The Marching Season

by Daniel Silva

  Michael and Elizabeth had a suite of rooms overlooking the water: a master bedroom, a bathroom, and a private sitting room with a television. The bedroom next door had been converted into a makeshift nursery. Elizabeth had been superstitious about doing too much planning before the twins were born, so the spartan room contained nothing but a pair of cribs and a changing table. The walls were still pale gray and the floors bare. The senator had brought up an old wicker rocker from the veranda to add some character to the room. Maggie helped Elizabeth put the children to bed, while Michael and Douglas had a glass of Mer-lot downstairs by the fire. Elizabeth joined them a few minutes later.

  "How are they?" Michael asked.

  "They're fine. Maggie's going to sit with them a few minutes and make sure they stay down." Elizabeth flopped onto the couch. "Pour me a very large glass of that wine, will you, Michael?"

  Douglas said, "How are you holding up, sweetheart?"

  "I never realized just how hard this would be." She took a long sip of the Merlot and closed her eyes as the wine flowed down her throat. "I'd die without Maggie."

  "There's nothing wrong with that. You had a baby nurse and a nanny, and your mother didn't work."

  "She worked, Daddyl She took care of me and ran three households while you were in Washington!"

  Michael murmured, "Bad move, Douglas."

  "You know what I mean, Elizabeth. Your mother worked, but not in an office. Frankly, I'm not at all sure mothers should work. Children need their mothers."

  "I can't believe my ears," Elizabeth said. "Douglas Cannon, the great liberal icon, thinks mothers should stay at home with their children and not work. Wait till the National Organization for Women gets ahold of this. My God, beneath that hopelessly liberal exterior beats the heart of a family-values conservative after all."

  "What about Michael here?" Douglas said. "He's retired. Doesn't he help out?"

  "I just play boccie with the rest of the boys down in the village every afternoon."

  "Michael's great with the children," Elizabeth said. "But forgive me for saying this—fathers can only do so much."

  "And what's that supposed to mean?" Douglas said.

  The telephone rang before Elizabeth could answer.

  "Saved by the proverbial bell," Michael said.

  Elizabeth picked up the receiver and said, "Hello." She listened intently for a moment, then said, "Yes, he is. Hold on a moment, please." She held out the receiver, covering the mouthpiece. "It's for you, Daddy. It's the White House."

  "What in God's name does the White House want with me at ten o'clock on a Friday night?"

  "The President wants to speak to you."

  Douglas pulled himself up, the look on his face a cross between bafflement and annoyance, and ambled across the room, wineglass in hand. He took the telephone from Elizabeth.

  "This is Douglas Cannon. . . . Yes, I'll hold on. . . ."

  He covered the mouthpiece and said, "They're getting the sonofabitch on the line."

  Elizabeth and Michael snickered silently. The animosity between the two men was legendary in Washington. They had been the two most powerful figures on the Senate Armed Services Committee. For several years Douglas had been the chairman and Beckwith the ranking Republican. When the GOP regained control of the Senate, the two men traded places. By the time Douglas retired, they were barely on speaking terms.

  "Good evening, Mr. President," Douglas said in a jovial, parade-ground shout.

  Maggie came to the top of the stairs and hissed, "Be quiet, or you'll wake the children."

  "He's talking to the President," Elizabeth whispered helplessly.

  "Well, tell him to do it a little more quietly," Maggie said, turning on her heel and walking back to the nursery.

  "I'm just fine, Mr. President," Douglas was saying. "What can I do for you?"

  Douglas listened for a moment, saying nothing, absently running a hand through his thick gray hair.

  "No, that wouldn't be a problem at all, Mr. President. In fact, it would be delightful. . . . Of course. . . . Yes, Mr. President. . . . Very well, I'll see you then."

  Douglas replaced the receiver and said, "Beckwith wants to talk."

  "What about?" Michael asked.

  "He wouldn't say. He's always been like that."

  "When are you going to Washington?" Elizabeth asked.

  "I'm not," Douglas said. "The bastard's coming to Shelter Island on Sunday morning."

