The Marching Season

college boys in blue jackets to park cars in the crammed streets of Georgetown. Such was the nature of celebrity in Washington. Douglas had lived and worked in the city for more than twenty years, but someone had tried to kill him, and that made him a star. The CIA and British Intelligence had contributed to the ambassador's sudden notoriety by spinning a tail of Douglas's calm under fire at Hartley Hall, even though he was safely tucked in his bed at Winfield House by the time the assault began. Douglas had willingly played along with the elaborate ruse de guerre. Indeed, he derived a certain adolescent delight from deceiving the barons of the Washington media.
    The guests began arriving a few minutes after seven o'clock. There were two of Douglas's old friends from the Senate and a handful of congressmen. The Washington bureau chief of NBC News came, along with her husband, who was the bureau chief of CNN. Cynthia Martin came alone; Adrian Carter brought his wife, Christine. To protect Michael, who was still a clandestine member of the Agency, Carter and Cynthia said they worked on Northern Ireland issues for the State Department. Carter wanted a moment alone with Michael, so they adjourned to the garden and stood by the pool.
    "How did things go with Bristol this morning?" Carter asked.
    "He seemed impressed with the product," Michael said. "Beckwith stuck his head in the door for a minute, too."
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    "Really?"
    "He said he was pleased with the outcome of Operation Kettledrum and that the peace process was back on track. You're right, Adrian, he wants this thing bad." Michael hesitated. "So am I officially finished with Northern Ireland?"
    "When the delegations leave town, we'll turn it over to Cynthia and move you back to the Mideast section."
    "If there's one constant at the Agency, it's change," Michael said. "But I still would like to know why Monica decided to shuffle the deck now and why she wants me off the October case."
    "As far as Monica is concerned, the October file is closed. She thinks that even if October is still alive and working he poses no threat to Americans or American interests, and therefore he does not cross the radar screen of the Center."
    "Do you agree?"
    "Of course not, and I've told her as much. But she is the director, and ultimately she decides who we target."
    "A real man would resign in your position."
    "Some of us don't have the financial flexibility to take courageous moral stands, Michael."
    Elizabeth appeared at the French doors.
    "Would you two please come inside?" she said. "It's not as if you never get a chance to talk."
    "We'll be there in a minute," Michael said.
    "One other thing," Adrian said, when Elizabeth had gone. "I heard about your little portrait session with Morton Dunne in OTS the other day. What the hell was that all about?"
    "A plastic surgeon named Maurice Leroux was murdered in Paris a couple of weeks ago."
    "And?"
    "I was wondering if October may have changed his face."
    "And then killed the doctor who did it?"
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    "The thought had crossed my mind."
    "Listen, Michael—Monica has taken you off the case. I don't want any more freelancing on your part. No surfing through files, no private operations. As far as you're concerned, October is dead."
    "You're not threatening me, are you, Adrian?"
    "Actually, I am."
    Delaroche removed his headphones and lit a cigarette. The large dinner party had overwhelmed his microphone, so that the only thing he heard was a constant hum, interrupted by incomprehensible snatches of conversation or occasional bursts of laughter.
    He switched off the tape machine and removed his Beretta 9-millimeter from its stainless-steel carrying case. He broke down the weapon and meticulously wiped each piece with a smooth rag, while he decided how he was going to kill the ambassador and Michael Osbourne.
    37
    WASHINGTON
    "Happy Saint Patrick's Day," President James Beckwith de-clared, as he stepped to the podium in the Rose Garden the following morning. Flanking him were Irish Prime Minister Bertie Ahern and British Foreign Secretary Robin Cook. Behind the President were the leaders of the province's Nationalist and Unionist political parties, including Gerry Adams of Sinn Fein and David Trimble of the Ulster Unionist Party, who was now effectively the prime minister of Northern Ireland.
    "We gather here today not in crisis but in celebration," Beckwith continued. "We celebrate the common heritage that