The Marching Season

want to run this tape through those computers and see if there's anything there."
    Elizabeth stood up and switched off the television. "So what if that's him. So what if he's still alive and killing people again. What difference does it make to us?"
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    "I just want to know."
    "He can't hurt us. You and your friends at the Agency turned this place into a fortress. And don't pretend that driver you hired for me in New York isn't CIA."
    "He's not from the Agency," Michael said. "He used to do some work for us from time to time."
    "Does he carry a gun?"
    "What difference does it make?"
    "Answer me. Does he carry a gun?"
    "Yes. He carries a gun because I asked him to carry a gun."
    "Jesus Christ," Elizabeth said, and turned off the light.
    She climbed into bed and pulled the comforter beneath her chin. Michael lay next to her.
    "It's over, Michael. It's done."
    "It's not over as long as I know he's alive."
    "I almost lost you. I held you in my arms and prayed for you not to die after he shot you. I watched your blood running out of you. I don't want to go through that again."
    Michael kissed her mouth, but her lips did not respond. He rolled over and closed his eyes. A match flared, and a moment later he smelled the smoke of Elizabeth's cigarette.
    "It's her, isn't it. It's Sarah Randolph. It's been more than ten years, and you're still obsessed with her."
    "No, I'm not."
    "You're obsessed with avenging her death."
    "This has nothing to do with Sarah. It has to do with us. He tried to kill us too."
    "You're a lousy liar, Michael." She crushed out her cigarette in an ashtray on the bedside table and exhaled the last smoke sharply between her lips. "How you ever managed to function as a spy is beyond me."
    110 Daniel Silva
    The bedroom windows faced north and west, over Shelter Island Sound and Dering Harbor, so it was nearly eight o'clock the following morning when they woke with the weak winter dawn.
    The children already were awake, and one of them—Michael was not certain which one—was crying. Elizabeth sat up, tore away her bedding, and swung her feet to the floor. She had slept poorly, troubled by nightmares, and her eyes were puffy and dark. She walked out of the room without speaking and went downstairs.
    He lay in bed for several minutes, listening to her coo at the children. After a moment he rose and went into the small sitting room off the bedroom. Douglas had left a vacuum thermos of coffee on the table with a folded copy of The New York Times. It was a weekend tradition at Cannon Point; Douglas always rose first and made coffee for everyone else in the house.
    Michael poured coffee and opened the newspaper. The West Bank had exploded in violence over the assassination of Ahmed Hussein. The Israeli government was threatening to send troops into Palestinian-controlled areas. The peace process was in critical condition. In Northern Ireland, a Protestant leader had been assassinated in Belfast. The Ulster Freedom Brigade had claimed responsibility.
    A half hour later Michael found himself trudging along a frozen path through the Mashomack nature preserve. Douglas led the way along a narrow footpath threaded through bare trees. He was a tall broad man, poorly designed for hiking, yet he nimbly negotiated the slippery trail.
    The previous night's rain had moved out to sea. A white sun
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    shone in a sky streaked with cirrus clouds. It was intensely cold, and after a few minutes Michael felt as though his lungs were filled with shattered glass. Winter had drained all color from the landscape. They came upon half a dozen white-tailed deer, standing on their hind legs, stripping bark from the trees.
    "Isn't that fantastic," Douglas said. He grew annoyed when Michael didn't concur. Michael found little beauty in nature; a secluded piazza in Venice gave him more pleasure than a Long Island bay. Woods and water bored him. People intrigued him because he mistrusted them, and he could outwit them if they threatened him.
    Michael told his father-in-law about the Ulster Freedom Brigade as they walked the stony shore of Smith Cove. Douglas Cannon allowed Michael to speak uninterrupted for fifteen minutes; then he peppered him with questions for ten more.
    "I want a straight answer from you, Michael. Will I be in any physical danger if I accept this job?"
    "The Ulster Freedom Brigade has shown its intentions very clearly. They want to punish every party to the peace accords. One