The Marching Season (30 page)

“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.”

CHAPTER 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.”

“I can’t guarantee that.”

“Worst-case scenario, you’ll have the audio as a backup.”

Delaroche said, “You have any guns besides that museum piece you’re carrying?”

Moore had a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver.

“I like these
museum
pieces because they don’t jam,” Moore said, smacking his thick hand against the holster. “But I might be able to lay my hands on a couple of automatics.”

“What kind?”

“Colt forty-fives.”

“No Glocks or Berettas?”

“Sorry,” Moore said, face perplexed.

“A Colt or two would be fine,” Carter said.

“Yes, sir,” Moore said. “Mind telling me what this is all about?”

“Not a chance.”

Delaroche followed Michael up the stairs to the bedroom. Michael went to the closet, opened the door, and pulled down a small box from the top shelf. He opened the box and took out the Beretta.

“I believe you dropped this the last time you were here,” Michael said, handing the gun to Delaroche.

Delaroche’s scarred right hand wrapped around the grip, and his finger reflexively slipped inside the trigger guard. Something about the way Delaroche handled the weapon so effortlessly made Michael feel cold.

“Where did you get this?” Delaroche asked.

“I fished it out of the water off the end of the dock.”

“Who restored it?”

“I did.”

Delaroche looked up from the gun and stared at Michael quizzically. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“I’m not sure. I guess I wanted a reminder of what it really looked like.”

Delaroche still had a 9-millimeter clip in his pocket. He slipped it into the weapon and pulled the slider, chambering the first round.

“If you like, I suppose you could fulfill the terms of your contract at this moment.”

Delaroche handed the Beretta back to Michael.

At four o’clock that afternoon Michael entered Douglas’s study and dialed Monica Tyler’s office at Headquarters. Carter listened on another extension, his hand over the receiver. Monica’s secretary said Director Tyler was in a senior staff meeting and couldn’t be interrupted. Michael said it was an emergency and was passed on to Tweedledee or Tweedledum, Michael was never certain which was which. They kept him waiting the statutory ten minutes while Monica was pulled from the meeting.

“I know everything,” Michael said, when she finally came on the line. “I know about the Society, and I know about the Director. I know about Mitchell Elliott and the TransAtlantic affair. And I know you tried to have me killed.”

“Michael, are you truly delusional? What on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m offering you a way out of this quietly.”

“Michael, I don’t—”

“Come to my father-in-law’s house on Shelter Island. Come alone—no security, no staff. Be here by ten P.M. If you’re not here by then, or if I see anything I don’t like, I’ll go to the Bureau and
The New York Times
and tell them everything I know.”

He hung up without waiting for her answer.

Thirty minutes later the secure telephone rang in the study of the Director’s London mansion. He was sitting in a wing chair next to the fire, feet propped on an ottoman, working his way through a stack of paperwork. Daphne slipped into the room and answered the phone.

“It’s Picasso,” Daphne said. “She says it’s urgent.”

The Director took the receiver and said, “Yes, Picasso?”

Monica Tyler calmly told him about the call she had just received from Michael Osbourne.

“I suspect October is the source of his information,” the Director said. “If that’s true, it would seem to me that Osbourne has a rather weak case. October knows very little about the overall structure of our organization, and he is hardly a credible witness. He is a man who kills for money—a man without morality and without loyalty.”

“I agree, Director, but I don’t think we should simply dismiss the threat.”

“I’m not suggesting that.”

“Do you have the resources to eliminate them?”

“Not on such short notice.”

“And if I simply arrest October?”

“Then he and Osbourne will tell their story to the world.”

“I’m open to suggestions.”

“Do you know how to play poker?” the Director asked.

“Figuratively or literally?”

“A little of both, actually.”

“I believe I understand your point.”

“Listen to what Osbourne has to say and evaluate your options. I know I don’t need to remind you that you swore an oath of allegiance to the Society. Your first concern is upholding that oath.”

“I understand, Director.”

“Perhaps you will be presented with an opportunity to resolve the matter yourself.”

“I’ve never done that sort of thing, Director.”

“It’s not so difficult, Picasso. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

He hung up the telephone and looked at Daphne.

“Begin calling the members of the executive council and the division chiefs. I need to speak to each of them urgently. I’m afraid we may be forced to close down shop for a while.”

Monica Tyler hung up the telephone and stared out her window at the Potomac. She walked across the room and stopped in front of a Rembrandt, a landscape she had purchased at auction in New York for a small fortune. Her eyes ran over the painting now: the clouds, the light spilling from the cottage, the horseless trap in the grass of the meadow. She took hold of the frame and pulled. The Rembrandt swung back on its hinges, revealing a small wall safe.

Her fingers worked the tumblers automatically, eyes barely looking at the numbers; a few seconds later the safe was open. She began removing items: an envelope containing one hundred thousand dollars in cash, three false passports in different names from different countries, credit cards corresponding to the names.

Then she removed one final item, a Browning automatic.

Perhaps you will be presented with an opportunity to resolve the matter yourself.

She changed clothes, exchanging the tailored Chanel for a pair of jeans and a sweater. She placed the items from the safe into a large black leather handbag. Then she packed a small overnight bag with a change of clothes.

She pulled the handbag over her shoulder and reached inside, wrapping her hand around the grip of the Browning; she had been trained by the Agency to handle a gun. A member of her security detail was waiting outside in the hall.

“Good afternoon, Director Tyler.”

“Good afternoon, Ted.”

“Back to Headquarters, Director?”

“The helipad, actually.”

“The helipad? No one told us anything about—”

“It’s all right, Ted,” she said calmly. “It’s a private matter.”

The security man looked at her carefully. “Is there something wrong, Director Tyler?”

“No, Ted, everything’s going to be just fine.”