The Mark of the Assassin

been a very long night, and she was
    exhausted. Rock Creek passed below her. She dug through the glove
    compartment, found a pack of old cigarettes, and lit one. It was dry and
    stale, but the smoke felt good regardless. She smoked only a few a day,
    and she told herself she could quit anytime. She would definitely quit
    if she became pregnant. God, she thought, I'd give anything if I could
    just get pregnant. She pushed the thought from her mind. She navigated
    Sheridan Circle and dropped down onto Q Street. She thought of the
    dinner party. Snatches of silly conversation played out in her mind.
    Visions of Mitchell Elliott's grand house passed before her eyes like
    old movies. One image remained long after she arrived home, as she lay
    in bed awake, waiting for Michael. It was the image of Mitchell Elliott
    and Samuel Braxton, huddled together like a pair of giggling schoolboys
    in the darkened garden, toasting each other with champagne.
    CHAPTER 11.
    Shelter Island, New York.
    IT WAS THE NEW YORKER that first christened Senator Douglas Cannon "a
    modern-day Pericles," and over the years Cannon did nothing to
    discourage the comparison. Cannon was a scholar and historian, an
    unabashed liberal and democratic reformer. He used his millions of
    inherited wealth to promote the arts.
    His sprawling Fifth Avenue apartment served as a gathering place for New
    York's most famous writers, artists, and musicians. He fought to
    preserve the city's architectural heritage. Unlike Pericles, Douglas
    Cannon never commanded men in battle. Indeed, he detested guns and
    weaponry as a rule, except for the bow and arrow. As a young man he was
    one of the world's best archers, a skill he passed on to his only child,
    Elizabeth. Despite his deep-seated mistrust of guns and generals, Cannon
    saw himself fit to oversee his nation's military and foreign policy; he
    had forgotten more history than most men in Washington would ever know.
    During his four terms in the Senate, Cannon served as chairman of the
    Armed Services Committee, the Foreign Relations Committee, and the
    Select Committee on Intelligence. When his wife, Eileen, was alive they
    spent weekdays in Manhattan and weekends on Shelter Island, at the
    sprawling family mansion overlooking Dering Harbor. After her death the
    city held less and less for him, so he gradually spent more time on the
    island, alone with his sailboat and his retrievers and Charlie, the
    caretaker. The thought of him alone in the big house troubled Elizabeth.
    She and Michael went up whenever she could get away for a couple of
    days. Elizabeth had seen little of her father as a child. He lived in
    Washington, Elizabeth and her mother in Manhattan. He came home most
    weekends, but their time together was fleeting and lacked spontaneity.
    Besides, there were constituents to see, and fund-raisers to attend, and
    bleary-eyed staff members vying for his attention. Now the roles were
    reversed. Elizabeth wanted to make up for lost time. Mother was gone,
    and for the first time in his life her father actually needed her. It
    would be easy to be bitter, but he was a remarkable man who had lived a
    remarkable life, and she didn't want his last years to slip away.
    MICHAEL'S MEETING WITH CARTER and McManus ran late, and Elizabeth got
    stuck on the telephone with a client. They rushed to National Airport in
    separate cars, Elizabeth in her Mercedes from downtown Washington,
    Michael in his Jaguar from headquarters in Langley. They missed the
    seven o'clock shuttle by a few minutes and drank beer in a depressing
    airport bar until eight. They arrived at La Guardia a few minutes after
    nine and took the Hertz bus to pick up the rental car. The ferries were
    operating on the winter schedule, which meant the last boat left
    Greenport at 11 P.M. That gave Michael ninety minutes to drive ninety
    miles on congested roads. He barreled eastward along the bleak corridor
    of the Long Island Expressway, expertly weaving in and out of traffic at
    eighty miles per hour. "I guess that defensive driving school they put
    you through at Camp Perry has its applications in the real world,"
    Elizabeth said, nails digging into the armrest. "If you want, I'll show
    you how to jump from a moving car without being noticed."
    "Don't we need that special briefcase you keep in your . study? What's
    it called? A jig?"
    "Jib," Michael corrected her. "It's called a jib, Elizabeth."
    "Excuse me. How does it work?"
    "Just like a jack-in-the-box.