The Mark of the Assassin

authentic.
    Should be released to the media soon."
    "Revenge for the air strikes on the training bases?"
    "But of course."
    They headed north on Park Lane, then into Mayfair toward Grosvenor
    Square. The car went to the front entrance of the U.S. embassy. Michael
    wished they could use the underground entrance, but it probably made
    little difference now. He climbed out of the car. He was light-headed
    and his knee hurt terribly. He must have injured it in the fight, but
    the adrenaline had masked the pain until now. The Marine guards snapped
    to attention and saluted as Michael entered the embassy complex, Wheaton
    at his side. The ambassador and his senior staff were waiting, the rest
    of the large embassy staff standing behind them. The ambassador broke
    into applause, and the others followed suit. Michael had worked in the
    shadows for his entire career. His commendations were awarded in secret.
    When he had a good day at the office, he could tell no one about it, not
    even Elizabeth. Now, the applause of the embassy staff washed over him,
    and he felt a chill at the back of his neck. The ambassador stepped
    forward and put a hand on Michael's shoulder. "I know you probably don't
    feel like celebrating at a time like this, but I just wanted to let you
    know how proud we all are of you."
    "Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. It means a great deal to me."
    "There's someone else who wants to talk to you. Follow me, please."
    WHEN MICHAEL ENTERED the communications room, sandwiched between Wheaton
    and the ambassador, the presidential seal was on the large monitor. The
    ambassador picked up a telephone, murmured a few words into the
    receiver, and hung up. A few seconds later the presidential seal
    dissolved and James Beckwith appeared, seated in a white wing chair next
    to a dying fire in the Oval Office, wearing an open-neck shirt and
    cardigan sweater.
    "Michael, words cannot convey how grateful and how proud you've made us
    all," the President began. "At considerable risk to your own safety, you
    single-handedly overpowered one Sword of Gaza terrorist and killed
    another. Your actions may have saved countless lives, and they have
    dealt a serious blow to a band of ruthless cowards. I will insist that
    you be awarded the highest decoration possible for your actions. I only
    wish I could pin it on your chest personally in front of the entire
    nation, because your country would be very proud of you today."
    Michael managed a smile. "I'm used to working in secret, Mr. President,
    and if it's all right with you I'd prefer to keep it that way."
    Beckwith smiled broadly. "I didn't think you'd have it any other way.
    Besides, you're too valuable to waste on some photo opportunity. We have
    enough of those as it is, thanks to my chief of staff."
    The camera pulled out wider, revealing the rest of the men seated around
    the President: Chief of Staff Vandenberg, CIA Director Clark, National
    Security Adviser Bristol. On the edge of the screen sat a small man in
    an ill-fitting designer suit, hands folded in his lap, face obscured,
    like a good spy. Michael knew at once that it was Adrian Carter. "Excuse
    me for interrupting, Mr. President," Michael said. "Could the camera pan
    a little to the left? I can't see the tiny man on the couch there."
    The camera moved, revealing Carter's face. As usual he looked sleepy and
    bored, even though he was sitting in the Oval Office surrounded by the
    President and his senior national security team. Michael said, "Well,
    well, how did they let a knuckle-dragger like Adrian Carter into the
    Oval Office? Be careful, Mr. President. He steals hotel towels and
    ashtrays. I'd put a Secret Service detail on him."
    "He's already taken a dozen boxes of presidential M and Ms," Beckwith
    said, clearly enjoying himself. Carter finally smiled. "If you're going
    to start acting like some kind of American hero, I'm going to be sick.
    Remember, I was with you from the beginning, Michael. I know where the
    bodies are buried, literally. I'd be careful, if I were you."
    When the laughter died away, Beckwith said, "Michael, there's something
    else we need to discuss with you. I'm going to let Adrian and Director
    Clark brief you on the details."
    "Michael, I won't beat around the bush," Clark began. The CIA director
    was a politician, a patrician former senator from New Hampshire who
    prided himself on the fact that he spoke like a common man. As a result,
    the lexicon of intelligence work forever baffled him. He