The Marching Season

by Daniel Silva

  For a time his eyes took in the Dutch countryside—the dikes and the canals, the windmills and the fields of flowers—but after a while the face of Maurice Leroux appeared in his thoughts. He had come to Delaroche in a dream the previous night, standing before him, white as a snowdrift, two holes in his chest, still wearing the foolish beret.

  I can be trusted. I've done many men like you.

  Delaroche entered Leiden and had lunch at an outdoor cafe on the edge of the Rhine. Here, just a few miles from its mouth on the North Sea, the river was narrow and slow-moving, quite unlike the mountain whitewater near its birthplace high in the Alps or the wide industrial giant of the German plain. Delaroche ordered coffee and a sandwich of ham and cheese.

  The inability to purge his subconscious of Leroux's image unnerved him. Usually, he suffered only a brief period of uneasiness after a killing. But it had been a week since he had killed Leroux, and he still saw his face floating through his mind.

  He thought of the man called Vladimir. Delaroche had been taken from his mother at birth and given to the KGB to raise. Vladimir had been his entire world. He had trained him in languages and tradecraft. He had tried to teach him something about life before teaching him how to kill. Vladimir had warned him that it would happen eventually. One day you will take a life and that man will follow you, Vladimir had said. He will take his meals with you, share your bed. When that happens, it is time for you to leave the trade, because a man who sees ghosts can no longer behave like a professional.

  Delaroche paid his bill and left the cafe. The weather worsened as he moved toward the North Sea. The sky grew overcast and the air turned colder. He fought a stiff headwind all the way to Haarlem.

  Perhaps Vladimir had been right. Perhaps it was time for him to get out of the game before the game caught up with him. He could move back to the Mediterranean, and he could spend the days riding his bicycles and painting his paintings and drinking his wine on his terrace overlooking the sea, and to hell with Vladimir and to hell with his father, and to hell with the Director and everyone else who had forced this life on him. Perhaps hecould find a woman—a woman like Astrid Vogel, a woman with enough dangerous secrets of her own that she could be trusted with his.

  He had wanted to leave the business once before—he and Astrid had planned to retire in hiding together—but with Astrid gone, there hadn't been much point, and the Director had made him a generous offer that was too good to turn down. He did not kill for the Society out of conviction, though; he worked for the Director because he paid him a tremendous amount of money and because he provided Delaroche protection from his enemies. If he left the Society, Delaroche would be on his own. He would have to see to his own security or find a new guardian.

  He entered Haarlem and crossed the river Spaarne. Amsterdam was fifteen miles away, a good ride along the banks of the Noordzeekanaal. The wind was at Delaroche's back, the road smooth and flat, so it took him little more than a half hour to reach the city.

  He took his time making his way to the Herengracht. He entered his flat and checked his telltales to make certain no one had been there in his absence. There was another hastily scrawled note from the German girl. / want to see you again, you cock-sucker1. Eva.

  He switched on his computer and logged on to the Internet. He had one E-mail message. He opened it and typed in his code name. The message was from the Director; he wanted to meet Delaroche the following day in Amsterdam in the Vondelpark.

  Delaroche sent back a message saying he would be there.

  The following morning Delaroche meandered through the stalls of the Albert Cuypmarkt in the Eastern Canal Ring. He meticulously checked his tail as he strolled past baskets laden with fruit, fish from the North Sea, Dutch cheeses, and freshly cut flowers. Satisfied he wasn't being followed, he walked from the market to the Vondelpark, the sprawling public gardens near Amsterdam's Museum Quarter. He spotted the Director, seated on a park bench overlooking a duck pond, the tall Jamaican girl next to him.

  The Director had not seen Delaroche since the plastic surgery in Athens. Delaroche did not enjoy games or other amusements—the isolation and secrecy of his life had robbed him of any opportunity to develop a true sense of humor—but he decided to play a prank to test the effectiveness of Maurice Leroux's work on his face.

