The Marching Season

right, come upstairs with me."
    The evening had gone off without incident, just as Michael had expected, but as the car sped along Massachusetts Avenue, the warning from Gerry Adams rang in his ears. If Rebecca Wells had managed to hire an assassin, it posed a new and different threat to Douglas's safety. An assassin working alone would be much more difficult to identify and stop than a member of a known paramilitary organization. Michael decided he would tell Douglas the news when they arrived home. His activities and appearances in London would have to be restricted until the threat had passed—or until Rebecca Wells could be arrested.
    The Marching Season 347
    The car turned onto Wisconsin Avenue and they headed south into Georgetown. Elizabeth leaned her head on Michael's shoulder and closed her eyes.
    Douglas laid a hand on Michael's forearm and said, "You know, Michael, there's something I never did that I need to do now. I never thanked you."
    "What are you talking about?"
    "I never thanked you for saving my life. If you hadn't taken on this case, gone into Northern Ireland and risked your life, I might very well be dead right now. Obviously, I've never had an opportunity to see you do your job before. You are a superb intelligence officer."
    "Thank you, Douglas. Coming from an old spook-hating liberal like you, that means a lot to me."
    "Are you going to stay on with the Agency, now that the Northern Ireland business is over?"
    "If my wife promises not to divorce me," Michael said. "Monica Tyler wants me to take the Sword of Gaza case again. The Agency has picked up some indications the group may be planning new attacks."
    "What kind of indications?"
    "Movement of known action agents, communications intercepts. That sort of thing."
    "Anything in Britain?"
    "The UK is always a possibility. They like operating there."
    "I remember the Heathrow attack."
    "So do I," Michael said.
    Douglas sat back and closed his eyes as the car left Wisconsin Avenue and slipped through the quiet residential streets of Georgetown. "When is it going to end?" he said.
    "When is what going to end?"
    348 Daniel Silva
    "Terrorism. The taking of innocent life to make a political statement. When is it going to end?"
    "When there are no more people in the world who feel oppressed enough to pick up a gun or a bomb. When there are no more religious or ethnic zealots. When there are no more maniacs who get their kicks by shedding blood."
    "So I guess the answer to my question is never. It will never end."
    "You're the historian. In the first century, the Zealots used terrorism to fight the Roman occupation of the Promised Land. In the twelfth century, a group of Shiite Muslims called the Assassins used terrorism against the Sunni leaders of Persia. It's hardly a new phenomenon."
    "And now it's come to America: the World Trade Center, Oklahoma City, Olympic Park."
    "It's cheap, it's relatively easy, and it only takes a handful of dedicated individuals. Two men named Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols proved that."
    "It's still incomprehensible to me," Douglas said. "One hundred sixty-eight people, gone in the blink of an eye."
    "All right, you two," Elizabeth said, opening her eyes as the car braked to a halt in front of the house. "Enough of this conversation. You're depressing me."
    Delaroche was standing on the second floor of the house, in a window overlooking N Street, when he heard the sound of a car. He parted the curtain with the silencer of the Beretta and peered down into the street. It was Cannon and the Osbournes arriving home.
    He released the curtain and walked down the hall to the staircase, glancing into the master bedroom as he moved past the
    The Marching Season 349
    door. The nanny lay on the floor, her hands, feet, and mouth bound by packing tape.
    Delaroche moved quickly down the stairs and stood in the darkened center hall. It was going to be so easy, he thought—like a shooting game at a carnival—and then he would be done with it. All of it.
    38
    WASHINGTON
    Rebecca Wells turned onto N Street and followed the limousine for two blocks, until it came to a stop. There were no spaces in front of the Osbournes' house, so the driver simply parked in the middle of the street and switched on the hazard lights. Rebecca reached into her shoulder bag and withdrew the silenced Beretta 9-millimeter.
    Jean-Paul's instructions ran through her head. I'll take care of the two men in the car and then go inside the house, he had told