The Marching Season

by Daniel Silva

  "I hope you two don't plan on having a life for the next forty-eight hours," Carter said.

  "Our life is the Agency, Adrian," Michael said.

  "I just got off the phone with Bill Bristol."

  "Are we supposed to be impressed because you spoke with the president's national security adviser?"

  "Would you shut the fuck up for one minute and let me finish?"

  Cynthia Martin smiled and looked down at her notebook.

  Carter said, "Beckwith has a bug up his ass about the Northern Ireland conference. It seems his poll numbers are down, and he wants to use the peace process to shore up his approval rating."

  "Isn't that nice," Michael said. "How can we be of service?"

  "By making sure he's fully prepared for the conference. He needs a complete picture of the situation on the ground in Ulster. He needs background and intelligence to know how far he can push the Loyalists and the Nationalists to move things along. He needs to know whether we think a presidential trip to Northern Ireland is a good idea, given the climate."

  "When?" Michael asked.

  "You and Cynthia are briefing Bristol at the White House the day after tomorrow."

  "Oh, good, I thought it was going to be something unreasonable."

  "If you two don't think you can handle it—"

  "We can handle it."

  "I thought so."

  Michael and Cynthia stood up. Carter said, "Hold on a minute, Michael."

  "You guys want to talk about me behind my back?" Cynthia asked.

  "How'd you guess?" Adrian said.

  Cynthia scowled at Carter and went out.

  Carter said, "Don't make any plans for lunch."

  The CIA dining room is on the seventh floor, behind a heavy metal door that looks as though it might lead to the boiler room. It used to be called the executive dining room until Personnel discovered that the junior staff found the name offensive. The Agency got rid of the word "executive" and opened the restaurant to all employees. Technically, workers from the loading dock could come to the seventh floor and eat lunch with deputy directors and division chiefs. Still, most staff preferred the massive basement cafeteria, affectionately known as "the swill pit," where they could gossip without fear of being overheard by superiors. Monica Tyler sat at a table next to the window overlooking the thick trees along the Potomac. Her two ever-present factotums, known derisively as Tweedledum and Tweedledee, sat next to her, each clutching a leather folder as though they contained lost secrets of the ancient world. The tables around them were empty; Monica Tyler had a way of creating vacant space around herself, rather like a psychopath with a fistful of dynamite.

  Monica remained seated as Michael and Carter entered the room and sat down. A waitress brought menus and order cards. Guests in the dining room did not give their orders verbally; instead, they had to meticulously fill out a small form and total their own bill. The Agency wits joked that the forms were collected at the end of each day and sent to Personnel for psychological evaluation. Carter sought vainly to engage Monica in small talk while he struggled with the complex order form. Michael knew the meal would be billed to the director's office, so he selected the most expensive items on the menu: shrimp cocktail, broiled crab cakes, and creme brulee for dessert. Tweedledee filled out Monica's form for her.

  "Now that you've managed to neutralize the Ulster Freedom Brigade," Monica began suddenly, "we think it's time that you leave the Northern Ireland task force and move on to something more productive."

  Michael looked at Carter, who shrugged. "Who's we?" Michael asked.

  Monica looked up from her salad as though she found the question impertinent. "The Seventh Floor, of course."

  "Actually, I was hoping I could spend more time working on the October case," Michael said.

  "Actually, I intend to remove you from the October case altogether."

  Michael pushed away his plate of half-eaten shrimp and laid his napkin on the table. "Part of our agreement about my return to the Agency was that I would be allowed to spend part of my time searching for him. Why are you trying to back out of our agreement?"

  "To be honest with you, Michael, Adrian thought that allowing you to pursue October might be enough to entice you back to the Center. But I never thought much of the idea, and I still don't. Once again, you've proven yourself to be an effective officer, and I would be derelict if I permitted you to continue to work on a case that is unlikely to bear fruit."

  "But it has borne fruit, Monica. I've proven October is still alive and still working as an assassin and terrorist."

  "No, Michael, you didn't prove he's alive. You theorize that he is still alive, based on an enhancement of a photograph of a hand. That is quite a long way from ironclad proof."

