Free The Mark of the Assassin by Daniel Silva Page B

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. Beckwith, 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 naïve.”
    Anne Beckwith rose abruptly. “Well, this naïve 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, sensing Elliott’s discomfort, allowed a smile to flicker across his face.
    Beckwith glared, first at his chief of staff, then at Elliott. “All right, gentlemen,” he said. “Suppose you tell me what this is all about.”
    Elliott said, “Mr. President, I want to help you win reelection—for the good of this marvelous country of ours and for the good of the American people. And I believe I know how to do it.”
    The President raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Let’s hear it, Mitchell.”
    “In a moment, Mr. President,” Elliott said. “First, I think a brief prayer to the Almighty is in order.”
    Mitchell Elliott rose from his seat, dropped to his knees in the Oval Office, and began to pray.
     
    “Do you think he’ll go through with it, Paul?”
    “Hard to say. He wants to sleep on it. That’s a good sign.”
    During the short trip from the White House they had chatted briefly or said nothing at all. Neither man liked to talk in enclosed places, including moving government cars. Now they walked side by side up the gentle grade of California Street past the grand, brightly lit mansions of Kalorama. A wet wind moved in the trees. Leaves of ruby and