The Marching Season

Cannon and the Osbournes emerged from the hotel, followed by the DSS agent. She started the engine, then dialed a number on her cellular phone.
    "Yes."
    "They're leaving the first stop now and moving on to the second."
    The line went dead.
    Rebecca dropped the Volvo into gear and slipped into the evening traffic on Connecticut Avenue.
    "When did you and Gerry become such good friends?" Elizabeth asked.
    "We move in similar circles."
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    "What did he want?"
    "He apologized for what happened to me in Belfast."
    "Did you accept?"
    "Not really."
    "And that's all?"
    "That's all."
    Douglas said, "All right, time to cross the religious divide. To the Four Seasons for drinks with the Protestants."
    "You think these people will ever have receptions together?" Elizabeth asked.
    "I wouldn't hold your breath," Michael said.
    Ninety minutes later, Rebecca Wells was parked along a tree-lined section of Massachusetts Avenue in upper Northwest Washington. Across the street was the sprawling British embassy complex. From her vantage point she could see the forecourt of the ambassador's residence. The first guests were beginning to leave.
    Rebecca opened the letter that Delaroche had given her and read it by the faint light of the streetlamps. She folded the note and placed it back in her pocket. She thought of that freezing afternoon on the beach in Norfolk, the afternoon she had left for Scotland to fetch Gavin Spencer and the guns. It was hard to imagine that it was only a month ago, so much had happened since. She remembered the strange sense of serenity that had settled over her that day, walking the flat, desolate beach. She had wanted to stay there forever. And now this man with no past— this hired killer who made love to her as if her body were made of glass—was offering her a sanctuary by the sea.
    She looked up in time to see Douglas Cannon and the Os-bournes leaving the British ambassador's residence. Once again,
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    she punched in the number on her cell phone and waited for the voice of the man she knew only as Jean-Paul.
    Delaroche severed the connection with Rebecca Wells and left the sandwich shop. He walked quickly north along Potomac Street until he reached N Street. The Osbournes' house was two blocks away. He moved more slowly now, strolling along the quiet street, instinctively looking for signs of additional security.
    He had to time his arrival perfectly. The DSS agent accompanying Douglas Cannon would radio his team to alert them of the ambassador's imminent arrival. If the DSS agent received no reply he would suspect there was a problem. Which is why Delaroche was taking his time walking along N Street.
    He spotted the team of DSS agents, sitting in a parked car in front of the Osbournes' house with the front windows opened. One of them, the one behind the wheel, was talking on a handheld radio. Delaroche assumed he was talking to the agent in the ambassador's limousine.
    Delaroche walked to the car and stood next to the driver's side window.
    "Excuse me," he said. "Which way is Wisconsin Avenue?"
    The agent behind the wheel wordlessly pointed east.
    "Thank you," Delaroche said.
    Then he reached beneath his raincoat, withdrew the silenced Beretta, and shot each of the agents several times in the chest. He opened the door and pushed the bodies down onto the seat. He closed the power windows, removed the keys, shut the door, and locked it.
    The entire thing had taken less than thirty seconds. He tossed the car keys into the darkness and crossed the street to the Osbournes' house. He climbed the steps and rang the bell, breathing
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    deeply to steady his nerves. A moment later he heard footsteps approaching the door.
    "Who's there?"
    It was the English-accented voice of Maggie, the nanny.
    "Diplomatic Security, ma'am," Delaroche said. "I'm afraid we have an emergency."
    The door opened and Maggie stood there, face perplexed. "What's wrong?"
    Delaroche stepped inside the house and closed the door. He clasped Maggie's mouth in an iron grip, smothering her scream, and pulled her face close to his. With his free hand he reached inside his suit jacket and removed the Beretta, pressing the end of the silencer into her cheek.
    "I know there are children in this house, and I mean them no harm," he whispered in his accented English. "But if you don't do exactly as I say, I'll shoot you in the face. Do you understand me. 7
    Maggie nodded, eyes wide with terror.
    "All