The Marching Season

personal, you understand."
    "At least that's honest."
    "Honesty has always been something of an affliction with me.
    Michael smiled. "My father-in-law's coming to Washington a couple of days before the White House conference on Northern Ireland starts. He wants to spend some time with his grandchildren and see some old friends on the Hill. We're having a small dinner party the night before the conference. Why don't you join us? I know Douglas would value your opinion."
    "I'd love to."
    Michael scribbled his address on a slip of paper and handed it to her.
    "Seven o'clock," he said.
    "I'll be there," Cynthia said, folding the paper. "See you in Carter's office."
    Michael sat down, switched on his computer, and read the overnight cables. An RUC patrol had discovered a car filled with
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    two hundred pounds of Semtex in County Antrim outside Belfast. A Republican splinter group called the Real IRA was thought to be responsible. Michael closed the cable and opened another. A Catholic man had been shot to death near Banbridge in County Down. The RUC suspected that the Loyalist Volunteer Force, an ultraviolent Protestant extremist group, was responsible. Michael opened the next cable. The Portadown lodge of the Orange Order had filed the proposed route for its annual parade. Once again it was demanding the right to march along the Garvaghy Road. This summer's marching season promised to be as confrontational as the last.
    He logged off the computer and walked into Carter's office. Cynthia was already there.
    "I hope you two don't plan on having a life for the next forty-eight hours," Carter said.
    "Our life is the Agency, Adrian," Michael said.
    "I just got off the phone with Bill Bristol."
    "Are we supposed to be impressed because you spoke with the president's national security adviser?"
    "Would you shut the fuck up for one minute and let me finish?"
    Cynthia Martin smiled and looked down at her notebook.
    Carter said, "Beckwith has a bug up his ass about the Northern Ireland conference. It seems his poll numbers are down, and he wants to use the peace process to shore up his approval rating."
    "Isn't that nice," Michael said. "How can we be of service?"
    "By making sure he's fully prepared for the conference. He needs a complete picture of the situation on the ground in Ulster. He needs background and intelligence to know how far he can push the Loyalists and the Nationalists to move things along. He
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    needs to know whether we think a presidential trip to Northern Ireland is a good idea, given the climate."
    "When?" Michael asked.
    "You and Cynthia are briefing Bristol at the White House the day after tomorrow."
    "Oh, good, I thought it was going to be something unreasonable."
    "If you two don't think you can handle it—"
    "We can handle it."
    "I thought so."
    Michael and Cynthia stood up. Carter said, "Hold on a minute, Michael."
    "You guys want to talk about me behind my back?" Cynthia asked.
    "How'd you guess?" Adrian said.
    Cynthia scowled at Carter and went out.
    Carter said, "Don't make any plans for lunch."
    The CIA dining room is on the seventh floor, behind a heavy metal door that looks as though it might lead to the boiler room. It used to be called the executive dining room until Personnel discovered that the junior staff found the name offensive. The Agency got rid of the word "executive" and opened the restaurant to all employees. Technically, workers from the loading dock could come to the seventh floor and eat lunch with deputy directors and division chiefs. Still, most staff preferred the massive basement cafeteria, affectionately known as "the swill pit," where they could gossip without fear of being overheard by superiors. Monica Tyler sat at a table next to the window overlooking the thick trees along the Potomac. Her two ever-present
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    factotums, known derisively as Tweedledum and Tweedledee, sat next to her, each clutching a leather folder as though they contained lost secrets of the ancient world. The tables around them were empty; Monica Tyler had a way of creating vacant space around herself, rather like a psychopath with a fistful of dynamite.
    Monica remained seated as Michael and Carter entered the room and sat down. A waitress brought menus and order cards. Guests in the dining room did not give their orders verbally; instead, they had to meticulously fill out a small form and total their own bill. The Agency wits joked that the forms