The Mark of the Assassin

you."
    Michael lit another cigarette. "You didn't tell anyone from your team
    that I was planning on paying Drozdov a visit, did you?"
    "Are you kidding? The top floor would have my ass if they found out. Why
    do you ask?"
    "Because a couple of clods in a white Ford minivan followed me out there
    and then saw me to Heathrow."
    "Not ours. Maybe Wheaton put you under watch."
    "I've considered that possibility."
    "He's a son-of-a-bitch, your Wheaton. The gentlemen in the executive
    suite at Vauxhall Cross can't wait for the day he heads back to Langley
    for a victory lap round headquarters."
    "Did he tell SIS about the meeting with Awad tomorrow?"
    "Not that I know of, and I'd be on the notification list for something
    like that."
    "And you're not going to tell your team about it, are you, Graham?"
    "Of course not. Usual rules apply, darling." Graham tossed his cigarette
    into a now withered flower bed. "You're not in the market for an
    experienced wing man are you?"
    "When was the last time you operated in the field?"
    "It's been awhile; it's been awhile for you too. But some things you
    don't forget. If I were you, I'd want someone watching my back right
    about now."
    CHAPTER 24.
    Washington, D.C.
    PAUL VANDENBERG SWITCHED ON the television monitors in his office and
    watched the first feeds of all three network newscasts simultaneously.
    Each devoted the entire first block of the broadcast to the attack at
    Heathrow. There were live reports from London, the White House, and the
    Middle East, and background reports on the Sword of Gaza. The tone of
    the reports was generally positive, though anonymous European diplomatic
    sources blamed the United States for attacking the Sword of Gaza bases
    in the first place. Vandenberg could live with criticism from the
    Europeans. Congress was on board--even some of the more dovish Democrats
    like Andrew Sterling, Beckwith's defeated opponent, had pledged
    support--and The New York Times and The Washington Post had bestowed
    their editorial blessings. Still, twenty American civilians coming home
    from London in body bags were bound to erode some public support for the
    President's actions. The program shifted focus to the rest of the day's
    news. Vandenberg rose and fixed himself a vodka and tonic, which he
    drank while he tidied his desk and locked away his important files. At
    seven-ten his secretary poked her head through the door. "Good night,
    Mr. Vandenberg."
    "Good night, Margaret."
    "You have a call, sir. A Detective Steve Richardson from D.C. Metro
    Police."
    "He say what it was regarding?"
    "No, sir. Shall I ask?"
    "No, go home, Margaret. I'll take care of it."
    Vandenberg turned down the volume on the television sets, punched the
    blinking light on his multiline telephone, and picked up the receiver.
    "This is Paul Vandenberg," he said briskly, intentionally adding a note
    of authority to his voice. "Good evening, Mr. Vandenberg. I apologize
    for bothering you so late, but this will just take a moment or two."
    "Can I ask what this is regarding?"
    "The death of a Washington Post reporter named Susanna Dayton. Were you
    aware she had been murdered, Mr. Vanden-berg?"
    "Of course. In fact, I spoke to her the night of her death."
    "Well, that's why I'm calling. You see--"
    "You checked her phone records and discovered that I was one of the last
    people to whom she spoke, and now you'd like to know exactly what we
    talked about."
    "I heard you were a smart man, Mr. Vandenberg."
    "Where are you calling from?"
    "Actually, I'm right across the street in Lafayette Park."
    "Good, why don't we talk face-to-face?"
    "I know what you look like. Seen you on television over the years."
    "I suppose television is good for something."
    FIVE MINUTES LATER, Vandenberg was walking through the Northwest Gate of
    the White House, crossing the pedestrian mall that used to be
    Pennsylvania Avenue. His car waited on Executive Drive, inside the
    grounds. Night had come, and with it a cold drizzle. Vandenberg stalked
    across Lafayette Park in a brisk parade-ground march, collar up against
    the cold, arms swinging at his side. Two homeless men approached and
    asked for money. Vandenberg stormed past, never acknowledging their
    presence. Detective Richardson rose from his seat on a bench and walked
    toward him, hand out. "She called me for comment on a story she was
    working on," Vandenberg said, immediately taking the initiative. "It was
    a complex investigative piece of some sort, and I referred