The Marching Season

by Daniel Silva

  Michael turned away. She took his face in her hands and pulled him back.

  "Don't be angry with me—I just don't want anything to happen to you." She kissed him gently. "Take the advice of your lawyer on this one. It's over. Let it go."

  31

  MYKONOS

  The executive council of the Society for International De-velopment and Cooperation convened its spring meeting on the island of Mykonos on the first Friday of March. Delaroche's vacant villa on the cliffs of Cape Mavros served as the site for the gathering. It was too small to accommodate anyone but the Director, his bodyguards, and Daphne, so the other council members and their entourages took refuge in the hotels and guesthouses of Chora. At sundown they trickled across the island—the intelligence chiefs and arms merchants, the businessmen and organized crime figures—in a caravan of black Range Rovers.

  The Director and his staff had seen to the security arrangements. There were heavily armed guards around the grounds and a high-speed motorboat on Panormos Bay filled with former amphibious troops from the SAS. The villa had been thoroughly swept for bugs, and radio jammers broadcast electronic chaff to disrupt long-range microphones.

  They had cocktails on Delaroche's fine stone terrace overlooking the sea and a meal of traditional Greek food. At midnight the Director gaveled the proceedings to order.

  For the first hour the executive council dealt with routine housekeeping matters. As always the council members addressed each other by their code names: Rodin, Monet, van Gogh, Rembrandt, Rothko, Michelangelo, and Picasso. The Director turned his attention to Society operations now under way in North Korea, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Kosovo, and, finally, Northern Ireland.

  "In February, Monet saw to it that a shipment of Uzi submachine guns reached the hands of the Ulster Freedom Brigade," the Director said. "Those guns were used in the attempted assassination of Ambassador Douglas Cannon. Unfortunately, they seemed to do no good. The ambassador survived the attack, but the Ulster Freedom Brigade did not. Most of its members are either dead or in custody. So for now, our involvement in Northern Ireland is terminated."

  The Director recognized Rodin, the operations chief of the French intelligence service. "If we wish to renew our involvement in Northern Ireland, there might be an opportunity sitting in Paris," Rodin said.

  The Director raised one eyebrow and said, "Continue, please."

  "As you know, one member of the team involved in the assassination attempt in Norfolk managed to escape," Rodin said. "A woman named Rebecca Wells. I happen to know she is hiding in Paris with a British mercenary named Roderick Campbell. I also know she has sworn to even the score after the incident in Norfolk. She is trying to find an assassin capable of killing the American ambassador."

  The Director lit a cigarette, clearly intrigued.

  "Perhaps we should make direct contact with Rebecca Wells and offer assistance," Rodin said.

  The Director made a show of careful deliberation. Ultimately, the decision would be made by the executive council, not by him, but his opinion would hold considerable weight with the other members. After a moment, he said, "I doubt Miss Wells could afford our services," the Director said.

  "I agree," said Rodin. "The work would have to be pro bono. We'll have to think of it as an investment."

  The Director turned to Picasso, who appeared uneasy.

  "For obvious reasons, I cannot support an operation like the one that's being suggested," Picasso said. "Support for a Protestant paramilitary group is one thing, direct involvement in the murder of an American diplomat is quite another."

  "I understand you're in a difficult position, Picasso," the Director said. "But you knew from the outset that some of the actions taken by this organization might conflict with your own narrow self-interests. Indeed, that is the spirit of cooperation embodied by the Society."

  "I understand, Director."

  "And if the executive council gives its blessing to this operation, you must do nothing to prevent it from succeeding."

  "You have my word, Director."

  "Very well," the Director said, looking about the room. "All in favor, signify by saying aye."

  The meeting broke up just after dawn. One by one the members of the executive council left the villa and headed back across Mykonos to Chora. Picasso remained behind to have a private word with the Director.

  "The Hartley Hall affair," the Director said distantly watching the sun appear on the horizon. "It was a trap, wasn't it, Picasso?"

