The Mark of the Assassin

journalism that need not be graced
    with a comment."
    Susanna jotted down the quote on her note pad. "Good evening, Ms.
    Dayton."
    The line went dead. Susanna flipped through her Rolodex and found Samuel
    Braxton's home number. She was reaching for the telephone when it rang.
    "This is Sam Braxton."
    "Boy, word travels fast."
    "I understand you're about to publish a piece that libels and defames
    Mitchell Elliott and myself. I want to make you aware of the
    consequences of your actions."
    "Why don't you let me read the allegations to you before you threaten me
    with a lawsuit."
    "I've been given a summary of the charges, Ms. Dayton. Do you intend to
    publish this account in tomorrow's paper?"
    "We haven't decided."
    "I'll take that as a no."
    Susanna covered the mouthpiece and murmured, "Fuck you, Sam Braxton, you
    pompous bastard."
    "Why don't we meet in the morning and discuss the allegations?" Susanna
    hesitated. If she discussed legal issues with Braxton without a Post
    lawyer at her side, Tom Logan would have her head. Still, she wanted
    Braxton on the record. "Do yourself a favor, Ms. Dayton. What harm can
    it do?"
    "Where?"
    "Breakfast at the Four Seasons in Georgetown. Eight o'clock."
    "See you then."
    "Good night, Ms. Dayton."
    Susanna had one more call to make, Elizabeth Osbourne. She was about to
    publish a devastating piece about the most powerful man in her firm.
    Elizabeth deserved a heads-up. She dialed. "Hello."
    "Hello, Elizabeth. Listen, I think we need to talk."
    MARK CALAHAN WAS SITTING in the library of the Kalorama house, turning
    the knobs on a bank of sophisticated audio equipment, when the call from
    Colorado Springs came through. Calahan knew more about the allegations
    contained in the piece than anyone except Susanna Dayton. He had bugged
    her phone at Post headquarters downtown on 15th Street. He had bugged
    her phone at home. He'd planted bugs in her living room and her bedroom.
    He listened to her eat. He listened to her sleep. He listened to her
    talking to her dog. He listened to her fuck a television reporter after
    dinner at the Georgetown restaurant 1789. He broke into her home
    regularly and raided her computer files. A former NSA code-breaker, also
    employed by Mitchell Elliott, had cracked her childish encryption
    cipher, allowing Calahan to read her files at will. He was missing one
    thing, the finished product. Elliott said, "Get inside her house as
    quickly as you can. We need to know exactly what we're dealing with."
    "Yes, sir."
    "And do it yourself, Mark. I don't want any fuckups on this one."
    Calahan hung up the phone. He returned his attention to his equipment.
    He turned up the audio levels on the transmitters inside Susanna
    Dayton's home. Something caught his attention. He pulled on a black
    leather jacket and rushed out into the night. He drove rapidly across
    Northwest Washington, from Kalorama into Georgetown, and parked behind
    the surveillance van on Volta Place. He rapped his knuckle on the rear
    door, and the technician let him inside. Two minutes later he spotted
    Susanna Dayton exiting Pomander Walk, dressed in an anorak and Lycra
    leggings, her dog at her side. Calahan waited until she had vanished
    from sight. He jumped out of the van, crossed Volta Place, and entered
    Pomander Walk. He had made his own copy of her front door key. A few
    seconds later he was inside.
    SUSANNA CROSSED WISCONSIN AVENUE and ran eastward along P Street. It was
    late and dark, and she had a running date with Elizabeth in the morning,
    but she had been cooped up inside her little house all day long, and she
    needed to do something to relieve the stress. Her neck ached from
    staring at the computer monitor. Her eyes burned. But after a mile or so
    she felt sweat break beneath her turtleneck. The magic of the run took
    hold, and the tension of the day slowly leaked from her body. She pushed
    herself harder, flying over the red-brick sidewalk of P Street, past
    large, brightly lit town houses. Carson's paws clicked rhythmically
    beside her. She passed a 7-Eleven, then a small coffee shop. Jack and
    his new wife were perched atop two stools in the window, talking
    closely. She stared at them like an idiot as she ran past. Jack looked
    up, and his gaze met hers. Then his wife spotted her. She turned away,
    mortified, and ran faster. Idiot! Fucking idiot! Why didn't you look
    away? And what the hell were they doing in Georgetown anyway? That was
    the whole point of Jack moving to