The Mark of the Assassin

Beckwith
    sat alone in the back seat. There was no bombproof presidential
    limousine, no black Chevy Suburban chase vehicles, no police escort.
    Just a White House driver and a single Secret Service agent seated in
    the front seat. For years Anne had been escaping the White House in this
    manner at least once a week. She enjoyed getting out into the real
    world, as she liked to put it. For Anne, the real world was not far
    removed from the opulence of the Executive Mansion. Usually she took a
    short ride to the wealthy enclaves of Georgetown or Kalorama or Spring
    Valley for drinks and dinner with old friends or important political
    allies. The car headed north up Connecticut Avenue, then turned west
    onto Massachusetts after navigating the heavy traffic of Dupont Circle.
    A moment later it turned onto California Street and slowed outside the
    large brick mansion. The garage door opened, and the black sedan slipped
    silently inside. The Secret Service agent waited for the garage door to
    close again before getting out of the car. He walked around the back and
    opened the First Lady's door. Her host was waiting when she stepped out
    of the car. She kissed his cheek and said, "Hello, Mitchell, so good to
    see you."
    ANNE BECKWITH DID NOT COME for an evening of pleasant conversation and
    good food. This was business. She accepted a glass of wine but ignored
    the plate of cheese and pat one of Elliott's drones placed on the coffee
    table between them. "I want to know if the situation is under control,"
    she said coldly. "And if it's not under control, I want to know just
    what in the hell you're doing to get it under control."
    "If Susanna Dayton had lived to publish that article, it could have been
    very damaging. Her unfortunate murder bought us some time, but I don't
    think we're in the clear yet."
    "Unfortunate murder," Anne repeated, derision in her voice. "Why hasn't
    the Post published her story?"
    "Because they're trying to reconfirm all her reporting, and they're not
    quite there yet."
    "Are they going to get there?"
    "Not if I can help it."
    Anne Beckwith lit a cigarette and exhaled a slender stream of smoke
    sharply between her tense lips. "What are you doing to prevent it?"
    "I think it would be unwise for you to know about any of this, Anne."
    "Don't bullshit me, Mitchell. Just tell me what I want to know."
    "We think Susanna Dayton's best friend is working with the Post now, a
    lawyer named Elizabeth Osbourne."
    "Isn't she Douglas Cannon's girl?"
    "Yes, she is."
    "Cannon hates Jim. They were on Armed Services together. Cannon was the
    chairman, and Jim was the ranking Republican. They were barely on
    speaking terms at the end of it."
    Anne finished her wine. "Aren't you going to offer me another glass?
    California, isn't it? God, we make wonderful wine."
    Elliott poured more wine. Anne said, "Mitchell, we go way back. Jim and
    I owe you a great deal. You've been very generous over the years. But I
    will not let Jim be tarnished by this in any way. He's run his last
    campaign. He has nothing to lose now except his place in the history
    books."
    "I understand that."
    "I don't think you do. If this becomes public in a bad way, I will use
    every ounce of power and influence I possess to make sure you're the one
    who takes the fall. I won't let Jim be hurt, and I don't give a damn
    about you at this point. Do I make myself clear?"
    Elliott poured down the rest of his scotch. He didn't appreciate being
    lectured by Anne Beckwith. If it hadn't been for Anne's greed and Anne's
    insecurities, Elliott would never have been able to establish his
    special financial relationship with her husband. Anne always called the
    shots, even when it came to graft. He stared at her coldly for a moment,
    then nodded and said, "Yes, Anne, you've made yourself quite clear."
    "If this thing blows up, Jim will survive it. But your little missile
    project will go down the crapper. It won't be built, or they'll award
    the contract to a less controversial company. You'll be finished."
    "I know the stakes."
    "Good." She stood up and collected her coat. Mitchell Elliott remained
    seated. "I just have one question for you, Mitchell. Did the same people
    who killed the reporter shoot down the airliner?"
    Elliott looked at her, astonishment on his face. "What the hell are you
    talking about?"
    "Answering a question with a question. That's a bad sign. Good night,
    darling. Oh, and don't bother to get up. I'm only the First Lady. I'll
    see