The Mark of the Assassin

at the White House last
    night. After dinner, Paul Vandenberg drove him back home, and the two
    had a long private stroll along California Street."
    "How do you know this?"
    "Because I was following them."
    "Susanna. ,, She told Elizabeth about the assignment she had been given
    by her editor, about what she had learned so far about Mitchell Elliott
    and his questionable contributions to Beckwith and the Republican Party.
    "I need your help, Elizabeth. I need to know more about the relationship
    between Braxton and Elliott. I need to know if Braxton is helping him in
    any way or if he has any role in facilitating the flow of money."
    "You know I can't do that, Susana. I can't betray the confidence of one
    of our clients. I'd be fired. God, I'd be disbarred!"
    "Elliott's dirty. And if Braxton is helping him, he's dirty too."
    "I still can't help you. It's unethical."
    "I'm sorry to impose on our friendship, but my editor's on my ass about
    the piece. Besides, people like Mitchell Elliott make me sick."
    "You're just doing your job, poking your nose where it doesn't belong.
    You're forgiven."
    "Can I call you tonight for a fill on what went down at dinner?"
    "That I can manage."
    They reached Fletcher's Boat House. They stopped, stretched for a
    moment, and headed back toward Georgetown. A tall man wearing a dark
    blue warm-up suit ran past them in the other direction. He wore
    sunglasses and a baseball cap. , THE MAN ON THE TOWPATH was no ordinary
    jogger. In his right hand he held a sensitive directional microphone.
    Strapped to his abdomen was a sophisticated tape recorder. He had been
    following Susanna Dayton from the moment she stepped outside her house.
    It was a pleasant assignment: a crisp autumn morning, beautiful scenery,
    and the women ran quickly enough to give him a decent workout. He ran
    about a hundred yards past the wooden footbridge at Fletcher's Boat
    House. Then he turned suddenly and increased his pace, his long strides
    quickly eating up the ground between himself and the two women. He
    slowed and settled in about thirty yards behind them, the microphone in
    his right hand pointed directly at the two figures ahead.
    PAUL VANDENBERG always got a brief chill when he set foot in the Oval
    Office. The President entered the room at precisely eight o'clock. Five
    men followed in rapid succession. James Beckwith's predecessor strove
    for diversity in his cabinet, but Beckwith wanted his closest advisers
    to be like himself, and he made no apologies for it. The men took their
    places in the seating area of the office: Vice President Ellis
    Creighton, National Security Adviser William Bristol, Secretary of State
    Martin Claridge, Secretary of Defense Allen Payne, and CIA Director
    Ronald Clark. The President technically presided over senior meetings
    like this one, but Vandenberg served as master of ceremonies. He kept
    the agenda, directed the flow of conversation, and made sure the
    discussion didn't drift. "The first order of business is the proposed
    strike against the Sword of Gaza," he said. "Ron, why don't you begin."
    The CIA director brought maps and enlarged satellite photographs. "The
    Sword of Gaza has three primary training facilities," he began. "In the
    Libyan desert, one hundred miles south of Tripoli; outside the town of
    Shahr Kord in western Iran; and here"--he tapped the map one last
    time--"in Al Burei in Syria. Hit those three sites and we can deal them
    a serious psychological blow."
    Beckwith furrowed his brow. "Why only psychological, Ron? I want to deal
    them a crippling blow."
    "Mr. President, if I may be blunt, I don't think that's a realistic
    objective. The Sword of Gaza is small, elusive, and highly mobile.
    Bombing their training sites will make us feel good, and it will give us
    a modicum of revenge, but I can say with reasonable certitude that it
    will not put the Sword of Gaza out of business."
    "Your recommendation, Ron?" Vandenberg asked. "I say we hit the sons of
    bitches with everything we can muster. The strike needs to be surgical
    as hell, though. The last thing we need is to blow up an apartment
    building and provide radical Islam with five hundred new martyrs."
    Vandenberg looked at Defense Secretary Allen Payne. "That's your job,
    Allen. Can we do it?"
    Payne stood up. "Absolutely, Mr. President. Right now we have the Aegis
    cruiser Ticonderoga on patrol in the northern Persian Gulf. The
    Ticonderoga's cruise missiles can take out those training camps