. It was foolish of her to expect him. One of the few things she knew about her husband’s job was that it dealt with counterterrorism. She would be lucky if he even managed to come home tonight.
The nurse appeared in the doorway. “The doctor is ready for you, Mrs. Osbourne. This way, please.”
Elizabeth picked up her briefcase and her raincoat and followed the nurse down a narrow hall.
Forty minutes later, Elizabeth took the elevator down to the lobby and stepped outside onto a covered sidewalk. She turned up her collar and plunged into the drenching rain. The wind blew her hair across her face and tore at her raincoat. Elizabeth seemed not to notice. She was numb.
The doctor’s words ran through her head like an irritating melody that she could not drive from her thoughts.
You’re incapable of having a baby naturally. . . . There’s a problem with your tubes. . . . In vitro fertilization might help. . . . We’ll never know unless we try. . . . I’m very sorry, Elizabeth. . . .
You’re incapable of having a baby naturally. . . . There’s a problem with your tubes. . . . In vitro fertilization might help. . . . We’ll never know unless we try. . . . I’m very sorry, Elizabeth. . . .
A car nearly struck her in the fading light. Elizabeth seemed not to notice as the driver blared his horn and tore off. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to be sick. She thought about making love to Michael. Their marriage had its minor flaws—too much time apart, too many distractions from work—but in bed they were perfect. Their lovemaking was familiar yet exciting. She knew Michael’s body and he knew hers; they knew how to give each other pleasure. Elizabeth had always assumed that when she was ready to have a baby, it would happen as naturally and pleasantly as their lovemaking. She felt betrayed by her body.
The Mercedes stood alone in the corner of the parking lot. She dug in her pocket for her keys. She pointed the remote at the car and pressed the button. The doors unlocked and the lights came on. She climbed quickly inside, closed the door, and locked it again. She tried to shove the key into the ignition, but her hands were shaking and the keys fell from her grasp to the floor. Reaching down for them, she bumped her head against the dashboard.
Elizabeth Osbourne believed in composure: in the courtroom, in the office, with Michael. She never let her emotions get the better of her, even when Sam Braxton made one of his wisecracks. But now, sitting alone in her car, her hair plastered to the side of her face, composure deserted her. Her body slowly fell forward until her head rested against the steering wheel. Then the tears came, and she sat in the car and wept.
4
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Twenty minutes later, a black White House sedan pulled to the curb in the section of the city known as Kalorama. Black staff cars and limousines were not unusual in the neighborhood. Nestled in the wooded hills on the edge of Rock Creek Park just north of Massachusetts Avenue, Kalorama was home to some of the city’s most powerful and influential residents.
Mitchell Elliott detested eastern cities as a rule—he spent most of his time in Colorado Springs or at his canyonside home in Los Angeles, near the headquarters of Alatron Defense Systems—but his $3 million mansion in Kalorama helped make his frequent trips to Washington bearable. He had considered a large estate in the horse country of Virginia, but commuting into the city along Interstate 66 was a nightmare, and Mitchell Elliott didn’t have time to waste. Kalorama was ten minutes from National Airport and Capitol Hill and five minutes from the White House.
It was five minutes before seven. Elliott relaxed in the second-floor library overlooking the garden. The wind hurled rain against the glass. It was cold for October, and one of his aides had laid a fire in the large fireplace. Elliott paced slowly, sipping thirty-year-old single-malt Scotch from a cut-glass tumbler. He was a small man, just over five and a half feet tall, who had learned long ago how to carry himself like a big man. He never allowed an opponent to stand over him. When someone entered his office, Elliott always remained seated, legs crossed, hands resting on the arms of his chair, as if the space were too small to contain his frame.
Elliott was schooled in the art of warfare—and, more important, in the art of deception. He believed in illusion, misdirection. He ran his company like an intelligence agency; it operated on the principle of “need to know.” Information was strictly compartmentalized. The head of one division knew little of what was taking place inside another division, only what the executive
needed
to know. Elliott rarely conducted meetings with all his senior officers present. He gave them orders face-to-face in private meetings, never in written memoranda. All meetings with Elliott were regarded as strictly confidential; executives were forbidden to discuss them with other executives. Office gossip was a firing offense, and if one of his employees was telling tales out of school, Elliott would soon know about it. Their telephones were tapped, their electronic mail was read, and surveillance cameras and microphones covered every square inch of office space.
needed
to know. Elliott rarely conducted meetings with all his senior officers present. He gave them orders face-to-face in private meetings, never in written memoranda. All meetings with Elliott were regarded as strictly confidential; executives were forbidden to discuss them with other executives. Office gossip was a firing offense, and if one of his employees was telling tales out of school, Elliott would soon know about it. Their telephones were tapped, their electronic mail was read, and surveillance cameras and microphones covered every square inch of office space.
