The Marching Season (27 page)

The car turned onto Wisconsin Avenue and they headed south into Georgetown. Elizabeth leaned her head on Michael’s shoulder and closed her eyes.

Douglas laid a hand on Michael’s forearm and said, “You know, Michael, there’s something I never did that I need to do now. I never thanked you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I never thanked you for saving my life. If you hadn’t taken on this case, gone into Northern Ireland and risked your life, I might very well be dead right now. Obviously, I’ve never had an opportunity to see you do your job before. You are a
superb
intelligence officer.”

“Thank you, Douglas. Coming from an old spook-hating liberal like you, that means a lot to me.”

“Are you going to stay on with the Agency, now that the Northern Ireland business is over?”

“If my wife promises not to divorce me,” Michael said. “Monica Tyler wants me to take the Sword of Gaza case again. The Agency has picked up some indications the group may be planning new attacks.”

“What kind of indications?”

“Movement of known action agents, communications intercepts. That sort of thing.”

“Anything in Britain?”

“The UK is always a possibility. They like operating there.”

“I remember the Heathrow attack.”

“So do I,” Michael said.

Douglas sat back and closed his eyes as the car left Wisconsin Avenue and slipped through the quiet residential streets of Georgetown. “When is it going to end?” he said.

“When is what going to end?”

“Terrorism. The taking of innocent life to make a political statement. When is it going to end?”

“When there are no more people in the world who feel oppressed enough to pick up a gun or a bomb. When there are no more religious or ethnic zealots. When there are no more maniacs who get their kicks by shedding blood.”

“So I guess the answer to my question is
never.
It will
never
end.”

“You’re the historian. In the first century, the Zealots used terrorism to fight the Roman occupation of the Promised Land. In the twelfth century, a group of Shiite Muslims called the Assassins used terrorism against the Sunni leaders of Persia. It’s hardly a new phenomenon.”

“And now it’s come to America: the World Trade Center, Oklahoma City, Olympic Park.”

“It’s cheap, it’s relatively easy, and it only takes a handful of dedicated individuals. Two men named Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols proved that.”

“It’s still incomprehensible to me,” Douglas said. “One hundred sixty-eight people, gone in the blink of an eye.”

“All right, you two,” Elizabeth said, opening her eyes as the car braked to a halt in front of the house. “Enough of this conversation. You’re depressing me.”

Delaroche was standing on the second floor of the house, in a window overlooking N Street, when he heard the sound of a car. He parted the curtain with the silencer of the Beretta and peered down into the street. It was Cannon and the Osbournes arriving home.

He released the curtain and walked down the hall to the staircase, glancing into the master bedroom as he moved past the door. The nanny lay on the floor, her hands, feet, and mouth bound by packing tape.

Delaroche moved quickly down the stairs and stood in the darkened center hall. It was going to be so easy, he thought—like a shooting game at a carnival—and then he would be done with it. All of it.

CHAPTER 38

WASHINGTON

Rebecca Wells turned onto N Street and followed the limousine for two blocks, until it came to a stop. There were no spaces in front of the Osbournes’ house, so the driver simply parked in the middle of the street and switched on the hazard lights. Rebecca reached into her shoulder bag and withdrew the silenced Beretta 9-millimeter.

Jean-Paul’s instructions ran through her head.
I’ll take care of the two men in the car and then go inside the house,
he had told her the previous night, speaking softly beneath the screaming television in their hotel room.
Wait until they’re all out of the car. You kill the last DSS man, and I’ll take care of the ambassador and Michael Osbourne.

She wondered whether she had the strength to do it. And then she thought of Gavin Spencer and Kyle Blake and the men who had died at Hartley Hall because Michael Osbourne and his father-in-law had deceived her. She checked the action on the Beretta and chambered the first round.

One of the limousine’s doors opened, and the DSS agent climbed out. He walked around the back of the car and pulled open the rear door facing the Osbournes’ house. Michael Osbourne came out first. He glanced around the street, his gaze settling on the Volvo for an instant before moving on. The ambassador emerged, followed by Elizabeth Osbourne.

Rebecca opened her door.

Michael turned to the DSS man and said, “Where are the other agents?”

The DSS agent raised his hand to his mouth and murmured a few words. When he received no response he yelled, “Get back into the car! Now!”

It was then that Rebecca Wells stepped out of the Volvo. She stood, arms braced on the roof of the car, and started firing at the DSS agent—one shot after another, just as Jean-Paul had told her.