  "It was a major victory for our service. It will make it more difficult for our detractors to say that we have lost our way in the post-Cold War world." Picasso paused, then added carefully, "I thought results like that were the goal of this organization."

  "Indeed." The Director smiled briefly. "You were well within your rights to act against the Ulster Freedom Brigade in order to further your own interests. But now the Society has decided to help the Brigade carry out a specific task—the assassination of Ambassador Cannon—and you must do nothing to prevent it from going forward."

  "I understand, Director."

  "In fact, there is one thing you can do to help."

  "What's that?"

  "I intend to give the assignment to October," the Director said. "Michael Osbourne seems to have made it his crusade to find October and destroy him."

  "He has good reason."

  "Because of the Sarah Randolph affair?"

  "Yes."

  The Director looked disappointed. "Osbourne seems like such a talented officer," he said. "This fixation with avenging the past boggles the mind. When will this fellow get it through his head that it was nothing personal, just business?"

  "Not anytime soon, I'm afraid."

  "It's come to my attention that Osbourne is in charge of the search for October."

  "That's true, Director."

  "Perhaps it would be best for all concerned if he were given other responsibilities. Surely, an officer of such obvious talent could be better utilized elsewhere."

  "I couldn't agree more."

  The Director cleared his throat gently. "Or perhaps it would be best if Osbourne was out of the way completely. He got quite close to us during the TransAtlantic affair. Too close for my comfort."

  "I would have no objections, Director."

  "Very well," he said. "It's done."

  Daphne wanted sun, and the Director reluctantly agreed to spend the rest of the day on Mykonos before returning to London. She lay on the terrace, her long body exposed to the sun. He never tired of watching her. The Director had long ago lost the ability to make love to a woman—he suspected it was the secrecy, the years of lying and dissembling, that had left him impotent—so he admired Daphne as one might admire a fine painting or sculpture. She was his most treasured possession.

  He was naturally a restless man, despite his placid demeanor, and by the early afternoon he had had as much sun and sea air as he could endure. Besides, he was an operations man at heart, and he was anxious to get to work. They left at sundown and drove across Mykonos to the airport. That evening, after the Director's plane had left the island, a series of explosions ripped through the whitewashed villa on the cliffs of Cape Mavros.

  Stavros, the real estate agent, was the first to arrive. He telephoned the fire department from his cellular phone and watched as flames engulfed the villa. Monsieur Delaroche had given him a Paris number. He dialed the number, prepared to break the news to his client—that his beloved home above Panormos Bay was gone.

  The telephone rang once, and a recorded voice came on the line. Stavros spoke a little French, enough to know that the number had been disconnected. He punched the button and severed the connection.

  He watched as the firefighters vainly tried to put out the flames. He drove back to Ano Mera and went to the taverna. The usual crowd was there, drinking wine and eating olives and bread. Stavros told the story.

  "There was always something funny about this man De-laroche," Stavros said, when he had fin
ished. He pulled his face into a smirk and stared into a cloudy glass of ouzo. "I knew this the moment I set eyes on him."

  32

  PARIS

  Rebecca Wells was living in Montparnasse, in a drab apart-ment building a few blocks from the train terminal. Since her flight from Norfolk, she had stayed in the appalling flat most of the time, staring at French television programs she couldn't comprehend. Sometimes, she listened to news from home on the radio. The Brigade had been crushed, and she was to blame.

  She needed to get out. She picked herself off the couch and moved to the window. Gray, as usual: cold, dreary. Even Ulster was better than Paris in March. She went to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. A stranger stared back at her. Her rich black hair had been wrecked by the peroxide she had used in Norwich. Her skin was yellow from too little air and too many cigarettes. The skin beneath her eyes appeared bruised.

