The Mark of the Assassin

She thought, An airliner has just been shot down, and
    I'm trapped with this insipid blonde trying to sell me baby lotion. She
    went back to the window and looked for Michael's car one last time. It
    was foolish of her to expect him. One of the few things she knew about
    her husband's job was that it dealt with counterterrorism. She would be
    lucky if he even managed to come home tonight. The nurse appeared in the
    doorway. "The doctor is ready for you, Mrs. Osbourne. This way, please."
    Elizabeth picked up her briefcase and her raincoat and followed the
    nurse down a narrow hall.
    FORTY MINUTES LATER, Elizabeth took the elevator down to the lobby and
    stepped outside onto a covered sidewalk. She turned up her collar and
    plunged into the drenching rain. The wind blew her hair across her face
    and tore at her raincoat. Elizabeth seemed not to notice. She was numb.
    The doctor's words ran through her head like an irritating melody that
    she could not drive from her thoughts. You're incapable of having a baby
    naturally ... There's a problem with your tubes ... In vitro
    fertilization might help ... We'll never know unless we try ... I'm
    very sorry, Elizabeth ...
    A car nearly struck her in the fading light.
    Elizabeth seemed not to notice as the driver blared his horn and tore
    off. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to be sick. She
    thought about making love to Michael. Their marriage had its minor
    flaws--too much time apart, too many distractions from work--but in bed
    they were perfect. Their lovemaking was familiar yet exciting. She knew
    Michael's body and he knew hers; they knew how to give each other
    pleasure. Elizabeth had always assumed that when she was ready to have a
    baby, it would happen as naturally and pleasantly as their lovemaking.
    She felt betrayed by her body. The Mercedes stood alone in the corner of
    the parking lot. She dug in her pocket for her keys. She pointed the
    remote at the car and pressed the button. The doors unlocked and the
    lights came on. She climbed quickly inside, closed the door, and locked
    it again. She tried to shove the key into the ignition, but her hands
    were shaking and the keys fell from her grasp to the floor. Reaching
    down for them, she bumped her head against the dashboard. Elizabeth
    Osbourne believed in composure: in the courtroom, in the office, with
    Michael. She never let her emotions get the better of her, even when Sam
    Braxton made one of his wisecracks. But now, sitting alone in her car,
    her hair plastered to the side of her face, composure deserted her. Her
    body slowly fell forward until her head rested against the steering
    wheel. Then the tears came, and she sat in the car and wept.
    CHAPTER 4.
    Washington, D.C.
    TWENTY MINUTES LATER, a black White House sedan pulled to the curb in
    the section of the city known as Kalorama. Black staff cars and
    limousines were not unusual in the neighborhood. Nestled in the wooded
    hills on the edge of Rock Creek Park just north of Massachusetts Avenue,
    Kalorama was home to some of the city's most powerful and influential
    residents. Mitchell Elliott detested eastern cities as a rule--he spent
    most of his time in Colorado Springs or at his canyonside home in Los
    Angeles, near the headquarters of Alatron Defense systems--but his $3
    million mansion in Kalorama helped make his frequent trips to Washington
    bearable. He had considered a large estate in the horse country of
    Virginia, but commuting into the city along Interstate 66 was a
    nightmare, and Mitchell Elliott didn't have time to waste. Kalorama was
    ten minutes from National Airport and Capitol Hill and five minutes from
    the White House. It was five minutes before seven. Elliott relaxed in
    the second-floor library overlooking the garden. The wind hurled rain
    against the glass. It was cold for October, and one of his aides had
    laid a fire in the large fireplace. Elliott paced slowly, sipping
    thirty-year-old single-malt Scotch from a cut-glass tumbler. He was a
    small man, just over five and a half feet tall, who had learned long ago
    how to carry himself like a big man. He never allowed an opponent to
    stand over him. When someone entered his office, Elliott always remained
    seated, legs crossed, hands resting on the arms of his chair, as if the
    space were too small to contain his frame. Elliott was schooled in the
    art of warfare--and, more importantly, in the art of deception. He
    believed in illusion, misdirection. He ran his