The Marching Season

learned during his meeting with Graham Seymour without divulging the source. Typically, Carter didn't indicate whether any of the information was news to him. He was like that, even with Michael. The office wits in the CTC used to say that Carter would rather face torture than volunteer where he had eaten lunch.
    "And what brings you to New York?" Michael asked.
    "Some business at New York Station." Carter stopped speaking as a pair of joggers—a young woman and an older man— pounded past. "A little housekeeping that needed to be done in person. And I wanted to see you."
    "Why?"
    "Jesus Christ, Michael, we've known each other twenty
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    years," Carter said, with the amiable irritation that in him passed for anger. "I didn't think there was anything wrong with dropping by for a chat while I was in town."
    "So why are we walking in the park in twenty-degree weather?"
    "I have an aversion to closed, unswept rooms."
    They reached the clock in the old pumping station at the southern end of the reservoir. A group of tourists speaking German with Viennese accents were posing for pictures. Michael and Carter turned refiexively, like a pair of synchronized swimmers, and crossed a wooden footbridge. A moment later they were walking along the Park Drive, behind the Metropolitan Museum.
    "That was awfully nice of the Senate to send Douglas off to London with a unanimous confirmation vote," Carter said.
    "He was surprised. He thought that at least one of his old Republican adversaries would want to spoil the party."
    Carter put his gloved hands to his mouth and exhaled heavily to warm his face, which had gone crimson with the cold. Carter was a habitual golfer, and winters depressed him.
    "But you didn't come here to discuss Douglas, did you, Adrian?"
    Carter removed his hand from his face and said, "Actually, I was wondering when you were going to come back to work. I need you in the CTC."
    "Why do you need me all of a sudden?"
    "Because you're one of those rare birds who can move effortlessly between Headquarters and the field. For very selfish reasons I want you back on my team."
    "Sorry, Adrian, but I'm out, and I intend to stay out. Life's good."

"You're bored out of your mind. And if you tell me otherwise, you're a liar."
    122 Daniel Silva
    Michael stopped and turned to face Carter, anger on his face. "How dare you fucking come here and—"
    "All right," Carter said. "Perhaps my choice of words was inappropriate, but what the hell have you been doing with yourself all these months?"
    "I've been taking care of my family, spending time with my children, and trying to act like a normal human being for the first time in my adult life."
    "Any job prospects?"
    "Not really."
    "Do you ever intend to go back to work?"
    "I'm not sure," Michael said. "I have no real job experience, because the company I worked for was a CIA front. And I'm barred from telling a potential employer what I really did for a living."
    "Why not come home?"
    "Because it didn't feel much like home the last time I visited."
    "Let's put that all behind us and start over again."
    "Did you learn that line in one of those employee management seminars at Personnel?"
    Carter stopped walking. "The director is coming to New York tonight. Your presence has been requested at dinner."
    "I have plans."
    "Michael, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency would like to have dinner with you. Surely you can put aside your arrogance and make a little time in your busy schedule."
    "I'm sorry, Adrian, but you're wasting your time, and so is the director. I'm just not interested. It was good seeing you, though. Give my love to Christine and the children."
    Michael turned and started walking.
    "If you want out so badly, why did you go to Cairo?" Carter
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    said. "You went to Cairo because you think October is still alive. And frankly, so do I."
    Michael turned around.
    Carter said, "I guess I finally got your attention."
    Monica Tyler had reserved a private room at Picholine on West Sixty-fourth Street near the park. When Michael entered the restaurant, Carter was sitting alone at the end of the bar, nursing a glass of white wine. He wore a double-breasted blue suit, while Michael wore jeans and a black blazer. They greeted each other without speaking and without shaking hands. Michael gave his overcoat to the coatroom girl, and the two men followed the glossy hostess through the restaurant.
    The private dining room in