The Mark of the Assassin Read Online Free Page B

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.