The Mark of the Assassin Read Free Page A

on the yacht's superb satellite television system.
    Such a pity: the grieving relatives at Kennedy and Heathrow, the vigil
    at a high school somewhere on Long Island, the reporters wildly
    speculating about the cause of the crash. He walked through the yacht
    room by room one last time to make certain he had left no trace of his
    presence. He checked the explosive charges. At 6 P.M., the precise time
    he had been ordered, he retrieved a small black object from a cabinet in
    the galley. It was no larger than a cigar box and looked vaguely like a
    radio. He carried it outside onto the aft deck and pressed a single
    button. There was no sound, but he knew the message had been sent in a
    coded microburst. Even if the American NSA intercepted it, it would be
    meaningless gibberish. The yacht motored eastward for two more hours. It
    was now 8 P.M. He set each of the charges and then slipped on a canvas
    vest with a heavy metal clamp on the front. There was more wind tonight.
    It was colder and there were high clouds. The Zodiac, cleated at the
    stern, rose and fell rhythmically with the three-foot swells. He climbed
    into the craft, untied it, and pulled the starter cord. The engine came
    to life on the third pull. He turned away from the yacht and opened the
    throttle. He heard the helicopter twenty minutes later. He shut down the
    Zodiac's engine and shone a signal lamp into the sky. The helicopter
    hovered overhead, the night filled with the thump of its rotors. The
    cable fell from its belly. He attached it to his vest and pulled hard on
    it twice to signal that he was ready. A moment later he rose gently from
    the Zodiac. He heard explosions in the distance. He turned his head in
    time to see the large motor yacht being lifted out of the water by the
    force of the blasts. Then it began its slow descent toward the bottom of
    the Atlantic.
    CHAPTER 2.
    San Francisco PRESIDENT JAMES BECKWITH was notified of the tragedy while
    vacationing at his home in San Francisco. He had hoped for a few days of
    rest: a quiet afternoon in his study overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge,
    a relaxing dinner party with old friends and political supporters in
    Matin. Most of all, a day of sailing aboard his prized thirty-eight-foot
    ketch Democracy, even if it meant being pursued by a pack of White House
    pool reporters and cameramen across the waters of San Francisco Bay. The
    day sails on Democracy always provided the kind of news pictures his
    handlers and political advisers liked best--the President, fit and
    youthful despite his sixty-nine years, still able to handle the boat
    with only Anne aboard; the tanned face, the lean body moving easily
    about the deck, the smart European-style sunglasses beneath the brim of
    his Air Force One cap. The private office in Beckwith's large home in
    the Marina District reflected his taste and image to perfection:
    polished, comfortable, traditional, yet with enough modern touches to
    convey that he was firmly in touch with today's world. The desk was
    glass, tinted slightly gray, his personal computer black. He took pride
    in knowing as much about computers, if not more, than most of his
    youthful staff. He picked up the receiver of his black telephone and
    pressed a single button. A White House operator came onto the line.
    "Yes, Mr. President?"
    "Unless the chief of staff telephones, hold all my calls for now, Grace.
    I'd like some time to myself."
    "Of course, Mr. President."
    He heard the line go dead. He replaced the receiver and walked to the
    window. It was a remarkable view, despite the dense bulletproof glass
    inflicted by the Secret Service. The sun had dropped low into the
    western sky, painting the city soft watercolor shades of purple and
    orange. The evening's fog was creeping through the Golden Gate. Below
    him, colorful kites floated over the bay shore. The view worked its
    magic. He had forgotten how long he had been standing there, watching
    the silent city, the white-capped waters of the