The Marching Season (21 page)

Delaroche climbed the companionway and locked the hatch behind him. He mounted his bike and pedaled toward his apartment through the lamplight. Delaroche killed for two reasons: because he was hired to kill or to protect himself. Maurice Le-roux fell into the second category. He had never killed out of anger, nor had he ever killed for revenge. He believed the blood lust for revenge was the most destructive of emotions. He also thought it was unbecoming of a professional of his stature. But now, cycling through the streets of a strange city, with a face he did not recognize, Delaroche was overcome by a desire to kill Michael Osbourne.

He saw the German girl waiting on the front steps of the house. He crossed the Herengracht to the opposite side and waited. He had no desire to see her again. Finally, she scribbled a note and shoved it beneath the door before storming off along the canal. Delaroche scooped up the note as he entered the foyer—
You are a fucking bastard! Please call. Love, Eva
—and pushed his bicycle into the flat.

He entered his studio and dropped the unfinished painting on a stack of other incomplete works. He hated it suddenly; it seemed contrived, unimaginative, tiresome. He stripped off his coat and placed a large blank canvas on his easel. He had painted her once, but the work, like the rest of his possessions, had been destroyed in Mykonos. He stood there in the half-light, thinking about it for a long time, trying to remember her face. There was a Byzantine quality about it, he remembered: wide cheekbones, a large mobile mouth, liquid blue eyes set slightly too far apart. The face of a woman from another time and place.

He switched on the harsh halogen lamps suspended from the ceiling and started to work. He discarded one canvas because he did not like the pose and a second because the structure of her facial bones was all wrong. The third canvas felt right from the moment he started to work on it. He painted his most enduring visual memory of her—Astrid, leaning on a rusting wrought-iron railing on a hotel balcony in Cairo, wearing only a man’s galabia unbuttoned to her stomach, the setting sun shining through the thin white cotton, revealing the soft lines of her back and her upturned breast.

He worked through the night until morning. He had polluted his body with coffee and wine and cigarettes. When it was finished he could not sleep because he had a headache. He carried the canvas to his room and propped it up at the foot of his bed. Finally, sometime before noon, he fell into a restless sleep.

CHAPTER 30

LONDON * NEW YORK CITY

Michael Osbourne was forced to remain in London for three days after the Hartley Hall affair, dealing with the real enemy of any servant of the secret world: the bureaucracy. He had spent two days giving lengthy statements to the authorities. He had helped Wheaton clean up the mess of Preston McDaniels’s suicide. He had worked with Special Branch to tighten security around Douglas. He had attended a memorial service for the two SAS officers slain in the Sperrin Mountains of Northern Ireland.

His last day in London was spent in a soundproof cell deep in the catacombs of Thames House, enduring a ritual debriefing by the mandarins of MI 5. When it was over he stalked Mill-bank in the rain for twenty minutes, searching for a taxi, because Wheaton had commandeered Michael’s staff car on a dubious pretext. Finally, he retreated to Pimlico Underground station and took the tube. London, a city he loved, suddenly seemed dreary and oppressive to him. He knew it was time to go home.

Graham appeared in the drive of Winfield House the following morning to take Michael to Heathrow, this time in a Jaguar instead of his department Rover.

“We have to make a stop on the way to the airport,” Graham said, as Michael climbed into the backseat next to him. “Nothing serious, darling. Just a couple of loose ends to tie up.”

The car left Regent’s Park and headed south along Baker Street. Graham changed the subject.

“You see this?” he said, pointing to an article in that morning’s
Times
about the mysterious murder of a prominent French plastic surgeon.

“I glanced at it,” Michael said. “What about it?”

“He was a naughty boy.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ve always suspected he was earning a little extra cash by fixing the faces of bad guys,” Graham said. “The good doctor made several house calls to exotic places like Tripoli and Damascus. We asked the French to keep a watch on him, and as usual they told us to fuck off.”

Michael read the article; it was two paragraphs, with only the barest details. Maurice Leroux was shot to death in his apartment in the Sixth Arrondissement of Paris. Police were investigating.

“What kind of gun did the killer use?”

“Nine millimeter.”

The Jaguar sped south along the Park Lane, then crossed Green Park along Constitution Hill. A moment later it passed through the gates of Buckingham Palace.

