The Marching Season

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
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    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?"
    "He's called the Director."
    "The director of what?"
    "The director of the organization that is helping you kill the ambassador."
    "What's it called?"
    Delaroche remained silent.
    "You don't know what it's called?"
    "I know," he said.
    "Do you know who belongs to it?"
    "I've made it my business to find out."
    She walked through the salon and sat down on the edge of Astrid's bed. Delaroche switched on the small heater.
    "Do you have a name?" she asked.
    "Sometimes," he said.
    "What should I call you?"
    "You can stay here until we leave for America," Delaroche said, ignoring her question. "You'll need clean clothes and food. I'll bring some things for you later this afternoon. Do you smoke?"
    She nodded.
    Delaroche tossed her a packet of cigarettes. "I'll bring you more."
    "Thank you."
    "Do you have any other languages?"
    "No," she said.
    Delaroche exhaled sharply and shook his head.
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    "I didn't need other languages to operate in Northern Ireland."
    "This isn't Northern Ireland," he said. "Can you do anything about that accent?"
    "What's wrong with my accent?"
    "You might as well hang an Orange sash across your chest."
    "I can speak like an Englishwoman."
    "Please do," he said, and with that he pounded up the companionway and closed the hatch behind him.
    34
    CIA HEADQUARTERS ■ WASHINGTON
    One week after the Director's meeting with Delaroche in Amsterdam, Michael Osbourne returned to the Counterterror-ism Center for the first time since leaving London. He punched in his code at the secure door and stepped inside. Carter was sitting at his desk, hunched over a stack of memos, clearly irritated. He looked up at Michael and frowned. "Well, well, Sir Michael has decided to grace us with his presence," Carter said.
    "It's an honorary knighthood. 'Your Majesty' will do just fine."
    Carter smiled. "Welcome home. We missed you. Everything all right?"
    "Couldn't be better."
    "You have ten minutes to get read in. Then I need to see you and Cynthia in my office."
    "Fine. I'll see you in half an hour."
    Michael walked down Abu Nidal Boulevard to his cubicle. One of the Center's wits had hung a large Union Jack over the
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    cubicle wall, and "God Save the Queen" issued softly from a small tape player.
    "Very funny," Michael called out, to no one in particular.
    Blaze and Eurotrash appeared, followed by Cynthia Martin and Gigabyte. "We just wanted to dress the place up a little bit for you, Sir Michael," Blaze said. "You know, make it feel a little less like Langley and a little more like home."
    "That was very thoughtful of you."
    Blaze, Eurotrash, and Gigabyte drifted away, singing a throaty rendition of "He Is an Englishman." Cynthia remained behind and sat down in the chair facing Michael's desk. "Congratulations, Michael. You pulled off quite a coup."
    "Thank you. I appreciate that."
    "Secretly, I think I was hoping you'd fall flat on your face. Nothing