Michael did not hear the shots, only the shattering of the limousine’s rear window and the thud of the 9-millimeter rounds piercing the trunk. Instead of obeying the DSS agent’s instruction to get into the car, Michael, Elizabeth, and Douglas had instinctively fallen to the pavement of N Street.

Michael suspected there was something wrong about the woman in the Volvo station wagon, but he had been too slow to seize upon the possibility that it might actually be Rebecca Wells. Now, as he crouched over Elizabeth and Douglas, the final seconds of the DSS agent’s life flashed through his mind. The agent had tried to raise the other men but could not. That’s because someone else has already killed them, Michael thought. Then he thought of the information Gerry Adams had given him earlier that night. Rebecca Wells had been looking for a professional assassin to kill Douglas. Her hired killer was probably somewhere close.

Michael pulled out the Browning automatic. The driver was still behind the wheel of the limousine, ducking for cover below the top of the seat. Michael grabbed Elizabeth and Douglas and said, “Get into the car!”

Elizabeth crawled into the backseat. One of the shots struck the DSS man in the head, sending a shower of blood and brain tissue through the shattered rear window. Elizabeth looked at Michael helplessly and tried to wipe the blood from her face.

Then her eyes grew suddenly wide and screamed, “Michael! Behind you!”

Michael turned and saw a figure, standing high atop the curved steps leading to the entrance of the house. The man’s right arm swung up and he fired twice one-handed, his silenced weapon emitting no sound, just a tongue of fire from the end of the barrel.

Even in the dim light of Georgetown, Michael knew he had seen that distinctive handling of a gun before.

The man on his front steps was October.

The first shot ricocheted off the roof of the car. The second struck Douglas in the back as he lunged into the car. He collapsed onto Elizabeth, groaning in pain.

Michael pointed his gun at October and fired several shots, driving him back into the house. On the quiet street, the high-powered Browning sounded like artillery.

“Go! Go!” he screamed at the driver. “Get them out of here!”

The driver sat up and gunned the engine.

The last thing Michael saw was Elizabeth, screaming through the shattered rear window.

“The children, Michael!” she cried. “The children!”

Michael dived between two parked cars where he was shielded from Rebecca Wells and October, at least for a few seconds. He peered upward toward the entrance of the house and saw October emerge. Michael aimed the Browning and fired several shots. October ducked back inside. Then, windows in the cars around him started to shatter. The woman was firing at him.

Lights had come on all along the street. Michael turned and saw Rebecca Wells, standing behind the open door of the Volvo station wagon, firing across the roof. He pivoted and thought about returning her fire. He realized that if he missed, a stray round could enter one of the neighboring homes and kill an innocent person who had come out to see what was going on.

He aimed at his own house. He thought, Please, God, let the children be upstairs in the nursery! And then he fired at October until his gun was empty.

Michael heard the first siren as he was changing his clip. Perhaps it was the gunfire, Michael thought. Or perhaps the DSS man had managed to flash an alert before he was killed. Whatever the case, Michael could now hear the wail of several approaching sirens, growing louder with each passing second.

October appeared in the doorway, waving to Rebecca.

“Go!” he yelled. “Get away from here!”

The first police cruiser appeared on N Street.

October fired two wild shots at the car. “Now, Rebecca! Leave!”

Michael chambered the first round of his fresh clip and fired four shots at October.

With that, Rebecca Wells climbed into the Volvo and gunned the engine, roaring past the spot where Michael had taken cover. October stepped onto the porch one last time and fired several shots in Michael’s direction, then turned and ran into the house.

Michael rose and followed after him, pounding up the steps, the Browning in his outstretched hands. When he reached the doorway he peered down the darkened center hall and saw October lift a chair and hurl it through the French doors.

October turned one last time and raised his gun. Michael heard nothing but saw the muzzle spouting fire. He leaned against the exterior of the house; on the other side of the wall he could feel the rounds crashing into the plasterwork. When the gunfire stopped, Michael stepped into the doorway and fired three more shots as October ran across the garden and scaled the fence.

Michael ran upstairs to the nursery and found the children crying in their cribs, unharmed.

“Maggie!”

He heard thumping in the master bedroom and muffled screams. He ran down the hall and turned on the lights in the bedroom. Maggie lay on the floor, bound and gagged.

“Was there just one, Maggie? Just one gunman?”

She nodded.

“I’ll be right back.”

