The Marching Season

were collected at the end of each day and sent to Personnel for psychological evaluation. Carter sought vainly to engage Monica in small talk while he struggled with the complex order form. Michael knew the meal would be billed to the director's office, so he selected the most expensive items on the menu: shrimp cocktail, broiled crab cakes, and creme brulee for dessert. Tweedledee filled out Monica's form for her.
    "Now that you've managed to neutralize the Ulster Freedom Brigade," Monica began suddenly, "we think it's time that you leave the Northern Ireland task force and move on to something more productive."
    Michael looked at Carter, who shrugged. "Who's we?" Michael asked.
    Monica looked up from her salad as though she found the question impertinent. "The Seventh Floor, of course."
    "Actually, I was hoping I could spend more time working on the October case," Michael said.
    "Actually, I intend to remove you from the October case altogether."
    Michael pushed away his plate of half-eaten shrimp and laid
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    his napkin on the table. "Part of our agreement about my return to the Agency was that I would be allowed to spend part of my time searching for him. Why are you trying to back out of our agreement?"
    "To be honest with you, Michael, Adrian thought that allowing you to pursue October might be enough to entice you back to the Center. But I never thought much of the idea, and I still don't. Once again, you've proven yourself to be an effective officer, and I would be derelict if I permitted you to continue to work on a case that is unlikely to bear fruit."
    "But it has borne fruit, Monica. I've proven October is still alive and still working as an assassin and terrorist."
    "No, Michael, you didn't prove he's alive. You theorize that he is still alive, based on an enhancement of a photograph of a hand. That is quite a long way from ironclad proof."
    "We rarely deal with ironclad proof in this business, Monica."
    "Don't lecture me, Michael."
    They fell silent as the waitress appeared and cleared away the first course.
    "We've sent an alert to Interpol," Monica resumed. "We've given warnings to our allies. There is little else that can be done. At this point, it is a law enforcement matter, and this is not a law enforcement agency."
    "I disagree," Michael said.
    "On which point?"
    "You know which point."
    Monica's acolytes stirred in their seats restlessly. Carter picked at a loose thread in the tablecloth. Nothing infuriated Monica Tyler more than being challenged by someone below her on the Agency food chain.
    "Someone hired October to assassinate Ahmed Hussein,"
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    Michael said. "Someone is providing him with protection, travel documents, money. We need to find out who's sponsoring him. That's intelligence work, Monica, not law enforcement."
    "Once again, Michael, you're assuming October was the man in Cairo. It could have been an Israeli intelligence officer. It could have been a rival member of Hamas. It could have been a PLO assassin."
    "It could have been a Pekin duck, but it wasn't. It was October."
    "I disagree." She smiled to demonstrate that she had borrowed Michael's words intentionally. Her eyes flickered about him, as if searching for the best place to insert her dagger.
    Michael yielded. "What do you have in mind for me?"
    "The Middle East peace process is on life support," she said. "Hamas is planting bombs in Jerusalem, and we've received indications the Sword of Gaza is about to go operational in Europe. In all likelihood, that means they will target Americans. I want you to finish the preparations for the White House conference on Northern Ireland, and then I want you back on the Sword of Gaza."
    "What if I'm not interested?"
    "Then I'm afraid your return to the Central Intelligence Agency, though highly successful, will be rather brief."
    Morton Dunne was to the Agency as "Q" was to Bond's Secret Service. The deputy chief of the Office of Technical Services, Dunne was the maker of exploding pens and high-frequency microphone transmitters that could be hidden in a belt buckle. He was an MIT-trained electrical engineer who could have earned five times his government salary in the private sector. He chose
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    the Agency because the paraphernalia of espionage had always intrigued him. In his spare time he maintained the antique spy cameras and weapons housed in the Agency's makeshift museum. He was also one of the world's top designers of