The Marching Season

my well-appointed love nest on Zamalek." He nodded toward the river. Zamalek was a long, slender island, removed from the madness of central Cairo, filled with expensive shops and restaurants and fashionable apartment houses. If Hafez was keeping a mistress on Zamalek—a television actress, no less—he had blackmailed his new case officer into a significant increase in salary. "Ah, there she is now."
    Michael turned discreetly toward the door of the restaurant. A woman who looked remarkably like Sophia Loren walked through the door on the arm of a young man with oiled hair and sunglasses.
    They ordered dinner. Hafez sent a bottle of expensive French champagne to Sophia Loren's table. Michael was paying; he always paid. "You don't mind, do you, Michael?" Hafez asked.
    "Of course not."
    "So, what brings you to Cairo, besides a chance to have dinner with a debauched old friend?"
    "The murder of Ahmed Hussein."
    Hafez tilted his head slightly, as if to say, These things happen.
    Michael said, "Were the Egyptian security services involved in his murder?"
    "Absolutely not," Hafez said. "We don't engage in such behavior."
    Michael rolled his eyes and said, "Do you know who was behind the assassination?"
    "The Israelis, of course."
    "How can you be so sure?"
    100 Daniel Silva
    "Because we were watching the Israelis watching Hussein."
    "Back up," Michael said. "Start at the beginning."
    "Two weeks ago an Israeli team arrived in Cairo on various European passports and set up a static observation post in a flat in Ma'adi. We set up a static post in the flat across the street."
    "How do you know they were Israelis?"
    "Please, Michael, give us a little credit. Oh, they could pass as Egyptians, but they were definitely Israelis. They used to be good, the Mossad. But now they sometimes act like a bunch of bumbling amateurs. In the old days they could attract the best—every spy a prince, and all that bullshit. Now, the bright boys want to make money and talk on their mobile phones in Ben Yehuda Street. Let me tell you, Michael, if Moses had these people spying for him, the Jews would never have made it out of Sinai."
    "You've made your point, Yousef. Go on."
    "They were clearly watching Hussein—monitoring his movements, photographic surveillance, audio coverage, the usual. We took the opportunity to engage in a little countersurveillance. As a result we have a nice photo album of six Mossad agents: four men, two women. Interested?"
    "Talk to your real case officer."
    "I also have a videotape of Hussein's death."
    "What?"
    "You heard me," Hafez said. "Every time he set foot outside his flat, we rolled the video cameras. We were rolling when the gunman on the motorcycle killed him on the steps of the mosque."
    "Jesus Christ."
    "I have a copy of the tape in my briefcase."
    "I want to see it."
    "You can have the fucking thing, Michael. No charge."
    "I want to see it now."
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    "Please, Michael," Hafez said. "The tape's not going to disappear. Besides, I'm famished, and the veal here is excellent."
    Forty-five minutes later, they entered the Egyptian television building: Michael, Hafez, and Cassandra. She escorted them to the newsroom and showed them into a small edit room. Hafez dug the videocassette from his briefcase and loaded it into a playback deck. Cassandra stepped out and closed the door, leaving behind the scent of sandalwood oil. Hafez smoked until the edit room felt like a gas chamber and Michael begged him to stop. Michael watched the tape three times at normal speed and three more in slow motion. He pushed the eject button and clutched the tape in his hand.
    Hafez said, "He's damned good with a gun, that fellow. Not many people in the world could make that shot and get away."
    "He's extremely good with a gun."
    "Do you know who he is?"
    "Unfortunately, I think I do."
    11
    BELFAST
    The Ulster Unionist Party is headquartered in a four-story building at No. 3 Glengall Street, near the Europa Hotel and the Grand Opera House. Because of its location—on the western edge of the city center near the Falls Road—the UUP headquarters was a frequent target of IRA attacks throughout the Troubles. But the IRA was abiding by the cease-fire for now, and so the man in the silver Vauxhall sedan felt little apprehension as he headed toward Glengall Street through the early morning rain. Ian Morris was one of four vice presidents of the Ulster Unionist Council, the party's central committee. He had Ulster