  6

  TAFRAOUTE, MOROCCO

  Snow shimmered on the slopes of the High Atlas Mountains as the caravan of black Range Rovers rumbled along the rocky pitted track toward the new villa at the head of the valley. The Range Rovers were identical: black with reflective smoked windows to shield the identity of the occupants. Each passenger had come to Morocco from a different embarkation point: Latin America, the United States, the Middle East, Western Europe. Each would leave just thirty-six hours later, when the conference had ended. There were few outsiders in Tafraoute this time of year—a team of climbers from New Zealand and a band of aging hippies from Berkeley who had descended on the mountains to pray and smoke hashish—and the caravan of Range Rovers drew curious stares as it sped along the valley floor. Children in brightly colored robes stood at the side of the track and waved excitedly as the vehicles roared past in a cloud of ginger-colored dust. No one inside waved back.

  The Society for International Development and Cooperation was a completely private organization that accepted no outside donations and no new members, except those it selected after a rigorous screening process. Nominally it was headquartered in Geneva, in a small office with a tasteful gold plaque over an austere door, which was frequently mistaken for a circumspect Swiss bank.

  Despite its benevolent-sounding name the Society as it was known to its members, was not an altruistic order. It had been formed in the years immediately following the collapse of the Soviet Union and the end of the Cold War. Its members included several current and former members of Western intelligence and security services, arms makers and weapons dealers, and also leaders of criminal enterprises such as the Russian and Sicilian mafias, South American drug cartels, and Asian crime organizations.

  The Society's decision-making body was the eight-member executive council. The executive director was a former chief of Britain's intelligence service, the legendary "C" of MI6. He was known simply as "the Director" and was never referred to by his real name. An experienced field man who had cut his teeth at MI6's stations in Berlin and Moscow, the Director oversaw the Society's administration and ran its operations from his highly secure Georgian mansion in London's St. John's Wood.

  The creed of the Society declared that the world had become a more dangerous place in the absence of conflict between East and West. The Cold War had provided stability and clarity, the new world order turmoil and uncertainty. Great nations had grown complacent; great armies had been castrated. Therefore, the Society sought to promote constant, controlled global tension through covert operations. In doing so it managed to earn a vast amount of money for its members and investors.

  Lately, the Director had sought to expand the role and scope of the Society. He had effectively turned the organization into an intelligence service for intelligence services, an ultrasecret operations unit that could carry out a task that, for whatever reason, a legitimate service found too risky or too distasteful.

  The Director and his staff had seen to the security arrangements. The villa sat on the rim of the small valley, surrounded by an electrified fence. The desert around the villa was a rocky no-man's-land, covered by dozens of surveillance cameras and motion detectors. Heavily armed Society security operatives, each a former member of Britain's elite SAS commando force, patrolled the grounds. Radio jammers broadcast electronic chaff to disrupt any long-range microphones. Real names were never spoken at meetings of the council, so each member was assigned a code name: Rodin, Monet, van Gogh, Rembrandt, Rothko, Michelangelo, and Picasso.

 
They spent the day around the large swimming pool, relaxing in the cool dry desert air. At dusk they had drinks on the sweeping stone terrace, where gas heaters burned off the night chill, followed by a simple meal of Moroccan couscous.

  At midnight the Director gaveled the proceedings to order.

  For nearly an hour the Director discussed the financial state of the Society. He defended his decision to transform the organization from a mere catalyst for global instability into a full-time secret army. Yes, he had strayed from the original charter, but in a brief period he had managed to fill the Society's coffers with millions of dollars in operating capital, money that could be put to good use.

  The members of the executive council broke into a round of polite boardroom applause. Seated around the table were arms merchants and defense contractors who faced dwindling markets, makers of chemical and nuclear technology who wanted to peddle their goods to the militaries of the Third World, and intelligence chiefs who faced shrinking budgets and diminishing power and influence in their capitals.

