The Marching Season

window. He wondered whether Michael Osbourne, the ambassador's son-in-law, was somehow involved in the incident. The Director had told him in Mykonos that Osbourne had been brought back to the CIA to deal with Northern Ireland.
    The train drew into the Gare du Nord in Paris in the early afternoon. Delaroche collected his small grip from the luggage rack. He passed through the station quickly and caught a taxi outside. He was staying at a small hotel on the rue de Rivoli overlooking the Tuileries Gardens. He told the driver to drop him a few blocks away, on the rue Saint-Honore, and he walked the rest of the way.
    He checked into the hotel as a Dutchman and spoke accented French to the desk clerk. They gave him a garreted room on the top floor with a fine view of the gardens and the Seine bridges.
    He slipped a clip into his Beretta pistol and went out.
    Dr. Maurice Leroux, cosmetic surgeon, kept an office in a fashionable building on the avenue Victor Hugo, near the Arc de Tri-omphe. Delaroche, without giving his name, confirmed by telephone that the doctor was in that day. He told the receptionist he would be around later to see him and hung up abruptly.
    He sat at the window table of a cafe across the street and waited for Leroux to come out. Shortly before five o'clock Leroux emerged. He wore a gray cashmere overcoat, and he seemed
    270 Daniel Silva
    to be the last man in Paris to actually sport a beret. He walked quickly and appeared pleased with himself. Delaroche left money on the table and went out.
    Leroux walked to the Arc de Triomphe, then circled the Place Charles de Gaulle and strolled down the avenue des Champs-Elysees. He entered Fouquet's restaurant and was greeted by a middle-aged woman. Delaroche recognized her; she was a minor actress who played bit roles on French television dramas.
    The maitre d' showed Leroux and the aging actress into the club side of the restaurant. Delaroche took a small table on the public side, where he could see the door. He ordered a hash of potatoes and ground meat and drank a half bottle of decent Bordeaux. When there still was no sign of Leroux, he ordered cheese and cafe au lait.
    It was nearly two hours before Leroux and his companion left the restaurant. Delaroche watched them through the glass. It was windy, and Leroux turned up the collar of his cashmere coat dramatically. He gave the actress a theatrical kiss and touched her cheek, as if admiring his work. He helped her into a car. Then he purchased newspapers and magazines from a kiosk and started walking through the buzzing evening crowds along the Champs-Elysees.
    Delaroche paid his check and went after him.
    Maurice Leroux was a walker. With his newspapers tucked beneath his arm, he walked along the Champs-Elysees to the Place de la Concorde. He had no reason to suspect he was being followed, and therefore tailing him was very easy. Delaroche had only to keep pace with him along the busy sidewalks. The cut of his expensive jacket, and the farcical beret, made him easy to spot among the crowds. He crossed the Seine at the Pont de la
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    Concorde and walked for a long time on the Boulevard Saint-Germain. Delaroche lit a cigarette and smoked as he walked.
    Leroux entered a cafe bistro near the Church of Saint-Germain-des-Pres and sat down at the bar. Delaroche entered a moment later and sat at a small table near the door. Leroux drank wine and chatted with the barman. A pretty girl ignored his flirting.
    After a half hour Leroux left the bar, by now thoroughly drunk. This pleased Delaroche, because it would make his task easier. Leroux teetered along the Boulevard Saint-Germain through the light rain and entered a small side street near the Mabillon metro station.
    He stopped at the entrance of an apartment building and punched in the security code. Delaroche slipped in the door behind him before it could close. They entered the lift together, an old-fashioned cage threaded through the middle of the staircase. Leroux punched the fifth floor, Delaroche the sixth. Delaroche chatted about the miserable weather in Parisian-accented French. Leroux grunted something unintelligible. Clearly, he did not recognize his patient.
    Leroux got off at his floor. As the lift rose, Delaroche peered through the grill and watched Leroux enter his apartment. He stepped out of the lift on the sixth floor and walked down one flight of stairs. He knocked gently on Leroux's door.
    The doctor answered a moment