  He placed a cigarette into his mouth and put on his sunglasses. He approached the Director and, speaking in Dutch, asked him for a light. The Director handed Delaroche a heavy silver lighter. Delaroche lit the cigarette and handed the lighter back to the Director. "Dank u," Delaroche said. The Director nodded distantly as he placed his lighter back in his coat pocket.

  Delaroche walked away along the footpath. He returned a few moments later and sat next to the Director, eating a pear he had purchased in the Albert Cuypmarkt, saying nothing. The Director and the girl walked away and sat down on another bench. Delaroche eyed them curiously for a moment; then he stood too and joined them on the next bench.

  The Director frowned. "I say, do you mind—"

  "I believe you wanted to see me," Delaroche said, removing his sunglasses.

  "Dear God," the Director murmured. "Is that really you?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "You're quite hideous. No wonder you killed the poor bastard."

  "I have a contract for you."

  The Director's eyes flickered back and forth as the two men moved in tandem along the footpath through the Vondelpark. He had started as a field man—he had parachuted into France with the SOE during the war and run agents in Berlin against the Russians—and his survival instincts were still sharp.

  "Have you been following the situation in Northern Ireland?" the Director asked.

  "I read the newspapers."

  "Then you know that a Protestant terrorist group called the Ulster Freedom Brigade tried and failed to murder the American ambassador to the Court of St. James's, Douglas Cannon."

  Delaroche nodded. "I read about it, yes."

  "What you don't know is that the assassination team walked straight into a trap engineered by MI5 and the CIA. The CIA officer in charge of the American end of things was an old friend of yours."

  Delaroche glared at the Director. "Osbourne?"

  The Director nodded. "Needless to say, the Ulster Freedom Brigade would like the ambassador and his son-in-law both dead, and we've agreed to do the job for them."

  "To what end?"

  "The Brigade would like to destroy the peace process and, frankly, so would we. It's bad for business. In less than two weeks' time, on Saint Patrick's Day, President Beckwith is holding a meeting of Northern Irish leaders at the White House. Douglas Cannon will be there."

  "You know this for certain?"

  "I have an impeccable source. The Americans are good at protecting their ambassadors abroad, but at home it's quite another story. Cannon will be lightly guarded, if at all. A professional of your skill should have no difficulty fulfilling the terms of the contract."

  "Do I have a choice?"

  "Let me remind you that I pay you a tremendous amount of money and provide protection for you," the Director said coldly. "In return, you kill for me. It's a simple arrangement."

  Delaroche knew the Director would use whatever means at his disposal to achieve his ends.

  "Actually, I would have thought you'd be thrilled at the opportunity to engage your old enemy," the Director said.

  "Why would you assume that?"

  "Because of Astrid Vogel. I'm astonished that you haven't killed Osbourne on your own already."

  "I didn't kill him because I wasn't hired to kill him," Delaroche said. "I'm an assassin, not a murderer."

  "Some people might see that as a distinction without a difference, but I understand your point and I respect you for it. However, Osbourne continues to be a serious threat to your security. I'd sleep better if he were no longer with us."

  Delaroche stopped walking and turned to face the Director.

  "Two weeks is not much time
—especially for a job in the United States."

  "It's certainly enough time for you."

  Delaroche nodded. "I'll do it."

  "Brilliant," the Director said. "Now that you've agreed to take on the contract, there's a catch. I'd like you to work with a partner."

  "I don't work with people I don't know."

  "I understand, but I'm asking you to make an exception in this case."

  "Who is he?"

  "She, actually. Her name is Rebecca Wells. She's the woman who survived the Ulster Freedom Brigade's attempt to assassinate Douglas Cannon in England."

  "She's an amateur," Delaroche said.

  "She's a seasoned operative, and she's been blooded. For political reasons, we believe it's important for her to take part in the operation. I'm sure you'll enjoy the opportunity to work with her."

  "And if I refuse?"

  "Then I'm afraid you'll forfeit your salary and the protection I provide you."

  "Where is she?"

