The Mark of the Assassin

broke Agency rules and chose not
    to declare the relationship. When she was murdered on the Chelsea
    Embankment, the Agency took it as a sign that Michael's cover had been
    blown and that he could no longer operate as a NOC in the field. He
    clicked open her photograph. She was the most beautiful woman he had
    ever known, but an assassin had taken her beauty and her life: three
    bullets to the face, 9mm rounds, just like the others. Michael had seen
    her killer, just for an instant. He believed it was the same man who
    killed the others, the same man who killed Hassan Mahmoud. Who was he?
    Did he work for a government, or was he a freelancer? Why did he always
    kill the same way? Michael lit a cigarette and asked himself something
    else: Does he really exist, or is he a figment of my imagination, a
    ghost in the files? Carter thought Michael was seeing things. Carter
    would have his ass if he peddled his theory now. So would Monica Tyler.
    He shut off the computer and went back to bed.
    CHAPTER 9.
    Washington, D.C.
    THE FOLLOWING MORNING Paul Vandenberg leafed through a stack of
    newspapers as his chauffeured black sedan sped along the George
    Washington Parkway toward the White House. Most administration officials
    preferred to scan a digest of news clips prepared each morning by the
    White House press office, but Vandenberg, a rapid and prodigious reader,
    wanted the real thing. He liked to see how a story was played. Was it
    above the fold or below? Was it on the front page or buried inside?
    Besides, he distrusted summaries. He liked raw intelligence, raw data.
    He had a mind capable of storing and processing immense amounts of
    information, unlike his boss, who needed bite-size portions. Vandenberg
    liked what he saw. The downing of Flight 002 dominated the front pages
    of every major newspaper in the country. The presidential campaign
    seemed no longer to exist. The Los Angeles Times had the big scoop of
    the morning: U.S. law enforcement and intelligence officials had pinned
    responsibility on the Sword of Gaza. The paper laid out that case in
    detail, complete with precise graphics on how the attack was carried out
    and a profile of the terrorist involved, Hassan Mahmoud. Vandenberg
    smiled; the idea to leak to the Los Angeles Times was his. It was the
    most important newspaper in California, and they would need a chit or
    two in the stretch drive before Election Day. The rest of it was just as
    good. Beckwith's trip to Long Island received prominent coverage. The
    New York Times and The Washington Post published complete transcripts of
    his remarks at the memorial service. Every newspaper printed the same
    Associated Press photo of Beckwith consoling the mother of one of the
    young victims. Beckwith as father figure. Beckwith as mourner in chief.
    Beckwith as the avenging angel. Sterling was frozen out. His campaign
    swing through California received virtually no coverage. It was perfect.
    The car arrived at the White House. Vandenberg climbed out and entered
    the West Wing. His office was large and tastefully furnished, with
    French doors opening onto a small flagstone patio overlooking the South
    Lawn. He sat down at his desk and thumbed through a stack of telephone
    messages. He glanced at the President's schedule. Vandenberg had cleared
    the decks of anything unrelated to Flight 002. He wanted Beckwith rested
    and relaxed when he went before the cameras that night. It was arguably
    the most important moment in his presidency-indeed, in his career. One
    of Vandenberg's three secretaries poked her head in the office. "Coffee,
    Mr. Vandenberg?"
    "Thanks, Margaret."
    At seven-thirty the senior staff filed into his office: the press
    secretary, the budget director, the communications director, the
    domestic policy adviser, the congressional liaison, and the deputy
    national security adviser. Vandenberg liked meetings quick and informal.
    Each staff member carried a notebook, a cup of coffee, and a doughnut or
    bagel. Vandenberg presided. He moved quickly around the room, getting
    updates, giving instructions, dispensing with problems. The meeting
    broke up on schedule at seven-forty-five. He had fifteen minutes before
    his meeting with Beckwith. "Margaret, no visitors or phone calls,
    please."
    "Yes, Mr. Vandenberg."
    Paul Vandenberg had been at James Beckwith's side for twenty years--on
    Capitol Hill and in Sacramento--but this would be their most crucial
    encounter ever. He opened the French doors and