The Mark of the Assassin Read Online Free PDF Page A

Carpenter I’ll call him as soon as I get home. It’s been my experience that conversations with David Carpenter should rarely be conducted on cellular telephones.”
    “He says it’s urgent.”
    “It usually is.”
    “What time should I tell him to expect your call?”
    “About seven o’clock, but it may slip a little bit depending on how things go here.”
    “Braxton’s secretary telephoned.”
    Samuel Braxton was the managing partner at Braxton, Allworth & Kettlemen and the firm’s biggest rainmaker. He had served two Republican administrations—once as deputy White House chief of staff and once as deputy secretary of the Treasury—and was on the short list to be secretary of state if Beckwith managed to win a second term. He viewed Elizabeth with suspicion because he didn’t like her politics; her father was Douglas Cannon, a liberal Democrat from New York who served four terms in the Senate, and she had twice left the firm to work for Democratic senators. Braxton routinely referred to her as “our in-house lefty.” At meetings, when working his way around the table on an issue, he frequently managed to break up the room by turning to Elizabeth and saying, “And now, with the view from the ACLU, Elizabeth Cannon-Osbourne.”
    There was a more serious side to her conflict with Samuel Braxton; he had fought to prevent her from making partner and had relented only when the other partners convinced him he would be setting the firm up for a gender-discrimination lawsuit. Now, three years later, their relationship had settled into an uneasy truce. Braxton generally treated her with respect and made a genuine effort to consult her on all major decisions concerning the future and direction of the firm. He regularly invited her to social functions, and last year, at the White House Christmas party, he referred to her as “one of our real stars” when introducing her to Chief of Staff Paul Vandenberg.
    “What does Lord Braxton desire, Max?”
    Max laughed. She would trust him with her life. It was mutual. Six months earlier Max had told her something he had told no one else—he was HIV-positive.
    “The Lord would like you to attend a dinner party Thursday evening.”
    “Is it being held at the manor?”
    “No, one of his big clients is throwing it. The Lord’s secretary made it sound as if attendance was not optional.”
    “Who’s the client?”
    “Mitchell Elliott.”
    “Mitchell Elliott of Alatron Defense Systems?”
    “He’s the one.”
    “Where’s the party?”
    “At Elliott’s home in Kalorama. California Street, to be precise. You have a pen handy?”
    Elizabeth fished a pen and her calendar from her briefcase and jotted down the address as Max read it to her.
    “What time?”
    “Seven-thirty.”
    “Am I allowed to bring a date?”
    “Spouses are permitted. Elizabeth, you’re going to be late for your appointment.”
    She glanced at the dashboard clock. “Oh, shit! Anything else?”
    “Nothing that can’t hold till morning.”
    “Where am I going tomorrow?”
    “Chicago. I put the tickets in the outside flap of your briefcase.”
    She pulled open the flap and saw the American Airlines first-class ticket jacket.
    “I’d be lost without you, Max.”
    “I know.”
    “You didn’t hear from Michael, did you?”
    “Not a peep.”
    “I’ll call you from the plane tomorrow morning.”
    “Great,” he said. “And good luck, Elizabeth. I’ll be thinking about you.”
    She severed the connection and punched in the speed-dial code for Michael’s car phone. The phone rang five times before a recorded voice announced that the customer was not available at this time. Elizabeth angrily snapped the receiver back into its cradle. She sat very still for a moment, listening to the rattle of the rain.
    She whispered, “Michael Osbourne, if you don’t drive into this parking lot in the next five minutes, so help me God, I’ll . . .”
    She waited five minutes; then she struggled into her