  The Director pointed down the gravel footpath. "Walk that way about a hundred yards. You'll find her seated on a bench: blond hair, reading a copy of Die Welt. I'll begin preparing the dossiers and arranging your transport to America. Remain here in Amsterdam until I contact you."

  And with that the Director turned and melted into the fog drifting over the Vondelpark.

  Delaroche purchased a small map of central Amsterdam from a tourist booth in the park. He sat down on the bench next to the one where Rebecca Wells was dutifully pretending to read the previous day's edition of Die Welt. He was less interested in the woman than in what was going on around her. For twenty minutes he scanned faces, looking for signs of physical surveillance. She appeared to be alone, but he wanted to make certain. He circled a spot on the map and walked over to her. "Meet me here in exactly two hours," he said, handing her the folded map. "Keep moving, and don't arrive a minute early."

  The spot Delaroche had circled on the map was the National Monument in Dam Square. Rebecca Wells remained in the Vondelpark for more than a half hour, wandering through the gardens and past the winding lakes. Once, she doubled back expertly and forced Delaroche to lunge into a public toilet for cover.

  From the park she walked to the van Gogh museum. She purchased a pass from the ticket window at the main entrance and went in. Delaroche followed her easily through the crowded museum. Van Gogh had been one of his earliest influences; he became distracted by one of his favorite works, Crows in the Wheatfield, and lost track of her. He found her a moment later, lingering before The Bedroom at Aries. Something about the colorful canvas, van Gogh's celebration of domestic peace, seemed to intrigue her.

  She left the museum, wandered through the Albert Cuyp-markt, and walked along the Singel until she reached the Amstel River. There, she jumped suddenly onto a passing tram. Delaroche flagged down a taxi and followed her.

  She took the tram to the Leidseplein and walked to an outdoor cafe near the American Hotel, where she had coffee and a pastry. Delaroche watched her from a cafe on the other side of the canal. She paid her bill and stood up, but instead of walking away along the sidewalk, she ducked inside the cafe.

  Delaroche quickly crossed the canal. In Dutch, he asked the waiter if he had seen his girlfriend-—an Irishwoman, bleached blond. The waiter nodded toward the toilet. Delaroche knocked on the door. There was no answer, so he opened it; the woman was gone. He peered through the kitchen and saw that there was a service entrance giving onto a narrow alley. He walked through the kitchen, ignoring the protests of the chefs, and entered the alley. There was no sign of her.

  He took a tram to Dam Square and found her seated next to one of the lions at the foot of the National Monument. She looked at her watch and smiled. "Where have you been?" she said. "I was worried about you."

  "You're not being followed," Delaroche said, sitting down next to her, "but you move like an amateur."

  "I lost you—didn't I?"

  "I'm one man on foot. Anyone can lose one man on foot."

  "Listen to me, you bastard. I'm from Portadown, Northern Ireland. Don't fuck with me. I'm cold, I'm tired, and I've had enough of this shit. The old man said you'd give me a place to stay. Let's go."

  They walked in silence along the Prinsengracht until they reached the Krista. Delaroche hopped down onto the aft deck and held out his hand for Rebecca to follow. She remained on the sidewalk, staring at him as if he were mad. "If you think I'm going to live on a fucking barge—"

  "It's not a barge," he said. "Take my hand. I'll show you."

  She boarded the houseboat without his help and watched him open the padlock on the hatch over the companionway. She followed him down, into the salon, and looked around at the comfortable furnishings.

  "Is this your boat?" she asked.

  "It belongs to a friend of mine."

  She tried the switch on one of the lamps, but nothing happened. Delaroche went back onto the deck, removed the boat's power cable, and plugged it into a public outlet on the sidewalk. An instant later, Krista's salon burned with warm light.

  "Do you have any money?" Delaroche asked, as he came back down the companionway.

  "The old man gave me some," she said. "Who is he, by the way?"

  "He's called the Director."

  "The director of what?"

  "The director of the organization that is helping you kill the ambassador."

