by Daniel Silva
"Fuck you!" Michael said. He was tempted to stop the car and beat the hell out of Delaroche. Then he remembered the fight on the bridge and how easily Delaroche had nearly killed him with his bare hands.
"Michael, please slow down before you kill us both. Where are we going, by the way?"
"What happened to your face?" Michael said, ignoring De-laroche's question.
"You issued an Interpol alert, along with a computer composite of my face, so I had plastic surgery."
"How did you learn about the alert?"
"One thing at a time, Michael."
"Was the plastic surgeon a man named Maurice Leroux?"
"Yes," Delaroche said. "How did you know?"
"Because British Intelligence was aware of the fact that Le-roux did work from time to time for people like you. Did you kill him?"
Delaroche said nothing.
"He didn't do you any favors," Michael said. "You look hideous."
"I realize that," Delaroche said coldly, "and I blame you."
"You're a murderer. I don't feel sorry for you because you had a bad experience with a plastic surgeon."
"I'm not a murderer, I'm an assassin. There's a difference. I used to kill people for my country, but now my country no longer exists, so I kill for money."
"That makes you a murderer in my book."
"Are you telling me that such men don't work for your organization? You have your assassins too, Michael. So, please—don't try to claim the moral high ground."
"Who hired you to kill Douglas Cannon?"
"Where are you taking me?"
"Somewhere safe."
"You're not taking me to a CIA safe house, I hope?"
"Who hired you to kill Douglas Cannon?"
Delaroche looked out the window for a while and then drew a deep breath, as if he were about to dive beneath the surface and remain there for a long time.
"Perhaps I should start from the beginning," Delaroche said finally. He turned from the window and looked at Michael. "Be patient and I'll tell you everything you want to know."
Delaroche spoke as if he were reciting the story of someone else's life instead of his own. When he struggled with English, he would switch to one of the other languages he and Michael had in common: Spanish or Italian or Arabic. Not two hours before, he had coldly murdered two DSS agents, yet as far as Michael could tell he suffered no aftereffects from the act of killing. Michael had killed only once—a Sword of Gaza terrorist at Heathrow Airport—and he had been haunted by nightmares for weeks.
He told Michael about the man he knew only as Vladimir. They had lived in a large KGB flat in Moscow and had a pleasant dacha not far from the city for weekends and holidays. Delaroche was known then by his Christian name, which was Nicolai, and his patronymic, which was Mikhailovich. He was allowed no contact with other children. He did not attend normal state schools, he did not belong to any sports clubs or Party youth organizations. He was never permitted to leave the flat or the dacha without Vladimir at his side. Sometimes, when Vladimir was ill or too tired, he would send an unsmiling goon named Boris to accompany the child.
Eventually, Vladimir began to teach him languages. To have another language is to have another soul, Vladimir would say. And for the life that you are about to lead, Nicolai Mikhailovich, you will need many souls indeed. Delaroche wrinkled his face like an old man and hunched his shoulders. Michael, watching him, marveled at his ability to transform himself into someone else. When he spoke in the voice of Vladimir, he sounded like a Russian for the first time.
Sometimes a tall dour man with Western suits and Western cigarettes would visit, Delaroche continued. He would study the young boy as a sculptor might study a work in progress. Many years later Delaroche would learn the identity of the tall man. He was Mikhail Voronstov, the head of the First Chief Directorate of the KGB—his father.
In August 1968, at the age of sixteen, he was sent to the West. He crossed into Austria from Czechoslovakia, posing as the child of Czech dissidents fleeing the Russians. He stayed in Austria for a time, then moved on to Paris, where he lived as a homeless street urchin until the Church took him in.
It was in Paris that he discovered he could paint. Vladimir had never permitted him to pursue anything but languages and tradecraft. There isn't time for frivolous pursuits, Nicolai Mikhailo-vich, he would say. We are racing against the clock. He would spend afternoons drifting through the museums, studying great works. He attended art school for a time and even managed to sell a few of his works on the street.
Then the man named Mikhail Arbatov appeared, and the killing began.
"Arbatov was my control officer," Delaroche said. "At first I handled internal matters—dissidents, potential defectors, that sort of thing. Then I took on a different kind of mission."
Michael ticked off a series of assassinations that he knew Delaroche had carried out: the Spanish minister in Madrid, the French police official in Paris, the BMW executive in Frankfurt, the PLO official in Tunis, the Israeli businessman in London.
"The KGB wanted to take advantage of the terrorist and nationalist movements inside the borders of the NATO alliance and its allies," Delaroche said. "The IRA, the Red Army Faction, the Red Brigades of Italy, the Basques in Spain, Direct Action in France, and so on. I killed on both sides of the divide, simply in order to create disorder. There were many more killings than the ones you've named, of course."
"And when the Soviet Union collapsed?"
"Arbatov and I were set adrift."
"So you went into private practice?"
Delaroche nodded, rubbing his ankle.
"Arbatov had excellent contacts and was a skilled negotiator. He served as my agent, entertaining offers, negotiating fees—that sort of thing. We split the proceeds of my work."
"And then TransAtlantic came along."
