Free The Mark of the Assassin by Daniel Silva

He
    returned to Washington and met with his national security staff: the
    secretaries of Defense and State, the national security adviser, the
    director of Central Intelligence. At precisely 6:20 P.M., Vandenberg
    briefed White House reporters background. The President was considering
    military retaliation against the terrorists believed to be responsible
    for the attack. U.S. Navy warships were moving into place in the eastern
    Mediterranean and Persian Gulf. At 6:30 the White House correspondents
    from ABC, CBS, and NBC stood side by side on the North Lawn and told the
    American people that the President might take decisive action to avenge
    the attack. Mitchell Elliott knew the overnight poll numbers would be
    good. But now, sitting across the table from James Beckwith, Elliott was
    struck by the fatigue written on his face. He wondered whether his old
    friend had the will to fight any longer. Elliot,: said, "If I didn't
    know better, Anne, I'd say you were ready to leave now instead of four
    years from now."
    The remark bordered on discussion of politics. Instead of changing the
    subject, the way she usually did, Anne Beckwith met Elliott's gaze and
    narrowed her blue eyes in a rare display of anger. "Frankly, Mitchell, I
    don't care if we leave four years from now or four months from now," she
    said. "The President has given this nation everything he has for the
    past four years. Our family has made terrible sacrifices. And if the
    people want to elect an untested senator from Nebraska to be their
    leader, so be it."
    The remark was vintage Anne Beckwith. Anne liked to pretend she was
    above politics, that a life of power had been a burden not a reward.
    Elliott knew the truth. Behind the placid facade, Anne Beckwith was a
    ruthless politician in her own right who exercised enormous power in
    private. A steward entered, cleared away the dishes, and poured coffee.
    The President lit a cigarette. Anne made him quit twenty years ago but
    allowed him one each night with coffee. Beck-with, in an astonishing
    display of self-discipline, smoked his one cigarette each night and only
    one. When the steward was gone, Elliott said, "We still have a month
    before the election, Anne. We can turn this thing around."
    "Mitchell Elliott, you sound like those surrogates who go on mindless
    television talk shows and spew spin and talking points about how the
    American people haven't focused on the election yet. You know as well as
    I do that the polls aren't going to change between now and Election
    Day."
    "Normally, that's the case, I'll concede that. But two nights ago an
    Arab terrorist blew an American jetliner from the sky. The President has
    the stage to himself now. Sterling is out of the picture. The President
    has been presented with a marvelous opportunity to showcase his
    experience at managing a crisis."
    "My God, Mitchell Elliott, two hundred and fifty people are dead, and
    you're excited because you think it will help us finally move the polls?
    "Mitchell didn't say that, Anne," Beckwith said. "Just listen to the
    media. Everything that takes place in an election year is viewed through
    the prism of politics. To pretend otherwise would be naive."
    Anne Beckwith rose abruptly. "Well, this naive old lady has had enough
    for one evening." The President and Elliott stood up. Anne kissed her
    husband's cheek and held out her hand to their guest. "He's tired,
    Mitchell. He hasn't slept much since being presented with this marvelous
    political opportunity of yours. Don't keep him up long."
    When Anne was gone, the two men walked downstairs and along the covered
    outdoor walkway to the Oval Office. A fire was burning, and the lights
    were dimmed. Paul Vandenberg was there, waiting. Beckwith sat in a wing
    chair near the fire, and Vandenberg sat next to him. That left one of
    the deep white couches to Elliott. When he sat down he sank into the
    soft cushion. He felt shorter than the other two men and didn't like it.
    Vandenberg,