  "We rarely deal with ironclad proof in this business, Monica."

  "Don't lecture me, Michael."

  They fell silent as the waitress appeared and cleared away the first course.

  "We've sent an alert to Interpol," Monica resumed. "We've given warnings to our allies. There is little else that can be done. At this point, it is a law enforcement matter, and this is not a law enforcement agency."

  "I disagree," Michael said.

  "On which point?"

  "You know which point."

  Monica's acolytes stirred in their seats restlessly. Carter picked at a loose thread in the tablecloth. Nothing infuriated Monica Tyler more than being challenged by someone below her on the Agency food chain.

  "Someone hired October to assassinate Ahmed Hussein,"

  Michael said. "Someone is providing him with protection, travel documents, money. We need to find out who's sponsoring him. That's intelligence work, Monica, not law enforcement."

  "Once again, Michael, you're assuming October was the man in Cairo. It could have been an Israeli intelligence officer. It could have been a rival member of Hamas. It could have been a PLO assassin."

  "It could have been a Pekin duck, but it wasn't. It was October."

  "I disagree." She smiled to demonstrate that she had borrowed Michael's words intentionally. Her eyes flickered about him, as if searching for the best place to insert her dagger.

  Michael yielded. "What do you have in mind for me?"

  "The Middle East peace process is on life support," she said. "Hamas is planting bombs in Jerusalem, and we've received indications the Sword of Gaza is about to go operational in Europe. In all likelihood, that means they will target Americans. I want you to finish the preparations for the White House conference on Northern Ireland, and then I want you back on the Sword of Gaza."

  "What if I'm not interested?"

  "Then I'm afraid your return to the Central Intelligence Agency, though highly successful, will be rather brief."

  Morton Dunne was to the Agency as "Q" was to Bond's Secret Service. The deputy chief of the Office of Technical Services, Dunne was the maker of exploding pens and high-frequency microphone transmitters that could be hidden in a belt buckle. He was an MIT-trained electrical engineer who could have earned five times his government salary in the private sector. He chose the Agency because the paraphernalia of espionage had always intrigued him. In his spare time he maintained the antique spy cameras and weapons housed in the Agency's makeshift museum. He was also one of the world's top designers of experimental kites. On weekends he could be found on the Ellipse, flying his creations around the Washington Monument. Once he placed a high-resolution miniature camera aboard a kite and photographed every square inch of the White House South Lawn.

  "You have authorization for this, I assume," Dunne said, seated in front of a large computer monitor. He was prototypical MIT—thin, pale as a cave dweller, with wire-rimmed glasses that were forever slipping down the bridge of his narrow nose. "I can't do this without authorization from your chief."

  "I'll bring you the chit later this afternoon, but I need the photos now."

  Dunne laid his hands on the keyboard. "What was his name?"

  "October. The
one we did last month for the Interpol alert."

  "Oh, yeah, I remember," Dunne said, his fingers rattling over the keyboard. A moment later the face of October appeared on the screen. "What do you want me to do?"

  "I think he may have undergone plastic surgery to change his face," Michael said. "I'm almost certain the work was done by a Frenchman named Maurice Leroux."

  "Dr. Leroux could have done any number of things to alter his appearance."

  "Can you show me a few?" Michael asked. "Can you give me a complete series? Change the hair, give him a beard, the works."

  "It's going to take a while."

  "I'll wait."

  "Sit over there," Dunne said. "And for God's sake, Osbourne, don't touch anything."

  It was just after midnight when Monica Tyler's chauffeured Town Car arrived at the Harbor Place complex on the waterfront in Georgetown. Her bodyguard opened the door and shadowed her through the lobby into the elevator. He walked her to the door of her apartment and remained there as she went inside.

  She ran water in her oversize bath and undressed. It was nearly morning in London. The Director was a notorious early riser; she knew he would be at his desk in a few minutes. She slipped into the bath and relaxed in the warm water. When she was finished, she wrapped herself in a thick white robe.

