The Mark of the Assassin Read Online Free

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.

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 Marin. 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 bay, the brown hills of Marin in the distance. The last light of the afternoon retreated, and after a few minutes his own reflection stared back at him in the glass.
    Beckwith disliked the word “patrician,” but even he had to admit it was an accurate description of his appearance and bearing. His advisers joked that if God had created the perfect political candidate, it would have been James Beckwith. He stood out in any room he entered. He was well over six feet tall, with a full head of shimmering hair that had turned gray-white by the time he was forty. There was a strength about him, a lingering physical agility from his days as a star football and baseball player at Stanford. The eyes were pale blue and turned down at the corners, the features of his face narrow and restrained, the smile careful but confident. His skin was permanently tanned from countless hours aboard Democracy.
    When Beckwith assumed the presidency four years earlier, he had made one promise to himself: He would not allow the office to consume him the way it had consumed so many of his predecessors. He ran thirty minutes each day on the treadmill and spent another thirty minutes lifting weights in the White House gym. Other men had grown haggard in the office. James Beckwith had lowered his weight and added an inch of muscle to his chest.
    Beckwith had not sought out politics; politics had come to him. He was the top prosecutor in the San Francisco District Attorney’s office when he caught the eye of the state’s Republican elite. With Anne and their three children at his side, Beckwith