The Mark of the Assassin

  The day was spent writing. She worked at home because she wanted no distractions. The piece was dense with information: numbers, names, dates, places, people. Susanna’s challenge was to turn it into an interesting story. She opened with a brief sketch of her central character, James Beckwith, a young district attorney, a promising talent with no personal fortune, who could earn many times more in the private sector than he could in politics. Enter Mitchell Elliott, an immensely wealthy defense contractor and Republican benefactor. Stay in politics, Elliott told the young Beckwith, and leave the rest to me. Over the years Elliott had enriched the Beckwiths through a number of real estate and other financial transactions. And the man who devised many of the schemes was Elliott’s chief lawyer and Washington lobbyist, Samuel Braxton.

  The rest flowed from that premise. By eight o’clock that evening she had written a four-thousand-word piece. She would show it to Tom Logan in the morning. Because of the serious nature of the charges, Logan would have to run it past the paper’s managing editor and editor in chief. Then the lawyers would review the copy. She knew it was going to be a long and difficult couple of days.

  The piece lacked one final element—comment from the White House, Mitchell Elliott, and Samuel Braxton. She flipped through her Rolodex, found the first telephone number, and punched it in.

  “Alatron Defense Systems.” The voice was male, accentless, and vaguely military.

  “This is Susanna Dayton of the Washington Post. I’d like to speak with Mitchell Elliott, please.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Dayton, but Mr. Elliott is unavailable at this time.”

  “I wonder if you could give him a message for me.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Do you have a pen?”

  “Of course, Ms. Dayton.”

  “I would like Mr. Elliott to comment on the following information contained in a piece I’m preparing.” She spoke for five minutes. The man on the other end of the line never interrupted. She concluded the call was probably being recorded without her consent. “Did you get all that?”

  “Yes, Ms. Dayton.”

  “And you’ll pass it on to Mr. Elliott?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Good. Thank you very much.”

  She hung up and flipped through her Rolodex. She still had Paul Vandenberg’s home number from her days at the White House. She punched in the number. Vandenberg answered the phone himself.

  “Mr. Vandenberg, this is Susanna Dayton. I’m a reporter for—”

  “I know who you are, Ms. Dayton. I don’t appreciate being disturbed at home. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I wonder if you would like to comment on the following information contained in a piece I’ve prepared for the Post.” Once again Susanna spoke for five minutes without interruption. When she finished Vandenberg said, “Why don’t you fax me a copy of the article so I can review the charges more carefully.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr. Vandenberg.”

  “Then I’m afraid I have nothing to say to you, Ms. Dayton—except that you have produced a piece of shoddy journalism that need not be graced with a comment.”

  Susanna jotted down the quote on her notepad.

  “Good evening, Ms. Dayton.”

  The line went dead. Susanna flipped through her Rolodex and found Samuel Braxton’s home number. She was reaching for the telephone when it rang.

  “This is Sam Braxton.”

  “Boy, word travels fast.”

  “I understand you’re about to publish a piece that libels and defames Mitchell Elliott and myself. I want to make you aware of the consequences of your actions.”

  “Why don’t you let me read the allegations to you before you threaten me with a lawsuit.”

  “I’ve been given a summary of the charges, Ms. Dayton. Do you intend to publish this account in tomorrow’s paper?”

  “We haven’t decided.”

  “I’ll take that as a no.”

  Susanna covered the mouthpiece and murmured, “Fuck you, Sam Braxton, you pompous bastard.”

  “Why don’t we meet in the morning and discuss the allegations?”

  Susanna hesitated. If she discussed legal issues with Braxton without a Post lawyer at her side, Tom Logan would have her head. Still, she wanted Braxton on the record.

  “Do yourself a favor, Ms. Dayton. What harm can it do?”

  “Where?”

  “Breakfast at the Four Seasons in Georgetown. Eight o’clock.”

  “See you then.”

  “Good night, Ms. Dayton.”

