The Mark of the Assassin Page 30

  Delaroche checked them in, refusing the bellman’s offer to help with the bags. He closed the door and they both fell onto the bed, exhausted from the two long drives and the hike across the border.

  Delaroche awoke after two hours, ordered coffee from room service, and sat down at his laptop computer. While Astrid slept, he opened Michael Osbourne’s dossier and began planning his death.

  41

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Elizabeth telephoned Max Lewis at the office late in the afternoon.

  “How are you feeling?” he said over the rustle of papers. It was after 5 p.m., and he was preparing to leave the office for the day, which is why Elizabeth called then.

  “I’m fine, but the doctor says I really have to stay off my feet as much as possible during the next week or so. Actually, that’s why I’m calling. I was wondering if you could bring me some papers on your way home tonight.”

  “No problem. What do you need?”

  “The McGregor case file. It’s on my desk.”

  “Actually, it’s back in your file room. I took the liberty of cleaning off your desk today. Honestly, Elizabeth, I don’t know how you get any work done in there. I also threw out all your cigarettes.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve given them up. No more Chardonnay in the bathtub after work, either.”

  “Good girl,” he said. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Need anything else? Want me to pick up your cleaning? Do some shopping for you at Sutton Place? Command me, my queen.”

  “Just bring me the McGregor file. I’ll reward you with food and wine.”

  “In that case, I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “I’m flat on my back in bed, so use your key.”

  “Yes, my queen.”

  Max hung up. Michael was on a chair and ottoman at the foot of the bed, listening to the conversation on the cordless phone. He looked at Elizabeth and said, “Perfect.”

  It took Max more than a half hour to fight his way through traffic to Georgetown from the firm’s Connecticut Avenue office. He stuck his key in the Osbournes’ lock, opened the door, and stepped inside the entrance hall.

  “Elizabeth, it’s me,” he called.

  “Hey, Max, come on up. There’s cold wine in the fridge. Grab a glass and a corkscrew.”

  He did as he was told and walked up the stairs. He found Elizabeth sprawled on the bed, surrounded by stacks of briefs and legal pads. “My God,” he said. “Maybe I should work here instead of downtown.”

  “That might not be such a bad idea.”

  He placed the McGregor files on the bedside table and instinctively began straightening papers and organizing her things. Michael walked into the room. Max said, “Hey, Michael, how are you?”

  Michael said nothing. Max said, “Something wrong?”

  Elizabeth touched his arm and said, “Max, we need to talk.”

  “Susanna came to me after you turned her down,” Max said. He was sitting in the chair in the bedroom, legs sprawled across the ottoman. Michael had opened the wine, and Max drank half the bottle very fast. The initial shock of the confrontation had worn off, and now he was relaxed and talking freely. “She asked me to help her. I slept on it, and then I agreed to do it.”

  “Max, if you had been caught, they’d have fired you and probably prosecuted you. Law firms can’t tolerate theft and violation of attorney-client privilege. It doesn’t make clients feel good, and it makes it damned hard to attract new ones.”

  “I was willing to take the risk. When you’re in my position, Elizabeth, you tend not to take a real long view of things.”

  “I don’t want to be judgmental, Max, but you should have come to me first,” Elizabeth said. “I hired you. You work for me. The firm would have fallen on me like a ton of bricks.”

  “And what would you have said?”

  “I would have told you not to do it.”

  “That’s why I didn’t come to you.”

  “Why, Max? Why go after Braxton like that?”

  Max looked at Elizabeth as though he found the question offensive. “Why Braxton? Because he’s a dirty, crooked asshole who’s about to become secretary of state. I’m surprised you even have to ask the question. I’ve heard the way he talks to you in the partners’ meetings, and I’ve heard the way he talks about you when you’re not around.”

  He hesitated a moment, looked at Michael, and said, “Can I bum one of those from you?” Michael handed him the pack and a lighter. Max smoked for a moment and drank more of the wine.

  “It’s personal, too,” he said finally. “Someone told Braxton I was HIV-positive. He was working behind your back to get me fired as one of his last acts before leaving the firm. I wanted to make his final weeks so fucked up he wouldn’t have time to deal with me, and Susanna gave me the opportunity to do it.”

  Michael said, “How did you get the documents?”

  “I stole one of the keys to his file room and copied it. That night I went into the office on the pretense that I had some work to do. I went into the file room, took the documents, and headed over to Susanna’s place. I laid down only one ground rule: She wasn’t allowed to photocopy the files. I stayed at her house all night while she worked; then I went into the office early and put the files back in their original place. Nothing to it, really.”

  “You still have the key?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yeah, I thought about throwing it off Memorial Bridge, but I kept it instead.”

  “Good.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re going to go in there tonight to get those files again.”

  42

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Officially, there was a lid in place at the White House, which meant the press office expected no more news that day and the President and First Lady had no public events and no plans to leave the residence. But at 8 p.m. a single black sedan slipped from the South Gate of the White House and entered the evening traffic of downtown Washington.

