The Marching Season

front of his monitors in the guest cottage, about to get the shock of his life. Adrian Carter, pacing behind him, chainsmoking Michael's cigarettes, wishing he were anywhere else.
    Michael heard the thump of the helicopter long before he could see it. For an instant he thought there might be two, or three, or even four. Instinctively, he reached for the Colt automatic that Tom Moore had given him, but after a moment he saw the lights of a single helicopter approaching over Nassau Point and Great Hog Neck, and he realized it was only the night wind playing tricks on his ears.
    He thought of the morning, two months earlier, when the helicopter bearing President James Beckwith had made the same journey to Shelter Island, setting off the chain of events that had led him to this place.
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    The images played out in his mind as the helicopter drew nearer.
    Adrian Carter on the levee of the reservoir in Central Park, seducing Michael into coming back.
    Kevin Maguire strapped to a chair, and Seamus Devlin smiling over him. / didn't kill Kevin Maguire, Michael. You killed him.
    Preston McDaniels being crushed beneath the wheels of the Misery Line train.
    Delaroche, smiling over the rail of Key Bridge. Do you know the story of the frog and the scorpion crossing the Nile?
    Sometimes intelligence work is like that, his father used to say—like chaos theory. A breath of wind disturbs the surface of a pond, moving a reed of grass, which sends a dragonfly to flight, which startles a frog, and so on and so on, until, ten thousand miles away and many weeks later, a typhoon destroys an island in the Philippines.
    The helicopter swept low over Southold Bay. Michael looked at his father's wristwatch: one minute past ten. The helicopter descended over Shelter Island Sound and Dering Harbor, then set down on the broad lawn of Cannon Point. The engines shut down, and the rotor gradually stopped twisting. The door opened, and a small staircase unfolded to the ground. Monica climbed out, a black bag over her shoulder, and marched resolutely toward the house.
    "Let's get this nonsense over with," she said, brushing past Michael. "I'm a very busy woman."
    Monica Tyler was not a pacer, but she was pacing now. She toured Douglas Cannon's living room like a politician inspecting a trailer park after a tornado—calm, stoic, empathetic, but careful not to step in anything foul. She paused from time to time,
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    now frowning at the floral slipcover on the couch, now grimacing at the rustic throw rug in front of the fire.
    "You have cameras somewhere, don't you, Michael," she said, making a statement rather than asking a question. "And microphones." She continued her restless journey around the room. "You don't mind if I close these curtains, do you, Michael? You see, I've been through that little course at the farm too. I may not be an experienced field man like you, but I know a little something about the clandestine arts." She made a vast show of closing the curtains. "There," she said. "That's much better."
    She sat down, a reluctant, arrogant witness taking her place in the dock. The log fire began to spit. She crossed one leg over the other, resting her long hands on the faded denim of her jeans, and settled a frozen gaze on Michael. The prosaic surroundings had stolen her physical intimidation. There was no gold pen to wield like a stiletto, no glossy secretary to interrupt a meeting that had unexpectedly turned unpleasant, no Tweedledum and Tweedledee, watchful as Dobermans, clutching their leather folders and secure cell phones.
    Delaroche entered the room. He was smoking a cigarette. Monica glared at him with disdain, for tobacco, like personal disloyalty, was among her many pet peeves.
    "This man is called Jean-Paul Delaroche," Michael said. "Do you know who he is?"
    "I suspect he is a former KGB assassin code-named October who now works as an international contract killer."
    "Do you know why he's here?"
    "Probably because he nearly killed your father-in-law last night in Georgetown, despite our best efforts to stop him."
    "What game are you playing, Monica?" Michael asked sharply.
    "I was about to ask you the same question."
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    "I know everything," he said, calmer now.
    "Believe me, Michael, you don't know everything. In fact, you know next to nothing. You see, your little escapade has severely jeopardized one of the most important operations currently being conducted by the Central