The Mark of the Assassin

kill with a single blow to the neck, he told himself.
    Only professionals do. Street thugs maul and bludgeon. He kicked Arbatov
    in the face several times and walked away. The rain fell harder. The
    barking of the dog faded into the wet night. Delaroche walked at a
    normal pace. He removed the cash and the credit cards from Arbatov's
    wallet and threw it into a flower bed bordering the footpath. In the
    pale yellow light of the street he noticed blood on his right shoe. He
    wiped it away with old newspaper and caught a taxi back to his hotel. He
    still had time to make his train. He packed quickly and checked out. On
    the platform, waiting for the train, he threw Arbatov's credit cards in
    a rubbish bin. The carriage was crowded. He found a seat and ordered a
    sandwich and a beer from the porter. Then he pillowed his head on his
    leather coat and slept until the train arrived in Brest.
    CHAPTER 16.
    Washington, D.C.
    SUSANNA DAYTON WORKED all Sunday afternoon from noon until eight without
    a break, except to answer the door sometime late in the afternoon to
    take delivery of a pizza. Tom Logan, her editor at the Post, had
    demanded more, and she had found it. The piece was airtight. She had
    real estate and bank documents to support the most damaging charges. She
    had double and triple human sources to support the others. No one
    mentioned in the piece would be able to question her reporting. The
    facts spoke for themselves, and Susanna had the facts.
    The day was spent writing. She worked at home because she wanted no
    distractions. The piece was dense with information: numbers, names,
    dates, places, people. Susanna's challenge was to turn it into an
    interesting story. She opened with a brief sketch of her central
    character, James Beckwith, a young district attorney, a promising talent
    with no personal fortune, who could earn many times more in the private
    sector than he could in politics. Enter Mitchell Elliott, an immensely
    wealthy defense contractor and Republican benefactor. Stay in politics,
    Eliott told the young Beckwith, and leave the rest to me. Over the years
    Elliott had enriched the Beckwiths through a number of real estate and
    other financial transactions. And the man who devised many of the
    schemes was Elliott's chief lawyer and Washington lobbyist, Samuel
    Braxton. The rest flowed from that premise. By eight o'clock that
    evening she had written a four-thousand-word piece. She would show it to
    Tom Logan in the morning. Because of the serious nature of the charges,
    Logan would have to run it past the paper's managing editor and editor
    in chief. Then the lawyers would review the copy. She knew it was going
    to be a long and difficult couple of days. The piece lacked one final
    element--comment from the White House, Mitchell Elliott, and Samuel
    Braxton. She flipped through her Rolodex, found the first telephone
    number, and punched it in. "Alatron Defense Systems." The voice was
    male, accentless, and vaguely military. "This is Susanna Dayton of The
    Washington Post. I'd like to speak with Mitchell Elliott, please."
    "I'm sorry, Ms. Dayton, but Mr. Elliott is unavailable at this time."
    "I wonder if you could give him a message for me."
    "Certainly."
    "Do you have a pen?"
    "Of course, Ms. Dayton."
    "I would like Mr. Elliott to comment on the following information
    contained in a piece I'm preparing." She spoke for five minutes. The man
    on the other end of the line never interrupted. She concluded the call
    was probably being recorded without her consent. "Did you get all that?"
    "Yes, Ms. Dayton."
    "And you'll pass it on to Mr. Elliott?"
    "Certainly."
    "Good. Thank you very much."
    She hung up and flipped through her Rolodex. She still had Paul
    Vandenberg's home number from her days at the White House. She punched
    in the number. Vandenberg answered the phone himself. "Mr. Vandenberg,
    this is Susanna Dayton. I'm a reporter for--"
    "I know who you are, Ms. Dayton. I don't appreciate being disturbed at
    home. Now, what can I do for you?"
    "I wonder if you would like to comment on the following information
    contained in a piece I've prepared for the Post." Once again Susanne
    spoke for five minutes without interruption. When she finished
    Vandenberg said, "Why don't you fax me a copy of the article so I can
    review the charges more care
    "I'm afraid I can't do that, Mr. Vandenberg."
    "Then I'm afraid I have nothing to say to you, Ms. Dayton--except that
    you have produced a piece of shoddy