  Anne Beckwith sat alone in the backseat. There was no bombproof presidential limousine, no black Chevy Suburban chase vehicles, no police escort. Just a White House driver and a single Secret Service agent seated in the front seat. For years Anne had been escaping the White House in this manner at least once a week. She enjoyed getting out into the real world, as she liked to put it. For Anne, the real world was not far removed from the opulence of the Executive Mansion. Usually she took a short ride to the wealthy enclaves of Georgetown or Kalorama or Spring Valley for drinks and dinner with old friends or important political allies.

  The car headed north up Connecticut Avenue, then turned west onto Massachusetts after navigating the heavy traffic of Dupont Circle. A moment later it turned onto California Street and slowed outside the large brick mansion. The garage door opened, and the black sedan slipped silently inside.

  The Secret Service agent waited for the garage door to close again before getting out of the car. He walked around the back and opened the First Lady’s door. Her host was waiting when she stepped out of the car. She kissed his cheek and said, “Hello, Mitchell, so good to see you.”

  Anne Beckwith did not come for an evening of pleasant conversation and good food. This was business. She accepted a glass of wine but ignored the plate of cheese and pâté one of Elliott’s drones placed on the coffee table between them.

  “I want to know if the situation is under control,” she said coldly. “And if it’s not under control, I want to know just what in the hell you’re doing to get it under control.”

  “If Susanna Dayton had lived to publish that article, it could have been very damaging. Her unfortunate murder bought us some time, but I don’t think we’re in the clear yet.”

  “Unfortunate murder,” Anne repeated, derision in her voice. “Why hasn’t the Post published her story?”

  “Because they’re trying to reconfirm all her reporting, and they’re not quite there yet.”

  “Are they going to get there?”

 
“Not if I can help it.”

  Anne Beckwith lit a cigarette and exhaled a slender stream of smoke sharply between her tense lips.

  “What are you doing to prevent it?”

  “I think it would be unwise for you to know about any of this, Anne.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Mitchell. Just tell me what I want to know.”

  “We think Susanna Dayton’s best friend is working with the Post now, a lawyer named Elizabeth Osbourne.”

  “Isn’t she Douglas Cannon’s girl?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “Cannon hates Jim. They were on Armed Services together. Cannon was the chairman, and Jim was the ranking Republican. They were barely on speaking terms at the end of it.”

  Anne finished her wine. “Aren’t you going to offer me another glass? California, isn’t it? God, we make wonderful wine.”

  Elliott poured more wine. Anne said, “Mitchell, we go way back. Jim and I owe you a great deal. You’ve been very generous over the years. But I will not let Jim be tarnished by this in any way. He’s run his last campaign. He has nothing to lose now except his place in the history books.”

  “I understand that.”

  “I don’t think you do. If this becomes public in a bad way, I will use every ounce of power and influence I possess to make sure you’re the one who takes the fall. I won’t let Jim be hurt, and I don’t give a damn about you at this point. Do I make myself clear?”

  Elliott poured down the rest of his scotch. He didn’t appreciate being lectured by Anne Beckwith. If it hadn’t been for Anne’s greed and Anne’s insecurities, Elliott would never have been able to establish his special financial relationship with her husband. Anne always called the shots, even when it came to graft. He stared at her coldly for a moment, then nodded and said, “Yes, Anne, you’ve made yourself quite clear.”

  “If this thing blows up, Jim will survive it. But your little missile project will go down the crapper. It won’t be built, or they’ll award the contract to a less controversial company. You’ll be finished.”

  “I know the stakes.”

  “Good.” She stood up and collected her coat. Mitchell Elliott remained seated. “I just have one question for you, Mitchell. Did the same people who killed the reporter shoot down the airliner?”

  Elliott looked at her, astonishment on his face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Answering a question with a question. That’s a bad sign. Good night, darling. Oh, and don’t bother to get up. I’m only the First Lady. I’ll see myself out.”

  Elizabeth dressed the part of a busy Washington lawyer returning to the office for some late-night work: jeans, urban cowboy boots, a comfortable beige cotton sweater. Max Lewis lived near Dupont Circle, and his daily work attire reflected the trends of his neighborhood: black jeans, black suede loafers, black turtleneck shirt, dark gray jacket. The law offices of Braxton, Allworth & Kettlemen stood on the corner of Connecticut Avenue and K Street. Michael waited in the car. Elizabeth and Max walked into the lobby together, checked in with the security guard, and took the elevator up to the eleventh floor.

  Elizabeth’s office was on the north end of the floor, overlooking Connecticut Avenue. Samuel Braxton had the largest office in the firm, a series of rooms along the corner of Connecticut Avenue and K Street, with a magnificent view of the White House and the Washington Monument. Elizabeth unlocked her office, switched on the lights, and went inside. She spoke to Max in a loud, clear voice; she wanted everything to appear normal. Max loaded some extra paper in the copier and made a pot of coffee. Elizabeth could hear the distant drone of vacuum cleaners from somewhere on the floor.

  She took the keys and walked down the length of the hall to Braxton’s office. She knocked once gently, received no answer, and unlocked the door with the duplicate key. She stepped inside and quickly closed the door. She took a small flashlight from her handbag and switched it on.