"It was the biggest single payday of my life, one million dollars. But I did not shoot down that jetliner. It was that Palestinian psychopath Hassan Mahmoud who shot down the plane."
"You just disposed of Mahmoud."
"That's right."
"And the body was left behind so we would conclude that the Sword of Gaza had carried out the attack."
"Yes."
"And then you were hired by the men who really shot down the jetliner to eliminate the other people involved in the operation, like Colin Yardley in London and Eric Stoltenberg in Cairo."
"And then you."
"Who hired you?" Michael said. "Who hired you to kill me?"
"They call themselves the Society for International Development and Cooperation," Delaroche began. "They're a bunch of intelligence officers, businessmen, arms merchants, and criminals who try to influence world events in order to make money and protect their own interests."
"I don't believe such an organization really exists."
"They shot down the jetliner so that one of their members, an American defense contractor named Mitchell Elliott, could convince President Beckwith to build an antimissile defense system."
Michael had suspected that Elliott was involved in this tragedy; indeed, he had put his suspicions in writing in his report to the Agency. Still, to hear Delaroche confirm his suspicions made him feel nauseated. Sweat began running over his ribs.
"They knew you were getting too close to the truth," Delaroche said. "They decided it would be best if you were dead, so they hired me to kill you."
"How did they know about my suspicions?"
"They have a source inside Langley."
"What happened after Shelter Island?" Michael asked.
"I went to work exclusively for the Society."
"Does the Society have a leader?"
"He's called the Director. He goes by no other name. He's an Englishman. He has a young girl named Daphne. That's all I know about him."
"You were the one who killed Ahmed Hussein in Cairo."
Delaroche turned suddenly and glared at Michael.
"The Society carried out the assassinatio
n at the behest of the Mossad. How did you know it was me?"
"Hussein was under Egyptian surveillance. I saw a videotape of the killing and noticed the wound on the assassin's right hand. That's when I knew you were alive and working again. That's when we issued the Interpol alert."
"We knew about the alert immediately," Delaroche said, staring at the back of his right hand. "The Director has excellent contacts within the Western intelligence and security services, but he said the information on the Interpol alert came from his source at Langley."
"Why did the Society get involved in Northern Ireland?"
"Because it thought the peace agreement in Northern Ireland was bad for business. There was a meeting of the Society's executive council last month in Mykonos. The Society decided at that meeting to kill your father-in-law and you, and I was given the assignment."
"Was the woman in the Volvo Rebecca Wells?"
"Yes."
"Where is she now?"
"That wasn't part of our deal, Michael."
"Why kill me?"
"The Director has invested a great deal of money in me, and he wanted to protect his investment. He saw you as a threat."
"Was the source from Langley at the meeting on Mykonos?"
"Everyone was on Mykonos."
It was after 5 A.M. when Michael and Delaroche arrived in the village of Greenport on Long Island. They drove through the deserted streets and parked at the ferry landing. The boat lay quietly in its slip; it would not make its first trip across the Sound to Shelter Island for another hour. Michael used the public telephone next to the small clapboard shack at the terminal.
"Where the fuck are you?" Adrian Carter said. "Everyone in town is looking for you."
"Call me back at this number from a public phone." The ten-digit number he recited to Carter bore no resemblance to the actual number for the public phone. He had given Carter the number in a crude code the two men had used in the field a hundred years ago—backward, the first digit one more than the real number, the second digit two less, the third digit three more, and so on. He did not have to repeat the number. Carter, like Michael, was cursed with a perfect memory.
Michael hung up and smoked a cigarette while he waited for Carter to dress, get in his car, and drive to a public phone. The image of Carter pulling a coat over his pajamas made Michael smile. The telephone rang five minutes later.
"Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?"
"I'll tell you when you get here."
"Where are you?"
"Shelter Island."
"What the hell are you doing there? Were you involved in that shoot-out on the Key Bridge?"
"Just get up here on the first plane, Adrian. I need you."
Carter hesitated a moment. "I'll be there as soon as I can, but why do I know that this is going to suck."
When Michael went back to the car Delaroche was gone. He found him a moment later, leaning against a rusting chain-link fence, staring across the Sound toward the low, dark silhouette of Shelter Island.
"Tell me your plans," Delaroche said.
"If you want your money and your freedom, you're going to have to sing for your supper."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Help me destroy the source inside Langley."
"Do you know who he is?"
"I do," Michael said. "And it's not a he. It's Monica Tyler."
"I don't know enough to destroy Monica Tyler."
"Yes, you do."
Delaroche was still staring at the black water. "Surely we could have done this somewhere but here, Michael. Why did you bring me back to this place?" But Delaroche wasn't really expecting an answer, and Michael didn't give him one. "I need to know one thing. I need to know how Astrid died."
"Elizabeth killed her."
"How?"
When Michael told him, he closed his eyes. They stood there, side by side, each clinging to the fence, as the first ferrymen began to arrive for work. A few minutes later the boat began to rumble in its slip.
"It was never personal," Delaroche said finally. "It was just business. Do you understand what I'm saying to you, Michael? It was just business."
