The Marching Season

bloated nylon parka that he had worn the afternoon in Central Park when he had asked Michael to come back to the Agency. He was a reformed smoker, but halfway through the story he bummed one of Michael's cigarettes and devoured it.
    "She's the director of the Central Intelligence Agency," Michael said. "She controls Counterintelligence. And as for the Bureau, who the hell wants to involve them? This is our affair. The Bureau will only rub our noses in it."
    "Are you forgetting that Jack the Ripper up there is your only witness?" Carter said, nodding at the house. "You must admit he does have a bit of a credibility problem. Have you at least considered the possibility he's invented the whole thing to prevent you from arresting him?"
    "He's not making it up."
    "How can you be so sure? This whole business about a secret order called the Society sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me."
    "Someone hired that man to come kill me last year because I was getting too close to the truth of the Trans Atlantic affair. I told two people inside the Agency about my suspicions. One was you, and the other was Monica Tyler."
    "So what?"
    "Why did Monica drive me from the Agency in the first place
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    last year? Why did she remove me from the October case one week before he tried to kill Douglas? And there's something else. Delaroche said there was a meeting of the Society on Mykonos earlier this month. Monica was in Europe for a regional security conference. After the meeting she took two days of personal time and dropped out of sight."
    "Jesus Christ, Michael, I was in Europe earlier this month, too."
    "I believe it, Adrian. And so do you."
    They left the grounds of Cannon Point and walked along Shore Road on the edge of Dering Harbor.
    "If this becomes public it will be disastrous for the Agency."
    "I agree," Michael said. "It would take years to recover from a blow like this. It would destroy the Agency's reputation, in Washington and around the world, for that matter."
    "So what do you do?"
    "Present her with the evidence and shut her down before she can do any more damage. She has blood on her hands, but if we do this in public the Agency will be in ruins."
    "The only way you'll ever dislodge Monica from the Seventh Floor is with dynamite."
    "I'll walk up there with a briefcase full of the stuff if I have to."
    "Why the fuck did you involve me?"
    "Because you're the only one I trust. You were my controller, Adrian. You'll always be my controller."
    They stopped on a bridge spanning the mouth of a tidal creek at the foot of Dering Harbor. Beyond the bridge lay a broad plain of marsh grass and bare trees. A small lean man stood in front of an easel on the bridge, painting. He wore fingerless wool gloves and a threadbare fisherman's sweater several sizes too large for him.
    384 Daniel Silva
    "Lovely," Carter said, looking at the work. "You're very talented."
    "Thank you," the painter said, his English heavily accented.
    Carter turned to Michael and said, "You can't be serious."
    "Adrian Carter, I'd like you to meet Jean-Paul Delaroche. You may know him better as October."
    Tom Moore came up to the house at noon. "You wanted to see me, Mr. Osbourne?" "Come in, Tom. There's fresh coffee in the kitchen." Michael poured coffee, and they sat across from each other at the small table in the kitchen.
    "What can I do for you, Mr. Osbourne?" "There's going to be a meeting here this evening that I need to record, audio and visual," Michael began. "Can the surveillance cameras be repositioned?" "Yes, sir," Moore said flatly. "Can you record on their output?" "Yes, sir."
    Adrian Carter came into the room, followed by Delaroche. "Do we have any audio equipment on the property?" "No, sir. Your father-in-law wouldn't allow any microphones. He thought it would be an invasion of his privacy." Moore's big face broke into a pleasant smile. "He barely tolerates the cameras. Before he left for London I caught him trying to disconnect one."
    "How long would it take to get microphones and a recording deck?"
    Moore shrugged. "Couple of hours at the most."
    "Can you install them so they can't be seen?"
    "The microphones are easy because they're relatively small.
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    The cameras are the problem. They're normal security cameras, about the size of a shoe box."
    Michael swore softly.
    "I have an idea, though."
    "Yeah?"
    "The cameras have a fairly long lens on them. If you held the meeting in the living room, I could