  For the next hour the Director guided a roundtable discussion on the state of global conflict. Indeed, it seemed the world was not cooperating with them. Yes, there was the odd civil war in West Africa, the Eritreans and Ethiopians were at it again, and South America continued to be ripe for exploitation. But the Middle East peace process, though strained, had failed to break down completely. The Iranians and Americans were talking about a rapprochement. Even the Protestants and Catholics of Northern Ireland seemed to be putting aside their differences.

  "Perhaps it's time for us to make a few investments," the Director said in conclusion, contemplating his hands as he spoke. "Perhaps it's time for us to plow some of our capital back into the business. I think it's incumbent on each and every one of us to look for opportunity wherever it can be found."

  Again, applause and the ring of silver utensils against glasses interrupted him. When it died away he threw open the meeting for discussion.

  Rembrandt, one of the world's principal manufacturers of small arms, cleared his throat and said, "Perhaps there's some way we can help fan the flames in Northern Ireland."

  The Director arched an eyebrow and picked at the seam of his trousers. He had dealt with Northern Ireland when he was with MI6. Like most members of the intelligence and security community, he considered the IRA a worthy opponent, a professional and disciplined guerrilla army. The Protestant paramilitaries had been something else altogether, mainly gangsters and thugs who waged a campaign of sheer terror against Catholics. But this new group, the Ulster Freedom Brigade, seemed different, and this intrigued him.

  "Northern Ireland was never a terribly lucrative conflict for people in my business," Rembrandt continued, "simply because it was so small. What concerns me, though, is the message that the peace agreement sends to the rest of the world. If the Protestants and Catholics of Northern Ireland can learn to live in peace after four hundred years of bloodshed—well, you understand my point, Director."

  "Actually, that message has already gone forth," said Rodin, a senior officer in the French intelligence service. "The Basque separatist group ETA has declared a cease-fire in Spain. They say they were inspired by the peace in Northern Ireland."

  "What are you suggesting, Rembrandt?" the Director asked.

  "Perhaps we could reach out to the Ulster Freedom Brigade, make an offer of assistance," Rembrandt said. "If the past is any guide, it is probably a very small group, with little money and only a small stockpile of guns and explosives. If they are to continue their campaign, they'll need a sponsor."

  "Actually, I believe we may already have an opening," said Monet.

  The Director and Monet had worked together against the Palestinian guerrillas who had turned London into a terrorist playground in the 1970s. Monet was Ari Shamron, chief of operations of the Israeli intelligence service, the Mossad.

  "Last month our assets in Beirut filed a report on a man named Gavin Spencer, an Ulsterman who came to Lebanon to buy guns. In fact he actually met with one of our agents who was posing as an arms dealer."

  "Did your agent sell weaponry to Spencer?" the Director wondered mildly.

  "The talks are continuing, Director," said Monet.

  "Have you shared this information with your British counterparts?"

  Monet shook his head.

  "Perhaps you could see that a shipment of weapons finds its way into the hands of the Ulster Freedom Brigade," the Director said to Monet. "Perhaps you could use your contacts within the banking community to arrange financing for the package at generous terms."

  "I think that could be handled quite easily, Director," Monet said.

  "Very well," the Director said. "All in favor of exploring contacts with the Ulster Freedom Brigade, signify by saying aye."

  The vote was unanimous.

  "Any other matters before we move on to the rest of the agenda?"

  Once again it was Monet who spoke.

  "If you could update us on the progress of the Ahmed Hussein case, Director."

  Ahmed Hussein was a leader of the Muslim fundamentalist group Hamas and the mastermind behind a series of bombings in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. The Mossad wanted him dead, but Monet had not felt confident giving the assignment to a Mossad assassination team. In September 1997 the Mossad had tried to kill a Hamas man named Khaled Meshal in Amman. The attempt failed, and two Mossad agents were arrested by Jordanian police. Rather than risk another embarrassing failure, Monet had turned to the Society to eliminate Ahmed Hussein.

  "I have assigned the job to the same operative who carried out the contracts on Colin Yardley and Eric Stoltenberg after the TransAtlantic affair," the Director said. "He is preparing to leave for Cairo, and I expect that in a few days Ahmed Hussein will be quite dead."

