The Marching Season

her?"
    "She was killed."
    "When?"
    "Last year."
    Rebecca pushed away his hand and sat up. "What happened?"
    "We were working together on something here in America, and it turned out badly."
    "Who killed her?"
    Delaroche hesitated a moment; the whole thing had gone too far already. He knew he should shut it down, but for some reason he wanted to tell her more. Perhaps Vladimir was right. A man who sees ghosts can no longer behave like a professional. . . .
    "Michael Osbourne," he said. "Actually, his wife killed her."
    "Why?"
    "Because we were sent here to kill Michael Osbourne." He paused for a moment, his eyes flickering about her. "Sometimes, in this business, things don't go as planned."
    "Why were you hired to kill Osbourne?"
    "Because he knew too much about one of the Society's operations."
    "What operation?"
    "The downing of Trans Atlantic Flight 002 last year."
    "I thought it was shot down by that Arab group, the Sword of Gaza."
    "It was shot down at the behest of an American defense contractor named Mitchell Elliott. The Society made it appear as
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    though the Sword of Gaza was involved so Elliott's company could sell a missile defense system to the American government. Osbourne suspected this, so I was hired by the Director to eliminate everyone involved in the operation, as well as Osbourne."
    "Who actually shot down the plane?"
    "A Palestinian named Hassan Mahmoud."
    "How do you know?"
    "Because I was there that night. Because I killed him when it was over."
    She drew away from him. Delaroche could see real fear on her face and feel the bed shaking gently with her trembling. She drew the blanket to her breast to hide her body from him. He stared at her, his face utterly expressionless.
    "My God," she said. "You're a monster."
    "Why do you say that?"
    "There were more than two hundred innocent people on that plane."
    "And what about the innocent people that your bombers killed in London and Dublin?"
    "We didn't do it for money," she snarled.
    "You had a cause," he said contemptuously.
    "That's right."
    "A cause you believe is just."
    "A cause I know is just," she said. "You'll kill anyone as long as the price is right."
    "My God, you really are a stupid woman, aren't you."
    She tried to slap him, but he caught her hand and held on to it, easily resisting her efforts to pull away.
    "Why do you think the Society is willing to help you?" Delaroche said. "Because they believe in the sacred rights of Protestants in Northern Ireland? Of course not. Because they think it
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    will advance their own interests. Because they think that it will make them money. History has passed you by, Rebecca. The Protestants have had their day in Northern Ireland, and now it's over. No amount of bombing, no amount of killing, is ever going to turn back the clock."
    "If you believe that, why are you doing this?" "I don't believe in anything. This is what I do. I've killed in the name of every failed cause in Europe. Yours is just the latest"— he let go of her and she drew away, rubbing her hand as if it had touched something evil—"and I hope the last."
    "I should have kept walking that day in Amsterdam." "You're probably right. But now you're here, and you're stuck with me, and if you do precisely as I say, you might actually survive. You'll never see Northern Ireland again, but at least you'll be alive."
    "Somehow, I doubt that," she said. "You're going to kill me when this is all over, aren't you?" "No, I'm not going to kill you." "You probably killed Astrid Vogel, too." "I didn't kill Astrid, and I'm not going to kill you." He pulled away the blanket and exposed her body to the light. He held out his hand to her, but she remained still.
    "Take my hand," Delaroche said. "I won't hurt you. I give you my word."
    Rebecca took his hand. He pulled her to him and kissed her mouth. She resisted for a moment; then she surrendered, kissing him, clawing at his skin as if she were drowning in his arms. When she guided him into her body, she suddenly went very still, staring at Delaroche with an animal directness that unnerved him.
    "I like your other face better," she said.
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    "So do I."
    "When this is over, maybe we can go back to the doctor who did this and he can make your face like it was before."
    "I'm afraid that's not possible," he said.
    She seemed to understand exactly what he was saying.
    "If you're not going to kill me," she said, "then why did you tell me your secrets?" 1