The Marching Season

Randolph in your path, and when they ordered me to kill her in front of your eyes."
    "Fuck you!" Michael said. He was tempted to stop the car and beat the hell out of Delaroche. Then he remembered the fight on the bridge and how easily Delaroche had nearly killed him with his bare hands.
    "Michael, please slow down before you kill us both. Where are we going, by the way?"
    "What happened to your face?" Michael said, ignoring De-laroche's question.
    "You issued an Interpol alert, along with a computer composite of my face, so I had plastic surgery."
    "How did you learn about the alert?"
    "One thing at a time, Michael."
    "Was the plastic surgeon a man named Maurice Leroux?"
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    "Yes," Delaroche said. "How did you know?"
    "Because British Intelligence was aware of the fact that Le-roux did work from time to time for people like you. Did you kill him?"
    Delaroche said nothing.
    "He didn't do you any favors," Michael said. "You look hideous."
    "I realize that," Delaroche said coldly, "and I blame you."
    "You're a murderer. I don't feel sorry for you because you had a bad experience with a plastic surgeon."
    "I'm not a murderer, I'm an assassin. There's a difference. I used to kill people for my country, but now my country no longer exists, so I kill for money."
    "That makes you a murderer in my book."
    "Are you telling me that such men don't work for your organization? You have your assassins too, Michael. So, please—don't try to claim the moral high ground."
    "Who hired you to kill Douglas Cannon?"
    "Where are you taking me?"
    "Somewhere safe."
    "You're not taking me to a CIA safe house, I hope?"
    "Who hired you to kill Douglas Cannon?"
    Delaroche looked out the window for a while and then drew a deep breath, as if he were about to dive beneath the surface and remain there for a long time.
    "Perhaps I should start from the beginning," Delaroche said finally. He turned from the window and looked at Michael. "Be patient and I'll tell you everything you want to know."
    Delaroche spoke as if he were reciting the story of someone else's life instead of his own. When he struggled with English, he would
    374 Daniel Silva
    switch to one of the other languages he and Michael had in common: Spanish or Italian or Arabic. Not two hours before, he had coldly murdered two DSS agents, yet as far as Michael could tell he suffered no aftereffects from the act of killing. Michael had killed only once—a Sword of Gaza terrorist at Heathrow Airport—and he had been haunted by nightmares for weeks.
    He told Michael about the man he knew only as Vladimir. They had lived in a large KGB flat in Moscow and had a pleasant dacha not far from the city for weekends and holidays. Delaroche was known then by his Christian name, which was Nicolai, and his patronymic, which was Mikhailovich. He was allowed no contact with other children. He did not attend normal state schools, he did not belong to any sports clubs or Party youth organizations. He was never permitted to leave the flat or the dacha without Vladimir at his side. Sometimes, when Vladimir was ill or too tired, he would send an unsmiling goon named Boris to accompany the child.
    Eventually, Vladimir began to teach him languages. To have another language is to have another soul, Vladimir would say. And for the life that you are about to lead, Nicolai Mikhailovich, you will need many souls indeed. Delaroche wrinkled his face like an old man and hunched his shoulders. Michael, watching him, marveled at his ability to transform himself into someone else. When he spoke in the voice of Vladimir, he sounded like a Russian for the first time.
    Sometimes a tall dour man with Western suits and Western cigarettes would visit, Delaroche continued. He would study the young boy as a sculptor might study a work in progress. Many years later Delaroche would learn the identity of the tall man. He was Mikhail Voronstov, the head of the First Chief Directorate of the KGB—his father.
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    In August 1968, at the age of sixteen, he was sent to the West. He crossed into Austria from Czechoslovakia, posing as the child of Czech dissidents fleeing the Russians. He stayed in Austria for a time, then moved on to Paris, where he lived as a homeless street urchin until the Church took him in.
    It was in Paris that he discovered he could paint. Vladimir had never permitted him to pursue anything but languages and tradecraft. There isn't time for frivolous pursuits, Nicolai