Michael looked at Graham. “Never a dull moment with you, is there?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“It’s so nice to see you again, Mr. Osbourne,” Queen Elizabeth said, as they entered a palace drawing room. “Please sit down.”

Michael sat down. Tea was served, and her aides and assistants withdrew. Graham Seymour waited outside in the anteroom.

“I want to thank you for the fine work you did in dealing with the menace of the Ulster Freedom Brigade,” the Queen said. “The people of Northern Ireland owe you a tremendous debt. Indeed, so does the whole of Great Britain.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Michael said politely.

“I was very sorry to hear about your agent, the one who was killed in Northern Ireland.” She paused a moment, face perplexed, and glanced at the ceiling. “Oh, good heavens, I can’t recall the poor man’s name.”

“Kevin Maguire,” Michael said.

“Ah, yes, Harbinger,” the Queen said, using Maguire’s code name. “Such a frightful business that was. I was relieved to hear you weren’t seriously hurt. But I know losing an agent like Harbinger in such a horrible way must have affected you deeply.”

“Kevin Maguire wasn’t perfect, but there are countless people who are alive today because of him. It took a tremendous amount of courage for him to betray the IRA, and in the end he paid with his life.”

“What are your plans now that the Protestant threat appears to have been neutralized? Do you plan to stay with the CIA or vanish back into retirement?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Michael said. “Right now I’d just like to go home and see my wife and children. I’ve been away for a long time.”

“I’m not sure I could be married to someone in your line of work.”

“It takes a very special kind of woman,” Michael said.

“So your wife is supportive?”

Michael smiled. “I wouldn’t go that far, Your Majesty.”

“I suppose you have to do what makes you happy. And if working for the CIA makes you happy, I’m sure she’ll understand. It’s certainly important work. You should be very proud of what you’ve accomplished here.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I am proud.”

“Well, since it appears you’re going to remain inside the CIA for the time being, I suppose we’ll have to do this in private.”

“Do what, Your Majesty?” Michael asked.

“Your honorary knighthood.”

“You’re joking.”

She smiled mischievously and said, “I never joke about something as important as this.”

She opened a small rectangular case and showed Michael the medal of the Honorary Knighthood of the British Empire.

“It’s beautiful,” he said. “I’m honored and very flattered.”

“You should be.”

“Do I have to kneel?”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Just finish your tea and tell me what it felt like to capture Gavin Spencer.”

“You mean I just had sex with a real knight?” Elizabeth said. “I’m afraid so.”

“I think you’re my first.”

“I’d better be.”

“So what did you two chat about besides Northern Ireland?”

“We talked about you.”

“Oh, please.”

“We did.”

“What about me?”

“She wanted to know whether I was going to stay with the Agency or vanish back into retirement, as she put it.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“I told her I didn’t know.”

“Such a coward.”

“Watch it. I’m a knight, remember?”

“So what’s the answer?”

“For one of the first times in my career with the Agency, I feel I actually accomplished something. It feels good.”

“So you want to stay on?”

“I want to hear what Monica has to say before I make any final decisions. And I want to hear what you have to say.”

“Michael, you know how I feel. But I also need you to be happy. It’s strange, but listening to you for the last hour, you’ve seemed happier than you have in months.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I wish working somewhere other than the Central Intelligence Agency could make you happy. But if it’s what you want, and you’re going to be content, then I want you to stay.”

She crushed out her cigarette, untied her robe, and rolled on top of him, pressing her breasts against his warm skin. “Just make me one promise,” she said. “If you really think October is still alive, let someone else go after him.”

“He murdered Sarah, and he tried to kill us both.”

“That’s why someone else should handle the case. Recuse yourself, Michael. Let Adrian give the job to someone else, someone with no personal stake.” She hesitated a moment. “Someone who’s not out for revenge.”

“What makes you think I’m out for revenge?”

“Come on, Michael. Don’t be dishonest with yourself or me. You want him dead, and I don’t blame you. But revenge is a dangerous game. Didn’t you learn anything while you were in Northern Ireland?”

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.”

CHAPTER 31

MYKONOS

The executive council of the Society for International Development 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 Delaroche,” Stavros said, when he had finished. 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.”