  "What's it called?"

  Delaroche remained silent.

  "You don't know what it's called?"

  "I know," he said.

  "Do you know who belongs to it?"

  "I've made it my business to find out."

  She walked through the salon and sat down on the edge of Astrid's bed. Delaroche switched on the small heater.

  "Do you have a name?" she asked.

  "Sometimes," he said.

  "What should I call you?"

  "You can stay here until we leave for America," Delaroche said, ignoring her question. "You'll need clean clothes and food. I'll bring some things for you later this afternoon. Do you smoke?"

  She nodded.

  Delaroche tossed her a packet of cigarettes. "I'll bring you more."

  "Thank you."

  "Do you have any other languages?"

  "No," she said.

  Delaroche exhaled sharply and shook his head.

  "I didn't need other languages to operate in Northern Ireland."

  "This isn't Northern Ireland," he said. "Can you do anything about that accent?"

  "What's wrong with my accent?"

  "You might as well hang an Orange sash across your chest."

  "I can speak like an Englishwoman."

  "Please do," he said, and with that he pounded up the companionway and closed the hatch behind him.

  34

  CIA HEADQUARTERS ■ WASHINGTON

  One week after the Director's meeting with Delaroche in Amsterdam, Michael Osbourne returned to the Counterterror-ism Center for the first time since leaving London. He punched in his code at the secure door and stepped inside. Carter was sitting at his desk, hunched over a stack of memos, clearly irritated. He looked up at Michael and frowned. "Well, well, Sir Michael has decided to grace us with his presence," Carter said.

  "It's an honorary knighthood. 'Your Majesty' will do just fine."

  Carter smiled. "Welcome home. We missed you. Everything all right?"

  "Couldn't be better."

  "You have ten minutes to get read in. Then I need to see you and Cynthia in my office."

  "Fine. I'll see you in half an hour."

  Michael walked down Abu Nidal Boulevard to his cubicle. One of the Center's wits had hung a large Union Jack over the cubicle wall, and "God Save the Queen" issued softly from a small tape player.

  "Very funny," Michael called out, to no one in particular.

  Blaze and Eurotrash appeared, followed by Cynthia Martin and Gigabyte. "We just wanted to dress the place up a little bit for you, Sir Michael," Blaze said. "You know, make it f
eel a little less like Langley and a little more like home."

  "That was very thoughtful of you."

  Blaze, Eurotrash, and Gigabyte drifted away, singing a throaty rendition of "He Is an Englishman." Cynthia remained behind and sat down in the chair facing Michael's desk. "Congratulations, Michael. You pulled off quite a coup."

  "Thank you. I appreciate that."

  "Secretly, I think I was hoping you'd fall flat on your face. Nothing personal, you understand."

  "At least that's honest."

  "Honesty has always been something of an affliction with me.

  Michael smiled. "My father-in-law's coming to Washington a couple of days before the White House conference on Northern Ireland starts. He wants to spend some time with his grandchildren and see some old friends on the Hill. We're having a small dinner party the night before the conference. Why don't you join us? I know Douglas would value your opinion."

  "I'd love to."

  Michael scribbled his address on a slip of paper and handed it to her.

  "Seven o'clock," he said.

  "I'll be there," Cynthia said, folding the paper. "See you in Carter's office."

  Michael sat down, switched on his computer, and read the overnight cables. An RUC patrol had discovered a car filled with two hundred pounds of Semtex in County Antrim outside Belfast. A Republican splinter group called the Real IRA was thought to be responsible. Michael closed the cable and opened another. A Catholic man had been shot to death near Banbridge in County Down. The RUC suspected that the Loyalist Volunteer Force, an ultraviolent Protestant extremist group, was responsible. Michael opened the next cable. The Portadown lodge of the Orange Order had filed the proposed route for its annual parade. Once again it was demanding the right to march along the Garvaghy Road. This summer's marching season promised to be as confrontational as the last.

  He logged off the computer and walked into Carter's office. Cynthia was already there.