The Mark of the Assassin

her to the
    White House press office."
    "Do you remember anything about the details of the story?"
    So there was no tape recording, Vandenberg thought. "Not really. It was
    some story about the President's fund-raising activities. It didn't
    strike me as terribly serious, and frankly, on a Sunday night, I didn't
    feel much like dealing with it. So I passed her down the line."
    "Did you call the press secretary to notify him about the call?"
    "No, I didn't."
    "May I ask why not?"
    "Because I didn't believe it was necessary."
    "Do you know a man named Mitchell Elliott?"
    "Of course," Vandenberg said. "I worked for Alatron Defense Systems
    before I entered politics, and Mitchell Elliott is one of the
    President's closest political supporters. We see a good deal of each
    other, and we talk regularly."
    "Did you know Susanna Dayton telephoned Mitchell Elliott that night as
    well? In fact, it was just a few moments before she spoke to you."
    "Yes, I know she telephoned Mitchell Elliott."
    "May I ask how you know that?"
    "Because Mitchell Elliott and I spoke afterward."
    "Do you remember what you discussed?"
    "Not really. It was a very brief conversation. We discussed the
    allegations contained in Ms. Dayton's article, and we both dismissed
    them as baseless nonsense that did not deserve a comment."
    "You spoke to Elliott but not the White House press secretary?"
    "Yes, that's right."
    Richardson closed his notebook to signal the interview had concluded.
    Vandenberg said, "Do you have any idea who murdered the woman?"
    Richardson shook his head. "Right now, we're treating it as a robbery
    that went wrong. I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Vandenberg, but we had to
    check it out. I hope you understand."
    "Of course, Detective."
    Richardson handed him his card. "If you think of anything else, please
    don't hesitate to call."
    "I DON'T ENJOY getting calls from the Washington police at my White
    House office, Mitchell."
    The two men walked side by side in their usual meeting place, Hains
    Point along the Washington Channel. Mark Calahan strolled a few paces
    behind, looking for signs of surveillance. "The Washington police don't
    make me terribly nervous, Paul," Elliott said calmly. "I think the last
    time they arrested someone for murder was 1950."
    "Just tell me one thing, Mitchell. Tell me you had absolutely nothing to
    do with that woman's death."
    They stopped walking. Mitchell Elliott turned to face Van-denberg but
    said nothing. Vandenberg said, "Put your hand on an imaginary Bible,
    Mitchell, and swear to that God of yours that Calahan or one of your
    other thugs didn't kill Susanna Dayton."
    "You know I can't do that, Paul," Elliott said calmly. "You bastard,"
    Vandenberg whispered. "What the fuck happened?"
    "We put her under watch--complete physical and audio coverage," Elliott
    said. "We went into her residence to do a little housekeeping, and she
    surprised us."
    "She surprised you. Jesus Christ, Mitchell! Do you know what you're
    saying?"
    "I know exactly what I'm saying. One of my men has committed an
    unfortunate murder. The White House chief of staff is now an accessory
    to murder after the fact."
    "You son-of-a-bitch! How dare you bring this upon the President. ,,
    "Keep your voice down, Paul. You never know who's listening. And I
    haven't brought anything upon this president, because there is no way
    we'll ever be connected to the murder of Susanna Dayton. If you keep
    your wits about you, and refrain from doing anything stupid, nothing is
    going to happen."
    Vandenberg glared at Calahan, who stared directly back at him,
    unblinking. He turned and started walking. A gentle rain drifted over
    the river. "I have one other question, Mitchell."
    "You want to know who really shot down that jetliner."
    Vandenberg looked at Mitchell in silence. "Just deliver your lines and
    hit your toe marks, Paul. Don't ask too many questions."
    "Now, Mitchell? Tell me, now." Elliott turned to Calahan and said,
    "Mark, Mr. Vandenberg isn't feeling terribly well at the moment. See him
    safely back to his car. Good night, Paul. We'll talk soon."
    VANDENBERG'S CHAUFFEURED CAR left Hains Point and followed the parkway
    around the Tidal Basin. The Jefferson Memorial glowed softly across the
    water, blurred by rain. The car turned onto Independence Avenue, swept
    past the towering Washington Monument, and turned onto the Potomac
    Parkway. Van-denberg glanced up at the Lincoln Memorial.
    He thought, My God, what have I done? He needed a