  Susanna had one more call to make, Elizabeth Osbourne. She was about to publish a devastating piece about the most powerful man in her firm. Elizabeth deserved a heads-up. She dialed.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello, Elizabeth. Listen, I think we need to talk.”

  Mark Calahan was sitting in the library of the Kalorama house, turning the knobs on a bank of sophisticated audio equipment, when the call from Colorado Springs came through. Calahan knew more about the allegations contained in the piece than anyone except Susanna Dayton. He had bugged her phone at Post headquarters downtown on 15th Street. He had bugged her phone at home. He’d planted bugs in her living room and her bedroom. He listened to her eat. He listened to her sleep. He listened to her talking to her dog. He listened to her fuck a television reporter after dinner at the Georgetown restaurant 1789. He broke into her home regularly and raided her computer files. A former NSA codebreaker, also employed by Mitchell Elliott, had cracked her childish encryption cipher, allowing Calahan to read her files at will. He was missing one thing, the finished product.

  Elliott said, “Get inside her house as quickly as you can. We need to know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And do it yourself, Mark. I don’t want any fuckups on this one.”

  Calahan hung up the phone. He returned his attention to his equipment. He turned up the audio levels on the transmitters inside Susanna Dayton’s home. Something caught his attention. He pulled on a black leather jacket and rushed out into the night.

  He drove rapidly across Northwest Washington, from Kalorama into Georgetown, and parked behind the surveillance van on Volta Place. He rapped his knuckle on the rear door, and the technician let him inside. Two minutes later he spotted Susanna Dayton exiting Pomander Walk, dressed in an anorak and Lycra leggings, her dog at her side.

  Calahan waited until she had vanished from sight. He jumped out of the van, crossed Volta Place, and entered Pomander Walk. He had made his own copy of her front door key. A few seconds later he was inside.

  Susanna crossed Wisconsin Avenue and ran eastward along P Street. It was late and dark, and she had a running date with Elizabeth in the morning, but she had been cooped up inside her little house all day long, and she needed to do something to relieve the stress. Her neck ached from staring at the computer monitor. Her eyes burned. But after a mile or so she felt sweat break beneath her turtleneck. The magic of the run took hold, and the tension of the day slowly leaked from her body.

  She pushed herself harder, flying over the redbrick sidewalk of P Street, past large, brightly lit town houses. Carson’s paws clicked rhythmically beside her. She passed a 7-Eleven, then a small coffee shop. Jack and his new wife were perched atop two stools in the window, talking closely. She stared at them like an idiot as she ran past. Jack looked up, and his gaze met hers. Then his wife spotted her.

  She turned away, mortified, and ran faster. Idiot! Fucking idiot! Why didn’t you look away? And what the hell were they doing in Georgetown anyway? That was the whole point of Jack moving to Bethesda—so they wouldn’t be bumping into each other all the time. God, why couldn’t she just look away? Why did she have to stare through the glass like a schoolgirl with a crush? And why was her heart beating out of control? The answer to that was simple. She still loved Jack, and she always would.

  Tears filled her eyes, blurring her vision. She ran faster. Carson
struggled to keep pace. She pounded her feet savagely over the bricks. God, why did he have to be sitting there? Fuck you, Jack. Fuck you! She didn’t see the tree root that had raised a portion of the sidewalk. Didn’t see the jagged edge of brick that had been forced upward. She felt a sudden pain in her ankle, saw the ground rushing up at her in the darkness.

  Susanna lay on the ground eyes closed, gasping for breath. She felt as though she had been kicked in the stomach by a horse. She tried to open her eyes but could not. Finally, she felt someone shaking her shoulder, calling her name. She opened her eyes and saw Jack kneeling over her.

  “Susanna, are you all right? Can you hear me?”

  She closed her eyes again and said, “What the hell are you doing in Georgetown?”

  “Sharon and I had a dinner engagement. Jesus, I didn’t know I had to call and notify you first.”

  “No, you just startled me, that’s all.”