Michael charged down the stairs just as a Metropolitan Police officer entered the house, gun drawn. He aimed his weapon at Michael and yelled, “Stop right there and drop your gun!”

“I’m Michael Osbourne, and this is my house.”

“I don’t care who the fuck you are! Just drop the gun! Now!”

“Goddammit, I’m Ambassador Cannon’s son-in-law and I work for the CIA! Put the fucking gun down!”

The officer kept his gun aimed at Michael’s head.

“My father-in-law was hit,” Michael said. “Both shooters have fled—a man on foot and a woman in a black Volvo station wagon. My children are upstairs with their nanny. Go help her. I’ll be right back.”

“Hey, come back here!” the officer yelled, as Michael ran down the center hall and vanished through the shattered French doors.

Delaroche did not come to Washington to get into a gunfight with Michael Osbourne. Anyone could be hit when bullets are flying around a small space, and Delaroche was unwilling to trade his life for Osbourne’s. Besides, he had hit the primary target, Ambassador Cannon, with a good shot in the back. With a little luck the wound would prove fatal. Still, he was angry about failing to kill Osbourne once again.

He stripped off the tan raincoat as he sprinted down the alley. When he reached Thirty-fourth Street he stepped directly into the path of an oncoming car, a light-gray Saab with a college student behind the wheel. Delaroche raised his Beretta and aimed it through the windshield.

“Get the fuck out of the car!”

The student climbed out with his hands raised and stepped aside. “Take it, motherfucker. It’s yours.”

“Run,” Delaroche said, waving the Beretta, and the student started running.

Delaroche climbed behind the wheel.

The college student screamed, “Fuck you, you fucking asshole!”

Delaroche drove off. He knew he had to get out of Georgetown quickly. He raced down Thirty-fourth Street toward M Street. If he could cross the Francis Scott Key Bridge to Arlington, his chances of escape would increase dramatically. There, he could slip onto the George Washington Parkway, 1-395, or 1-66 and be miles from Washington in a matter of minutes.

At M Street the traffic signal turned from green to red as Delaroche approached. A sign warned NO RIGHT turn on red. He considered running the light, but calmness during escapes had always served him well in the past, and he decided not to act rashly now.

He applied the brakes and came to a stop.

He looked at his wristwatch and counted the seconds.

As Michael Osbourne leaped over the fence into the alley, he heard a man shouting obscenities. A split second later he heard tires screeching and the engine of a small car revving. By the sound of it, Michael guessed the car was heading toward M Street. He also guessed that it was October, trying to escape. He sprinted down Thirty-third Street to M Street, turned right, and kept running.

Delaroche spotted Osbourne running along M Street with a gun in his hand, scattering startled pedestrians. Delaroche slowly turned and looked straight ahead, waiting for the light to turn green.

The Beretta lay on the passenger seat. Delaroche wrapped his right hand around the grip and placed his finger across the trigger. He thought, Perhaps I’ll get an opportunity to fulfill the terms of the contract after all.

Osbourne arrived in the intersection. He stood in the crosswalk directly in front of the Saab, gun in hand, staring up Thirty-fourth Street. He was breathing heavily, eyes flickering back and forth.

Delaroche lifted the Beretta slowly and laid it on his lap. He considered shooting Osbourne through the windshield but decided against it. Even if he did manage to hit Osbourne, he would be left with a damaged car for his escape. He reached out with his left hand and pressed a button on the armrest, lowering his window as the light turned green.

Several other cars had pulled up behind him, and the drivers were honking their horns, not realizing that there was a man with a gun standing in the middle of the intersection.

Delaroche sat motionless, waiting for Osbourne to make his move.

Michael stood in the intersection, heart pounding, ignoring the cacophony of car horns. He checked the faces inside every car: a forty-something suit in a light-gray Saab, a pair of rich students in a red BMW, a couple of Georgetown patricians in a rattling diesel Mercedes, a Pizza Hut delivery boy.

Everyone was honking except for the man in the Saab. Michael looked at him carefully. He was rather ugly: heavy cheeks, a blunt chin, a broad, flat nose. Michael had seen the face somewhere before but couldn’t figure out where. He stared at him while the faces of his past appeared in his mind, one by one, like images on a screen, some clear and sharp, some unfocused and scratchy. Then he realized where he had seen the man before—on Morton Dunne’s computer screen at OTS.

Michael aimed the Browning at October’s face.

“Get out of the car! Now!”