  She pulled on a leather jacket and paused outside the bedroom door, listening to the clang of dumbbells. She knocked, and the clanging stopped. Roderick Campbell opened the door and stood there, shirtless, his lean body shining with sweat. Campbell was a Scot who had served in the British army, then put himself about as a mercenary and gunrunner in Africa and South America. He had cropped black hair, a goatee, and tattoos over his chest and arms. A naked whore lay on his bed, toying with one of his guns.

  "I'm going out," she said. "I need some air."

  "Watch your back," he said. He spoke with the soft brogue of his native Highlands. "Want some company?"

  "No, thanks."

  He held out a gun. "Take this."

  The elevator was broken again, so she took the stairs down to the street. God, but she was glad to be out of the place! She was angry with Kyle Blake for sending her to a man like Campbell. But things could be worse, she thought. She could be in jail or dead like the rest of them. The cold felt good, and she walked for a long time. Occasionally, she paused in a storefront and glanced behind her. She was confident she was not being followed.

  For the first time in many days she felt genuine hunger. She went into a small cafe and, using her abysmal French, ordered an omelette with cheese and a cafe creme. She lit a cigarette and looked out the window. She wondered if it would always be like this—living in strange cities, surrounded by people she did not know.

  She wanted to finish what they had started; she wanted Ambassador Douglas Cannon dead. She knew the Ulster Freedom Brigade was no longer capable of handling the job; effectively, there was no more Ulster Freedom Brigade. If the ambassador was going to be killed, someone else would have to do it. She had turned to Roderick Campbell for help. He knew the kind of men she needed: men who killed for a living, men who killed for no other reason but money.

  When the waiter brought the food, Rebecca ate quickly. She could not remember the last time she had eaten real food. She finished the omelette and washed down some baguette with the coffee. The waiter reappeared and seemed astonished that her plate was empty.

  "I was very hungry," she said self-consciously.

  She paid her bill and went out. Pulling her coat tightly to her throat, she walked the quiet streets of Montparnasse. A moment later she heard a car behind her. She stopped at a public phone and pretended to dial a number while she looked at the car: a black Citroen sedan, two men in front, one in back. Maybe French police. Maybe French intelligence, she thought. Maybe friends of Roderick. Maybe nothing.

  She walked faster. She was suddenly sweating in spite of the cold. The driver of the Citroen pressed the gas pedal, and the engine note grew louder. My God, she thought, they're going to run me over! She turned her head as the car swept past and braked to a halt a few yards ahead of her.

  The rear passenger-side door opened. The man in the back leaned over and said, "Good afternoon, Miss Wells."

  She was stunned. She stopped walking and looked at him. He had oiled blond hair, swept straight back from his forehead, and pale sunburned skin. "Get in the car, please. I'm afraid it isn't safe for us to be talking on the street."

  He had the accent of an educated Englishman.

  "Who are you?" she asked.

  "We're not the authorities, if that's what you think," he said. "In fact, we're quite the opposite."

  "What do you want?"

  "Actually, this has to do with what you want."

  She hesitated.

  "Please, we haven't much time," the blond man said, holding out a pale hand. "And don't worry, Miss Wells. If we wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead."

  From Montparnasse they drove to an apartment building in the Fifth Arrondissement, on the rue Tournefort overlooking the Place de la Contrescarpe. The blond man disappeared in the Citroen. A balding man with a florid face relieved her of Roderick's gun and escorted her into a flat that had the air of a seldom-used pied-a-terre. The furnishings were masculine and comfortable: black informal couches and chairs grouped around a glass coffee table; teak bookshelves with histories, biographies, and thrillers by American and English writers. The remaining portions of the wall were bare, with faint outlines where framed paintings had once hung. The man closed the door and punched a six-digit code into a key pad, presumably arming the security system. Wordlessly, he held out his hand and led her into the bedroom.

  The room was dark, except for a patch near the window, which was illuminated by rainy light leaking through the partially open blind. A moment after the door closed, a man spoke from the darkness. His voice was dry and precise, the voice of a man who did not like to repeat himself.

  "It has come to our attention that you are looking for someone capable of assassinating the American ambassador in London," the man said. "I think we can be of assistance."

