The Marching Season

she served at the pleasure of the President, and if the President wanted her to remain she would.
    But the damage was already done. Winter descended on the Seventh Floor. Doors remained tightly closed. Paper stopped flowing. Paralysis was setting in. Monica was cut off, said the rumor mill. Monica was less accessible than ever. Monica was finished. Twee-dledee and Tweedledum were rarely seen; when they did appear, they moved about the halls like skittish gray wolves. Something had to be done, said the rumors. Things couldn't go on this way.
    Finally, in July, Monica summoned the staff to the auditorium and announced that she was resigning, effective September 1. She was making the announcement early so that President Beck-with—whom she admired deeply and had been honored to serve—would have ample time to choose a suitable successor. In the meantime there would be changes in the senior staff. Adrian Carter would be the new executive director. Cynthia Martin would take Carter's place as chief of the Counter-terrorism Center. And Michael Osbourne would be the new deputy director for operations.
    In the autumn, Monica dropped from sight. Her old firm wanted her back, but Monica said she needed some time to herself before returning to the grind of Wall Street. She began to travel; reports of her whereabouts regularly reached Carter and Michael on the Seventh Floor at Langley. Monica was always alone, according to watch reports. No friends, no family, no lovers, no dogs—no suspicious contacts of any kind. She had been seen in Buenos Aires. She had been spotted in Paris. She had gone on safari in South Africa. She went scuba diving in the Red Sea, much to the surprise of everyone at Headquarters, since no one there had ever unearthed the fact that she was an expert diver. In late November
    The Marching Season 409
    a surveillance artist from the CIA's Vienna Station photographed Monica seated alone in a chilly cafe in Stephansplatz.
    That same night Monica Tyler was walking back to her hotel after dinner, through a narrow pedestrian passageway in the shadow of Saint Stephan's Cathedral, when a man appeared before her. He was average in height, compact in build, and light on his feet. Something about the way he moved, the determined rhythm of his gait, set off alarm bells in her head.
    Monica glanced over her shoulder and realized she was alone. She stopped walking, turned around, and started back toward the square. The man, now behind her, only quickened his pace. Monica did not run—she realized it would be pointless—she just closed her eyes and kept walking.
    The man drew closer, but nothing happened. She stopped and spun around to challenge him. As she turned the man removed a gun from the inside of his jacket. A long, slender silencer was fitted into the end of the barrel.
    "Dear God, no," she said, but the man's arm swung up and he fired rapidly three times.
    Monica Tyler fell backward, staring up at the spires of the cathedral. She listened to the sound of her killer walking away, felt her own blood leaking from her body onto the cold cobblestones.
    Then the spires of Saint Stephan's turned to water and she died.
    In Georgetown, Elizabeth Osbourne heard the telephone ringing. Now that Michael was the deputy director, phone calls at four in the morning were not uncommon. She had an important
    410 Daniel Silva
    meeting with a client in the morning—she had transferred to the firm's Washington office when Michael was promoted—and she needed to sleep. She closed her eyes and tried not to listen to Michael murmuring in the dark.
    "Anything important?" she asked, when she heard him replace the receiver.
    "Monica Tyler was murdered tonight in Vienna."
    "Murdered? What happened?"
    "She was shot to death."
    "Who would want to kill Monica Tyler?"
    "Monica had a lot of enemies."
    "Are you going in?"
    "No," he said. "I'll deal with it in the morning."
    She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but it was no good. There was something in Michael's voice that disturbed her. Monica had a lot of enemies. Including you, Michael, she thought.
    Sometime before dawn he left their bed. Elizabeth got up and went downstairs. She found him in the living room, standing before the French doors, staring into the half-lit garden.
    "Michael," she said softly, "are you all right?"
    "I'm fine," he said, without turning around.
    "Is there something you want to talk about?"
    "No, Elizabeth," he said. "I just needed to think."
    "Michael, if