The Mark of the Assassin

tears. "I don't want to
    get my hopes up, Michael, but I'll never forgive myself if we don't try
    everything."
    "I agree."
    "It means spending some time in New York. I'll make arrangements to work
    out of our Manhattan office. Dad will stay on the island so we can use
    the apartment."
    "I'll talk to Carter about working from the New York Station. I may have
    to go back and forth a few times, but I don't think it'll be a problem."
    "Thank you, Michael. I'm sorry about snapping at you. I was just so
    damned angry."
    "Don't apologize. It was my fault."
    "I knew what I was getting into when I married you. I know I can't
    change what you do. But sometimes I need you to be around more. I need
    more time with you. I feel like we bump into each other in the morning
    and bump into each other again at night."
    "We could quit our jobs."
    "We can't quit our jobs." She kissed his mouth. "Get undressed and come
    to bed. It's late."
    Michael rose and walked into the large master bath. He finished
    undressing, brushed his teeth, and washed his face without looking in
    the mirror. The bedroom was dark when he returned, but Elizabeth was
    still sitting up in bed, her arms wrapped around her knees again. "I see
    it in your face, you know."
    "What are you talking about?"
    "That look."
    "What look?"
    "That look you get on your face every time someone gets killed anywhere
    in the world."
    Michael lay down on the bed and rolled onto his elbow to face her.
    Elizabeth said, "I see that look in your eyes, and I wonder if you're
    thinking about her again."
    "I'm not thinking about her, Elizabeth."
    "What was her name? You've never told me her name."
    "Her name was Sarah."
    "Sarah," Elizabeth said. "Very pretty name, Sarah. Did you love her?"
    "Yes, I loved her."
    "Do you still love her?"
    "I love you."
    "And you're not answering my question."
    "No, I don't love her anymore."
    "God, you're a terrible liar. I thought spies were supposed to be good
    at deception."
    "I'm not lying to you. I've never lied to you. I've only kept things
    from you that I'm not allowed to tell you."
    "Do you ever think about her?"
    "I think about what happened to her, but I don't think about her."
    She rolled onto her side, turning her back to him. In the darkness,
    Michael could see her shoulders shaking. When he reached out to touch
    her, she said, "I'm sorry, Michael. I'm so sorry."
    "Why are you crying, Elizabeth?"
    "Because I'm mad as hell at you, and because I love you desperately.
    Because I want to have a baby with you, and I'm terrified about what's
    going to happen to us if I can't."
    "Nothing's going to happen to us. I love you more than anything in the
    world."
    "You don't love her anymore, do you, Michael?"
    "I love you, Elizabeth, and only you."
    She rolled over in the darkness and pulled his face to hers. He kissed
    her forehead and brushed tears from her eyes. He held her for a long
    time, listening to the wind in the trees outside their bedroom window,
    until her breathing assumed the rhythm of sleep.
    CHAPTER 7.
    The White House.
    ANNE BECKWITH HAD ONE RULE about dinner: Talking about politics was
    strictly forbidden. Politics had ruled their lives in the twenty-five
    years since her husband had been sucked into the GOP machine in
    California, and she was determined that for one hour each evening
    politics would not intrude. They dined in the family quarters of the
    Executive Mansion: the President, the First Lady, and Mitchell Elliott.
    Anne revered Italian cooking and secretly believed the country would be
    a better place if "we were a little more like the Italians and less like
    Americans." Beckwith, for the sake of his political career, had asked
    Anne to keep such views to herself. He resisted Anne's desire to
    vacation in Europe each summer, choosing "more American" settings
    instead. That summer they vacationed in Jackson Hole, which Anne, on the
    fourth day, renamed "Shit Hole."
    He indulged her when it came to food. That night, beneath soft
    candlelight, she had chosen fettuccini tossed with pesto, cream, and
    peas, followed by medallions of beef tenderloin, a salad, and cheese,
    all washed down by a costly fifteen-year-old bottle of Tuscan red wine.
    Throughout the meal, as White House stewards drifted silently in and out
    of the room with each new course, Anne Beckwith carefully guided the
    conversation from one safe topic to the next: new films she wanted to
    see, new books she had read, old friends, the children, the little villa
    in the