The Marching Season

coordinated press coverage of the ambassador's public events—but living in London made it all seem somehow exciting.
    He grabbed a stack of files from his desk and placed them in his leather briefcase. He removed his mackintosh from the hook behind the door and went out. He stopped in the bathroom and looked himself over in the mirror.
    Sometimes he wondered what she saw in him. He tried to arrange his hair to conceal the bald spot but only managed to make things worse. She said she liked balding men, said they looked smarter, more mature. She's too young for me, he thought, too young and far too pretty. But he couldn't help himself. For the first time in his life he was in an exciting sexual relationship. He couldn't stop now.
    Outside it was raining, and darkness had fallen on Grosvenor Square. He put up an umbrella against the rain and picked his way along the crowded pavements to the Park Lane. He stood outside the restaurant and watched her through the window for a moment. She was tall and fit, with rich black hair, an oval face, and gray eyes. Her white blouse could not conceal her large rounded breasts. She was a wonderful lover; she seemed to know his every fantasy. Each afternoon at work he stared at the clock, anticipating the moment he could see her again.
    McDaniels went inside the restaurant and sat down at a table in the bar. When she spotted him she winked and mouthed the words, "I'll be there in a minute."
    She brought him a glass of white wine a moment later. He touched her hand as she placed the glass on the table.
    "I've missed you terribly, darling."
    "I thought you'd never come," she said. "But I can't talk
    192 Daniel Silva
    long—Riccardo's having a complete psychotic episode tonight. If he sees me talking to you he'll sack me."
    "You're just being friendly to a regular customer."
    She smiled seductively and said, "Very friendly."
    "I need to see you."
    "I'm off at ten."
    "I can't wait that long."
    "I'm afraid you have no choice."
    She winked and walked away. McDaniels drank his wine and watched her as she moved from table to table, taking orders, delivering food, and interacting with the customers. She was the kind of woman that men noticed. She was too attractive and too talented to be waiting tables. He knew she would find her own place in the world eventually, and then she would leave him.
    McDaniels finished his wine, left a ten-pound note on the table, and went out. He realized it was too much money for a single glass of wine. She'll get the idea I think she's a whore, he thought. He considered going back inside and leaving less money, but he knew that would look even more peculiar. McDaniels walked away, thinking that if she ever left him he might very well kill himself.
    McDaniels took his time going home. The rain eased up, so he walked, enjoying the city and the floating sensation from the wine and spending even a few minutes with Rachel. He had never felt anything like obsession before, but he knew it must feel something like this. It was beginning to affect his work. He was drifting off in meetings, losing his train of thought in mid-sentence. People were beginning to talk, to ask questions. He didn't care, really. He had lived without the love of a woman his entire life. He was going to enjoy the sensation while it lasted.
    The Marching Season 193
    He ate supper in a pub off the Brompton Road. He read the newspapers, and for a few minutes Rachel managed not to intrude on his thoughts. But after a while she was there again, like a pleasant piece of music running round his head. He imagined her in bed, her mouth open in pleasure, her eyes closed. Then the silly fantasies took over: the wedding ceremony in an English country church, the cottage in the Cotswolds, the children. It was a ludicrous image, but he enjoyed the idea of it. He had fallen hopelessly in love, but Rachel didn't seem like the marrying kind. She wanted to write. She cherished her freedom—her intellectual freedom and her sexual freedom. The first time he mentioned marriage she would probably run as fast as she could.
    McDaniels drifted through the quiet side streets of South Kensington. He had a pleasant two-bedroom flat on the first floor of a Georgian terraced house. He let himself in and flipped through the afternoon post. He took a long shower and changed into a pair of khaki trousers and a cotton pullover.
    He used the spare bedroom as a study. He watched the Nine O'Clock News while he worked his way