The Marching Season

knowing that the ambassador's host was connected to the Service."
    220 Daniel Silva
    Wheaton said, "What are you thinking, Michael?"
    "That Douglas wants to spend a weekend outside London in the English countryside, a private weekend with minimal security at the house of an old friend. We put it on his schedule and feed it to the woman through McDaniels. With a bit of luck the Ulster Freedom Brigade will bite."
    "And we'll have an SAS team waiting for them," Graham said. "The scenario has one other important benefit: There will be no possibility of civilian casualties, because of the remote location."
    "Arresting people isn't really the specialty of the SAS," Wheaton said. "If we go through with this, and the Ulster Freedom Brigade takes the bait, a lot of blood is going to be spilled." He looked first at Graham, who remained silent, and then at Michael.
    "Better their blood than Douglas's," Michael said. "I recommend we do it."
    "I need to run it up the food chain," Wheaton said. "The White House and the State Department are going to need to sign off on this one. It might take a few hours."
    "What about the woman?" Michael said.
    "We followed her this morning when she left McDaniels's flat," Graham said. "She was telling McDaniels the truth. She's living in a flat in Earl's Court. Moved in a couple of weeks ago. We have a team watching the flat."
    "Where is she now?"
    "It appears she's sleeping."
    "I'm glad someone's getting some sleep around here," Wheaton said.
    He picked up his secure phone and dialed Monica Tyler's office at Langley.
    The Marching Season 221
    "This is all your idea, isn't it?" Preston McDaniels said. "You're a real sonofabitch. Anyone can see that."

They were seated on a bench overlooking the Serpentine in Hyde Park. Wind moved in the willow trees and made ripples on the surface of the lake. Clouds, heavy with coming rain, floated above them. Michael tried to spot Graham's watchers. Was it the man tossing bread crumbs to the ducks? The woman on the next bench reading Josephine Hart? Perhaps the lanky blond boy in the dark blue anorak doing tai chi on the lawn?
    Twenty minutes earlier, Michael had shown McDaniels the videotape of his lover sneaking into his study and picking through the contents of his briefcase. McDaniels had nearly become physically ill. He had demanded fresh air, so they had walked in silence, across Mayfair and along the footpaths of Hyde Park, until they had reached the lake. McDaniels was trembling; Michael could almost feel the park bench vibrating with his shaking. He remembered how he had felt when he learned Sarah Randolph had been working for the KGB. He had wanted to hate her but could not. He suspected Preston McDaniels felt precisely the same way about the woman he knew as Rachel Archer.
    "Did you get any sleep?" he asked mildly.
    "Of course not." The wind gusted, lifting his gray hair and exposing his bald spot. He self-consciously coaxed it back into place. "How could I sleep knowing that you bastards were probably listening to my every breath?"
    Michael did not want to dispel McDaniels's notion that they were watching his every move and listening to his every utterance. He lit a cigarette and offered one to McDaniels.
    222 Daniel Silva
    "Vile habit," McDaniels snorted, and waved his hand. He glared at Michael as though he were an untouchable.
    Michael didn't mind; it was good for McDaniels to feel superior for a moment, even over something so trivial.
    "How long?" he said. "How long do I have to do this?"
    "Not long," Michael said casually, as though McDaniels had asked how long it might be before the next train arrived.
    "My God, why can't I get a straight answer from you people about anything?"
    "Because there are very few straight answers in this line of work."
    "It's your line of work, not mine." McDaniels waved his hand violently. "Jesus Christ] Put that thing out, will you!"
    Michael tossed the cigarette onto the pavement.
    "Who is she?" McDaniels asked. "What is she?"
    "As far as you're concerned she's Rachel Archer, a starving playwright who's working as a waitress at Ristorante Riccardo."
    "Dammit, I want to know! I have to know! I need to know that this whole ugly business might come to some good."
    Michael could not argue with the logic of McDaniels's request. Oftentimes, agent-running is about motivation, and if Preston McDaniels was going to get through the operation, he needed encouragement.
    "We don't know her real name," Michael said. "Not yet,