The Marching Season

cabinet, drawer by drawer, and burned anything that suggested he ever had existed.
    "It's a shame we have to spoil such a beautiful face," Maurice Le-roux said the following day. They were seated before a large, harshly lit mirror in the Athens flat the Director had rented for Delaroche's surgery and recovery.
    Leroux gently probed Delaroche's cheekbone with the tip of his thin forefinger.
    "You're not French," he pronounced solemnly, as though he believed this might be hard news for a fellow Frenchman to take.
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    "One learns a great deal about ethnicity and ancestry in this line of work. I'd say you're a Slav of some sort, perhaps even a Russian."
    Delaroche said nothing while Leroux continued on with his lecture.
    "I can see it here, in the broad cheekbones, in the flat forehead, and in the angular jawline. And look here, look at your eyes. They're virtually almond-shaped and brilliant blue. No, no, you may have a French name, but I'm afraid there is Slavic blood coursing through your veins. Very fine Slavic blood, however."
    Delaroche looked at Leroux's reflection in the mirror. He was a weak man with large nose, a receding chin, and a ridiculous hairpiece that was far too black. Leroux was touching De-laroche's face again. He had the hands of an old woman—pale, soft, shot with thick blue veins—but they stank of a young man's cologne.
    "Sometimes it's possible to make a man more attractive through plastic surgery. I worked on a Palestinian a few years ago, a man called Muhammad Awad."
    Delaroche flinched at the mention of Awad's name. Leroux had committed the ultimate sin for a man in his line of work, revealing the identity of a previous client.
    "He's dead now, but he was quite beautiful when I'd finished with him," Leroux continued. "In your case I think the reverse is going to be true. I'm afraid we're going to be forced to make you less attractive in order to alter your appearance. Are you at peace with that prospect, monsieur?"
    Leroux was an ugly man to whom appearances mattered a great deal. Delaroche was an attractive man to whom appearances mattered very little. He knew some women found him attractive—beautiful, in some cases—but he had never cared much how he looked. He was concerned with only one thing. His
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    face had become a threat to him, and he would deal with it the way he dealt with all threats—by eliminating it.
    "Do what you have to do," Delaroche said.
    "Very well," Leroux replied. "You have a face of angles and sharp edges. Those angles will be turned into curves and the edges dulled. I intend to shave a portion of your cheekbones to make them smoother and rounder. I'll inject collagen into the tissue of your cheeks to make your face heavier. You have a very thin chin. I'll make it squarer and thicker. Your nose is a masterpiece, but I'm afraid it must go. I'll flatten it and make it wider between the eyes. As for the eyes, there's nothing I can do except change their color with contact lenses."
    "Will it work?" Delaroche asked.
    "When I'm finished, even you won't recognize your face." He hesitated. "Are you sure you want to go through with this?"
    Delaroche nodded.
    "Very well," Leroux said. "But I feel a bit like that idiot who took a hammer to the Pietd."
    He removed a pen from his pocket and began making marks on Delaroche's face.
    21
    LONDON
    Preston McDaniels was a career Foreign Service officer at-tached to the public affairs section of the American embassy in London. He was forty-five, trim, and presentable, if not conventionally attractive. He was also a lifelong bachelor who had dated few women, which had led to persistent speculation among colleagues that he was homosexual. Preston McDaniels was not a homosexual; he simply had never had a way with women. Until recently.
    It was six o'clock in the evening, and McDaniels was packing away his things and tidying up his small office. He stood in his window and looked out on Grosvenor Square. He had fought hard to get to London after years of brutal postings in places like Lagos, Mexico City, Cairo, and Islamabad. He had never been happier. He loved the theater, the museums, the shopping, the interesting places to go on weekends. He had a smart flat in South Kensington and came to work each morning by tube. His
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    job was still rather dull—he issued routine press releases, prepared daily summaries from the British press on issues of interest to the ambassador, and