The Mark of the Assassin (9 page)

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Authors: Daniel Silva

Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller, #Suspense

BOOK: The Mark of the Assassin

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Elizabeth said, “I see that look in your eyes, and I wonder if you’re thinking about her again.”

“I’m not thinking about her, Elizabeth.”

“What was her name? You’ve never told me her name.”

“Her name was Sarah.”

“Sarah,” Elizabeth said. “Very pretty name, Sarah. Did you love her?”

“Yes, I loved her.”

“Do you still love her?”

“I love you.”

“And you’re not answering my question.”

“No, I don’t love her anymore.”

“God, you’re a terrible liar. I thought spies were supposed to be good at deception.”

“I’m not lying to you. I’ve never lied to you. I’ve only kept things from you that I’m not allowed to tell you.”

“Do you ever think about her?”

“I think about what happened to her, but I don’t think about
her.
”

She rolled onto her side, turning her back to him. In the darkness, Michael could see her shoulders shaking. When he reached out to touch her, she said, “I’m sorry, Michael. I’m so sorry.”

“Why are you crying, Elizabeth?”

“Because I’m mad as hell at you, and because I love you desperately. Because I want to have a baby with you, and I’m terrified about what’s going to happen to us if I can’t.”

“Nothing’s going to
happen
to us. I love you more than anything in the world.”

“You don’t love her anymore, do you, Michael?”

“I love you, Elizabeth, and only you.”

She rolled over in the darkness and pulled his face to hers. He kissed her forehead and brushed tears from her eyes. He held her for a long time, listening to the wind in the trees outside their bedroom window, until her breathing assumed the rhythm of sleep.

THE WHITE HOUSE

Anne Beckwith had one rule about dinner: Talking about politics was strictly forbidden. Politics had ruled their lives in the twenty-five years since her husband had been sucked into the GOP machine in California, and she was determined that for one hour each evening politics would not intrude. They dined in the family quarters of the Executive Mansion: the President, the First Lady, and Mitchell Elliott. Anne revered Italian cooking and secretly believed the country would be a better place if “we were a little more like the Italians and less like Americans.” Beckwith, for the sake of his political career, had asked Anne to keep such views to herself. He resisted Anne’s desire to vacation in Europe each summer, choosing “more American” settings instead. That summer they vacationed in Jackson Hole, which Anne, on the fourth day, renamed “Shit Hole.”

He indulged her when it came to food. That night, beneath soft candlelight, she had chosen fettuccini tossed with pesto, cream, and peas, followed by medallions of beef tenderloin, a salad, and cheese, all washed down by a costly fifteen-year-old bottle of Tuscan red wine.

Throughout the meal, as White House stewards drifted silently in and out of the room with each new course, Anne Beckwith carefully guided the conversation from one safe topic to the next: new films she wanted to see, new books she had read, old friends, the children, the little villa in the Piedmont district of northern Italy where she planned to spend the first summer “after our sentence is over and we’re both free again.”

The President looked exhausted. His eyes, normally a clear pale blue, were red and tired. He had endured a long tension-filled day. He had spent the morning with the heads of the agencies investigating the attack on the jetliner: the FBI and the National Transportation Safety Board. In the afternoon he had flown to New York and met with grieving relatives of the victims. He toured the crash site off Fire Island aboard a Coast Guard cutter and flew by helicopter to the town of Bay Shore to attend a prayer service for a group of local high school students killed in the tragedy. He had a tearful meeting with John North, a chemistry teacher whose wife, Mary, was the faculty sponsor of the trip to London.

Vandenberg had scripted the events perfectly. On television the President looked like a leader, calmly in control of the situation. He returned to Washington and met with his national security staff: the secretaries of defense and state, the national security adviser, the director of Central Intelligence. At precisely 6:20 p.m., Vandenberg briefed White House reporters on background. The President was considering military retaliation against the terrorists believed to be responsible for the attack. U.S. Navy warships were moving into place in the eastern Mediterranean and Persian Gulf. At 6:30 the White House correspondents from ABC, CBS, and NBC stood side by side on the North Lawn and told the American people that the President might take decisive action to avenge the attack.

Mitchell Elliott knew the overnight poll numbers would be good. But now, sitting across the table from James Beckwith, Elliott was struck by the fatigue written on his face. He wondered whether his old friend had the will to fight any longer. Elliott said, “If I didn’t know better, Anne, I’d say you were ready to leave now instead of four years from now.”

The remark bordered on discussion of politics. Instead of changing the subject, the way she usually did, Anne Beckwith met Elliott’s gaze and narrowed her blue eyes in a rare display of anger.

“Frankly, Mitchell, I don’t care if we leave four years from now or four months from now,” she said. “The President has given this nation everything he has for the past four years. Our family has made terrible sacrifices. And if the people want to elect an untested senator from Nebraska to be their leader, so be it.”

The remark was vintage Anne Beckwith. Anne liked to pretend she was above politics, that a life of power had been a burden, not a reward. Elliott knew the truth. Behind the placid facade, Anne Beckwith was a ruthless politician in her own right who exercised enormous power in private.

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.”