The Marching Season

opposed to it."
    "Where is he now?" Wheaton said.
    "He lives in Portadown. He went there after we stopped him."
    Douglas Cannon said, "What do we do now, gentlemen?"
    "We find the source of the leak," Wheaton said. "We determine whether the leaker is committing an act of treason or if there is something else involved. And then we plug it."
    Michael stood up and paced slowly around the small cubicle. "How many people in the embassy know the ambassador's schedule in advance?" he said finally.
    "Depends on the day, but usually at least twenty," Wheaton said.
    "And how many of those are men?"
    "Slightly more than half," Wheaton said, irritation creeping into his voice. "Why?"
    "Because of something Kevin Maguire told me before he died. He said when IRA Intelligence investigated the murder of Eamonn Dillon, they determined there had been a leak from within Sinn Fein headquarters. A young girl, a secretary, had be-
    The Marching Season 211
    friended a Protestant woman and inadvertently leaked details of Dillon's schedule to her."
    "What did the girl look like?" Graham asked.
    "Early thirties, attractive, black hair, fair skin, gray eyes."
    A smile crept over Michael's face. Graham said, "I've seen that look before. What are you thinking, Michael?"
    "That from adversity comes opportunity."
    It was five-thirty that afternoon when the phone on Preston McDaniels's desk purred softly. For an instant McDaniels considered not answering it; he was anxious to get to the restaurant so he could see Rachel. His voice mail would answer, and he could deal with it first thing in the morning. But the embassy had been buzzing with rumors all day—rumors of some sort of security problem, of staff being hauled before a panel of inquisitors on the top floor. McDaniels knew the bloodhounds of the media had a way of picking up the scent of rumors like that. Reluctantly, he reached down and snatched the receiver from its cradle.
    "McDaniels here."
    "This is David Wheaton," said the voice on the other end of the line. He did not bother identifying himself further; everyone in the embassy knew that Wheaton was the CIA's London Station chief. "I was wondering if we could have a word in private."
    "Actually, I was just leaving. Is it something that could hold till the morning?"
    "It's important. Mind coming upstairs right away?"
    Wheaton hung up without waiting for an answer. There was something about the tone in his voice that disturbed McDaniels. He'd never liked Wheaton, but he knew it wasn't wise to cross
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    him. McDaniels left his office, walked down the hall, and took the elevator upstairs.
    When he entered the room he found three men seated along one side of a long rectangular table: Wheaton, Ambassador Cannon's son-in-law, Michael Osbourne, and a bored-looking Englishman. There was one empty seat opposite them. Wheaton jabbed the tip of his gold pen at the seat without speaking, and McDaniels sat down.
    "I'm not going to beat around the bush," Wheaton said. "It appears there's a leak somewhere within the embassy concerning the ambassador's schedule. We want to find that leak."
    "What does that have to do with me?"
    "You're one of the people within the embassy who knows the ambassador's schedule in advance."
    "That's right," McDaniels snapped. "And if you're asking whether I've ever breached confidentiality, the answer is an unequivocal no."
    "Have you ever given anyone outside the embassy a copy of the ambassador's schedule?"
    "Absolutely not."
    "Have you ever discussed it with a reporter?"
    "When it's a public event, yes."
    "Have you ever given a reporter details, such as the route the ambassador might take to a meeting or the method of transportation? "
    "Of course not," McDaniels replied irritably. "Besides, most reporters wouldn't give a hoot about a detail like that."
    Michael Osbourne was flipping through a file.
    "You're not married," he said, looking up from the file.
    "No, I'm not," McDaniels said. "And why are you here?"
    "We'll ask the questions, if you don't mind," Wheaton said.
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    "Are you seeing anyone?" Michael asked.
    "I am, actually."
    "How long have you been seeing her?"
    "A couple of weeks."
    "What's her name?"
    "Her name is Rachel. Would you mind telling me what this is—
    "Rachel what?"
    "Rachel Archer."
    "Where does she live?"
    "Earl's Court."
    "Have you ever been to her flat?"
    "No."
    "Has she ever been to yours?"
    "That's none of your business."
    "If it deals with security, it