"You put me and my family through hell, and I'll never forgive you for it. But I understand. I understand everything now."
42
SHELTER ISLAND, NEW YORK
When they arrived at the gate of Cannon Point, a security officer named Tom Moore stepped out of the guard shack. He was a former army ranger, with thick square shoulders and short-cropped blond hair.
"Sorry I didn't call first to let you know I was coming, Tom."
"No problem, Mr. Osbourne," Moore said. "We heard about the ambassador, sir. Obviously, we're all pulling for him. I just hope they catch the bastards who did it. Radio said they vanished without a trace."
"It appears so. This is a friend of mine," Michael said, gesturing at Delaroche. "He'll be staying a day or two."
"Yes, sir."
"Come up to the house for lunch, Tom. We need to talk."
"I don't want anything to do with it"Adrian Carter said. "Turn it over to Counterintelligence. Jesus, give it to the goons at the Bureau, for all I care. But just get rid of it, because it will destroy anyone who touches it."
Carter and Michael walked along the bulkhead overlooking the Sound, head down, hands in pockets, like a search party looking for the body. The morning was windless and cold, the water gunmetal gray. Carter was wearing the same bloated nylon parka that he had worn the afternoon in Central Park when he had asked Michael to come back to the Agency. He was a reformed smoker, but halfway through the story he bummed one of Michael's cigarettes and devoured it.
"She's the director of the Central Intelligence Agency," Michael said. "She controls Counterintelligence. And as for the Bureau, who the hell wants to involve them? This is our affair. The Bureau will only rub our noses in it."
"Are you forgetting that Jack the Ripper up there is your only witness?" Carter said, nodding at the house. "You must admit he does have a bit of a credibility problem. Have you at least considered the possibility he's invented the whole thing to prevent you from arresting him?"
"He's not making it up."
"How can you be so sure? This whole business about a secret order called the Society sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me."
"Someone hired that man to come kill me last year because I was getting too close to the truth of the Trans Atlantic affair. I told two people inside the Agency about my suspicions. One was you, and the other was Monica Tyler."
"So what?"
"Why did Monica drive me from the Agency in the first place last year? Why did she remove me from the October case one week before he tried to kill Douglas? And there's something else. Delaroche said there was a meeting of the Society on Mykonos earlier this month. Monica was in Europe for a regional security conference. After the meeting she took two days of personal time and dropped out of sight."
"Jesus Christ, Michael, I was in Europe earlier this month, too."
"I believe it, Adrian. And so do you."
They left the grounds of Cannon Point and walked along Shore Road on the edge of Dering Harbor.
"If this becomes public it will be disastrous for the Agency."
"I agree," Michael said. "It would take years to recover from a blow like this. It would destroy the Agency's reputation, in Washington and around the world, for that matter."
"So what do you do?"
"Present her with the evidence and shut her down before she can do any more damage. She has blood on her hands, but if we do this in public the Agency will be in ruins."
"The only way you'll ever dislodge Monica from the Seventh Floor is with dynamite."
"I'll walk up there with a briefcase full of the stuff if I have to."
"Why the fuck did you involve me?"
"Because you're the only one I trust. You were my controller, Adrian. You'll always be my controller."
They stopped on a bridge
spanning the mouth of a tidal creek at the foot of Dering Harbor. Beyond the bridge lay a broad plain of marsh grass and bare trees. A small lean man stood in front of an easel on the bridge, painting. He wore fingerless wool gloves and a threadbare fisherman's sweater several sizes too large for him.
"Lovely," Carter said, looking at the work. "You're very talented."
"Thank you," the painter said, his English heavily accented.
Carter turned to Michael and said, "You can't be serious."
"Adrian Carter, I'd like you to meet Jean-Paul Delaroche. You may know him better as October."
Tom Moore came up to the house at noon. "You wanted to see me, Mr. Osbourne?" "Come in, Tom. There's fresh coffee in the kitchen." Michael poured coffee, and they sat across from each other at the small table in the kitchen.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Osbourne?" "There's going to be a meeting here this evening that I need to record, audio and visual," Michael began. "Can the surveillance cameras be repositioned?" "Yes, sir," Moore said flatly. "Can you record on their output?" "Yes, sir."
Adrian Carter came into the room, followed by Delaroche. "Do we have any audio equipment on the property?" "No, sir. Your father-in-law wouldn't allow any microphones. He thought it would be an invasion of his privacy." Moore's big face broke into a pleasant smile. "He barely tolerates the cameras. Before he left for London I caught him trying to disconnect one."
"How long would it take to get microphones and a recording deck?"
Moore shrugged. "Couple of hours at the most."
"Can you install them so they can't be seen?"
"The microphones are easy because they're relatively small. The cameras are the problem. They're normal security cameras, about the size of a shoe box."
Michael swore softly.
"I have an idea, though."
"Yeah?"
"The cameras have a fairly long lens on them. If you held the meeting in the living room, I could position cameras outside on the lawn and shoot through the windows."
Michael smiled and said, "You're good, Tom."
"I did some intelligence work while I was with the rangers. You just have to make certain the curtains stay open."