The Mark of the Assassin

nylon jacket hung on a
    hook in the bathroom. She pulled it on, then bent over the sink and
    scrubbed off the makeup she had put on fifteen hours earlier. She dried
    her face and looked at her reflection in the mirror. At forty, Susanna
    Dayton still considered herself a moderately attractive woman: dark
    curly hair that fell about her shoulders, deep brown eyes, olive skin.
    The hours were beginning to show on her face, though. She had thrown
    herself into her work since the divorce from Jack. Sixteen-hour days
    were normal, not an exception. She had dated a few men casually--even
    slept with a couple--but work came first now. Carson paced the upstairs
    hallway. "Come on, boy. Let's go."
    Susanna took the disk and followed the dog downstairs. While she
    stretched, she picked up the cordless telephone and punched in the
    number for her neighbor, an environmental lobbyist named Harry Scanlon.
    "I'm going out for a run with Carson," she said. "If I'm not back in a
    half hour, send for help."
    "Where are you going?"
    "I don't know. Maybe Dupont Circle and back."
    "Where the hell have you been?"
    "Working, as usual. I'm going to drop one through the slot on my way
    out."
    "Fine."
    "Good night, darling."
    "Good night, my love."
    She hung up. She placed her beeper and a cellular phone in a fanny pack,
    put it around her waist, and let herself out. She knew it was foolish to
    run so late at night--her friends constantly lectured her about it--but
    she always carried a cellular phone and took Carson along for
    protection. She walked up the steps to Harry's house and slipped the
    disk through his mail slot. Susanna believed in having backups to her
    backups, and if her house ever burned down or was robbed, at least Harry
    would have a copy of her notes. Harry thought she was out of her mind,
    but he indulged her. They had a system: When Susanna slipped a new
    floppy through Harry's mail slot, Harry would return the old one through
    hers, usually the next morning. She slipped out Pomander Walk. Carson
    relieved himself against the side of a tree. Then she zipped up her
    jacket against the cold and started running eastward across Georgetown
    through the darkness, Carson at her side.
    THE MAN IN THE PARKED CAR on Volta Place watched the woman leave. He
    knew he wouldn't have much time. It was late; she probably wouldn't run
    for very long. He would have to work quickly. He climbed out, softly
    closed the door, and crossed the street. He wore black trousers, a dark
    shirt, and a black leather jacket and carried a small leather attach in
    his right hand. Mark Calahan was not wasting any time. He had served in
    the Special Forces--Navy Seals, to be precise. He knew how to penetrate
    buildings quietly. He knew how to leave without a trace. Pomander Walk
    was quiet. Only one of the small houses showed any signs of life. Thirty
    seconds after entering the street he had picked Susanna Dayton's lock
    and was inside the house. He stayed there for fifteen minutes and left
    as quietly as he came.
    AT FOUR O"CLOCK, Michael awakened with the rain. He tried to sleep
    again, but it was no good. Each time he closed his eyes he saw the plane
    hurtling down to the sea and the face of Hassan Mahmoud, blown apart by
    three bullets. He slipped quietly from bed and walked down the hall to
    the study, switched on his computer, and sat down. The files passed
    before his eyes--photographs, police reports, Agency memos, reports from
    friendly intelligence services. He reviewed them one more time. The
    murder of a government official in Spain, claimed by the Basque
    separatist movement ETA but later denied. The murder of a French police
    official in Paris, claimed by the militant Direct Action, later denied.
    The murder of a BMW official in Frankfurt, claimed by the Red Army
    Faction, later denied. The murder of a senior PLO commander in Tunis,
    claimed by a rival Palestinian faction, later denied. The murder of an
    Israeli businessman in London, claimed by the PLO, later denied. All the
    attacks came at critical times and served to worsen tensions. All had
    one other thing in common--the victims received three gunshot wounds to
    the face.
    Michael opened another file. The victim was Sarah Randolph. She was a
    wealthy, beautiful art student with leftist politics, and Osbourne,
    against all better judgment, had fallen hopelessly in love with her
    while he was working from London. He knew Personnel Security would get
    the jitters about her politics, so he