The Marching Season

experimental kites. On weekends he could be found on the Ellipse, flying his creations around the Washington Monument. Once he placed a high-resolution miniature camera aboard a kite and photographed every square inch of the White House South Lawn.
    "You have authorization for this, I assume," Dunne said, seated in front of a large computer monitor. He was prototypical MIT—thin, pale as a cave dweller, with wire-rimmed glasses that were forever slipping down the bridge of his narrow nose. "I can't do this without authorization from your chief."
    "I'll bring you the chit later this afternoon, but I need the photos now."
    Dunne laid his hands on the keyboard. "What was his name?"
    "October. The one we did last month for the Interpol alert."
    "Oh, yeah, I remember," Dunne said, his fingers rattling over the keyboard. A moment later the face of October appeared on the screen. "What do you want me to do?"
    "I think he may have undergone plastic surgery to change his face," Michael said. "I'm almost certain the work was done by a Frenchman named Maurice Leroux."
    "Dr. Leroux could have done any number of things to alter his appearance."
    "Can you show me a few?" Michael asked. "Can you give me a complete series? Change the hair, give him a beard, the works."
    "It's going to take a while."
    "I'll wait."
    "Sit over there," Dunne said. "And for God's sake, Osbourne, don't touch anything."
    314 Daniel Silva
    It was just after midnight when Monica Tyler's chauffeured Town Car arrived at the Harbor Place complex on the waterfront in Georgetown. Her bodyguard opened the door and shadowed her through the lobby into the elevator. He walked her to the door of her apartment and remained there as she went inside.
    She ran water in her oversize bath and undressed. It was nearly morning in London. The Director was a notorious early riser; she knew he would be at his desk in a few minutes. She slipped into the bath and relaxed in the warm water. When she was finished, she wrapped herself in a thick white robe.
    She went into the living room and sat down behind the mahogany desk. There were three telephones: an eight-line standard phone, an internal phone for Langley, and a special secure phone that permitted her to conduct conversations without fear of eavesdroppers. She looked at the antique gold desk clock, a gift from her old firm on Wall Street: 12:45 A.M.
    Monica thought of the circumstances—the coincidences, political alliances, and serendipity—that had brought her to the top of the Central Intelligence Agency. She had graduated second in her class at Yale Law, but instead of heading off to a big firm she added an MBA from Harvard to her resume and went to Wall Street to make money. There she met Ronald Clark, a Republican fund-raiser and wise man who drifted in and out of Washington each time the Republicans controlled the White House. Monica followed Clark to Treasury, Commerce, State, and Defense. When President Beckwith appointed Clark to be director of Central Intelligence, Monica became the executive director, the second most powerful position in the CIA. When Clark decided to retire, Monica lobbied for the top job, and Beckwith gave it to her.
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    Ronald Clark left her a CIA in disarray. A series of other spy cases, including the Aldrich Ames case, had devastated morale. The Agency had failed to predict either that India and Pakistan were about to explode nuclear devices or that Iran and North Korea were about to test ballistic missiles capable of hitting their neighbors. During her confirmation hearings, several senators pressed her to justify the size and cost of the Central Intelligence Agency; one wondered aloud whether the United States really needed a CIA now that the Cold War was over.
    She was supposed to be a mere caretaker, someone to keep the chair in the DCI's office warm for a couple of years, until Beckwith's successor could appoint his intelligence chief. But she was incapable of playing the role of caretaker and set out on a mission to make herself indispensable to whoever sat in the Oval Office after Beckwith, Republican or Democrat.
    She believed she was the only person at Langley with the vision to lead the Agency through the uncertain terrain of the post-Cold War period. She had studied the history of intelligence well. She knew that sometimes it was necessary to sacrifice a few in order to ensure the survival of the many. She felt a kinship with the deception officers of World