The Mark of the Assassin

means. The main beneficiary of Elliott's generosity
    was James Beckwith. Elliott had contributed thousands of dollars to
    Beckwith's campaigns and political action committees over the years, and
    he had served as a close confidential adviser. One of Elliott's former
    executives, Paul Vandenberg, was the White House chief of staff.
    Beckwith regularly stayed at Elliott's vacation homes in Maui and Vale.
    Susanna had two primary questions: Had Mitchell Elliott made illegal
    contributions to James Beckwith and the Republican Party over the years?
    And did he exercise undue influence over the President? At this point
    she had answers to neither question. Her editor wanted to publish the
    piece two weeks from now in a special section on President Beckwith and
    his first term. She had a good deal of work to do before it would be
    ready to go. Even then Susanna knew she could do little more than raise
    questions about Elliott and his ties to the White House. Mitchell
    Elliott had covered his tracks well. He was completely inaccessible. The
    Post photo library had just one ten-year-old picture of him, and Alatron
    Defense Systems didn't even have a spokesman. When she requested an
    interview, the man at the other end of the line chuckled mildly and
    said, "Mr. Elliott does not make it a habit to talk to reporters."
    A source at National Airport told her Elliott had come to Washington
    earlier that day aboard his private jet. Congress had adjourned, and
    most members had gone home to campaign. The President had cut short a
    campaign trip to deal with the downing of Flight 002. Susanna wondered
    what brought Elliott to town now.
    That explained why she was sitting outside his Kalorama mansion in the
    rain. The front door of the mansion opened and two figures appeared, a
    tall man holding an umbrella, and a shorter silver-haired man, Mitchell
    Elliott. The taller man helped Elliott into the back of the car, then
    walked around and climbed in the other side. The headlights came on,
    illuminating the street. The car pulled swiftly away from the curb,
    heading toward Massachusetts Avenue. Susanna Dayton started the engine
    of her small Toyota and followed, keeping to a safe distance. The large
    black car moved quickly eastward on Massachusetts along Embassy Row. At
    Dupont Circle it melted into traffic in the outer lane and turned south
    on Connecticut Avenue. It was early yet, but Connecticut Avenue was
    nearly deserted. Susanna noticed that a strange quiet had descended over
    the city in the forty-eight hours since the jetliner had been shot down.
    The sidewalks were empty, just a few drunks spilling from a tavern south
    of the circle and a knot of office workers rushing through the rain into
    the Farragut North Metro station. She followed the car across K Street
    as Connecticut turned to 17th Street. She crossed Pennsylvania Avenue
    and swept past the ornate, brightly lit facade of the Old Executive
    Office Building. Susanna thought she knew where Elliott was dining
    tonight. The car made a series of left turns and two minutes later
    stopped at the South Gate of the White House grounds. A uniformed Secret
    Service agent stepped forward, peered into the back of the sedan, and
    ordered the driver to proceed. Susanna Dayton kept driving. She needed a
    place to wait. Sitting in a parked car for any length of time around the
    White House was not a good idea these days. The Secret Service had
    tightened security after a series of attacks on the mansion. She might
    be approached and questioned. A report might be taken. She parked on
    17th Street. There was a small cafe across the street from the Old EOB
    that stayed open late. She grabbed her bag, bulging with newspapers,
    magazines, and her laptop, and got out. She hurried across the street
    through the rain and ducked into the cafe The place was empty. She
    ordered a tuna sandwich and a cup of coffee and made a place for herself
    at a window table while she waited.
    She pulled the laptop from her bag, adjusted the screen, and turned on
    the power. Then she inserted a disk into the floppy drive and opened a
    file. When it came onto the screen, the file appeared as a meaningless
    series of letters and characters. Susanna was cautious by nature--many
    of her colleagues preferred the word "paranoid"--and she used encryption
    software to protect all her sensitive files. She typed a seven-letter
    code name, and the file came to life. The sandwich and coffee arrived.
    She scrolled down