The Mark of the Assassin

myself out."
    ELIZABETH DRESSED THE PART of a busy Washington lawyer returning to the
    office for some late-night work: jeans, urban cowboy boots, a
    comfortable beige cotton sweater. Max Lewis lived near Dupont Circle,
    and his daily work attire reflected the trends of his neighborhood:
    black jeans, black suede loafers, black turtleneck shirt, dark gray
    jacket. The law offices of Braxton, Allworth & Kettlemen stood on the
    corner of Connecticut Avenue and K Street. Michael waited in the car.
    Elizabeth and Max walked into the lobby together, checked in with the
    security guard, and took the elevator up to the eleventh floor.
    Elizabeth's office was on the north end of the floor, overlooking
    Connecticut Avenue. Samuel Braxton had the largest office in the firm, a
    series of rooms along the corner of Connecticut Avenue and K Street,
    with a magnificent view of the White House and the Washington Monument.
    Elizabeth unlocked her office, switched on the lights, and went inside.
    She spoke to Max in a loud, clear voice; she wanted everything to appear
    normal. Max loaded some extra paper in the copier and made a pot of
    coffee. Elizabeth could hear the distant drone of vacuum cleaners from
    somewhere on the floor. She took the keys and walked down the length of
    the hall to Braxton's office. She knocked once gently, received no
    answer, and unlocked the door with the duplicate key. She stepped inside
    and quickly closed the door. She took a small flashlight from her
    handbag and switched it on. Elizabeth was in the exterior office where
    Braxton's two secretaries worked. The file room was at the far end of
    the office, through a heavy door. Elizabeth switched keys and opened the
    door. She closed it behind her and switched on the light. Max had told
    her where to find the Elliott and Beckwith files: on the far wall, top
    left. The top shelf was beyond her reach. Braxton's secretaries kept a
    library-style stepstool inside the room for just such occasions. She
    carried the stool across the room, stepped up on it, and began picking
    her way through the files. She went through the entire row once and
    found nothing. She started from the beginning, forcing herself to go
    slowly, but once again found nothing. She tried the shelf below, but it
    was the same thing. Nothing. She swore softly beneath her breath.
    Braxton had removed the files.
    ELIZABETH CLIMBED DOWN off the stool and moved across the room toward
    the door. She heard sounds in the office outside the door--a key being
    shoved in a lock, the click of a light switch, the scrape of a metal
    cart. Then she heard the crunch of a key shoved forcefully into the door
    lock a few feet from her. The lock gave way, and the door pushed back.
    ELIZABETH CAREFULLY EXAMINED THE MAN standing before her and realized
    immediately something was wrong. Most of the cleaning staff were small
    dark-skinned Central Americans of Indian origin who spoke almost no
    English. This man was tall, about six feet, and fair-skinned. His dark
    hair obviously had been cut and styled by an expensive professional. His
    coverall was new and unsoiled, his fingernails clean. But it was the
    ring on his left hand that caught Elizabeth's attention. It bore the
    insignia of the Army Special Forces, the Green Berets. "Can I help you?"
    Elizabeth said. She thought it was best to take the offensive. "I heard
    a noise," the man said in thickly accented English. Elizabeth knew he
    was lying, because she had been very careful not to make any sound. "Why
    didn't you call security?" she shot back. The man shrugged and said, "I
    thought I'd check it out myself first. You know, catch a thief, be a big
    hero, get a reward or something."
    She made a show of looking at the name tag on his coverall. "Are you an
    American, Carlos?"
    He shook his head. "I am from Ecuador."
    "Where did you get that ring?"
    "Pawnshop in Adams Morgan. Muy bonito, don't you think?"
    "It's lovely, Carlos. Now, if you'll excuse me."
    She walked past him and entered the exterior office. "Find what you're
    looking for?" he said to her back. "Actually, I was just putting
    something back."
    "Okay. Good night, seniora."
    "MAYBE HE WAS TELLING the truth," Michael said. "Maybe he really is
    Carlos from Ecuador, and he got the ring at a pawnshop in Adams Morgan."
    "Bullshit," Elizabeth said. Max had taken them to a restaurant in Dupont
    Circle called The Childe Harold. It was popular with journalists and
    young congressional staff. They sat at a