The Marching Season

from surveillance cameras. Still, he was aware of the fact that the CIA knew of his ex-
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    istence and had compiled a rather extensive dossier on his killings over the years.
    "What kind of security issue?" Delaroche asked.
    "The CIA has issued an alert to Interpol and all friendly intelligence services. You've been placed on an international watch list. Every passport control officer and border policeman in Europe has one of these."
    The Director withdrew a folded piece of paper from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to Delaroche. Delaroche unfolded the paper and found himself staring at a composite sketch of his own face. It was remarkably lifelike; obviously it had been produced by a sophisticated computer.
    "I thought they believed I was dead."
    "So did I, but obviously they now assume you are very much alive." The Director paused to light a cigarette. "You didn't shoot Ahmed Hussein in the face, did you?"
    Delaroche shook his head slowly and tapped his forefinger against his chest. Delaroche had but one professional vanity— over the years he had killed most of his victims with three gunshots to the face. He supposed he had done it because he had wanted his enemies to know he existed. Delaroche had only two things in his life, his art and his trade. He left his paintings unsigned for reasons of security, and those he sold were sold anonymously. He had chosen to leave a signature on his killings.
    "Who's behind this?" Delaroche said.
    "Your old friend, Michael Osbourne."
    "Osbourne? I thought he retired."
    "He was brought out of retirement recently to lead a special CIA task force on Northern Ireland. It seems Osbourne has some expertise in that area as well."
    Delaroche handed the composite back to the Director. "What do you have in mind?"
    186 Daniel Silva
    "It seems to me we have two options. If we do nothing, I'm afraid your ability to work has been seriously diminished. If you cannot travel, you cannot work. And if your face is known to policemen around the world, you cannot travel."
    "Option number two?"
    "We give you a new face and a new place to live."
    Delaroche looked out at the sea. He knew he had no choice but to endure plastic surgery and change his appearance. If he could not work, the Director would terminate their relationship. He would lose the protection of the Society and lose the ability to earn a living. He would have to spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, wondering which day his enemies would come for him. Delaroche, more than anything, wanted security, and that meant accepting the Director's offer.
    "You have someone who can do the work?"
    "A Frenchman named Maurice Leroux."
    "Is he trustworthy?"
    "Absolutely," the Director said. "You can't leave Greece until the surgery is done. Therefore, Leroux will have to come here. I'll rent a flat in Athens where he can do the work. You can recuperate there until the scars have healed."
    "What about the villa?"
    "I'll keep it for the time being. I need a venue for the spring meeting of the executive council. This will do nicely."
    Delaroche looked around him. The isolated house on the north side of Mykonos had given him everything he needed: privacy, security, excellent subjects for his work, challenging terrain for his cycling. He did not want to leave it—just as he had not wanted to leave his last home, on the Breton coast, in France— but there was no choice.
    "We'll need to find you a new place to live," the Director said. "Do you have a preference?"
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    Delaroche thought for a moment. "Amsterdam."
    "Do you speak Dutch?"
    "Not much, but it won't take long."
    "Very well," the Director said. "Amsterdam it is."
    Stavros the real estate agent arranged for a caretaker. Delaroche told him he would be away for a long time but that a friend might use the villa from time to time. Stavros offered to take Delaroche to the taverna for a farewell meal; Delaroche politely declined.
    He spent his last day on Mykonos painting: the square in Ano Mera, the terrace of his villa, the rocks at Linos. He worked from first light until dusk, until his right hand, the hand that had been wounded, began to ache.
    He sat on the terrace and drank wine until the setting sun painted his whitewashed villa a shade of raw sienna that Delaroche could never hope to duplicate on canvas.
    He went inside and set several logs ablaze in the fireplace. Then, he went through the villa, room by room, cabinet by