The Marching Season

and go back to Europe.
    She sat down in the lounge at the gate and waited for the flight to be called. She tried to close her eyes, but each time she did, she saw the head of the DSS agent explode in a flash of blood.
    The Marching Season 369
    The CNN Airport Channel was running a news bulletin on the assassination attempt.
    The Ulster Freedom Brigade has just claimed responsibility for the attempted murder of Ambassador Douglas Cannon. His two assailants, a man and a woman, are still at large. Doctors at George Washington University Hospital in Washington say Cannon is in critical condition but his wounds are not life-threatening. . . .
    Rebecca looked away. She thought, Where in God's name are you, Jean-Paul? She removed the letter he had given her four hours earlier and read it once more. Go to this place. I'll come for you if I can.
    The flight was called. She tossed the letter into a trash can and walked to the gate.
    41
    WASHINGTON
    "What should I call you?"
    "I use many names, but I was called Jean-Paul Delaroche for the longest, and so I think of myself as him."
    "So I'm to call you Delaroche?"
    "If you wish," Delaroche said, and pulled his lips down into a frown that was very French.
    Despite the late hour, there still was a good deal of traffic on the Capital Beltway, the remnants of Washington's eternal evening rush. Michael turned onto Interstate 95 and headed north toward Baltimore. The car was a rented Ford, which Michael had collected from National Airport after fleeing Key Bridge in a taxi-cab. At first the driver had refused to open the door to a pair of men in suits who looked as though someone had just beaten the daylights out of them. Then Delaroche flashed a stack of twenties, and the driver said that if they wanted to go to the moon, he would get them there by morning.
    The Marching Season 371
    Delaroche was seated in the front passenger seat, foot propped on the dash. He was rubbing his ankle and scowling at it, as if it had betrayed him. He carelessly lit yet another cigarette. If he was anxious or afraid, he showed no signs of it. He cracked the window to release the cloud of smoke. The inside of the car suddenly stank of wet farmland.
    For years after Sarah's murder, Michael had tried to picture her killer in his mind. He supposed he had imagined that he was bigger than he actually was. Indeed, Delaroche was rather small and compact, with the tightly wound muscles of a welterweight. Michael had heard his voice once before—at Cannon Point, the night he had tried to kill him—but listening to him speak now, Michael understood that he was not one man but many. His accent drifted about the map of Europe. Sometimes it was French, sometimes German, sometimes Dutch or Greek. He never spoke like a Russian; Michael wondered if at this point he could even speak his native language.
    "By the way, the gun was empty."
    Delaroche sighed heavily, as if he were bored by a tedious television program.
    "The standard-issue handgun for CIA officers is a high-powered Browning automatic with a fifteen-shot clip," he said. "After reloading, you fired three shots at me through the front door, four through the windshield, and eight into the back of the Saab."
    "If you knew the gun was empty, why didn't you just drop me from the bridge?"
    "Because even if I had killed you I had almost no chance of escape. I was wounded. I had no gun, no vehicle, and no communications. You were the only weapon I had left."
    "What the fuck are you talking about?"
    "I have something you want, and you have something I want.
    372 Daniel Silva
    You want to know who hired me to kill you, and I want protection from my enemies so I can live in peace."
    "What makes you think I intend to live up to that bargain?"
    "Men don't quit the CIA unless they have principles. And men don't come back to the CIA when their president asks them unless they believe in honor. Your honor is your weak point. Why did you choose this life anyway, Michael? Was it your father who drove you to it?"
    So, Michael thought. Delaroche has spent as much time analyzing me as I have him.
    "I don't think I would have made the same decision if the roles were reversed," Michael said. "I think I would have let you fall from the bridge and enjoyed the sight of your body floating down the river."
    "That's not something to boast about. You are virtuous, but you are also highly emotional, and that makes you easily manipulated. The KGB understood that when they placed Sarah