The Marching Season

Ulster's never been a high priority at Langley."
    "The President considers the peace agreement in Northern Ireland one of the crowning foreign policy achievements of his presidency," Monica said. "But he also understands, as we do, that the agreement could unravel in a heartbeat. What he needs from the Agency is information and assessment. He needs to know when to step in and lean on the parties and when to sit back and do nothing. He needs to know when a public statement might be helpful and when it would be better to keep his mouth shut."
    "What do you want from me?"
    "It's what James Beckwith wants—not what I want. And what the President wants is for you to lead the task force."
    "Why me?"
    "Because you're an experienced counterterrorism officer, and you have some experience with the terrain. You also know how Headquarters works and how to negotiate the bureaucracy. You have a powerful ally in Adrian"—she hesitated a moment—"and in me. There's one other thing. Your father-in-law is going to be the next ambassador to the Court of St. James's."
    "I live in New York now," Michael said. "Elizabeth left the firm in Washington and she's practicing law in Manhattan."
    "You can work from New York Station a couple of days a week and take the shuttle to Washington the rest of the time. The Agency will pay for your travel for the duration of the special task force. After that, we'll have to discuss other arrangements."
    Monica picked up her fork and impaled a few leaves of lettuce.
    "And then, of course, there's the issue of October," she said. "Adrian has been working that front."
    The Marching Season 127
    Carter pushed away his empty plate and wiped his mouth. "The assassin of Ahmed Hussein in Cairo didn't smell right to us from the beginning. We suspected the Israelis were involved, but they denied it publicly, and they denied it privately to us. So we started calling on contacts, knocking on doors. You know the drill." Carter spoke as though he were describing the events of a very dull weekend at home. "We have a source inside the Mossad. He told us Ari Shamron, the Mossad chief, ordered the killing and personally oversaw the operation to make certain there were no fuckups."
    Monica Tyler looked up sharply from her salad. She detested coarse language and had outlawed cursing in all senior staff meetings. She dabbed at her lips with the corner of her napkin.
    "The source said Shamron went outside the Mossad for the shooter," Carter said. "A high-priced assassin, a contract killer. He said Shamron paid for the job with funds raised from private sources."
    "Did he have a description of the assassin?"
    "No."
    "Geographic location?"
    "Europe or the Middle East. Maybe the Mediterranean."
    "I've seen a videotape of the assassination."
    "I beg your pardon?" Adrian asked.
    Michael told Adrian of his meeting with Yousef Hafez.
    "You think the gunman was October?" Carter asked.
    "I've seen him move, and I've seen him use a gun," Michael said. "It could very well be the same man, but it's difficult to say. I may be able to prove it, though."
    "How?"
    "I shot him through his hand that night on Shelter Island," Michael said. "His right hand. His gun hand. During the assassination of Ahmed Hussein the gunman wasn't wearing gloves. If I can spot a scar on the hand, I'll know it's October."
    128 Daniel Silva
    "Where's the tape?" Carter said.
    "I have it."
    The waiter knocked, entered the room, and cleared away the remains of the first course.
    When he was gone again, Monica said, "If you return to the Agency, I'm prepared to expand your portfolio. You will be the head of the Northern Ireland task force, and you will also be given the assignment of tracking and arresting October, if he truly is alive. Now, do we have a deal, Michael?"
    "I need to speak to Elizabeth first," he said. "I'll give you an answer in the morning."
    "You're a case officer who's been trained to persuade men to betray their country," Monica said, smiling pleasantly. "I'm sure you'll have no trouble convincing your wife that this is the right decision."
    Adrian Carter laughed and said, "You don't know Elizabeth."
    After dinner Michael wanted to walk. The apartment was directly across Central Park, on Fifth Avenue, but even Michael, a former CIA field officer trained in the martial arts, knew it was best to avoid the park at night. He went south on Central Park West, rounded Columbus Circle, and walked past the stinking horse-drawn carriages along Central Park