The Mark of the Assassin

the
    jittery hands fumbling over the controls of the Dauntless. Left to his
    own devices, Mahmoud would be up all night and the next day too,
    reliving it, recounting every detail, explaining over and over how it
    felt the moment the plane burst into flames. Yassim detested ideologues,
    detested the way they all wore their suffering like armor and disguised
    their fear as valor. He distrusted anyone who would willingly lead a
    life such as this. He trusted only professionals. The Dauntless nudged
    against the stern of the yacht. The wind had picked up in the last few
    minutes. Gentle swells lapped against the sides of the boats. Yassim
    climbed down the ladder as Hassan Mahmoud shut down the engine and
    clambered into the forward seating area. He reached out a hand for
    Yassim to help him out of the boat, but Yassim simply drew a silenced
    9mm Glock pistol from the waistband of his trousers and shot the
    Palestinian boy rapidly three times in the face.
    THAT NIGHT HE SET THE YACHT on an easterly heading and engaged the
    automatic navigation systems. He lay awake in his stateroom. Even now,
    even after countless killings, he could not sleep the first night after
    an assassination. When he was making his escape, or still in public, he
    always managed to remain focused and operational cool. But at night the
    demons came. At night he saw the faces, one by one, like photographs in
    an album. First alive and vibrant; then contorted with the death mask or
    blown apart by his favorite method of killing, three bullets to the
    face. Then the guilt would come, and he would tell himself that he had
    not chosen this life; it had been chosen for him. At dawn, with the
    first gray light of morning leaking through his window, he finally
    slept.
    HE ROSE AT MIDDAY and went about the routine of preparing for his
    departure. He shaved and showered, then dressed and packed the rest of
    his clothing into a small leather grip. He made coffee and drank it
    while watching CNN on the yacht's superb satellite television system.
    Such a pity: the grieving relatives at Kennedy and Heathrow, the vigil
    at a high school somewhere on Long Island, the reporters wildly
    speculating about the cause of the crash. He walked through the yacht
    room by room one last time to make certain he had left no trace of his
    presence. He checked the explosive charges. At 6 P.M., the precise time
    he had been ordered, he retrieved a small black object from a cabinet in
    the galley. It was no larger than a cigar box and looked vaguely like a
    radio. He carried it outside onto the aft deck and pressed a single
    button. There was no sound, but he knew the message had been sent in a
    coded microburst. Even if the American NSA intercepted it, it would be
    meaningless gibberish. The yacht motored eastward for two more hours. It
    was now 8 P.M. He set each of the charges and then slipped on a canvas
    vest with a heavy metal clamp on the front. There was more wind tonight.
    It was colder and there were high clouds. The Zodiac, cleated at the
    stern, rose and fell rhythmically with the three-foot swells. He climbed
    into the craft, untied it, and pulled the starter cord. The engine came
    to life on the third pull. He turned away from the yacht and opened the
    throttle. He heard the helicopter twenty minutes later. He shut down the
    Zodiac's engine and shone a signal lamp into the sky. The helicopter
    hovered overhead, the night filled with the thump of its rotors. The
    cable fell from its belly. He attached it to his vest and pulled hard on
    it twice to signal that he was ready. A moment later he rose gently from
    the Zodiac. He heard explosions in the distance. He turned his head in
    time to see the large motor yacht being lifted out of the water by the
    force of the blasts. Then it began its slow descent toward the bottom of
    the Atlantic.
    CHAPTER 2.
    San Francisco PRESIDENT JAMES BECKWITH was notified of the tragedy while
    vacationing at his home in San Francisco. He had hoped for a few days of
    rest: a quiet afternoon in his study overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge,
    a relaxing dinner party with old friends and political supporters in
    Matin. Most of all, a day of sailing aboard his prized thirty-eight-foot
    ketch Democracy, even if it meant being pursued by a pack of White House
    pool reporters and cameramen across the waters of San Francisco Bay. The
    day sails on Democracy always provided the kind of news pictures his
    handlers and political advisers liked best--the