Free The Mark of the Assassin by Daniel Silva Page B

from nine to nine-fifteen. I'll come over
    immediately afterward. Save me a place at the table."
    Vandenberg climbed into the back of the White House car. The ignition of
    the engine shattered the quiet of California Street. The car pulled
    away, turned left onto Massachusetts, and was gone. A few seconds later
    a Toyota swept past the house, the same one they had seen a few minutes
    earlier. Mitchell Elliott waited for Mark Calahan to accompany him to
    the walk to his front door. "Did you get the license number of that
    car?"
    "Of course, Mr. Elliott."
    "Run a check on it. I want to know who owns it."
    "Right away, sir."
    ELLIOTT WAS READING in the library when his assistant walked in twenty
    minutes later. "The car's registered to a Susanna Dayton. She lives in
    Georgetown."
    "Susanna Dayton is the Washington Post reporter who's doing a piece on
    my connections to Beckwith."
    "Could be coincidence, Mr. Elliott, but I'd say she's watching the
    house."
    "Put her under surveillance. Bring in as many men as you need to do the
    job right. I want to know what she's doing and whom she's seeing. Get
    inside her house as quickly as possible. Bug the rooms and the
    telephones. No fucking around on this one."
    The aide closed the door behind him as he left. Mitchell Elliott picked
    up the telephone and dialed the White House. Thirty seconds later, the
    call was routed through to Paul Vandenberg's car. "Hello, Paul. I'm
    afraid we have a small problem."
    CHAPTER 8.
    Washington, D.C.
    POMANDER WALK is a touch of France hidden within the heart of
    Georgetown, ten small cottages off Volta Place, reached by an alley too
    narrow for cars. Susanna Dayton fell in love with the little street the
    first time she saw it: the whitewashed brick exteriors, the brightly
    painted window frames, the flowers spilling from pots on the front
    steps. Volta Park was located just across the way, a perfect place to
    run her golden retriever. When one of the ten houses had finally come on
    the market two years ago, she sold her Connecticut Avenue apartment and
    moved in. She parked her car on Volta Place, grabbed her bag, and
    climbed out. The rain had ended, and the street was buried beneath a
    carpet of slick leaves. Susanna closed the door and crossed the street.
    Pomander Walk was quiet as usual. The soft light of a television
    flickered in the living room window of the house directly opposite hers.
    Carson barked loudly as Susanna walked up the front steps of her house
    and shoved her key in the lock. He scampered into the kitchen and came
    back with his leash in his mouth. "In a minute, sweetheart. Let me do a
    little work and change clothes."
    The house was small but comfortable for one person: two bedrooms above,
    kitchen and living room below. When she was still married, she and her
    husband lived in a larger town house two blocks away on 34th Street. It
    was sold in the divorce settlement and the money divided between them.
    Jack and his new wife, an aerobics instructor at his health club, bought
    a house overlooking Rock Creek in Bethesda. Susanna was glad he had
    moved. She wanted to stay in Georgetown without having to worry about
    bumping into Jack and his trophy wife every other day. She used the
    spare bedroom as an office. Papers and files littered the floor. Books
    crammed the built-in shelves. She placed her laptop on the desk and
    switched on the power. For five minutes she typed rapidly. Carson sat in
    the doorway, eyes locked on her, his leash in his mouth. It had been an
    amazing night. Mitchell Elliott had spent three hours inside the White
    House, presumably with the President. And then she had seen him walking
    outside his California Street home with the President's chief of staff,
    Paul Vandenberg. Taken in isolation, the information was not damning. If
    she could fit it into the rest of the puzzle, she might have a real
    story. There was nothing more to do tonight. She would talk to her
    editor in the morning, tell him what she had