  Elizabeth was in the exterior office where Braxton’s two secretaries worked. The file room was at the far end of the office, through a heavy door. Elizabeth switched keys and opened the door. She closed it behind her and switched on the light.

  Max had told her where to find the Elliott and Beckwith files: on the far wall, top left. The top shelf was beyond her reach. Braxton’s secretaries kept a library-style stepstool inside the room for just such occasions. She carried the stool across the room, stepped up on it, and began picking her way through the files.

  She went through the entire row once and found nothing. She started from the beginning, forcing herself to go slowly, but once again found nothing. She tried the shelf below, but it was the same thing. Nothing. She swore softly beneath her breath.

  Braxton had removed the files.

  Elizabeth climbed down off the stool and moved across the room toward the door. She heard sounds in the office outside the door—a key being shoved in a lock, the click of a light switch, the scrape of a metal cart. Then she heard the crunch of a key shoved forcefully into the door lock a few feet from her. The lock gave way, and the door pushed back.

  Elizabeth carefully examined the man standing before her and realized immediately something was wrong. Most of the cleaning staff were small dark-skinned Central Americans of Indian origin who spoke almost no English. This man was tall, about six feet, and fair-skinned. His dark hair obviously had been cut and styled by an expensive professional. His coverall was new and unsoiled, his fingernails clean. But it was the ring on his left hand that caught Elizabeth’s attention. It bore the insignia of the Army Special Forces, the Green Berets.

  “Can I help you?” Elizabeth said. She thought it was best to take the offensive.

  “I heard a noise,” the man said in thickly accented English. Elizabeth knew he was lying, because she had been very careful not to make any sound.

  “Why didn’t you call security?” she shot back.

  The man shrugged and said, “I thought I’d check it out myself first. You know, catch a thief, be a big hero, get a reward or something.”

  She made a show of looking at the name tag on his coverall. “Are you an American, Carlos?”

  He shook his head. “I am from Ecuador.”

  “Where did you get that ring?”

  “Pawnshop in Adams Morgan. Muy bonito, don’t you think?”

  “It’s lovely, Carlos. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  She walked past him and entered the exterior office.

  “Find what you’re looking for?” he said to her back.

  “Actually, I was just putting something back.”

  “Okay. Good night, señora.”

  “Maybe he was telling the truth,” Michael said. “Maybe he really is Carlos from Ecuador, and he got the ring at a pawnshop in Adams Morgan.”

  “Bullshit,” Elizabeth said.

  Max had taken them to a restaurant in Dupont Circle called The Childe Harold. It was popular with journalists and young congressional staff. They sat at a corner table in the cellar bar. Elizabeth desperately wanted a cigarette but chewed her nails instead.

  “I’ve never seen him before,” Max said. “But that doesn’t mean much. The people in those jobs come and go all the time.”

  “You’ve never seen him before, Max, because he’s not a fucking janitor, and he’s not Carlos from fucking Ecuador. I know what I saw.” She looked at Michael. “Remember what you said about that feeling you get when someone’s watching you? Well, I have that feeling right now.”

  “She’s not an idiot,” Henry Rodriguez reported over the phone. “She’s a big-time lawyer. I tried to talk my way out of it. Did my best Freddie Prinze from Chico and the Man, but I know she made me.”

  “Why the fuck were you wearing the ring?” Calahan said.

  “I forgot. Shoot me.”

  “Don’t give me any ideas. Where are they now?”

  “Restaurant called The Childe Harold. Twentieth Street, north of Dupont Circle.”

  “Where are you?”

 
; “Pay phone on the other side of Connecticut Avenue. I can’t get any closer.”

  “Stay put. I’ll have someone there in five minutes.”

  Calahan hung up and looked at Elliott. “We have another small problem, sir.”

  43

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  The following morning Delaroche sat on a bench in Dupont Circle, watching the crowd of bicycle couriers taking their morning coffee. He found them vaguely amusing—the way they laughed and joked and threw things at each other—but he was not watching them simply to pass the time. He carefully noted the way they dressed, the kinds of satchels they carried, the manner in which they walked. Shortly after nine o’clock the couriers began receiving calls over their radios, and each reluctantly mounted a bike and pedaled off to work.

  Delaroche waited until the last was gone, then flagged down a taxi, and gave the driver an address.

  The taxi took Delaroche along M Street into Georgetown and deposited him at the base of Key Bridge. He entered the shop. A salesman asked if he needed help, and Delaroche shook his head. He started with the clothing. He selected the most flamboyant and colorful jersey and riding britches he could find. Next he selected shoes, socks, a helmet, and a backpack. He carried everything to the front of the store and stacked it on the checkout counter.

  “Anything else?” the salesman asked.

  Delaroche pointed to the most expensive mountain bike in the store. The attendant lifted it from the display rack and wheeled it toward the service counter.

  “Where are you taking that?” Delaroche asked quietly, conscious of his accented English.

  “We need to check out the bike, sir. It’s going to take an hour or so.”