Mitchell Elliott saw nothing wrong with this. He believed God had given him the right—indeed, the responsibility—to take whatever steps were necessary to protect his company and his country. Elliott’s belief in God pervaded everything he did. He believed the United States was God’s chosen land, Americans His chosen people. He believed Christ had told him to study aeronautics and electrical engineering, and it was Christ who told him to join the Air Force and fight the godless Chinese Communists in Korea.
After the war he settled in Southern California, married Sally, his high school sweetheart, and took a job with McDonnell-Douglas. But Elliott was restless from the beginning. He prayed for guidance from the Almighty. After three years he formed his own company, Alatron Defense Systems. Elliott had no desire to build aircraft. He knew planes would always be vital to the nation’s defense, but he believed God had granted him a glimpse of the future, and the future belonged to the ballistic missile—God’s arrows, as he called them. Elliott did not build the missiles themselves; he developed and manufactured the sophisticated guidance systems that told them where to strike.
Ten years after forming Alatron, Mitchell Elliott was one of the wealthiest men in America and one of its most influential as well. He had been a confidant of Richard Nixon and Ronald Reagan. He had been on a first-name basis with every secretary of defense since Robert Mc-Namara. He could reach half the members of the Senate by telephone in a matter of minutes. Mitchell Elliott was one of the most powerful men in Washington, and yet he operated permanently in its shadows. Few Americans knew what he did or even knew his name.
Sally had died of breast cancer ten years earlier, and the heady days of big defense spending were long gone. The industry had been devastated, thousands of workers laid off, the entire California economy thrown into turmoil. More important, Elliott believed America was weaker today than she had been in years. The world was a dangerous place. Saddam Hussein had proven that. So had a terrorist armed with a single Stinger missile. Elliott wanted to protect his country. If a terrorist could shoot down a jetliner and kill two hundred and fifty people, why couldn’t a rogue state like North Korea or Libya or Iran kill two
million
people by firing a nuclear missile against New York or Los Angeles? The civilized world had placed its faith in treaties and ballistic-missile control regimes. Mitchell Elliott reserved faith for the Almighty, and he did not believe in promises written on paper. He believed in machines. He believed the only way to protect the nation from exotic weapons was with more exotic weapons. Tonight, he had to make his case to the President.
million
people by firing a nuclear missile against New York or Los Angeles? The civilized world had placed its faith in treaties and ballistic-missile control regimes. Mitchell Elliott reserved faith for the Almighty, and he did not believe in promises written on paper. He believed in machines. He believed the only way to protect the nation from exotic weapons was with more exotic weapons. Tonight, he had to make his case to the President.
Elliott’s relationship with James Beckwith had been cemented by years of steady financial support and wise counsel. Elliott had never once asked for a favor, even when Beckwith became a powerful force on the Armed Services Committee during his second term in the Senate. That was all about to change.
One of his aides knocked gently at the door. His phalanx of aides was drawn from the ranks of the Special Forces. Mark Calahan was like all the others. He was six feet in height—tall enough to be imposing but not so tall as to dwarf Elliott—short dark hair, dark eyes, clean-shaven, dark suit and tie. Each carried a .45 automatic at all times. Elliott had made many enemies along with his millions, and he never set foot in public without protection.
“The car is here, Mr. Elliott.”
“I’ll be down in a minute.”
The aide nodded and silently withdrew. Elliott drifted closer to the fire and finished the last of his whiskey. He didn’t like being sent for. He would leave when he was ready to leave, not when Paul Vandenberg told him. Vandenberg would still be selling life insurance if it weren’t for Elliott. And as for Beckwith, he would have been an unknown San Francisco lawyer, living in Redwood City instead of the White House. They both could wait.
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