  “You remember Sharon, don’t you?”

  She was standing behind Jack, stunning in a black cocktail dress and short black coat that showed off a pair of extraordinary legs. She was criminally skinny. The front of her coat was unbuttoned, revealing a pair of large rounded breasts. She was Jack’s type: blond, blue eyes, big breasts, no brains.

  She said, “I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to see you, Sharon, but I’d be lying.”

  “We’re going your way. Why don’t you let us give you a lift?”

  “No, thanks. I’d rather be left on the street for dead.”

  Jack reached down and took hold of her hand. Carson growled deep in his throat.

  “It’s all right, Carson. He’s evil but harmless.”

  She got to her feet.

  “There’s a cab. Be useful, Jack, get him to stop for me.”

  Jack stepped out into the street. He flagged down the cab, and it pulled to the curb. Susanna limped over and climbed in the back, followed by the dog.

  “See you around, Jack, Sharon.”

  She closed the door, and the cab drove off. She slumped down in the backseat, clutching her ankle. Her head leaned back against the cold leather of the seat. She sobbed quietly. Carson licked her hand. God, why did she have to see me like that? Of all times and places, why like that?

  The cab stopped at Volta Place and Pomander Walk. She reached inside the front pouch of the anorak, took out a five-dollar bill, and handed it to the driver.

  “Need any help?” he asked.

  “No, I’ll be fine, thanks.”

  The computer was still on when Mark Calahan climbed the staircase and entered the second-floor bedroom that Susanna used as a study. He sat down, removed a floppy from his jacket pocket, and inserted it into the disk drive of the desktop. He knew her system well now—the directories where she kept her notes and copy. He found the slug for the article and clicked on it. The encryption software asked for a password. Calahan provided it, and the story appeared on the screen.

  Calahan did not bother to read it; he could do that later when he had more time. He closed the file again and typed in the command to copy it to the floppy drive. Once again the encryption software asked for the password. Once again Calahan provided it.

  Since he was already inside the house, he decided to use the opportunity to gather additional intelligence. Calahan had followed the woman on several runs, and they never lasted less than thirty minutes. He had plenty of time.

  Three new notepads lay on the desk next to the keyboard. He opened the cover on the first. The pages were filled with notes in Susanna Dayton’s looping left-handed scrawl. He removed a microcamera from his pocket, switched on the desk lamp, and started shooting.

  He was halfway through the second notepad when he heard the scrape of a key being shoved into the barrel of the front door lock. He cursed silently, switched off the light, and drew a silenced 9mm pistol from the waistband of his trousers.

  Susanna’s right ankle hurt like hell. She closed the door behind her and sat down on the couch in the living room. She removed her shoe and her sock and inspected the injury. The ankle was swollen and purple. She limped into the kitchen, filled a Ziploc bag with ice, and took a bottle of beer from the refrigerator.

  The pain reliever was in the bathroom medicine cabinet. She limped up the stairs and hobbled down the hall, leaning against the banister for support. She entered the bathroom, placed the beer on the edge of the sink, and opened the medicine cabinet. She found the pain reliever and washed down two tablets with the beer. She closed the cabinet door.

  In the mirror she saw the reflection of a man standing behind her.

  Susanna opened her mouth to scream. A gloved hand closed around her mouth, smothering her cries.

  “Shut up, you fucking bitch, or I’ll kill you,” the man said through clenched teeth.

  Susanna only struggled more. She put her weight on her injured ankle, raised her left foot, and dragged it down his shin, just the way she had been taught in her urban self-defense class. The man groaned in pain and loosened his grip. She pivoted to her right and struck backward with her right elbow. The blow landed on her attacker’s cheekbone.

  He relaxed his grip, and she broke away.

  She stumbled into the hallway, then into the study. Reaching for the telephone, she realized the attacker had tampered with her computer and with her notebooks.

  She picked up the receiver.

  The man appeared in the doorway, pointing a gun at her face.

