The Mark of the Assassin

never told me. I would have thought she'd tell you."
    Elizabeth shook her head. "What about her editors at the Post?"
    "No way. She distrusted everyone, especially the people she worked
    with."
    "Let me have it," Elizabeth said. "I have a friend who knows something
    about these things."
    ELIZABETH SHOWED MICHAEL THE DISK as they lay in bed, surrounded by
    tousled linen. Michael lit a cigarette and turned the disk over in his
    hand. Elizabeth laid her head on his tan stomach, trailing a finger
    through the patch of dark hair at the center of his chest. She felt
    guilty about making love at a time like this. When he came home she
    wanted to be close to him. She wanted to hold him and never let him out
    of her sight. She was frightened, scared to death by what had happened
    to her friend, and she was afraid to let go of him. She held him; she
    kissed his lips and his eyes and his nose. She undressed him and made
    love to him, slowly, gently, as if she never wanted it to end. Now she
    lay close to him, watching rain streaming down the bedroom windows.
    "Harry says it's encrypted."
    "That's not a problem. All we need to do is figure out the keyword."
    "How do you intend to do that?"
    "People are lazy. They use birth dates, addresses, all sorts of words
    and numbers that they can remember easily. You know more about Susanna
    than anyone alive."
    "Do you need special software?"
    "I have it on my computer."
    "Let's go."
    They put on bathrobes and walked down the hall to Michael's study.
    Michael sat down at the desk. Elizabeth stood behind him, hands draped
    over his shoulders. "Birth date?"
    "November seventeenth, 1957."
    Michael typed in the numerical version: 11-17-57. The screen read:
    ACCESS DENIED--INCORRECT PASSWORD.
    Michael said, "Birth date backward."
    The computer made the same response. "Address ... Address backward ...
    Telephone number ... Telephone number backward ... Work phone ...
    Work phone backward First name First name backward Middle name Middle
    name backward Last name Last name backward "
    Elizabeth said, "This could take forever."
    "Not forever."
    "I thought you said it was going to be easy."
    "I said it wouldn't be a problem. Parents' names?"
    "Maria and Carmine."
    "Maria and Carmine?"
    "She's Italian."
    "She was Italian."
    Michael worked steadily for the next two hours. He learned more about
    Susanna's life than he ever thought possible: boyfriends, hometown,
    bank, favorite movie, favorite book. He tried them all--forward,
    backward, and sideways--and nothing worked.
    "What was the dog's name?"
    "Carson."
    "Why Carson?"
    Elizabeth smiled. "Because she was an insomniac, and she loved The
    Tonight Show."
    Michael typed CARSON. Nothing. He tried JOHNNY. Nothing. He tried DOC
    and ED. Nothing. "She had the last two shows on tape. She watched them a
    hundred times."
    "Who was on the last show?"
    "It was just Johnny, remember? He just talked to the audience."
    "What about the show before?"
    "Bette Midler. Jesus, she was crazy about Bette Midler."
    Michael typed BETTE. Nothing. Midler. Nothing. He typed them backward.
    Nothing.
    He slammed his palm on the desk.
    "Move out of the way," Elizabeth said.
    She leaned over his shoulder, typed THE ROSE, and struck the ENTER key.
    The computer hesitated for a few seconds, and then the last thing
    Susanna Dayton ever wrote appeared on the screen.
    Michael said, "Jesus Christ."
    CHAPTER 19.
    THE HOUSEBOAT ON THE PRINSENGRACHT had taken on the appearance of a
    military operations room. Delaroche briefly considered returning to
    Breles, but it was a village, with a village's inclination to gossip,
    and he knew the presence of a tall blond woman would arouse unwelcome
    interest among Didier and his cohorts. Besides, the Krista provided a
    relaxing and secluded atmosphere to plan the assassinations. On the
    walls he hung large-scale street maps of the cities where he would carry
    out the killings: London, Cairo, Washington. He rose early each morning
    and worked while Astrid slept. Then they spent two hours together,
    talking and planning, before she left for the bookshop at ten o'clock.
    By the afternoon the walls would close in on him, so he would borrow
    Astrid's appalling bicycle and pedal the narrow streets of the canal
    rings. He found an art supply shop, purchased a small watercolor kit,
    and produced several fine paintings of the bridges and the boats and the
    gabled houses overlooking the canals. On the fourth day a bitter cold
    front pushed in from the North