The Marching Season (22 page)

CHAPTER 32

PARIS

Rebecca Wells was living in Montparnasse, in a drab apartment 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.

CHAPTER 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 Bloembollenstreek, the largest flower-producing region in Holland, his powerful legs pumping effortlessly through fields already ablaze with color.

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 he could 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.
I want to see you again, you cock-sucker! 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 Cuypmarkt, 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?”