  "Who are you?"

  "That's none of your affair. I can assure you that we are perfectly capable of carrying out a task like the one you have in mind. And with much less mess than that affair at Hartley Hall."

  Rebecca trembled with anger, which the man in the shadows seemed to detect.

  "I'm afraid you were duped in Norfolk, Miss Wells," he said. "You walked straight into a trap engineered by the Central Intelligence Agency and MI5. The man who ran the operation was the ambassador's son-in-law, who happens to work for the CIA. His name is Michael Osbourne. Do you wish me to continue?"

  She nodded.

  "If you accept our offer of assistance, we will waive our usual fee. Let me assure you that normally it is quite steep for a job like this—I suspect well beyond the means of an organization such as the Ulster Freedom Brigade."

  "You're willing to do it for nothing?" Rebecca asked incredulously.

  "That's right."

  "And what do you want from me?"

  "At the appropriate time, you will claim responsibility for the act."

  "Nothing more?"

  "Nothing more."

  "And when it's over?"

  "You'll have no further obligation, except under no circumstances are you ever to discuss our partnership with you. If you do discuss our arrangements, we reserve the right to take punitive measures."

  He paused for a moment to allow his warning to take hold.

  "You may find it difficult to move about when this is all over," he said. "If you wish, we can provide services that will help you remain at large. We can provide you false travel documents. We can help you alter your appearance. We have contacts with certain governments that are willing to protect fugitives in exchange for money or favors. Once again, we would be willing to supply these services to you at no charge."

  "Why?" she asked. "Why are you willing to do this for nothing?"

  "We are not a philanthropic organization, Miss Wells. We are willing to work with you because we have mutual interests." A lighter flared, revealing a portion of his face for an instant before the room was in darkness again: silver hair, pale skin, a hard mouth, wintry eyes. "I'm afraid it's no longer safe for you to remain in Paris," he said. "The French authorities are aware of your existence here."

  She felt
as if iced water had been poured down the back of her neck. The thought of being arrested, of being sent back to Britain in chains, made her physically sick.

  "You need to leave France at once," he said. "I propose Bahrain. The head of the security forces is an old colleague of mine. You'll be safe, and there are worse places to be than the Persian Gulf in March. The weather is quite glorious this time of year."

  "I'm not interested in spending the rest of my days lying next to a pool in Bahrain."

  "What are you trying to say, Miss Wells?"

  "That I want to be a part of it," she said. "I'll accept your help, but I want to be there to watch the man die."

  "Are you trained?"

  "Yes," she said.

  "Have you ever killed?"

  She thought of the night two months earlier—the barn in County Armagh—when she had shot Charlie Bates. "Yes," she said evenly. "I've killed."

  "The man I have in mind for the assignment prefers to work alone/' the man said, "but I suspect he will see the wisdom of taking on a partner for this contract."

  "When do I leave?"

  "Tonight."

  "I'd like to go back to the flat, pick up a few things."

  "I'm afraid that's not possible."

  "What about Roderick? What's he going to think if I disappear without explanation?"

  "Let us worry about Roderick Campbell."

  The blond man drove the Citroen back to Montparnasse and parked outside Roderick Campbell's apartment building. He got out and crossed the street. He had stolen the woman's keys. He opened the main door on the ground level and walked up the stairs to the apartment. Removing the high-powered Herstal automatic from the waistband of his jeans, he opened the door and quietly slipped inside.

  33

  AMSTERDAM

  The forecast for the Dutch coast was decent for March, so Delaroche mounted his Italian road bike early that morning and pedaled south. He wore long black cycling breeches and a white cotton turtleneck beneath his bright-yellow jersey, tight enough to avoid flapping in the wind, loose enough to conceal the Beretta automatic beneath his left armpit. He headed south toward Leiden through the BloemboUenstreek, the largest flower-producing region in Holland, his powerful legs pumping effortlessly through fields already ablaze with color.