The Marching Season

is our business, I'm afraid," Michael said. "Now, please answer the question, Mr. McDaniels. Has Rachel Archer ever been to your flat?"
    "Yes."
    "How many times?"
    "Several times."
    "How many times?"
    "I don't know—eight times, ten, perhaps."
    "Do you ever bring a copy of the ambassador's schedule home with you?"
    "Yes, I do," McDaniels said. "But I'm very careful. It's never out of my possession."
    "Has Rachel Archer ever been in your flat when you've brought home a copy of the ambassador's schedule?"
    "Yes, she has."
    "Have you ever shown her the schedule?"
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    "No. I've already told you that I've never done that."
    "Is Rachel Archer in her early thirties, with black hair, fair
    skin, and gray eyes?"
    Preston McDaniels turned ashen. "My God," he said. "What
    have I done?"
    When the evening began it was Michael's idea. Wheaton at first went on the record in opposition, but by the end of that long night—after the teleconferences with Langley, after the tense meetings with the mandarins of MI5 and MI6, after the terse exchanges with Downing Street and the White House—Wheaton had claimed the idea as his own.
    There were two issues to be resolved. Should they do it? And if they did, who would run the show? The first question was answered rather quickly. The second question was more difficult because it involved turf, and in the world of intelligence, turf is protected at all costs, oftentimes better than secrets. It was an American security issue dealing with the American ambassador. But Northern Ireland was a British matter, and the operation would take place on British soil. After an hour of strained negotiation, the two sides reached an agreement. The British would provide the street talent—the watchers and the technical surveillance artists—and when the time came they would provide the muscle. The Americans would run Preston McDaniels and provide the material for his briefcase—after close consultation with the British, of course.
    The fight within the Agency was just as bitter. The Counter-terrorism Center had broken the case, and Adrian Carter wanted Michael to run the American end of things. Wheaton dug in his heels. In an acid cable to Headquarters he argued it was a London operation, requiring close cooperation from the host ser-
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    vices, and London Station should take over the case from the CTC. Monica Tyler retreated to her office in the rarefied atmosphere of the Seventh Floor to contemplate her decision. Wheaton rallied old friends and old enemies to his cause. In the end she chose Wheaton, arguing that Michael had just returned to the Agency from a long absence and couldn't be expected to be operationally sharp. It would be Wheaton's show with Michael remaining in London in a supporting role.
    Preston McDaniels went operational that night. From Wheaton's desk in the CIA station he telephoned Ristorante Riccardo Lane and asked to speak to Rachel Archer. An Italian-accented voice informed McDaniels she was busy—"It's the dinner rush now, you know"—but McDaniels said it was urgent, and a moment later she came on the line. The conversation lasted precisely thirty-two seconds; Michael and Wheaton timed it to make certain and listened to it a dozen times, searching for God knows what. McDaniels said he couldn't stop by for a drink because he was working late. The woman expressed mild disappointment over the sound of crashing dishes and Riccardo Ferrari screaming obscenities in Italian. McDaniels asked if he could see her later. The woman said she would stop by after work and rang off.
    The recording was beamed by satellite to Langley and sent the old-fashioned way—by motorcycle courier—to MI 5 and MI6. A linguist on the staff of MI5 concluded her English accent was a fake. The woman was almost certainly from Northern Ireland, he argued. Probably from outside Belfast.
    Wheaton wasn't sure he trusted McDaniels. He insisted on full coverage, audio and visual, of every move he made. MI5 descended on his South Kensington flat and placed cameras and microphones in every room. Only the bedroom was exempted; Michael thought audio coverage would suffice, and Wheaton
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    reluctantly agreed. A pair of MI5 watchers, an older man and a pretty girl, was dispatched to Ristorante Riccardo. By chance their quarry waited on them. She recommended the veal special and they pronounced it divine. The second team, for the sake of operational security, ordered