The Mark of the Assassin

cradle. "You're a very good
    liar," Daphne said. She let her silk gown fall from her shoulders and
    slipped into bed next to him. "I'm afraid it's necessary in this line of
    work."
    She kissed him on the mouth and pressed her breasts against his body.
    Then she reached between his legs and took him in her hands. "Anything,
    my love?" she whispered. He kissed her and said, "Perhaps if you tried a
    little harder, petal."
    CHAPTER 48.
    Washington, D.C.
    PAUL VANDENBERG PARKED on Ohio Drive, overlooking the Washington
    Channel, and shut down the engine. He had come alone, in his private
    car, just as Elliott asked. The meeting was supposed to take place at 10
    P.M., but Elliott was uncharacteristically late. Another car pulled in
    behind him, a large black four-wheel-drive vehicle, its tinted windows
    pulsating to the beat of gangsta rap music. Vandenberg started his
    engine and let it idle as he waited. The four-wheel-drive left at
    ten-fifteen.
    Five minutes later a black sedan pulled next to him, and the rear window
    descended. It was Mark Calahan, Mitchell Elliott's personal aide. "Mr.
    Elliott is terribly sorry, but there has to be a change of venue,"
    Calahan said. "Come with me, and I'll bring you back to your car when
    the meeting is done."
    Vandenberg got out of his car and climbed into the back of the black
    sedan. They drove for ten minutes--around Hains Point, across the
    Memorial Bridge to Virginia, then north along the parkway. Calahan
    remained silent the entire time. It was one of Elliott's rules, no small
    talk between staff and clients. Finally, the car pulled into a parking
    lot overlooking Roosevelt Island. "Mr. Elliott is waiting for you on the
    island, sir," Calahan said politely. "I'll take you to him."
    The two men climbed out. The driver, Henry Rodriguez, waited behind the
    wheel. Two minutes later, Rodriguez heard the snap of a single gunshot.
    A JOGGER FOUND THE BODY at seven-fifteen the following morning. It lay
    next to a marble bench at the memorial to Theodore Roosevelt, which the
    media deemed fitting, since Paul Vandenberg had always admired The gun
    had been placed in the mouth. A large section of the back of
    Vanden-berg's head was gone. The slug was embedded in a tree trunk sixty
    feet away. The suicide note was found in the breast pocket of his woolen
    overcoat. It bore the hallmarks of all good Vandenberg memos: concise,
    economical, to the point. He had taken his own life, the note said,
    because he was aware The Washington Post was preparing a devastating
    account of his fund-raising activities over the years on behalf of James
    Beckwith. Vandenberg admitted guilt. Beckwith and Mitchell Elliott bore
    none of the responsibility; Vandenberg had planned and executed
    everything. He had taken his own life, the note said, because death by
    gunshot was preferable to death by independent counsel. A shaken James
    Beckwith appeared in the White House briefing room late in the
    afternoon, in time for the evening newscasts. He professed profound
    shock and sadness at the death of his closest aide. He then announced
    that the Justice Department would immediately commence a full and
    thorough investigation of all of Vandenberg's fund-raising activities on
    Beckwith's behalf. He left the briefing room without taking questions
    and spent a quiet evening with Anne in the family quarters of the
    mansion. The following morning the Post devoted much of page one to the
    apparent suicide of Paul Vandenberg. The coverage included a lengthy
    account of the financial relationship between James Beckwith and
    Mitchell Elliott. The piece disputed the claim, made in Vandenberg's
    suicide note, that he alone was the architect of the complex web of
    financial arrangements that had enriched the Beckwiths over the years.
    It also implicated Mitchell Elliott's Washington attorney, Samuel
    Braxton, Beck-with's nominee to be secretary of state. The piece had a
    double byline: Tom Logan and Susanna Dayton, Washington Post Staff
    Writers.
    January.
    CHAPTER 49.
    Shelter Island, New York.
    SOME NIGHTS were better than others. Some nights Elizabeth would see it
    all again in her dreams and she would wake up screaming, trying to rub
    the imaginary bloodstains from her hands. Some nights Michael would
    awaken, having dreamed that October shot him three times in the face
    instead of once in the chest.
    The guest cottage was repaired and repainted, but Elizabeth never went
    there again. Sometimes, Michael sat at the end of