  “Put down the fucking telephone.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Put down the telephone now, and I won’t hurt you.”

  Carson charged up the stairs, barking wildly. He crouched in the hallway, baring his teeth at the intruder. The man calmly raised the gun and shot the dog twice. The silenced weapon emitted virtually no sound. Carson yelped once, then went quiet.

  “You bastard! You fucking bastard! Who the fuck are you? Did Elliott send you? Tell me, goddammit! Did Mitchell Elliott send you?”

  “Put the phone down. Now!”

  She looked down and punched the nine and the one.

  The first shot struck her head before she could enter the last digit. She fell backward, still clutching the receiver, still conscious. She looked up. The man stood over her and pointed the gun at her head once more.

  “Not in the face,” she pleaded. “Please God, don’t shoot me in the face.”

  His mask of rage softened for an instant. He lowered the gun a few degrees, the barrel pointed at her chest. She closed her eyes. The gun emitted two brief bursts of sound. She felt one brief instant of excruciating pain, then a flash of brilliant light. Then only darkness.

  Calahan reached down to take the receiver from her grasp, and replaced it in the cradle. The kill had been quick, but it had not been completely silent. He needed to work quickly. The police would tear the place apart. If they discovered evidence the woman was under surveillance, there was a chance they could connect the slaying to Elliott.

  The cleanup job took less than five minutes. As he walked out the front door Calahan held the notepads, the two room bugs, the bug from the telephone, her handbag, and her laptop computer.

  He headed out Pomander Walk, crossed Volta Place, and climbed into the surveillance van; he’d return later for his car. As he sped away he punched Mitchell Elliott’s private number into a cellular phone.

  “I’m afraid we have a bit of a problem, Mr. Elliott. I’ll call you on a secure line in five minutes.”

  Calahan severed the connection and threw the phone against the windshield.

  “Goddammit, why did she come back early? Fucking bitch!”

  17

  BRÉLÉS, FRANCE

  Delaroche concluded he needed a woman.

  He reached that judgment after reviewing the disk a second time, this time on his desktop computer at the cottage in Brélés. Two of the three remaining targets were known womanizers. Delaroche knew their routines, knew where they ate and drank, knew where they did their hunting. Still, getting clo
se to these targets would be difficult.

  A woman would make it easier.

  Delaroche needed a woman.

  He had one day to spend in Brélés. When he finished with the dossiers he went for a bicycle ride. The weather was good: clear, for November, light winds from the sea. He knew it would be a long time before he would ride again, so he pushed himself hard. He pedaled inland several miles, into the soft wooded hills of the Finistère, then down to the sea again. He paused at the ruins on the Pointe-de-Saint-Mathieu, then headed north along the coast back to Brélés.

  The early afternoon he devoted to preparation. He cleaned and oiled his two best guns—a Beretta 9mm and the Glock—and checked and rechecked the firing mechanisms and the silencers. He had a third gun that he kept strapped to his ankle in a Velcro holster, a small Browning automatic designed to fit in a woman’s purse. In the event a gun was not appropriate, he would carry a knife, a stout six-inch double-bladed knife with automatic release.

  Next he gathered his false passports—French, Italian, Dutch, Spanish, Swedish, Egyptian, and American—and saw to his finances. He had the two hundred thousand francs from the gallery in Paris, and in Zurich he would collect the half million dollars. It was more than enough to finance the job.

  He went out while it still was light and walked to the village. He bought bread from the boulangerie and sausage, cheese, and pâté from Mademoiselle Plauché. Didier and his friends were drinking wine at the café. He gestured for Delaroche to join them and, uncharacteristically, Delaroche agreed. He ordered more wine and ate bread and olives with them until the sun was gone.

  That evening Delaroche had a simple meal outside on the stone terrace overlooking the sea. He had always been dispassionate about killing, but for the first time in longer than he could remember he felt an excitement rising within him. It was not unlike the feeling he had when he was sixteen, the night he killed for the first time.