The Marching Season

ornate center hall to the grand ballroom. Gerry Adams caught sight of Douglas as he entered the room and disentangled himself from a knot of star-struck Irish-American well-wishers.
    "Thank you for coming, Ambassador Cannon." Adams spoke with the thick accent of West Belfast. He was tall, with a full black beard and wire-rimmed spectacles. Although he appeared robust, he suffered from the lingering effects of years of impris-
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    onment and an assassination attempt by the UVF that nearly killed him. "You do us a great honor by joining us this evening."
    "Thank you for having us," Douglas said politely, shaking Adams's hand. "May I introduce my daughter, Elizabeth Os-bourne, and her husband, Michael Osbourne."
    Adams looked at Michael briefly and shook his hand without enthusiasm. As he and Douglas talked about that day's session at the White House for a few moments, Elizabeth and Michael moved a few steps away to give them privacy.
    Then, without warning, Gerry Adams placed a hand on Michael's shoulder and said, "You mind if I have a wee word with you, Mr. Osbourne? I'm afraid it's rather important."
    Delaroche parked at the corner of Prospect and Potomac streets in Georgetown and climbed out. Rebecca slid behind the wheel and lowered the window. Delaroche leaned down and asked, "Any questions?"
    Rebecca shook her head. Delaroche handed her an envelope.
    "If something goes wrong—if something happens to me or if we get separated—go to this place. I'll come for you if I can."
    He turned away and entered a sandwich shop filled with students from Georgetown. He purchased coffee and a newspaper and sat down at a table by the window.
    A moment later he saw Rebecca speed past, heading east toward downtown Washington.
    "Please sit down, Mr. Osbourne," Gerry Adams said. He had led Michael into a large room adjoining the grand ballroom. His pair of ever-present bodyguards moved out of earshot. Adams poured two cups of tea. "Milk, Mr. Osbourne?"
    342 Daniel Silva
    "Thank you."
    "I have a message from your friend Seamus Devlin."
    "Seamus Devlin is not my friend," Michael said harshly.
    The bodyguards glanced at the table to make certain there was no problem. Gerry Adams waved them away.
    "I know what happened that night in Belfast," he said. "And I know why it happened. We would never be in this position today, on the verge of a lasting peace in Northern Ireland, if it weren't for the IRA. It is a highly professional force, not to be taken lightly. Keep that in mind next time you and your British friends try to plant a tout on the inside."
    "I thought you had a message for me."
    "It's about that bitch that set up Eamonn Dillon on the Falls Road, Rebecca Wells."
    "What about her?"
    "She went to Paris after the Hartley Hall affair." Adams raised his china teacup in a mock toast and said, "Lovely piece of work, that was, Mr. Osbourne."
    Michael remained silent.
    "She was living in Montparnasse with a Scottish mercenary named Roderick Campbell. According to Devlin, she and Campbell were in the market for a freelance assassin to finish the job on your father-in-law."
    Michael sat up sharply. "How good is the source?"
    "I didn't get into that kind of detail with Devlin, Mr. Osbourne. But you've seen his work up close. He's not a man who goes about his business lightly."
    "Where's Rebecca Wells now?"
    "She left Paris suddenly a couple of weeks ago. Devlin hasn't been able to pick up her trail again."
    "What about Roderick Campbell?"
    "Gone too—permanently, I'm afraid. He was shot to death in
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    his apartment, along with a girl." Adams was clearly enjoying telling Michael something he didn't know. "It probably didn't cross your sophisticated computer screens at the Counterterror-ism Center."
    "Did Wells and Campbell ever manage to hire a shooter?"
    "Devlin doesn't know, but I wouldn't let down the guard on the ambassador right now, if you know what I mean. It would be bad for everyone involved in the peace process if a gunman acting on behalf of the Ulster Freedom Brigade managed to kill your father-in-law at this time." Adams set down his teacup, signaling the meeting was coming to an end. "Devlin hopes this makes up for any hard feelings you might have about Kevin Maguire."
    "You can tell Devlin to fuck off."
    Adams smiled. "I'll give him the message."
    Rebecca Wells sat behind the wheel of the Volvo, a half block from the front entrance of the Mayflower. She watched as Ambassador