The Mark of the Assassin Read Online Free

Midwest to Sterling. His support
    remained solid in the South, the crucial states of Florida and Texas,
    and California, the mountain West. If Beckwith could capture them all,
    he could win. If any one of them fell to Sterling, the election was
    lost. He knew the downing of Flight 002 would change everything. The
    campaign would freeze; Beckwith would cancel a swing through Tennessee
    and Kentucky to return to Washington to deal with the crisis. If he
    managed it well, his approval ratings would rise and he would close the
    gap. And he could do it all from the comfort and security of the White
    House, not racing around the country in Air Force One or some god
    forsaken campaign bus, shaking hands with old people, making the same
    goddamned speech over and over again. Great men are not born great, he
    told himself. Great men become great because they seize opportunity.
    He carried his coffee back to the window. He thought, But do I really
    want a second term? Unlike most of his predecessors, he had given that
    question serious consideration. He wondered whether he had the endurance
    for one last national campaign: the endless fund-raising, the
    microscopic scrutiny of his record, the constant travel. He and Anne had
    come to detest living in Washington. He had never been accepted by the
    city's ruling elite--its rich journalists, lawyers, and lobbyists--and
    the Executive Mansion had become more like a prison than a home. But to
    leave office after one term was unacceptable. To lose reelection to a
    second-term senator from Nebraska and leave Washington in defeat ... ?
    Beckwith shuddered at the thought.
    They would be coming for him soon. There was a private bathroom just off
    his study. An aide had left his clothes on a hook on the back of the
    door. The President went inside and cast his eyes over the clothing. He
    knew the outfit had been selected personally by his chief of staff and
    longtime friend, Paul Vandenberg. Paul saw to the details; Paul saw to
    everything. Beckwith would be lost without him. Sometimes, even Beckwith
    was embarrassed by the extent to which Paul Vandenberg ran his affairs.
    The media routinely referred to him as "the prime minister" or "the
    power behind the throne." Beckwith, ever conscious of his image in
    history, worried he would be written off as a pawn of Paul Vandenberg.
    But Vandenberg had given Beckwith his word; he would never portray
    himself in that manner. The President trusted him. Paul Vandenberg knew
    how to keep secrets. He believed in the quiet exercise of power. He was
    intensely private, kept a low profile, and leaked to reporters only when
    it was absolutely necessary., He reluctantly appeared on the Sunday
    morning talk shows, but only when the White House press secretary
    begged. Beck-with thought he was a horrible guest; the confidence and
    brilliance he displayed in private planning and policy meetings
    evaporated once the red light of the television camera came on. He
    removed his faded jeans and cotton pullover and dressed in the clothes
    Paul had chosen for him: gray woolen trousers, blue button-down shirt,
    lightweight crew-neck sweater, blue blazer. Dignified yet comforting.
    His national security staff was meeting in ten minutes in the dining
    room downstairs. There would be no video cameras, just a White House
    still photographer who would capture the moment for the press and for
    history. James Beckwith, confronting the most important crisis of his
    presidency. James Beckwith, casting aside his reelection campaign to
    deal with the responsibilities of his office. James Beckwith, leader. He
    looked at his reflection in the mirror one last time. Great men are not
    born great. Great men become great because they seize opportunity.
    CHAPTER 3.
    Washington, ELIZABETH OSBOURNE had been dreading this moment all week.
    She turned her silver Mercedes into the parking lot at Georgetown
    University Medical Center and found a space not far from the entrance.
    She looked at the