  She went into the living room and sat down behind the mahogany desk. There were three telephones: an eight-line standard phone, an internal phone for Langley, and a special secure phone that permitted her to conduct conversations without fear of eavesdroppers. She looked at the antique gold desk clock, a gift from her old firm on Wall Street: 12:45 A.M.

  Monica thought of the circumstances—the coincidences, political alliances, and serendipity—that had brought her to the top of the Central Intelligence Agency. She had graduated second in her class at Yale Law, but instead of heading off to a big firm she added an MBA from Harvard to her resume and went to Wall Street to make money. There she met Ronald Clark, a Republican fund-raiser and wise man who drifted in and out of Washington each time the Republicans controlled the White House. Monica followed Clark to Treasury, Commerce, State, and Defense. When President Beckwith appointed Clark to be director of Central Intelligence, Monica became the executive director, the second most powerful position in the CIA. When Clark decided to retire, Monica lobbied for the top job, and Beckwith gave it to her.

  Ronald Clark left her a CIA in disarray. A series of other spy cases, including the Aldrich Ames case, had devastated morale. The Agency had failed to predict either that India and Pakistan were about to explode nuclear devices or that Iran and North Korea were about to test ballistic missiles capable of hitting their neighbors. During her confirmation hearings, several senators pressed her to justify the size and cost of the Central Intelligence Agency; one wondered aloud whether the United States really needed a CIA now that the Cold War was over.

  She was supposed to be a mere caretaker, someone to keep the chair in the DCI's office warm for a couple of years, until Beckwith's successor could appoint his intelligence chief. But she was incapable of playing the role of caretaker and set out on a mission to make herself indispensable to whoever sat in the Oval Office after Beckwith, Republican or Democrat.

  She believed she was the only person at Langley with the vision to lead the Agency through the uncertain terrain of the post-Cold War period. She had studied the history of intelligence well. She knew that sometimes it was necessary to sacrifice a few in order to ensure the survival of the many. She felt a kinship with the deception officers of World War II who sent men and women to their death in order to deceive Nazi Germany. She would never permit the Agency to be castrated. She would never allow the United States to be without an adequate intelligence service. And she would do anything to make certain she was the one who was running it. Which is why she had joined the Society and why she abided by its code.

  At 1 A.M. she picked up the receiver on the secure telephone and dialed. A few seconds later she heard the pleasant, cultured voice of the Director's assistant, Daphne. Then the Director came on the line.

  "You no longer need to worry about Osbourne," she said.

  "He's been reassigned, and the October case file has been effectively closed. As far as the CIA is concerned, October is dead and buried."

  "Well done," the Director said.

  "Where's the package now?"

  "Bound for the Caribbean," he said. "It should be arriving in the States sometime in the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours. And then it will be all over."

  "Excellent," she said.

  "I trust you will pass along any information that might help the package arrive at its destination on time."

  "Of course, Director."

  "I knew I could count on you. Good morning, Picasso," the Director said, and the line went dead.

  35

  CHESAPEAKE BAY, MARYLAND

  The Boston Whaler bounced over the choppy waters of the Chesapeake. The night was clear and bitterly cold; a bright three-quarter moon floated high above the eastern horizon. Delaroche had doused the running lights shortly after entering the mouth of the bay. He reached forward and pressed a button on the dash-mounted navigation unit. The GPS system automatically calculated his precise longitude and latitude; they were in the center of the busy shipping lanes of the Chesapeake Channel.

  Rebecca Wells stood next to him, clutching the wheel of the Whaler's second console. Without speaking, she pointed over the prow. Ahead of them, perhaps a mile away, shone the lights of a container vessel. Delaroche turned a few degrees to port and sped toward the shallow waters of the western shore.

  Delaroche had meticulously plotted his course up the Chesapeake during the long ride from Nassau to the East Coast. They had made that leg of the journey aboard a large oceangoing yacht, piloted by a pair of former SAS men from the Society. He and Rebecca stayed in adjoining staterooms. By day they studied NOAA charts of the Chesapeake, reviewed the dossiers of Michael Osbourne and Douglas Cannon, and memorized the streets of Washington. At night they went onto the aft deck and took target practice with Delaroche's Berettas. Rebecca pressed him for his name, but each time she asked, Delaroche simply shook his head and changed the subject. Out of frustration she christened him "Pierre," which Delaroche detested. On the last night aboard the yacht, he admitted that he had no real name, but if she felt it necessary to refer to him by something, he should be called Jean-Paul.

