The Marching Season

tracked the secret flow of money through the world's most discreet and dirty banks. There was Stephen, alias Eurotrash, who monitored the moribund leftist terror groups of Western Europe. There was Blaze, a giant from New Mexico who spoke ten different Indian dialects and Spanish with dozens of regional accents. His targets were the guerrilla movements and terrorist groups of Latin America. As usual he was dressed like a Peruvian peasant, in a loose-fitting shirt and leather sandals. He considered himself a modern samurai, a true warrior-poet; he had once tried to teach Michael how to kill with an American Express card. Michael unconsciously braced himself as he put out his hand to Blaze and watched it disappear inside his enormous paw.
    Carter came out of his office, a putter in one hand and a batch of files in the other.
    "Where do I sit?" Michael said.
    "Corner of Osama bin Laden and Carlos the Jackal."
    "What the hell are you talking about?"
    "This place is so big now we had to create addresses for the staff to find each other." Carter pointed to small blue signs attached to the tops of the cubicles. "We had a little fun with the street names."
    He led Michael down Abu Nidal Boulevard, a long pathway between the cubicles, and turned right on Osama bin Laden Street. He stopped when he reached a windowless cubicle at Carlos the Jackal Avenue. The desk was stacked with old files, and someone had pinched his computer monitor.
    138 Daniel Silva
    "You're supposed to get a new one by the end of the day," Carter said.
    "That means next month if we're lucky."
    "I'll get someone to clean up those files. You need to get to work. Cynthia will get you started."
    Cynthia was Cynthia Martin, a blond angel of British birth and the Center's lead officer on Northern Irish terrorism. She had studied social movements at the London School of Economics and taught briefly at Georgetown before joining the Agency. She had forgotten more about the IRA than Michael would ever know. Northern Ireland was her turf; if anyone should be heading the task force, it was Cynthia Martin.
    She looked at Michael's chaotic desk and frowned.
    "Why don't we do this at my place."
    She led Michael into her cubicle and sat down.
    "Listen, Michael, I'm not going to pretend that I'm not pissed about this." Cynthia was known for her bluntness and sharp tongue. Michael was surprised she had waited until they were in her cubicle to let him have it. "I should have been given the Irish task force, not someone who hasn't set foot in the Center in a year."
    "Nice to see you again too, Cynthia."
    "This place is still a boys' club, despite the fact the director's a woman. And even though I have an American passport, the Seventh Floor still thinks of me as that British bitch."
    "Are you finished?"
    "Yes, I'm finished. I just had to get that off my chest." She smiled and said, "How the hell are you anyway?"
    "I'm fine."
    'And your wounds?"
    "All healed."
    "Do you blame me for being upset?"
    "Of course not. You have a right to be angry." Michael paused,
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    then said, "Adrian has given me the authority to organize the task force any way I see fit. I need a strong deputy."
    "Are you offering me the job?"
    Michael nodded.
    "Then I suppose I accept."
    He put out his hand, and Cynthia took it.
    "Welcome aboard, Cynthia."
    "Thank you, Michael. Right, we have a lot of ground to cover, so let's get started."
    Four hours later Adrian Carter poked his head inside Cynthia's cubicle. "I have something you need to see."
    Michael followed Carter into his office. Carter closed the door and handed Michael a large manila envelope.
    "What's this?"
    "Office of Technical Services has been working on that video of Ahmed Hussein's assassination," Carter said. "They've used a computer to enhance the image."
    Michael opened the envelope and pulled out a large photograph of a hand holding a gun. On the back of the hand, between the wrist and the first knuckles, was a puckered scar.
    "It's him, Adrian. Goddammit, it's him."
    "We've alerted Interpol and friendly services around the world. OTS is using the images we have to produce a computerized full-face portrait. As you know, the images are all partially obscured. We really don't know what he looks like. OTS wants you to fill in the blanks."
    "I've never had a great look at his face," Michael said, "but I have a general idea."
    "Get your butt down to OTS and give them a hand. I want this thing in circulation as quickly as