  "Excellent," Monet said. "Our intelligence indicates that the Middle East peace process cannot survive another serious blow. If the operation is a success, the Occupied Territories will explode. Arafat will have no choice but to pull out of the talks. I expect that the peace process will be only a bad memory by the end of this winter."

  There was another round of restrained applause.

  "The next item on the agenda is an update on our efforts to foster conflict between India and Pakistan," the Director said, looking down at his papers. "The Pakistanis are having a bit of trouble with their medium-range missiles, and they've asked for our help working out the bugs."

  The meeting ended just after dawn.

  The council member code-named Picasso rode in a chauf-feured Range Rover across the flat rose-colored plain separating the High Atlas Mountains from Marrakech. Picasso had entered Morocco on a false passport bearing the name Lisa Bancroft. The real passport was locked in the safe of her room at the five-star La Mamounia Hotel. Returning to the room later that morning, she punched in the code, and the safe door popped open. The passport was there, along with some cash and jewelry.

  Her flight wasn't for six hours, enough time to bathe and sleep for an hour or so. Picasso removed the items from the safe, undressed, and lay down on the bed. She opened the passport and looked at the photograph.

  Funny, she thought, I don't look much like Picasso.

  7

  SHELTER ISLAND, NEW YORK

  The White House advance team arrived Saturday morn-ing and booked every available room at the Manhanset Inn, a wedding-cake Victorian hotel in the Heights overlooking Dering Harbor. Jake Ashcroft, a burned-out investment banker who had purchased the hotel with a single year's bonus, was politely asked by White House staff to keep the matter confidential. The President's visit was strictly private, they explained, and he wanted as little attention as possible. But Shelter Island is an island, after all, with an island's appetite for gossip, and by lunchtime half the place knew the President was coming to town.

  By midafternoon Jake Ashcroft was beginning to fear it was all a nightmare. His beloved inn had been turned upside down. The award-winning dining room had been transformed into so
mething called a "filing center." The beautiful oak tables had given way to hideous rented banquet tables shrouded in white plastic. A team from the telephone company had installed fifty temporary lines. Another team had emptied the fireside lounge and turned it into a broadcast center. Thick cable snaked through the stately halls, and a portable satellite dish stood on the front lawn.

  The network news television crews arrived in the early evening, some from New York, some from Washington. Jake Ash-croft got so angry he took to his room and stayed there, sitting in a yoga posture and repeating the Serenity Prayer. The producers were bleary-eyed and foul-tempered. The cameramen looked like fishermen from Greenport—beefy and bearded, with clothes that appeared to be army surplus. They played poker past midnight and drained the bar of beer.

  At first light the Secret Service fanned out across the island. They established static posts at both ferry crossings and checkpoints on every road leading to Cannon Point. Sharpshooters took up positions on the roof of the old house, and bomb-sniffing German shepherds prowled the broad lawns, terrifying the squirrels and the white-tailed deer. The television crews descended on the marina at Coecles Harbor like a raiding party and rented every boat they could lay their hands on. Prices skyrocketed overnight. The crew from CNN had to settle for a leaky twelve-foot Zodiac, for which they paid an astonishing five hundred dollars. A pair of Coast Guard cutters stood watch in Shelter Island Sound. At nine-thirty the chartered bus bearing the White House press corps arrived at the Manhanset Inn. The reporters staggered into Jake Ashcroft's plundered dining room like refugees at a processing center.

  And so everything seemed to be in place shortly after 10 A.M. when the muffled thump-thump-thump of a helicopter rotor could be heard from the direction of Little Peconic Bay. The day had dawned overcast and damp, but by midmorning the last of the clouds had burned away, and the east end of Long Island sparkled in the brilliant winter sun. An American flag flapped in the wind on Chequit Point. A huge banner saying welcome president BECKWITH lay on the roof of the Shelter Island Yacht Club, so the chief executive could read it as the helicopter passed overhead. Crowds of islanders lined Shore Road, and the high school band played a spirited if disjointed rendition of "Hail to the Chief."