  Delaroche still was furious about being forced to work with the woman, but the Director had been right about one thing: She was no amateur. The conflict in Northern Ireland had sharpened her skills to a fine edge. She had a superb memory and sound operational instincts. She was tall and quite strong for a woman, and after three nights of training with the Beretta, she was a more than adequate shot. Delaroche was concerned with only one thing—her idealism. He believed in nothing but his art. Zealots unnerved him. Astrid Vogel had been a believer like Rebecca once—when she was a member of West Germany's communist terrorist group, the Red Army Faction—but by the time she and Delaroche worked together she had been stripped of her ideals and was in it only for the money.

  Delaroche had memorized every detail of the Chesapeake— the shoals, the rivers and bays, the flats and the headlands. All he required was a reading from his GPS unit to know exactly where he was in relation to land. He had passed Sandy Point, Cherry Point, and Windmill Point. By the time he reached Bluff Point he had grown stiff and sore with the cold. He cut the engines, and they drank hot coffee from a thermos flask.

  He checked the GPS navigation unit: 38.50 degrees latitude by 76.31 degrees longitude. He knew he was approaching Curtis Point, a headland at the mouth of the West River. His destination was the next tidal river feeding into the bay from Maryland, the South River, roughly three nautical miles to the north. As he passed Saunders Point he saw the first light in the east, off the starboard side of the Whaler. He rounded Turkey Point and felt the gentle nudge of the tide running out of the South Riv
er.

  Delaroche opened the throttle as he headed northeast up the river. He wanted to be ashore and on the road before dawn. He sped past Mayo Point and Brewer Point, Glebe Bay and Crab Creek. He passed beneath one bridge, then another. He came to a creek mouth and checked his navigation unit to make certain it was Broad Creek. The receding tide had left the creek shallower than the charts had promised; twice Delaroche jumped into the frigid water and pushed the Whaler off the bottom.

  Finally, he reached the head of the creek. He grounded the Whaler in a patch of marsh grass, hopped overboard, and, pulling on the bowline, dragged the boat deep into the marsh.

  Rebecca clambered into the forward seating compartment and took hold of a large duffel filled with supplies: clothing, money, and electronic equipment. She handed the bag to Delaroche, then stepped over the side into the sodden marsh. The car was parked on a dirt track, exactly where the Director had said it would be: a black Volvo station wagon, Quebec license plates.

  Delaroche had a key. He opened the trunk and tossed in the bag. He followed a series of two-lane country roads for several miles, through farmland and sunlit pastures, until he came to Route 50. He turned onto the highway and headed east toward Washington.

  One hour after collecting the Volvo, they entered Washington on New York Avenue, a grimy commuter corridor stretching from the Northeast section of the city to the Maryland suburbs. Delaroche had stopped once at a roadside gas station so he and Rebecca could change into proper clothing. He crossed the city on Massachusetts Avenue and pulled into the drive of the Embassy Row hotel near Dupont Circle. There was a reservation waiting in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Claude Duras of Montreal.

  The demands of their cover story required Delaroche and Rebecca to share a single room. They slept until the late afternoon, Rebecca in the queen-size bed, Delaroche on the floor, with the bedspread as a mattress. He awoke suddenly at 4 P.M., startled by the surroundings, and realized he had been dreaming again of Maurice Leroux.

  He ordered coffee sent to the room, which he drank while he placed several items into a blue nylon backpack: two pieces of sophisticated electronic equipment, two cellular telephones, a flashlight, several small tools, and a Beretta 9-millimeter. Rebecca emerged from the bathroom, dressed in blue jeans, tennis shoes, and a sweatshirt emblazoned with the words WASHINGTON, D.c. and an image of the White House.