The Marching Season

spaghetti carbonara and chicken Milanese.
    For their base camp, MI5 hastily procured a large furnished flat in Evelyn Gardens, a short distance from McDaniels. Michael and Wheaton, when they arrived late that night, were greeted by the stink of cigarettes and take-away curry. In the drawing room a half-dozen worried technicians fretted over their receivers and their video monitors. Bored watchers stared at a flickering television, watching a dreadful BBC documentary on the migratory patterns of gray whales. Graham Seymour sat at the piano, playing softly.
    So thoroughly was McDaniels's flat bugged that when the woman known as Rachel Archer arrived the buzzer sounded like a hotel fire alarm. "Show time," Wheaton announced, and they gathered around the video monitors—all except for Graham, who remained at the piano, playing the final notes of "Clair de Lune."
    Any lingering doubts about how Preston McDaniels would hold up were put to rest by the long kiss he gave her at the doorway. He fixed them drinks—white wine for her, a very large whisky for himself—and they sat on the couch in the drawing room, chatting in full view of one of the concealed video cameras. They began to kiss, and for an instant Michael feared she was going to make love to him on the couch, but McDaniels stopped her and led her to the bedroom. Michael thought there was something of Sarah in her and wondered whether there was something of McDaniels in him.
    "We need a code name," Wheaton said, trying to think of
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    something else, anything else, besides the sounds emanating from the monitors. "We don't have a code name."
    "My father worked on a similar operation during the war," Graham said, his fingers flickering lightly over the keyboard. "MI5 fed Double Cross material to a female German spy through an American naval officer."
    "What was the code name?"
    "I believe it was Kettledrum."
    "Kettledrum," Wheaton repeated. "Nice ring to it. Kettledrum it is."
    "How did it turn out?" Michael asked.
    Graham stopped playing and looked up.
    "We won, darling."
    It was an MI5 technician named Rodney who saw it first and awakened the rest of the team. Wheaton had claimed the only bedroom for himself. Michael slept on the couch; Graham dozed fitfully in an overstuffed wing chair like a restless passenger on a transatlantic flight. Heavy-eyed, they crowded around the bank of video monitors and watched as the woman sat down at the desk in McDaniels's study and began softly rifling the contents of his briefcase.
    "Well, ladies and gentlemen, looks like we just cracked the Ulster Freedom Brigade," Wheaton said. "Congratulations, Michael. You're buying dinner tonight."
    Preston McDaniels lay awake in bed, his back to the door. He had tried to sleep but couldn't, so he just remained very still, until he heard her slip from the bed and leave the room. He imagined her in his study, picking through his papers. He was overcome by
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    wave after wave of conflicting emotions. He was embarrassed that he had been so easily taken in, humiliated that Wheaton and Michael Osbourne had made him a pawn in their game. More than anything else, he felt betrayed.
    For a few moments, while she was making love to him, McDaniels imagined that she really did have feelings for him regardless of her motives. He would cut a deal, he thought. He would arrange things so they could be together when it was all over.
    He heard the door open. He closed his eyes. He felt her body settle next to his. He wanted to roll over and take her in his arms, pull her body down on his, feel her legs around him. But he just lay there, pretending to sleep, wondering what he would do without her when it was all over.
    25
    LONDON
    "It's called Hartley Hall," Graham Seymour said, late that morning in Wheaton's office. "It's located here, along the north Norfolk Coast." He tapped at the large Ordnance Survey map with the tip of his pen. "It has several hundred acres of grounds for walking and riding, and of course the beach is nearby. In short, it's the perfect sort of place for an American ambassador to spend a quiet weekend in the country."
    "Who owns it?" Michael asked.
    "A friend of the Intelligence Service."
    "A close friend?"
    "Did his bit during the war and a few odd jobs during the fifties and sixties, but nothing heavy."
    "Anything public that could link him to British Intelligence?"
    "Absolutely not," Graham said. "The Ulster Freedom Brigade would have no way of